Bodyguard of Lies

by Bob Mayer

  "Hannah's out of it," John said.

  "Jesus Christ!" Neeley exclaimed. "She's your wife. That means she's involved. She has the right to know what is going on and to make her own decisions." The muzzle of the weapon allowed for no argument. John reluctantly stood and picked up the briefcase.

  *************

  Howard Brumley couldn't sleep. It was 1:30 in the morning and not only was he wide awake, but he had enough adrenaline going to finish an Ironman competition. It had been hours since the gun was pressed to his head but it seemed like fifteen seconds.

  Lying in the dark next to his gently snoring wife, he kept lifting his hand to his head and feeling the spot. There was a bruise on his temple that was already darkening. He'd had to tell Celia that he hit a door. She didn't believe him but she also didn't seem to care.

  He noticed a drip in the master bath and fought to ignore it. He wrapped his pillow around his head, praying that sleep would end this terrible day.

  Howard took shallow breaths hoping to lessen his anxiety because if he wasn't going to sleep a wink at least he could be spared the racing heart. He kept replaying it in his head and it always played out the same way. He was stupid man. Always letting Celia buy whatever the hell she wanted and the boys, too. Just to keep some peace, because he didn't want the endless confrontations. That was a laugh. He almost got killed today because he needed the money John Masterson had offered. That was a whole new level to confrontation. What the hell had John done to him? And who the hell had left the envelope and card about Jenkins? But what was he supposed to do with a thousand in cash? Keep it and not do what the card said? There was no way to return it. Damn. And what was the big deal with Hannah going to see her shrink. Hell, she’d looked like she needed it. Howard felt a headache growing in concert with the throbbing in his temple.

  John must have heard he was having some trouble because the son-of-a-bitch hadn’t minced any words when he made his offer nine days ago. He just needed some help covering his tracks and the legal work that went with skipping out on his life. He had assured Howard that Hannah had plenty of money in her own name from some family trust. But it hadn't seemed that way when Hannah stood in his office.

  Howard was beginning to believe that his friend John had told him a pack of lies. It made him feel better to think that since he had given John up so easily. He was willing to break some ethical laws, even a few civil ones, but by God, he'd never have gotten mixed up in this mess if he'd had any idea that it involved guns. What exactly had John gotten him into?

  Howard looked at the glowing numbers on the clock: 1:45. The night was never going to end. He continued staring at the ceiling and resenting the hell out of Celia for forcing him into this even though she didn't know a thing about it. He could hear the damn drip in the master bathroom and it irritated him even more.

  Finally, he slid back the covers and walked confidently through the dark room. At his age a man knew well the trip from his bed to the bathroom. As he stepped across the tiled expanse to the sink faucet he felt rather than saw the presence.

  Before his sensory system had time for any reaction he felt two awful and rapid movements. A hand wearing a rubber glove covered his mouth and the cold feel of steel once again pressed to the side of his neck. The whisper was deadly: "Where's John Masterson?"

  Howard started to talk through the hand. Two fingers slid apart to give him working room. In the few seconds it took to give John up for the second time in less than twelve hours, Howard deduced something very important. The steel wasn't the barrel of a gun, it was the edge of a knife. When it suddenly moved across the front of his neck he was surprised that there was no pain. The hand was firmly pressed against his mouth as he felt an explosion of warm liquid on his chest. The dark went black.

  *************

  Racine quietly dropped the lawyer's body onto the big bathroom rug. He reached over and pushed the faucet knob completely shut, stopping the drip. He stood still, not even his breathing audible until he was sure no one in the house was moving. He could feel the gentle blow of air from a vent across his naked body.

  He slid his feet slowly across the tile and peered in the bedroom. He could see the sleeping form in the bed. He wondered what she looked like. Racine stood there for several minutes, taking shallow breaths. Finally he reluctantly turned back into the bathroom. He moved toward the big window over the Jacuzzi.

  Once through he grabbed the bag under the window and slipped behind the bushes to the side of the house. He loved these big new houses. Security systems that were junk, windows big enough to push an elephant's butt through and, of course, all the wonderful landscaping. Racine could have slaughtered an army next to the house and no one from the street would have been the wiser.

  He pulled a small garbage bag from the rucksack leaning against the side of the house and deposited his latex gloves and the plastic wrap from his feet. It was all he had been wearing. He ran his hands over his smooth naked body and felt no sticky wetness. The lawyer had sprayed forward. He had given up so quickly that there had not been the struggle and messiness Racine had anticipated.

  Racine's body was completely hairless and he knew he had left no trace of himself behind. He had shaved his entire body just two hours ago. He quickly dressed and put everything back in the bag. He still wasn't breathing hard as he bent and tied his sneakers. They were two sizes too large and clumsy, but he was careful as he retraced his steps to the street. Once there, he calmly walked the block and a half to his car.

  He left the headlights off until he reached the first light. It was blinking yellow at this hour. He drove another five minutes and pulled the car over. He changed his shoes, then reached over the seat and retrieved the St. Louis Yellow Pages and the map. Within a few minutes he knew where he was going and how to get there.

  Racine lifted an apple from the seat next to him and contentedly munched it as he carefully drove toward Alton. Once on the main Interstate, I-70, he set the cruise to three miles below the speed limit and allowed himself to think of Anthony Gant. He still couldn't believe the bastard was dead. He wondered how Gant’s brother, Jack, was reacting. That was a dangerous man, not that Anthony hadn’t been a hard-ass too. And Racine really couldn't believe that A. Gant had shared so much of his undercover life with another human being, much less a woman. Pussy. Racine shook his head. Too many men were ruled by it.

  Racine wondered what had been in Gant's head. He had run into the other man several times on operations prior to Mogadishu and the two had come close to exchanging bullets more than once due to tactical disagreements.

  It was a good thing the stupid fuck was dead. Racine would have killed him for free. As it was he could amuse himself with Gant's alter ego, Neeley. That thought was exciting enough to force him to push it away and focus on the Masterson's. After John he planned on going straight to Manchester and doing the bitch. The only catch was Nero's order to bring Mrs. Masterson in alive. Not only would that make it more difficult, but it zeroed out the possibility of immediate job satisfaction. And there was Senator Collins to consider. Fucking politician could fuck up anything.

  Racine wasn't tired at all, even though he'd been up now for over twenty-four hours. The flight had been enjoyable due to the extra attention of a pretty young stewardess named LeAnn. Racine didn't even wonder any more about the women who found him intriguing. All his life he'd only generated two responses in the fairer sex. Utter revulsion or a base sexual heat with the preponderance toward the former. He had long ago decided it was something in them and had very little to do with him. He simply ignored most women and the few that fell to him blindly, he usually took.

  On the plane he had played it slow and easy with the girl but he had suspected it would take little effort to do her right there in the toilet. He regretted the expedient nature of this business prevented him from getting her phone number. His name for this op, even though it was an alias, was on the passenger roster. Someone could remember him and the last thing he nee
ded was more crap from Nero. Thinking of the lost opportunity with the stewardess as he left the plane made him relish the idea of killing the old blind fart in the damn office of his. Bashing his brains out with that stupid phone or his voice wand. Or maybe just blocking off the hole in his throat.

  Racine checked his watch as he drove by Masterson's dumpy motel. Racine parked his car at the end of the building, as far away from the office as possible. He put a fresh pair of gloves on, and then got out of the car.

  He moved quietly through the darkness, avoiding the few lights. There was a light on in room 27 but he didn't care. He held his heavy Desert Eagle against the side of his leg and pressed against the cheap door. He didn't have to jam any of the locks and before the door was fully open, he knew why.

  Masterson was gone. Racine locked the door with gloved fingers and spent a couple of minutes on a thorough search of the room and bathroom. There were clothes in the closet. A passport for John Masterson was inside a shoulder bag hanging on the bathroom door. That meant John was still in town. Racine smiled. He'd come back for John. There was someone else who could occupy his time this early morning. He left the room and headed for his car.

  **************

  Neeley held the silenced pistol in her right hand, muzzle pointing across her lap at John Masterson's right leg as he drove her truck. She didn't expect any trouble from him, but it paid to be safe. John was grasping at the possibility of making a deal with Nero like a drowning man at a life preserver. He obviously assumed that Neeley had some way of contacting this man whose name she had just heard today.

  "How did you know Gant?" Neeley asked.

  "I was in the army," John said. "I met Gant on a mission."

  "What kind of mission?"

  John nervously laughed. "Lady, if Gant didn't tell you, then I sure as shit ain't telling you. Watch the tape." His eyes shifted over. "You'd better have it. You don't want to play games with Nero."

  "I know where it is," Neeley said. "Gant said you had the 'what'. Is that 'what' in the briefcase?"

  John nodded. "Yeah. But it’s a lot less powerful without the videotape. That's why I was scared knowing Gant was going to die. I didn't trust that he'd send someone here. I was afraid the tape would be gone with him."

  Neeley had been watching the road. She wished John would stop playing "I've got a secret" but she knew Gant had played it also. Whatever they were covering up had to be both very powerful and dangerous. She would get to the bottom of this when they got to the house and Hannah.

  “If Gant called you, how come you didn’t run right away?”

  John’s eyes shifted and Neeley knew whatever he was about to say was going to be a lie. “There were things I had to do first.”

  "Turn here," Neeley ordered, while wondering what he was keeping back from her.

  "The house is--" John began, but Neeley cut him off.

  "We're not exactly going to walk in the front door," Neeley said. "That's not the smart way to do things."

  CHAPTER 11

  Hannah had tossed and turned for hours with an occasional dozing off, but she was too angry to sleep. It would be light in a couple of hours and if she could just sleep now it would be enough.

  She had just punched the feather pillow into a more pleasing shape when the shrill ringing of the phone ended all pretense of sleep. The voice on the other end was more of a shock than the timing of the call: John.

  "Hannah, it's me. I have to see you right now. It's important. I'll come through the back. Just let me in the patio doors, OK?"

  Hannah stared at the phone in disbelief, trying to think of something to say, but the phone had already gone dead. Hannah quickly pushed back her covers and shivered in the cool air. After belting her robe, she moved to the security alarm pad by the bedroom door. She punched in the code so she wouldn't set off the hall sensor.

  By the time she got to the den, she could see John's form filling the partitions of the French door. She noticed a couple of things as she opened the locks: John's eyes were wide and frightened looking and there was someone behind him.

  John seemed to propel himself through the doorway even as Hannah had the knob in her hand. He pushed her back until her legs hit an Ottoman and she dropped into a seated position. John kept going and rolled onto the carpet, his hands behind him.

  In the dimly lit gloom from the outside security lights, Hannah noticed something around his neck and wondered what it was. At that moment her eyes left John and she saw that the other person had followed John into the room.

  The woman kicked the door shut and walked out of the shadows until she was standing in front of Hannah. Hannah looked down and saw what she had in her hand: a wicked looking gun with a bulky barrel.

  "John, what is going on?" Hannah demanded, feeling strangely calm in spite of the strange circumstances of his return.

  The woman leaned forward. "My name's Neeley and yours is Hannah Masterson and I suggest you shut up and do what I tell you if you want to live."

  Neeley then motioned to her two prisoners to move over to the couch. Hannah now noticed that John's hands were tied behind his back. There was a rope around his neck and Neeley had used that to move John through the woods.

  When Hannah and John were seated on the couch, Neeley turned off the light and then sat on the edge of the coffee table, gun still pointed.

  "I'm sorry, Hannah," John said.

  "What is going on?" Hannah demanded once more.

  "It's a long story," John said.

  "One I want to hear also," Neeley said. "We've got a problem."

  Hannah was still looking at her husband. "John, who is this woman? What is going on? Where did you go?"

  Neeley leaned forward and spoke very clearly, biting the words off as if she were speaking to a wayward child. "If you want to live, shut up and listen." That caught Hannah's undivided attention. "We don't have much time. John has a story to tell us and once we hear it we need to make some decisions."

  “Listen--” John began, but Neeley pulled the hammer back on the gun.

  “I want to know what happened.”

  John’s eyes shifted between the two women, and then he sighed in defeat. “All right. I was in the Army. In the Engineer Corps. A dumb second lieutenant. My area of expertise was oil pipelines. Pretty boring stuff. Putting in my time to pay off my ROTC scholarship.”

  Hannah’s eyes were boring into her husband, as if she were trying to see beyond the words he was saying and was looking at someone she’d never seen before.

  John continued. “Then I got a visit from this guy named Bailey in August ‘93. He had orders assigning me to him. He didn’t say why. We flew overseas to Germany. I met Gant in Berlin. As soon as I met him I knew I was in over my head. Like Bailey, he wasn’t wearing a uniform, but he sure had a lot of weapons. They told me that he would take care of me.”

  “Who was Gant?” Hannah ignored Neeley’s look and concentrated on her husband.

  “The man who was in charge of the mission,” John said. He pointed at Neeley. “She knows-- knew-- him.”

  “Keep going,” Neeley ordered.

  “They told me that they wanted me to listen in on a meeting and judge the viability of what I heard. I didn’t have a fucking clue what they were talking about and no one busted their butt to inform me of anything else.

  “We flew out of Berlin aboard military transport. To a staging base in Saudi Arabia. There, in the middle of the night, Gant wakes me, makes me grab my gear and drags me to a waiting Combat Talon—a modified C-130 cargo plane. There was some sort of all terrain vehicle with big tires strapped down in the cargo bay. An army version of a dune buggy with lots of cans and stuff tied off on it.

  “We got on and the Talon took off. We were in the air a long time. They were flying low level, below the radar. I knew we were over Africa, but had no clue exactly where. The plane was jerking around so much I got sick, puking my guts out into the barf bags the crew gave me. Gant, hell, he slept most of the flight.


  “Then the plane slows down and descends even further as the back ramp opens. Gant cuts the straps holding the all terrain vehicle and tells me to get in the passenger seat. As soon as I was in he told me to buckle up. I strapped in just in time. The 130 touched down on the desert floor, rolling. Gant cranks the engine as the ramp lowers even further, until it’s just about a foot above the sand. It was night and there was sand blowing everywhere and I couldn’t see a damn thing. Gant had on night vision goggles and his hands were on the wheel.

  “We’re still moving and Gant throws the thing into gear. Scared the shit out of me as he hits the gas and we literally fly out of the back of the plane, hit the desert floor, bounce and then he’s tearing ass away, even as the plane accelerates and lifts off. Whole thing took less than thirty seconds from the plane touching down to it was back up and we were driving away.

  “I had no idea where the hell we were.”

  John came to a halt, beads of sweat on his forehead. Neeley glanced at Hannah. She was surprisingly calm, still simply staring at her husband.

  “And then?” Neeley prodded.

  “Gant drove for about an hour, then parked in a wadi. I helped him throw a camo net over the all-terrain. All he was doing was issuing orders, not explaining a damn thing. We grabbed our rucksacks and climbed out of the wadi toward a ridge about a mile away.

  “It took us about two hours to get a spot just below the top of the ridge. We maintained listening silence after radioing in that we were on the ground in position. We broke that silence only twice in the ten days we were on the ground.” John’s voice was flat now, his sentences clipped as he recited his story.

  “It took us two nights to dig the hide site. We hid under camouflage netting during the day. God, the sun was hot. And that hole--” he shook his head. “It was six feet wide by four feet front to rear and five feet vertical from the small slit that we looked out to the bottom. The overhead cover was made of small metal rods with canvas on top. Gant covered the whole thing with sand before sliding in. The site was set on a ridge looking toward the compound.”