The Fixer, Season 1

by Rex Carpenter

  “Holed up in another hotel with Theo.”

  JC nodded. Relieved. “Come on, man.” Turned and continued walking towards the elevators as Duke ducked into the room he came from to grab his bag of other weaponry.

  JC was walking slowly. It had been a helluva couple of days. Duke caught up with them quickly, his armament now concealed in a green duffle bag.

  “I gotta say I just about soiled myself when I saw The General walk out of that room,” Duke said as he kept pace with them. “I know he’s not on our team, and you said kill anyone not on our team, but I figured either God, the Devil or you would be pissed if I killed him. So I held off.”

  Joan smiled.

  “You did right,” JC said, chuckling. Was quiet for a few slow steps. “You feeling okay about things now?”

  Duke smiled a bit. “You know, back in the late eighties, California wanted to enact a helmet law. Make all motorcycle riders wear ‘em. Gary Busey was an outspoken opponent of it. Loudest mouth in the room. Then he high-sided his Harley and bounced his noggin off a curb. Dude nearly died. Soon as he could walk and string a complete sentence together, he’s all-in for the helmet law. As loud-mouthed for it as he was against it.” Duke paused. “I feel kinda like that.”

  Joan snorted. “You could have just said you feel like a jackass.”

  “Yeah,” Duke said, shrugging, “but then I wouldn’t have gotten to talk about Gary Busey.”

  They were almost to the elevator when they heard a commotion behind them. Multiple pairs of running feet. The team turned together. Saw eight men running towards them. The Secret Service agents from downstairs.

  Duke dropped his bag. Reached inside the waistband of his slacks for weapons. No time to get the heavier artillery out of the bag at his feet. Stepped in front of JC.

  The men kept running towards them. JC glanced around Duke’s shoulder as the younger, taller man drew two Beretta 92FS pistols. Aimed them at the men running towards them. Saw their faces. Too young to be Secret Service agents.

  As JC heard a familiar voice from the group yelling, “Boss, boss!” he and Joan simultaneously reached for Duke’s arms. Pushed them down to the floor before he had a chance to fire.

  The man who had called him ran from the back of the group to the front. Sling holding his left arm tight against his body. Wheezing from the effort. And his still healing broken ribs.

  “Boss, we gotta get you out of here,” Bruno Vargas said.

  JC looked at the rest of his cycling team. Louis the co-captain had his arm around Bruno. Making sure he didn’t fall down. The six other members all had on standard issue black suits, white shirts and dark ties. Two even wore sunglasses. They looked like junior G-men.

  “Somebody better tell me why you guys are here and not back in Sudbury,” JC said. “Fast.”

  “I ordered it,” Joan said. “Had Bobby fly them out with the Sons of Liberty. Landed at Van Nuys after touching down in Henderson. Bobby’s been watching them while they’re out here.”

  “Joan?” Vargas said, extending his hand. “Nice to meet you. Thanks for the call.” Turned to JC. “She said you needed our help. No way were going to stand on the sidelines if you needed us, boss.”

  The rest of the team was nodding.

  JC turned to Joan. “Did you hand out guns to the kids, too?”

  “She did, boss,” Louis said, “or at least Coletti did for her. Those and the badges. But they had no bullets, so it’s okay.” Louis didn’t mention the fact that the cycling team had arranged bullets for themselves.

  “Listen, Bannister, the lady cop downstairs is hot to get up here,” Bruno said in a rush. “The Secret Service guy who showed up told us to secure the front of the hotel, so we ran up here to tell you. You need to get out of here. They’ll be swarming over the hotel fast.”

  JC knew Oldham would hold Garcia for as long as possible. JC had called him on the way over to the hotel. Told him to show up at twelve thirty also. He almost explained it to the boys, but realized that would diminish this moment for Bruno, Louis and the rest of the cycling team. As dangerous as their involvement was, they were repaying his generosity in the only way they could at this moment.

  With their loyalty.

  It was a gesture he was intimately familiar with.

  “All right, guys. Lead the way.”

  They turned and went back the way they had come.

  “There’s a service elevator down here,” Vargas was saying, “but I think we should take the stairs. Bobby’s waiting out back in a big black van. Let’s go.”

  The young recruits formed a moving human wall around Bannister, making it look like they were actually protecting him. Joan smiled and slid back, even with Duke.

  “JC really has a cycling team now? I mean, I heard him say it before, but… really?” Duke said under his breath to Joan as they double timed it to the stairwell.

  Joan didn’t even look at him.

  “Seriously, Duke. You have got to keep yourself more in the loop.”

  Chapter 73

  From One Country Boy To Another

  James Caddoc Bannister sat in the committee room deep inside the Hart Building in Washington D.C. He always imagined the governmental proceedings that ran the country taking place in beautiful rooms. Lots of polished wood and inspirational murals. Serious places for serious decisions.

  His time in Washington with The General had revealed this image to be the product of too many courtroom dramas on television in his youth. Much of the day-to-day governing of the United States of America took place in rooms that looked exactly like the one he was standing in. A room remarkable only in its ability to look extraordinarily similar to thousands and thousands of conference rooms all across the world. Wood veneer tables set in an open square with seating for twenty. Conference phones placed in strategic locations. Microphones. Bottles of water.

  What was decidedly different about this particular room, room 871, was the high level of security required to get in here. Multiple scans. Hand-wanded. Pat downs. Not the bored TSA agent pat down, but the running of hands along every surface of his body. Thorough. And a bit unnerving.

  There were only four people in the room. Next to JC sat The General, wearing his full military dress uniform. The rumor was his medals weighed more than the combined weight of his uniform, including his boots. JC didn’t doubt it. Seated opposite them were Senator Christopher Holstrom and his aide, a Nicholas Reynolds. Senator Holstrom was about fifteen years older than JC with silver hair he, for some reason, parted down the middle which looked almost like a split faux-hawk on his slightly conical head.

  Despite his unfortunate hair and his nasally voice, Senator Holstrom was no man to take lightly. Born and raised in the bustling burg of Aberdeen, North Carolina, Holstrom graduated Magna Cum Laude from Harvard and stayed on for his law degree. A country boy through and through, he returned to his home state as a district attorney, then as federal prosecutor for the District Court in the Eastern District of North Carolina. He had the reputation of a bulldog in shark's clothing, despite his homespun charm, and Bannister wanted nothing more than to finish up and leave his presence.

  Still, JC found himself warming to the man. His questions, while pointed, seemed to indicate an understanding of the dangers inherent in the world that few in the hallowed halls of the United States government ever seemed to grasp. Catherine Marcus had. And despite Senator Holstrom being on the other side of the political aisle than her, JC felt they could have been kindred spirits on some things.

  “So what you want this committee to believe,” Senator Holstrom said, “and by this committee I mean me, is that once you arrived in the room, Special Agent Kowalski pulled an unregistered, untraceable revolver from his pocket, stood next to the window, which he had pre-broken, put the gun against his head and pulled the trigger? Falling out the window with such force that he cleared the vegetation planted next to the building and landed in the middle of the sidewalk, some ten feet from the edge of t
he building and a full seven feet past what all our experts maintain would have been his approximate landing place?”

  “Yes, Senator,” JC said, leaning forward into the microphone.

  Holstrom fumed. Changed position in his seat. Ordered Reynolds from the room. Reached under the conference table. JC heard the click of a button.

  “Okay,” Holstrom said, leaning back in his chair, relaxing now, his temper tantrum apparently for the benefit of his aide. “Mics are off. Reynolds is a good man, but he’s from Charlotte. I trust him, but he’s city folk, so.” Shrugged. “It’s just us now. From one country boy to another, you wanna tell me what the hell happened? The real story, not the piles of crap you were shovelin’ for the record.”

  JC wanted to smile. Wanted to lean back as easily as Holstrom. Shoot the bull. But he wasn’t fooled. The man had a mind as sharp as any. All of JC’s research indicated Holstrom’s hometown boy act was just that — an act to allow others to put their guard down. JC liked the man but he wasn’t about to let himself get eaten alive.

  “Sir, with all due respect,” JC said, “what I have testified to here today is the truth.”

  Holstrom didn’t move beyond a slow tapping of his thumb on the wood veneer. A steady pattern. Not musical, just a tapping. Leaned forward, shoving the mic in front of himself to the side.

  “Listen, JC,” the senator said. “Even though you and General Robinson may be from down Fayetteville way, at the end of the day, we’re all on the same side. I imagine were we to sit down and have a drink or two somewhere we’d find a lot more common ground between us than you might imagine.”

  JC nodded politely. Interrupting meant discussion. Something JC hoped to avoid.

  “I get that not everything can be solved inside a court of law,” Holstrom continued. “I see the need for people in your line of work from time to time. Truly, I do. As much as I may not like it, that is the reality of our world on very few occasions.” Paused. Adjusted some paperwork. “So let me tell you what I think happened. The notes I have here from the investigation all say that you were set up by Kowalski. I do not know what made Senator Marcus have meetings with you in the first place. Care to shed some light on that?”

  JC indicated no with a slight shake of his head.

  “Fine. I have my own thoughts about that, but I will keep them to myself. At some later time, Kowalski approached you and asked you to do something for him. As a result of your shared history and friendship from basic training, you agree. He begins to then set you up for a whole host of crimes, which you soon discover. One of those crimes you managed to thwart by enlisting the help of a coroner and stealing numerous bodies across greater Boston, flying them to the middle of the Nevada desert and then proceeding to disfigure, burn and explode these corpses.” Holstrom had been checking paperwork. He looked up. “Correct?”

  “That sounds correct, sir.”

  “Then, after Senator Marcus was murdered by Kowalski, and despite Kowalski's best intentions to pin the crime on you, instead of fleeing the country and getting yourself to safety, you and your team set up a meeting with Kowalski with the sole purpose of vengeance. You never expected to come to an understanding with Kowalski. You wanted to kill him. For multiple reasons. Sound about right?”

  JC leaned forward. Stopped. Leaned back. Looked at The General who nodded slightly at him. JC leaned forward again to the microphone. “Yes.”

  Holstrom nodded his head. “Well, then sir, I thank you for your service to this country and for killing the sonofabitch who killed Catherine. I know quite a few senators who would like to shake your hand. Not that they’ll ever hear it from me.”

  JC nodded. “Thank you, sir,” he said simply because he didn’t know what else to say.

  “No ‘sirs’ between us anymore, JC. Not now.”

  “Well, then thank you, Chris.”

  Senator Holstrom sat ramrod straight in his chair at the use of his first name. Eyes wide, nostrils flaring. Pissed. Then broke into a grin. “I’m just messin’ with you, JC. But please keep it to Mr. Holstrom when others are around, okay?”

  JC nodded again, liking the man even more.

  “Why don’t you go on and get out of here, then, JC? I’m sure you’ve got better things to be doing on this fine day than sitting in here talking about ancient history.”

  JC agreed. Thanked Holstrom, stood and walked to the door.

  “One more thing, there, JC, before you go,” Holstrom called after him.

  JC stopped. Gritted his teeth. There’s always one more thing.

  “I hope that, should we call on you in the future to consult with us about one of those very few occasions we just discussed, the kind of situations that are hard to understand and deal with from inside the constraints of Congressional oversight, you’d be inclined to lend us your ear. Perhaps your expertise as well?”

  Holstrom was asking for a whole host of favors in those two sentences.

  “Of course, sir,” JC said. “Anything I can do to help, just ask.”

  Holstrom nodded, the “sir” unmentioned.

  JC opened and then walked through the heavy steel core doors with their reinforced frame. Wondering how soon he would be asked back.

  *****

  JC Bannister stood outside the Hart Building. It was an unnaturally cool day for June. JC had taken advantage of it. He had taken the train down from Boston the previous evening with his favorite bicycle and a small messenger bag of necessities. He had traveled light. Wearing the same light weight wool suit as the night before. He would have preferred a nice tweed suit to match his forty-year-old British three-speed bicycle. But D.C. was no place for tweed in the summer, no matter how unseasonably cool the weather was. Still, a good day for a ride. And for reflection.

  Duke and Joan had scattered to the four winds on JC’s order. Didn’t want to know where they were going. Multiple aliases from multiple countries meant they could be anywhere. JC could always contact Joan by mail if he needed. She in turn had the ability to track down Duke, but their system of contact was unknown to Bannister. It wasn’t a perfect system, but it worked for them.

  Theo was in Las Vegas under the protection of his father’s crime syndicate. Untouchable.

  Jacob Meier had decided to stay in Los Angeles. For now. The man was too distracted with all that had happened to try and mount a comeback in the D.C. boomtown. He was also very grateful to JC for what he had done.

  Garcia and Oldham had joined forces in the investigation into the murder of Senator Marcus and the suicide of Special Agent Guy Kowalski. The coroner’s report on Kowalski was destroyed in a fire. A server failure allowed the electronically stored copies to be lost forever. Still, the investigation was continuing. All signs pointed to it being the work of a lone gunman, the identity of whom was being suppressed by the embattled director of the Secret Service, a Mr. Kazwell.

  Lorraine had a few plastic surgeries against the advice of Duke. The tall man was wrong. She was equally beautiful but looked different enough to be unrecognizable compared to her family tree. Theo was as enamored as ever, as she was of him. Duke had set her up in a small house in South Pasadena. Helped her get a job at a florist shop. Theo kept ordering flowers to be delivered to Las Vegas, about every week or so. Just so he could see her.

  Lisa Harrington was now an auxiliary member of the team. She had proven herself in time of need and was willing to help. The truth was, JC couldn’t imagine needing a full-time hair and makeup person on the team. Especially one with no combat training or experience who fainted at the sight of blood. But they remained on friendly terms.

  The Strong Arm Cyclery Cycling Team were back safe and sound in Boston. Bruno’s injuries had healed. His brother came on as team manager. Bobby Hughes was hired on as their driver. His C-130 was parked at a small airstrip in Stow, about a fifteen minute drive from JC’s place. Nine minutes if Bobby was driving. Coletti and Mercier trained the young men until their lungs nearly burst and their legs felt like giant ch
unks of wood. But they still got up every morning and did whatever was asked of them.

  Campbell was indicted for a number of charges, convicted and currently awaiting sentencing. JC, through Meier, had planted the stories of his misdeeds during the time in the Army when he had served under JC’s father in newspapers across the country. The story had stuck around for about a week, then faded away. Enough to get it into the minds of the populace, JC hoped. Just enough to further pollute the jury pool. With a little luck, Campbell would likely die in jail considering the numerous convictions and their severity.

  Officer Sullivan had been promoted to Detective. JC thought he was just another crooked cop. Meier had explained their connection and the physical similarity; Sullivan was Meier’s nephew, son of his sister. A good cop who, like Meier, wanted only the best for Los Angeles.

  Theo’s brother Tigran had disappeared. JC had heard no rumblings of his demise, so he assumed all was well. He knew that Theo would have said something had he gotten into any serious trouble. A good man, despite his profession. JC thought, chuckling to himself.

  Catherine Marcus had been buried with full honors at her family cemetery. JC had sat down with the girls and Catherine’s husband and explained what had happened, leaving no detail unspoken. Included the details he had neglected to swear to in Holstrom’s presence. It had been one of the most difficult conversations in his life. Three hours of talking and weeping and shame. His, not theirs. But in the end, they had understood. And when JC left, Henry Marcus had shaken his hand and thanked him for what he tried to do. And for the vengeance.

  *****

  JC had to wait about thirty minutes before The General appeared. Although Senator Holstrom was rather congenial to JC, he had a feeling his former CO hadn’t enjoyed the same treatment. Having a general in the US Army so intricately involved in an operation of this sort raised far too many uncomfortable questions and specters. Despite how JC and The General had explained away their personal objections to helping Catherine Marcus commit suicide, in the harsh glare of the world press, the optics of a general coordinating the assassination of a United States Senator were never good. JC felt The General would be lucky to walk out of the room, let alone with his pension intact.