The Black Directive (P.I. Jude Wyland Thrillers Book 1)

by Blake Dixon

  Smirking, Jude leaned in the doorway. “Seems like I lasted the night,” he said.

  “I hadn’t noticed.” Kane walked past the footboard and stared at the pillow and blanket on the floor. “Well, look at this. I’m a prison cliché,” he said. “You should share this story with Stereotype Agent Woman. Bet she’ll get a kick out of it.”

  “I think you’ve kicked her enough.” Jude held back a sigh. “Why don’t you jump in the shower, and I’ll make some coffee. It’s going to be a long day.”

  “No, thanks. I got showered last night.”

  “Kane.”

  He waited until the man looked at him. “What the hell’s wrong with you?” he said. “I mean besides the obvious. Christ, half the time you acted like you wanted those guards to beat you down. I know damned well you don’t have Stockholm syndrome or any bullshit like that. You did not want to stay there. And you still threatened to kill me if I got you out of that hellhole, when anyone else would’ve killed me if I didn’t. So what am I missing here? What the fuck gives, man?”

  A slow smile spread on Kane’s face. “There he is. Welcome back, Agent Wyland.”

  “Goddamn it, tell me!”

  “Or what? You’ll get the fire hose?” With a snort, he wandered to the bed, leaned against the footboard and folded his arms. “Look, just put me on a plane and send me back.”

  “Tell me why.”

  “Because you won’t like what happens if you don’t.”

  “Tell me why.”

  “Because fuck you! Christ, you really are a boy scout,” he said. “I killed your partner, you stupid son of a bitch. And now you’re trying to … what, save me? I may be a monster, but you’re no saint. So why don’t you tell me what gives?”

  Jude straightened and met his glare. “You’re right. I’m no saint. I know damned well what it means to be CIA,” he said. “You do the job. Even if people get in the way, you do the job. Sometimes you fuck up the job. Sometimes they cover the fuck-up, sometimes they don’t.” His fists clenched hard. “You fucked up a job, and my partner got in the way. End of story.”

  “Wow. Do you want me to clap for you, or should I break down in tears and beg your forgiveness?”

  “I want you to tell me why.”

  “And I want three virgins and a case of Patrón. Our chances of getting what we want are roughly equal.” Kane closed his eyes for so long, Jude thought he might’ve fallen asleep standing. Finally, he rasped, “I can’t, okay? I can’t do it.”

  “Do what?”

  “Normal shit!” His eyes flew open, and they glittered with rage. “You know that saying, people can get used to anything? Well, they fucking can’t,” he said through his teeth. “It took me six months to accept I wasn’t getting out of there. A year until I decided to do something other than sit and take whatever they gave me. I never got used to the torture, but I had it all worked out. I’d come to an understanding. Pain was a fact of life, like death and taxes. Then you came along.”

  Jude swallowed once. “All right,” he said. “I get it.”

  “Do you really?” He straightened and took a step forward. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he said. “All of this crap. The cushy jet, the Scotch, the bed. Showers. Coffee. Fucking food. Just thinking about putting an actual bite of food in my mouth makes me drool like an inmate in a loony bin — and at the same time, it turns my guts inside out. Do you know how sick that is?” Another step, and he was within punching distance. “You want to give me all this, everything I’d accepted I would never have again. Torture me with normalcy. And then send me back.”

  When Kane didn’t hit him, he let out a breath. “I won’t,” he said.

  “You won’t torture me? Fantastic. Let me get my shit together — oh, wait, I forgot. Don’t have any. Take me to the plane, boss.”

  “No, Kane. I won’t take you back,” he said. “Ever.”

  Kane went still. “Don’t you lie to me, Wyland.”

  “I mean it.” He’d been considering it ever since that first whiff of hotbox solitary had wrecking-balled its way into his nose. Now, the why of Kane’s behavior cemented the decision. “You help me find this girl, and I’ll let you go.”

  “As in, you’ll release me into the wild. Turn your back and let me escape custody.”

  “If that’s what you want, yes.”

  “Me.” He laughed bitterly. “Who are you talking to here, Boy Scout? I want to hear you say it. What’s my name?”

  “Garrett Kane.”

  “That’s right,” he said. “You can’t let me go. You won’t.”

  “I will. Help me save Valerie, and you’re free.” Jude held a hand out. “Deal?”

  Kane stared at the hand like it was a baited bear trap. “Let’s make something clear,” he said. “If I accept, and you cross me? I will end you. Along with every person you’ve ever looked at twice.”

  “Understood. So, what do you say?”

  After a beat, Kane gripped his hand. “I say … why don’t I jump in the shower while you make some coffee.”

  He actually smiled. “Good idea.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Jude’s summer employees were happy when he called and gave them the day off with full pay. They were also curious — and Clover, at least, didn’t quite buy that he was closing the shop for the day because he’d caught a cold and didn’t want to infect customers. But she didn’t press too hard for details.

  He and Kane arrived at the Norfolk field office around nine, after coffee and a breakfast of eggs and sausage links for himself, while Kane enjoyed three grudging bites of toast and a shot of Jack Daniels. The damned badge got them both through the security checkpoint, though the guard had given Kane a lot of uneasy looks.

  Natalie was already working in the ready room, three empty coffee cups in a small waste basket next to her chair and a half-full fourth beside her laptop on the table. She deliberately avoided speaking to Kane, or even looking at him while Jude walked him through the case. When he told him about the video ransom notes, Kane insisted on viewing them in private.

  He was in a small office adjoining the ready room now, with Jude’s laptop and the thumb drive containing the video files.

  Jude pulled out a chair next to Natalie and sat down. “Sorry about last night,” he said.

  “Yeah, well.” She sighed, stopped typing and closed the laptop. “Let’s forget about that for now. We’re on a deadline,” she said. “Is he going to help or not? I’d assume yes, if it was anybody else coming in here to read the files, but he’s … him.”

  Jude nodded. “He’s going to help.”

  “How? Sorry, but I’m still not clear on the connection.”

  “It’s the Black Strings,” he said. “I’m not sure how long you’ve been with the Agency, but do you know about the thing with Sam Bromwell? It was around four years back.”

  She tapped a finger to her chin. “Four years. I was a junior agent, pretty much fresh out of the Academy. Came late to the party,” she said. “Wasn’t he under investigation for a while?”

  “He was. Except it was only supposed to be a covert check.” Jude toyed with a nearby folder as he recalled the details. “Sam Bromwell graduated Mason as an average student and took a dead-end job as an ambulance-chasing lawyer. No money, no clout, no connections. And yet he was elected senator on his first run, by a significant margin, with no previous political experience. That kind of stuff makes the brass nervous.”

  Natalie smirked. “Right. We can’t have the people actually deciding on their own elected officials.”

  “Well, that was the problem. They didn’t think it was the people’s decision,” he said. “That kind of thing does happen, but it’s rare — and it’s usually with highly personable or polarizing candidates. Bromwell is perfectly, excruciatingly average. And the more they looked into him, the less they found.”

  “So, a big red flag.”

  “Exactly,” he said. “Everyone has dirt under the rug. Bromw
ell didn’t, so they figured somebody must’ve swept up the dirt. And there was a plausible possibility that the Black Strings had puppeted him into office.”

  “Somebody bought his ticket. But not Bromwell himself,” she said. “Right? He didn’t have the funding.”

  Another nod. “Presuming that was the case, they had nothing on the sponsor. Looking into Bromwell was a dead end. So the brass decided to target the mercs from the inside.”

  “With Kane.”

  “He was the gun they pointed at the Black Strings,” Jude said. “Rubin hand-picked him because he’d have no trouble blending. Garrett Kane had stayed in the black ops program for the same reason I got out — it was getting bloody in there. And when it came to assigned killing, he had zero hesitation.”

  Natalie let out an unsteady breath. “So what happened?”

  “They sent him in. Deep cover, carte blanche deniability for any and all crimes committed in the course of the investigation.” Jude shrugged. “He was in for a year. Never found a connection to Bromwell, far as I know, but he got out with his cover intact.”

  “And now his cover can get him back in,” she said.

  “It’s not quite that simple, sweetheart.”

  Natalie flinched at the voice behind them, and Jude turned in his seat with a raised eyebrow. “Been there long?” he said.

  “Long enough, Boy Scout.” Kane handed his laptop over with the thumb drive stuck in a side port. “Nice home movies you’ve got there. I’d love to get my hands on the director.”

  The delivery was even enough, but the cold words still went a long way toward confirming that bringing Kane in was the right decision. If they found the kidnappers, his biggest challenge would be preventing Kane from slaughtering them in very ugly ways before they could be arrested. “Yeah, me too,” he finally said as he pulled the thumb drive and handed it to Natalie. “So what’s the plan?”

  Kane moved wearily to a chair across the table and sat down. “I’ll have to make contact, let them know I’m back in the game,” he said. “They think I was doing three to five in a cushy state lockup for B and E. Comes off as a stupid mistake, but not unforgiveable.”

  “Cushy lockup. They’ll buy that, with your…?” Jude gave him a hard look, not wanting to mention the aftermath of the hotbox in mixed company.

  “You know, Wyland, I doubt that’s going to be a problem,” he said. “I don’t usually make a habit of stripping for men. You just got lucky.”

  Natalie shot him a troubled glance, but she didn’t ask questions.

  “Anyway,” he said. “I make contact, they’ll want to test me. If I pass they’ll set up a meeting to bring me in on a gig. So I have to get to the Burlington Crown.”

  “The cigar lounge?” Natalie said.

  “It’s a merc bar. The lounge is a front.” Kane pushed the chair back slightly. “I don’t trust myself to drive, so you’ll have to bring me,” he said to Jude. “I’ll need a phone. And a gun or three.”

  “Whoa. Hold on—”

  “Say it.” Kane cut her off with a challenging glare. “If you think I’m walking into a merc nest without any weapons, you have no business wearing that badge.”

  Natalie pressed her lips together. After a beat, she said, “We’ll hook you up with a wire.”

  “You absolutely will not.”

  “But we need to—”

  “He can’t wear a wire,” Jude said, more gently than Kane would have. “I know this is black ops 101 stuff here, Kane, but she’s a field agent. Give her a break.”

  “Why should I? She’s in charge of this operation, isn’t she? No wonder you haven’t found this kid yet.” He stood abruptly, knocking the chair back on two legs before it settled with a clatter. “Can’t hit the Burlington until at least noon. Mercs aren’t really into the early-riser thing. I’m going back in there,” he said, heading for the small office.

  “For what?”

  “Sleep, goddamn it.”

  The slam of the office door behind him was a pistol shot.

  “I just can’t win with this guy, can I?” Natalie sighed. “And don’t tell me not to take it personally.”

  “You’re the first unfamiliar person he’s interacted with in three years. He was going to take it out on somebody, and unfortunately that somebody is you.” Jude stood and stretched briefly. “I’d better go snag some coffee. Want one?”

  She hefted the cup next to her laptop and shook it a little. “Yes, please. Cream and sugar.”

  “Will do.” He thought about patting her shoulder, but decided against it and headed for the exit. Halfway there, he turned back. “Oh, and Natalie?”

  “What?”

  “Don’t take it personally.”

  She scowled. “Bite me, Wyland.”

  “Keep asking, and maybe I will.”

  “I’ll believe it when I see it.” A half-smile lifted her mouth. “Go fetch, coffee boy.”

  He snapped off a salute and walked out.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Burlington Crown was on the south side of Virginia Beach, about a forty-five minute drive from Norfolk and not far from the D.A.’s office. Jude drove the Camry down and dropped Kane four blocks from the place, armed with an untraceable phone, a Glock, and a throwaway .22 for backup. He’d call once everything was sorted out with the mercs.

  Jude had asked how they were going to test him, but Kane wouldn’t say. Which meant it was something extremely unpleasant.

  He thought about paying another visit to Gary Noakes while he was in the area, but decided to hold off until he had something specific to discuss. With a recently set timer running on his daughter’s life, the D.A. probably wouldn’t be in a chatty mood. Matter of fact, Jude would be surprised if he was even at work. For now he’d go back to the field office and try to work another lead.

  Not that they had many left.

  Instead of cutting back through the city, he swung south and hooked up with the back routes that curved around the whole mess. Driving an open road wasn’t a bad way to de-stress. And he had plenty of stress to unload.

  Back in the saddle again. It was a place he’d promised himself he would never go, and yet here he was. Chasing ghosts.

  Still trying to save his sister.

  Amy had been the shining center of the Wyland family. A late baby, unexpected but welcomed with open arms and absolutely doted on by her two much older brothers. Both parents had been thrilled to finally have a girl, but jealousy was never an issue. She was a bright, sweet, adorable child who charmed everyone she met.

  Jude was a high school senior, his brother Jeremy in his sophomore year of college when five-year-old Amy was taken. Just like Valerie Noakes — broken bedroom window, signs of a struggle, no trace of her. But with Amy, the ransom notes never came. Her kidnapper — or more likely, her killer — had everything he wanted.

  And less than two weeks later, while the family was still reeling from the blow and struggling over whether they should bury an empty coffin, came the horrific car crash that killed Angela Wyland instantly and left her husband Lloyd crippled and non-responsive. Effectively orphaning the remaining Wylands.

  Jude ran to the Marines to escape. Jeremy, who’d been halfway to a bachelor’s degree in engineering and logistics, chose a less legal means of burying himself. His brother was officially listed as ‘whereabouts unknown,’ but Jude knew what he did, and more or less where he was between ‘jobs.’

  Other than making sure his brother was still alive, he left him alone. Jeremy was a criminal, but at least his profession wasn’t a lethal one.

  He’d been driving maybe fifteen minutes when he realized the car that’d been a good distance behind him since he left Virginia Beach was still behind him — and getting closer. Now he could make it out clearly in the rearview mirror. Dark blue sedan, tinted windows.

  That wasn’t suspicious at all.

  He frowned and pressed the accelerator, kicking it up to sixty, then seventy. The sedan matched his speed for a
minute or two. Then it started gaining. With a muttered curse, he reached for the passenger seat where he’d tossed his jacket with the Beretta in a pocket.

  There was a bang like a tire exploding, and his back window blew out.

  “Fuck!” The Camry swerved and squealed as he ignored the pain of glass shards hitting at bullet speed, and the deeper scream of what probably wasn’t glass lodged in his lower right side. Couldn’t think about being shot yet.

  He fought for control, both hands on the wheel. Finally smoothed it out and floored the gas, gripping the top of the wheel with one hand, and tried for his gun again. This time he managed to snag it.

  Another bang. The crunch of plastic as a tail light shattered.

  “Stop ruining my car, asshole!” Jude flung his arm back and fired blind through the missing back window. There was a rewarding squeal as the sedan swerved. He squeezed off another shot, then hit the switch for the front passenger window with the muzzle of the gun.

  A glance in the mirror showed the bastard practically up his tailpipe. He sped faster, then jerked the wheel to the left and tapped the brakes. The sedan surged up on his right.

  One shot blew the driver’s side window. He got a good look at the startled driver’s face — white male, mid-forties, deep tan, clean-shaven, salt and pepper buzz cut.

  Not helpful. The man was a complete stranger to him.

  “Son of a bitch,” he ground out, lining up another shot. But the sedan wavered and fell back a few feet. Trying to get behind him again.

  He flicked the wheel to the left, smacking the sedan’s front corner panel with his bumper at almost sixty.

  The sedan screamed into a three-sixty spin, and Jude struggled to hold the shuddering Camry straight as he pumped the brakes, dropping speed little by little. Behind him, there was an earsplitting screech of rubber on pavement, then an engine cycling up with a roar.

  He looked in the mirror. The sedan was speeding off in the opposite direction.