The Fixer, Season 1

by Rex Carpenter

  JC closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. “All things considered,” he said under his breath, “it hasn’t turned out that bad. They didn’t even ask me about the money.” Opened his eyes to see The General walking up to him. All smiles. Perhaps it went better than I thought.

  “How did it go?” JC called out as the older man approached.

  “I’m out,” The General said. “Forced retirement. Put out to pasture. They won’t touch my pension as long as I keep my mouth shut. And keep the details of this bit of ugliness under wraps.”

  JC shrugged. “Better than I expected,” he said with a smile.

  “Yeah. Me too.” Looked around the street. Stretched. “Ah, well. Had to happen sooner or later.” Turned back to JC. “Your old man would’ve been proud. Both for what you do and your actions in there.”

  JC smiled. “Thanks, but I kinda doubt it.”

  The General’s smile faded. “Don’t be so sure. Your dad was always proud of you, JC. Always.”

  It was no time for an argument about that, so JC just thanked him again.

  “So? What’s your next step, General?”

  “Not sure. I guess it hasn’t really sunk in yet. Do some consulting work, maybe. Lectures. Got my fingers in a number of pies. Something will pan out. Maybe a position at the War College if I can swing it.” Smiled. “I hear the place is swarming with coeds these days.”

  JC chuckled. He knew the lack of action would have The General climbing the walls or eating the barrel of a gun within a year.

  “That was pretty risky, what you did for me back in the Roosevelt Hotel.”

  “I didn’t know if you were gonna find my little gift or not, but I wanted to make good and sure Kowalski didn’t find it first. What a psycho.”

  “Wasn’t that dangerous, leaving me your gun? How did you know it couldn’t it be traced back to you somehow?”

  “Son, I lifted that roscoe years ago off some damn fool who had no business keeping it. Cut the serial number off the frame and rewelded a hunk of metal overtop. Bored the barrel out. Damn thing couldn’t hit the side of a barn even if you were standing fifty feet from it. But up close? Like to the temple of some sonofabitch who needs to die? Just the thing.”

  JC was smiling.

  “Yes, I called it a roscoe,” The General said. “Keep your old man jokes shoved up your anus where they belong. You still haven’t thanked me.”

  “Well, thank you sir.”

  “Anytime, son. Anytime.”

  The conversation lapsed. JC started thinking back to the chain of events that brought them to this point.

  “One thing that’s been bothering me since before Catherine called me,” JC said. He only referred to her as Catherine now. Never Senator or Marcus. “I know Alfredsen got the number to the bike shop and the code from you.” JC paused. Unsure of where this would lead. Unsure if he wanted to open this particular can of worms. “But what I don’t know is how Russian oil interests in Indonesia hired him in the first place. He’s not the sharpest tool in the shed.”

  “Me, Bannister. They got his name from me.”

  JC was afraid that was what the old warrior would say.

  “I keep tabs on all kinds of people, JC. My Rolodex is filled with names and numbers that would make the hairs on the back of your neck stand up and do a little dance, son.”

  JC fully believed him. Something in the way The General said it had made the hairs stand up already.

  He said nothing, thinking of his next question. Before he had the chance to ask it, The General kept going. “Them damn Russians are a mean bunch of bastards. Half-figured they’d wind up killing whoever I sent over there. Couldn’t very well send you. Especially since you’d been on such a goodie-goodie streak after coming back from The Mexican all screwed up like you were.”

  JC was fairly open-mouthed at this point. Not even trying to hide his amazement at what he was hearing.

  “How do you think you got the job with that slimy Bolivian in the first place? I knew you needed some work after you left the Army. Figured working for The Mexican would open your eyes a bit on how the real world works.” The General chuckled. “Boy, did it ever.”

  The General was standing on the street outside the offices of half the United States Senate detailing how he had worked together with both the Russians and a Bolivian drug lord while still a general in the Army.

  “Don’t look so shocked, JC. You were my star pupil. You think I was just going to let you out into the wild to do whatever, wherever? I’ve been guiding your career for going on twenty years, boy. Some of the time you knew it but most the time you didn’t. But now I’m out of the Army, I don’t need to pussyfoot around and hide it.”

  JC closed his eyes. Couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  “So, let’s cut the crap and make some real money. Make it official. Bannister, from here on out…”

  JC put his hand over his face. He knew the words that were coming next. No way he could stop them or dodge them or get out from underneath their crushing weight.

  “You work for me.”

  Epilogue

  One: Los Angeles

  JC hated being inside a jail. It didn’t matter where or when or why. Just being inside the high walls topped with razor ribbons, filled to the brim with killers, rapists, miscreants and degenerates made cold sweat roll down his back.

  But he had to be here. Needed to.

  So he sat in the L.A. County Jail visitor’s area. A long corridor. Metal partitions separating the corridor partially into a series of alcoves. Fixed metal seat. Thick Plexiglas window. Single phone receiver. JC glanced at it. Didn’t want to touch it. But he would.

  Waited. Rolled his shoulders to loosen the knots the stress created. His fight with Kowalski had opened his eyes. It had taken too much out of him. The past four months since that day he’d gotten back into fighting shape. Hitting the weights. Watching what he ate. Got some one-on-one training with top MMA instructors around the greater Boston area. Dropped about fifteen pounds. A goatee and hair dyed black from his natural brown combined with his physical appearance to change his look quite a bit.

  An enormous black man walked into view. Filled the window. Sat on the prisoner side of the scratched Plexiglas. Seated he was still large. Bannister guessed he stood about six foot six. Probably weighed over two hundred and fifty pounds. Not fat. He looked every part the football player he had once been.

  JC picked up his receiver. The man stared at him for a full minute. Picked up his receiver.

  “I don’t know you,” the prisoner said.

  JC looked at him. Tried to figure out where to start.

  “Guard,” the man called, putting the phone back onto its receiver.

  “Hold on, hold on,” JC said quickly. He’d come all the way down here to speak with this man. He didn’t want to make the trip twice.

  “They said my visitor’s name was Jose Campos Ballestro,” the prisoner said. Looked JC all over. “You don’t look like a Jose.”

  JC smiled slightly. “I’ve got business down south. Leaving next week. Wanted to try out my new ID.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed slightly. JC knew it was an odd thing to admit to inside a prison. But he wanted this man’s trust.

  “They tell me your name is Killian,” JC said.

  The man nodded. “What of it?”

  JC took a deep breath.

  “My name, my real name, is JC Bannister.”

  Killian sat up straighter. Leaned slightly forward.

  “You recognize the name,” JC said. Killian nodded slightly. “Some of your friends arranged a meeting between us. It was cancelled. Is that a problem for you?”

  Killian’s jaw flexed as he ground his teeth together.

  “They’re not my friends,” he said. Took a breath. “Besides. I never hold animosity to…the ones they want me to harm.”

  JC nodded. Slightly relieved.

  “Is that why you came down here?” Killian said. “See if we have a pr
oblem?”

  “Yes, in part.” JC looked down at his feet. There was never an easy way to start a conversation like this. “I knew your brother.”

  Killian’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Brendan?”

  “Yes. Although, I have to admit, I didn’t know him that well. But I was with him the day he died.”

  Killian leaned forward slightly more as Bannister begin to tell the story of when he had saved Duke’s life. Only this was the opposite version. The one where he hadn’t moved fast enough. Hadn’t gained position early enough. Was unable to save the life of Brendan Killian. And like every time he told the story, the tears came with it. He held his voice as steady as he could. Stopped when he couldn’t speak. But never tried to shorten or abbreviate what happened that day.

  “You know I went there?” Killian said after JC had finished the story. “The Army wasn’t giving us hardly any information after Brendan died. I booked a flight the winter break after he was killed. Got over there. Couldn’t find out any more than I had before. Just wasted a lot of money and got myself into a bit of trouble.”

  “Yeah, I heard,” JC said. “I wasn’t around when you came. Laid up in a hospital recovering from some burns. But I heard you were like Samson, trying to pull down every building you could get your hands on.”

  Killian shrugged. “I was angry. Beyond angry.” Stopped for a moment. “After that,” Killian continued, “I came home. Started a downward spiral that landed me here.”

  JC knew the rest of the story. The things Killian likely didn’t want to discuss. The depression after his brother died. Getting kicked off the UCLA football team’s starting lineup then flunking out of college. The arrest and conviction because he wouldn’t testify that the duffle bag of meth in his trunk belonged to a friend.

  JC had nothing to say. There was no response he could give, so he just nodded. Waited.

  “Did he die? The man who was responsible for killing my brother?”

  JC let his mouth twist into something like a smile.

  “Yes, he did.”

  “You?”

  He nodded.

  “Look at me,” Killian said. JC did. “Do you walk a righteous path?”

  JC looked at Killian more closely. Tried to determine if he was speaking personally or professionally. Decided to answer both.

  “I make mistakes,” JC said. “Like any man. I am a sinner. Like every man. But I try and do the right thing as often as I can. Do right by those who depend on me. Fix the mistakes I make, personally or professionally.” Paused. “I guess that makes me the same as any other man.”

  “No,” Killian said, “it makes you an uncommon man.”

  JC shrugged.

  “Thank you. For what you did for my brother. And for me.”

  JC looked at him, questioning. Killian indicated the walls of the jail with his eyes and a brief turn of his head. Sparseness of motion. Moving only when necessary. Like a lion.

  “You did not need to come here,” Killian said. “Put yourself at risk. To apologize for something that was not your fault.” Killian raised his hand, stopping JC’s protest. “From your side, you did. But from my side, it was not necessary. So thank you.”

  The two men fell silent. Respectful.

  “So,” JC said, knowing his allotted visitation time was running short, “what do you plan to do when you’re out of here?”

  Killian shrugged. Anger crept into his face and eyes. “Guards tell me to hurt someone so I have to. I don’t and they beat me. When I do what they tell me to, they put me down for more time for fighting.” His teeth ground together again. “They’re so corrupt, the system so entrenched, I don’t know if I’ll ever get out again.” Shook his head. “No lawyer sticks with my case for long. Most get scared off by the system or fade away when I can’t pay them.

  JC smiled.

  “I might know a lawyer who could help.”

  Killian’s eyes narrowed. Questioning. JC inclined his head slightly with an affirmative nod. Economy of motion. Killian accepted the offer without a word.

  “Again,” JC said, “what will you do when you get out of here? Try and finish your mechanical engineering degree?”

  If Killian was surprised at JC knowing information that had not been shared, he didn’t show it. Instead he shrugged his shoulders. Dejected.

  “I don’t know. Try and restart my life, I guess. Find a job.”

  JC had done his research before he came to the jail. Spoken with the man’s father. Interviewed school officials at UCLA, guidance counselors, former coaches. Did everything he could to find out about this man’s life.

  Halfway through the conversation with Killian he had made his decision.

  “Let me ask you something, Sean,” JC said.

  Killian looked up. Dispirited. He didn’t know this was a job interview.

  “You like bicycles?”

  Two: Washington D.C.

  Bannister opened his eyes. Anger came out of them in waves. He shook his head.

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  The General’s eyes stared back at him. JC saw no anger in them. No irritation. Just the confidence of a man who knew the outcome of the current conversation. Which further inflamed JC’s rage.

  JC stepped forward. Chest out. Back flexed. Ready for the fight. He had beaten a man nearly to death three months ago. He was ready to do it again. Stared down at the old soldier. Trying to intimidate him with the seven inches of height disparity. Curled his right hand into a fist, index finger extended. Stuck it inches away from The General’s face. An action he knew the man hated.

  “You can go to hell.”

  JC stepped back from the edge. Did what he could to put a lid on his anger. He had slipped the mask from his internal demons. Let his most violent murderous self be seen. The General hadn’t flinched. He had actually smiled. That worried JC.

  JC turned. Strode back to his bicycle.

  “I already have your first client lined up,” The General said to JC’s back. “He jumped at the chance when I told him you were working with me now.”

  “I told you,” JC said over his shoulder.

  “You haven’t heard the best part, JC.”

  JC whirled. Stormed back. Chest to chest, eyes trying to push The General into the ground.

  “I told you,” JC said, his voice shaking with rage, barely holding the cap on the bottle. “I don’t work for you. Not now. Not ever.”

  The General looked up at the son of his old friend. “You haven’t heard the best part, JC,” he repeated. “Your first client.”

  The General smiled. Viciously.

  “It’s The Mexican.”

  JC stared down at the man for fifteen seconds. Turned on his heel. Walked back to his bicycle. Flipped up the kickstand with a practiced movement of his toe. Swung his leg over the forty-year-old British racing green frame. Sat on the well-worn English leather saddle. Put his right foot on the hardened rubber pedal.

  Looked over his shoulder at The General.

  “Okay.”

  Would you like to read the prequel to this book? Click here to get that book for free.

  The End of Season 1…

  Season 2: Complete available now…

  Thank you for reading this book. It was incredibly fun (and educational) to write. The Fixer Series is three books deep (five including the Origin books) and no sign of stopping.

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  Thank you.

  Rex Carpenter

  Other books by Rex Carpenter:

  The Fixer, Season 2: Complete

  The Fixer, Season 3: Complete

  Joan: Portrait of a Vengeful Young Woman

  Duke: The Education of an Assassin

  The Fixer, Season 4: Complete (Coming Winter, 2017)

  Acknowledgements

  * * *

  This book is for my wife and daughter. I love you both. Never give up.

  Thanks to the following: Craig for being Craig. Aran for being a good friend and sounding board. Lee for being the boot in my ass to get this done. Lis for holding my hand on the finer points of formatting. Dave, Lynn and Tracy for helping out when I reached out. Karen for the education on editing and James for the cover.