by David Perry
Jason should have stayed at the house, pounding on the door or breaking it down, demonstrating to her that he would not let her walk away. He wanted to tell her the truth. But it would only make her worry. Jason didn’t want Chrissie bearing the weight … or the worry of the past. She had been through enough. She would have to deal with the lie, for now. It pained him to think that she was dealing with the ravages of infidelity. Even if they never reconciled, one day, he promised himself, he would tell her the truth.
After the deadly events of the christening, it had taken months to get right again. But Jason’s ghosts never really left. They just hung around, waiting for a break in his mental armor. The shipyard, The Colonial, the Regional Jail. They haunted him. They visited often from the dark recesses of his tortured mind. In the days immediately after the assassination attempts, Jason promised himself he would hunt down Tattoo Man and the guard who allowed him into his cell in the Regional Jail in Williamsburg. As the days passed and he and Chrissie started rebuilding their lives, the need to avenge the mortal deeds waned, practically disappearing as he healed and dealt with his demons. Jason and Chrissie settled into a comfortable existence, getting to know each other once more. They filled their lives with newer, more pleasant memories. It had taken months for him to control the post-traumatic symptoms. He—they—had turned a corner. All had progressed smoothly for a year.
Then he received the note.
He wanted to tear it up and burn the shreds. But something in him refused to allow him to. The words dragged him back into the past. The anonymous missive, scribbled in perfect cursive on thick, fancy stationery tucked under the windshield wiper one November morning a year ago, was a simple one:
Two men are still out there. One a former guard.
The other covered in art. Your life and the lives of
your family are still in danger!
Twenty-five simple words ushered in a torrent of flashbacks and unresolved issues. They were ominous and chockful of threat.
He tried to dismiss it. But the more he thought about it, the more he understood its meaning. And the more the desire to finish the job filled him.
Your life … and the lives of your family …
Someone was threatening Chrissie and Michael. Two sleepless nights and distracted days after receiving the note, Jason decided he needed answers. That’s when he started his quest. He would find Tattoo Man and the guard.
Keeping Chrissie in the dark, at least until a few weeks ago, Jason toiled in the shadows, trying to hunt down the two men. Tattoo Man had disappeared. But the guard was still around. Jason had tracked him and watched his movements.
Jason believed in justice. He always had. He was obsessive about it. It’s what caused him to pursue the reasons behind Thomas Pettigrew’s death. It caused him to be sucked into an assassination plot. It almost cost him his life … and Chrissie’s.
That need for the truth and justice drove him to right past wrongs. And it was this same need that had just cost him his relationship. It was his own damned fault.
He thought he had defeated that constant yearning, barreling past it. But the note sucked him into the vortex once again. It rekindled his latent anger and need for vengeance.
Jason shook his head, trying to clear the frustration like a wet dog shedding water. He needed a clear head, no distractions. He needed to be able to focus on his target. He rubbed his eyes once more, checking them in the rearview mirror. It was dark. He couldn’t see, and he didn’t dare turn on the dome light. His eyes felt red and swollen.
He should be plastered by now!
The man was a heavy drinker. Jason didn’t know if he’d acquired the habit since being fired or if he’d always been a drunk. It didn’t matter. Jason would confront him after he’d downed enough beer to slow him down, to cloud his mind.
He checked the Colt lying on the seat beside him once more, reassured by its cold heavy metal. He had taken it from Chrissie’s small gun safe near their bed in the master bedroom two nights ago after she was asleep and placed it in the trunk of his Mustang. He wanted it available when the time was right.
The last thing he wanted was to be fumbling around for the gun and have Chrissie walk in on him. His own weapons were tucked away in his house in York County. He wanted Pettigrew’s aging Colt to be the weapon used to avenge everything from two years ago.
Chrissie had told him approximately where she dropped the gun in the James River as she fled Lily Zanns’s estate that evening two years ago. He had combed the shallow water on Saturday, three months after the christening, found the gun, and returned home with it. With Peter’s help, he restored it to pristine condition. It had remained locked in the small gun safe at the side of the bed ever since. Now, Jason caressed its glistening steel.
Tonight, he would begin the healing process, get answers, and put it all behind him.
Jason drew several quick, deep breaths, willing away the anxiety. He checked his Tissot. A few more minutes! Then he would make his move.
Chapter 7
The black Cadillac CTS-V glided to a stop in the shadow of a large oak. Its tires crunched on the gravel of the road’s shoulder. The Watcher had extinguished the headlights five minutes earlier as he followed Jason Rodgers, using the moonlight to guide the vehicle along the roadway. He did not fear driving too long without the headlights. The Watcher knew where Rodgers was going.
Lifting the powerful night-vision binoculars to his face and studying the Ford Mustang, he saw the green heat signature inside the vehicle. Rodgers was seated behind the wheel.
The agent lifted his smartphone and typed in a coded text message:
JR about to make contact with CH. It will happen tonight.
The agent hit send and his message turned blue and moved higher on his screen. The message would not be received for at least an hour, maybe two.
He removed the fedora from his head and placed it on the seat beside him.
He studied the rearview mirror again. As expected, a van disguised as a service vehicle rolled into place a hundred yards back. The American FBI stood out like a gentile in a synagogue. They had been following for him for a week, watching him as he watched Jason Rodgers. The Americans knew something was up.
It was all part of the plan!
They didn’t know who he was or what he was doing. This was the most dangerous of games. If he was not careful, The Watcher could get himself … and others … killed.
There would be time to worry about the FBI later. They would not interfere or make themselves known to the pharmacist.
The spy turned his attention back to Rodgers. He imagined his current state of mind. He’d been rejected by his woman. Based on their conversation picked up by the microphones in her home, it appeared to be over. She’d sent him packing. He was hurt and confused. She’d known about his secret mission, thinking it was a carnal desire.
Jason Rodgers had a score to settle. The last thing The Watcher needed was for him to end up behind bars for murder or manslaughter. His latest directive returned to him now.
Report his movements and be there to pick up the pieces.
Jason Rodgers would kill. In fact, that was part of the plan. It was The Watcher’s job to make sure he did not get arrested … or killed himself.
Rodgers was about to confront a man who had been responsible for nearly ending his life. That would be enough for me, The Watcher told himself. He’d be matzo!
Though he didn’t know it, the pharmacist had several jobs ahead of him. Dangerous, risky tasks. The Watcher would make sure he checked each one off his list. If he failed, his orders were to make sure Rodgers’s targets were taken down … and that Rodgers made his appointed rounds.
The Watcher reached over to the passenger seat and lifted the black cloth covering the item in the seat. In the dim glint of moonlight sifting through the window, he studied the small black remote. He flipped a switch. The green light came on, indicating it was ready to go. The charges had been placed. Wondering
when he would need to use it, he switched the device off and covered it once more with the black cloth.
He turned the knob on the dashboard ensuring the dome light would not come on when he opened the door. He slipped out and walked to the trunk. Unlocking it with the key fob, he peered inside. The items were there, ready to go. They were clues. Clues Rodgers would be asked to find, decipher, and act upon. He closed the trunk softly and re-entered the Cadillac.
The Watcher had many motives. He served many masters. Too many. Taking lives might be necessary and was not something he relished. This mission was vital and would provide answers. Answers that might save more lives later.
The helmsman of the second rubber skiff shuttling Team Isaiah pushed the tiller hard to port. The rubber boat rolled into its turn into the deepest part of the James River from the Carrollton shoreline, having passed under the James River Bridge three minutes ago. He angled the craft away from the bridge, a half mile north of the Crab Shack restaurant and the fishing pier. The black raft with its black-clad passengers ducking low, skipped along the small waves.
“Stay as far away from any boats as possible. We are 8.5 kilometers from our landing point,” the team leader demanded in a voice loud enough to be heard over the soft hum of the outboard. It was barely audible, but its authoritative timbre made the fresh-faced rookie on the tiller nod emphatically. The camouflage paint on the leader’s face made the whites of his eyes stand out. He looked at each member of his crew. “Believe it or not, this is the part of the mission with the greatest risk of detection. Hug the Isle of Wight coast until I give the order to cross the river.”
The Thor had dropped them into the darkness at the mouth of the James River. The first team, Team Mohammed, had been dropped in the Bay, the team leader thought, and were probably waiting for the right moment to stage their assault.
The helmsman pushed the tiller to the side. The craft arced into another turn, making the southern bank visible in the dim moonlight. They motored north for thirty more minutes. With a wave of his hand, the leader motioned for a direction change. They crossed the river to the Newport News side in under fifteen minutes. Luckily, they had not seen any other water craft.
Farther up river, the leader made a slashing motion across his throat. The helmsman cut the engine. The craft inched over the dark water.
“Paddles,” he ordered.
Halfway to the beach, the helmsman killed the engine. The raft coasted toward the shore three hundred yards away.
“Habib, Ahmed, bring her in!” the leader ordered.
Habib, the helmsman, and Ahmed turned the pair of clamps holding the large outboard to the wooden transom. With muffled grunts, they lifted the massive engine and lowered it onto the floor of the raft.
Each man lowered his short metal oar into the water and began stroking.
Twenty minutes later, the craft entered the narrow Deep Creek tributary, maneuvering around the slim point. Stroking every five seconds, their oars dipped soundlessly into the black water.
The boat scraped to a halt at the James River Marina. A rock-strewn jetty protected them from view to the south. A small beach littered with debris led to a gravel parking lot. To the north, they were exposed to waterfront homes and any curious onlookers with a decent pair of binoculars.
The five men slipped over the pontoons into the water, standing in the waist-deep water. Before he gave his next command, the leader swiveled his head, taking in every possible danger with the night-vision goggles he’d just donned. If they were detected, the mission would be aborted. He’d catch hell for it, but better than being captured or detained.
“It looks good.”
The leader removed a large knife from the scabbard strapped to his calf, showing it to the other four men. They each removed their knives. Each man stabbed the black blades into the thick rubber. Air hissed from the multiple slits.
As the raft deflated, they pushed it toward deeper water. Twenty feet offshore, the heavy outboard motor dragged the limp rubber under. The brown hue of the James would hide it until a bather happened to stumble upon it. The river’s murky brown cast could hide a small car for months.
The quintet swam until their boots hit the asphalt boat ramp.
“Stay low and move slowly,” the leader commanded, as he tapped his best recruit on the shoulder. “We’ll wait here. You have three minutes.”
The leader watched the large, muscular man emerge from the water and make his way across the short stretch of gravel to the asphalt parking lot. He banked around a tree and angled into the shadows.
One of the men behind the leader whispered loud enough for the leader to hear.
“Why in Allah’s name did we land here? It’s too open. Too easy to be seen.”
The leader turned and glared at the youngest member of his assault team. The kid was good, he thought, but very naive.
“Because,” the leader said, “it’s a marina and the only place where we can park a vehicle without arousing suspicion and have it be so close to the target.”
The leader withdrew a Makarov PMM pistol. The barrel had been extended by a long cylindrical sound suppressor. He placed it between the young man’s eyes. The rookie’s eyes crossed as the barrel dimpled the skin of his forehead.
“Every aspect of this mission has been accounted for. If you question any part of it again …”
Sounds from the tree line interrupted him. He turned. Muffled words were exchanged. Someone in the parking lot on the other side of the marina was confronting his point man. Scrapes and grunts filled the night air.
Shit!
Chapter 8
The Watcher leaned his head back on the car’s headrest as he wiggled his ass against the black leather, trying to get comfortable. His eyes never left the Mustang, waiting and watching for any movement from the pharmacist.
His mind drifted back to the day eighteen months ago when he’d managed to secure an audience with the murderous matriarch, Delilah Hussein.
He had arrived at the rendezvous point in al-Qiza, a small hamlet east of Damascus held by ISIS. The sun burned like a blast furnace. Sweat poured down his back. His parched throat hurt every time he swallowed. The slight breeze kicked up powdery clouds of sand. The white SUV stopped three feet in front of him. Three large bearded men alighted.
They had shoved him into the backseat; his wallet, watch, and contents of his pockets were confiscated. His hands were cuffed in front of him, a black hood placed over his head. The ride seemed to last for hours. What mattered was gaining access to Hussein’s organization, The Simoon.
They stopped inside a walled compound. Once inside, the hood was removed and The Watcher guided down a long white hallway. He was deposited in a well-appointed living room.
A fine leather sofa sat along a large wall from which hung a massive woven tapestry. The couch was flanked by identical walnut side tables inlaid with mother of pearl and a matching coffee table.
The Watcher was forced into a comfortable arm chair angled beside the couch and tables. He sat, wrists cuffed, guarded by his host/captors for several long minutes.
A door opened and a smallish woman appeared wrapped in a green silk thobe with ornate embroidery at the neckline and a black woven belt wrapped several times around her thin waist. Her dark eyes gleamed from behind her hijab as she stepped forward.
One of men from the car nudged The Watcher.
“Stand.”
He complied and looked at the woman.
The small amount of hair visible around her face and the fine wrinkles at the corner of her eyes hinted at her age. This woman was well beyond forty, maybe fifty.
“Are you Delilah Hussein?” The Watcher asked.
The woman nodded and motioned for a tray to be brought. A servant wearing a brown tunic offered The Watcher coffee. He waved it away.
“I’m told you wish to become part of my organization.”
The Watcher nodded. A skeptical frown weighed down the edges of Hussein’s lips.
>
“Tell me why.”
“I have skills and resources that will benefit your cause.”
“Such as.”
Movement coming from the Mustang interrupted The Watcher’s trance. Jason Rodgers had opened the car door. The dome light came on. The Watcher noticed the weapon clutched in his right hand.
Rodgers slipped into a chair at an empty table along the wall. He waved down a waitress and ordered a Miller Lite. He scanned the room. It didn’t take long to find his target. Clyde Hutton, the former guard at the Williamsburg Regional Jail, was exactly where Jason expected him to be.
Hutton sat near the elevated runway jutting into the throng of male gawkers looking up at the exotic dancer. The drunken Hutton pulled a single from the wad in his hand and laid it on the stage in front of him beside the ten or eleven other bills residing there.
The dancer was a forty-something grandmotherly type who looked like she’d had various tucks and lifts, giving her face a plastic appearance. Her fake breasts were too large for her medium frame. It looked as if her surgeon had stuffed a pair of over-inflated soccer balls in her chest. Two tasseled pasties covered her nipples and a flap of wrinkled belly skin hung over her bikini bottom, neutralizing what little sex appeal she possessed.
Nonetheless, Hutton seemed to be taken with the show she provided, attested to by the ones he loosely tossed at her feet. Leaning forward on his elbows on the ledge just below the stage, he saw no one but her. A wry smile curved up the side of his face. A pitcher, holding dregs of beer and coated by patches of suds, rested beside him and his half-full glass.
Jason’s side view of the man confirmed the good news. The glassy look in his eye and the miniscule oscillation of his torso brought a smile to Jason’s lips. He was shit-faced. It would make what he was about to do easier.
Jason scanned the large room and sipped his brew. The place was crowded but not full. The largely male audience sat at tables or along the runway quietly taking in the dancer and the scantily-clad waitresses, their oversized breasts bulging from tight tops and hips hugged by skimpy bottoms. They had perfected the bend-at-the-waist-to-give-the-patron-a-good-look-at-your-cleavage bow. By the high-and-tight haircuts, Jason knew many of them were military types out on the town from nearby Joint Base Langley-Eustis.