Friendly Fire

by John Gilstrap

  Irene’s scowl deepened. “Don’t make me guess, Dig,” she said. “What are you trying to tell me?”

  “I’m telling you that we’ve got a terrorist cell of the highest American order working right here in Virginia. You lean on your intel assets to give you the details, but I’m not making this shit up. The incident in Woodbridge is linked directly to the stabbing incident in Brookfield, which is directly related to the foiled kidnapping in Arlington. Notice the emphasis on the word foiled. That part was me. The guy you came here to yell at.”

  “Don’t pretend that you are a sensitive man,” Irene said. “What am I supposed to do with that?”

  “If you’re looking for a recommendation, I’d tell you to tell the Baker family to stay away from their home, and to keep their kids away from school.”

  “How can I do that?”

  Jonathan leaned in very close and lowered his voice to almost a whisper. “You’re the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. You’re good friends with the director of every alphabet agency in the world. I’m guessing that between all of you, you can find a way. Especially when you consider the alternative.”

  “Which is . . . ?”

  “Congressional children being held hostage,” Jonathan said. “It’s a brilliant plan, if you think about it. We don’t provide security for members of Congress or their families, and most of them couldn’t possibly afford it on their own. It’s not exactly as if Congress does anything for the country now, but can you imagine the political constipation if there were real personal consequences for their actions? Holy crap, the mind boggles.”

  Irene stewed over her options for the better part of thirty seconds. “Where’s the end point?” she said finally. “When can I tell them that it’s safe to return to their home? And what do I tell the other five hundred thirty-four members from the two chambers about their families?”

  Jonathan didn’t bother to answer because he had nothing to offer, and he didn’t imagine that she expected anything from him.

  When a solution finally occurred to Irene, she sat a little straighter. “I have another job for you,” she said.

  “Does this mean I’m forgiven?” Jonathan asked.

  “You’re being an ass again,” she said.

  He laughed. Hey, when you’re right, you’re right.

  “I want you to find him and follow him.”

  “Who?”

  “The man you accosted in the park.”

  “You know he was the one with knife, right?”

  “Like it matters,” she said. She smiled. “You’re alive, he’s hurt, everyone is happy. I want to know what he’s doing.”

  “Didn’t we already discuss that you’re the director of the FB friggin’ I?”

  Irene looked at him for a few seconds, telegraphing that he was an idiot. “And what, exactly, would I tell my agents? How would I justify that budget entry? I may be the director of the FB friggin’ I, but I still have to answer to congressional and presidential oversight. Is that really your preferred route?”

  Jonathan chuckled. “You know, when you put your mind to a buzz kill, there’s nobody better than you.”

  Irene gave him a little grin. “So, that means yes?”

  “It means I’m going to speak to Mother Hen, and she’ll get pissed. But yes, that all translates to yes.”

  Irene extended her hand. “It’s always a pleasure doing business, Scorpion,” she said.

  He returned the gesture. “Why do I have the feeling that by the time this is all over, I’m going to get shot at?”

  “It’s what you do,” she said.

  * * *

  “Put the drinks down,” Spike Catron demanded as he stormed through the door of the Moose lodge. He didn’t know for a fact that anyone was drinking, but he followed the smart money. He heard plastic mugs hitting the surface of the bar and the various tables. This was the second time in three days that he’d gathered everyone into one place, and the exposure made him nervous as hell.

  Vinnie met him halfway to the first bank of chairs. Clearly, he’d been waiting for the confrontation. “Hey, Boss, you want to tell us what the hell is going on?”

  “Sit down, Vinnie. This isn’t the time for your power play. There’s too much to do.”

  Vinnie had made no secret of his desire to oust Spike from power, but it had always been an unstated undercurrent. He seemed unnerved by Spike’s direct address of his ambition. He returned to a stool at the bar and sat down.

  “Give me a report,” Spike said.

  “Bangstrom is dead,” Vinnie said.

  “And?”

  “He told us that he told the police chief and a lieutenant who works for him.”

  “Told him what?”

  “About the missing uniforms,” Vinnie said. “Bangstrom pretty much figured out what we’re planning. I told you that this would be a—”

  “Save it,” Spike said. What had or had not been said prior to this made no difference. “What else do we hear from our friends in the police department?”

  “Our primary contact doesn’t think that the chief bought it,” Vinnie said.

  “What does that mean?”

  Vinnie shrugged. “It means that I think we still have time.”

  “And what do you think will be the case when they find out that you killed Bangstrom?” Spike asked.

  “You told me—”

  “Answer the question,” Spike said. “Do you think that maybe when they find out that the guy who blew the whistle on an attack is dead they might draw the conclusion that he was right?”

  Vinnie arose again from his bar stool. “If they do, you can’t lay that on me,” he said. “I was following your orders.”

  “What did you do with the bodies?” Spike asked.

  Spike cocked his head, the way a dog does when it’s confused. “What are you driving at?”

  “It’s a simple question, Vinnie. You killed Cletus Bangstrom. What did you do with his body?”

  “I killed his wife and his dog, too,” Vinnie said. There was defiance in his tone. “And as far as I know, they haven’t moved from the spot where I dropped them.”

  “So, they’ll be found,” Spike said.

  Vinnie took a step closer. He seemed ready for a fight, and he seemed to think a fight was inevitable. “I suppose they will, if someone comes looking for them. How about you tell us all what happened at the school? And in the park, if you’re ready to talk about that.”

  Spike felt himself flush.

  “I’m not here to do battle with you,” Vinnie said, “But I think we can all agree that bad shit is happening, and we need a plan to figure out what it is.”

  Given the personalities in the room—and their talent for homicide—it was difficult for Spike to think of any of the assembled team as anything but dangerous, but he owed them an explanation. He prepared himself with a deep breath. “Okay, here it is,” he said. “The guy who coldcocked me at the park got the paper with the address on it.”

  “Who was he?” someone asked.

  “I have no idea,” Spike confessed, “but he had skills. Look at my face. But he didn’t kill me, which makes me believe he’s a cop.”

  “Oh, shit,” someone else said.

  “I don’t know the details, but the fact that the Baker girls never left the school, and that cops swarmed the place leads me to believe that they’re figuring things out that we don’t want them to know.”

  Vinnie took another step closer. This time, though, it was less threatening than it was an expression of interest. “Where does that leave us with the sheik?”

  “In a delicate spot,” Spike said. “Al-Amin wants terror. At the end of the day, that’s the goal. The fact that his own people couldn’t pull off a snatch actually helps us. He understands that success will be harder than he originally thought.”

  “What about our money?” asked another voice. It belonged to a guy with the avatar Avery.

  “Well, that’s the key, isn’t it?�
�� Spike said. “Our purpose on the planet, as far as the sheik is concerned, is to deliver terror. The big play is Operation Armageddon. I fear that that’s been blown by the property office clerk, but I think the way to make it work is to pull the trigger now.”

  “Excuse me, Boss,” Drew said, “but we’re not ready.”

  “I disagree,” Spike said. “We’ve got the uniforms, we’ve got the weapons. The only reason we’ve been waiting this long is for the kidnapping bullshit, and God knows that hasn’t been working.”

  “The money,” Bill repeated. “You’re talking ephemeral bullshit. I just want to get paid.”

  “And that will happen,” Spike said, “after we hit Mason’s Corner and the police station. We go on Friday night. Tomorrow. The sheik told me that half of our payments have already been deposited in whatever accounts you provided. I checked and mine was there.”

  “How much?” Vinnie asked.

  “One million,” Spike said.

  “That’s a hundred short of half,” Drew said.

  Spike waited a beat, hoping that they would catch on without him stating the obvious. “We didn’t deliver the kids,” he said. “There’s got to be a penalty. Trust me, the sheik wanted it to be more of a penalty than that, but I told him we wouldn’t do the rest for any less than two million apiece. Finally, he agreed.”

  “Who said you can talk for the rest of us?” said Alfie Burdick, a long-ago agency contractor.

  “The rest of you,” Spike said. “I’ve been speaking for you from the beginning.”

  “From the beginning, it was two point two million for each of us. I didn’t approve no cut in pay.”

  “Then walk away,” Spike said. “Take your money, disappear, and never sleep soundly again. Remember these are the guys who like to burn people alive.”

  “We’re not the ones who screwed up the kid snatch,” someone else said.

  “No, we’re not,” Spike said. “That guy is dead. We hired him, and he let himself be killed, so yeah, it was us.”

  Spike crossed his arms and strolled among the assembled team members. “I can’t stop you from doing whatever you want to do, but we signed up for this, and the sheik has played it pretty straight with us from the beginning. Do what we’re told, and we get paid for it. He’s always been good on his word. He paid us for the three cop shootings in the Midwest, and he paid us for the judge we killed in Arizona. Those were our auditions, and we knew that from the beginning. The kidnappings were a distraction, and they didn’t work out.

  “Y’all need to make your decisions now, though. If we get to H-hour and you’re not where I’ve been counting on you to be, then al-Amin will be the least of your problems. You might be good at what you do, but you don’t want the rest of this team hunting you down. So, what’ll it be? Do you do this and retire with two million bucks, or do you walk away? I need final answers right now. Alfie, I’ll start with you. Are you in or out?”

  “How do we know we’ll get paid the rest?” Alfie asked.

  “In or out?” Life came without instruction manuals or guarantees. He saw no reason to answer the question.

  Alfie took his time. He scanned the room for an indication of what others were going to do, but it was room full of poker faces. Spike admired that. Professionals never showed what they were thinking.

  Finally, Alfie said, “I’m in.”

  “Good,” Spike said. “Thank you.” From there, Spike polled the room. Twenty people present, twenty people in.

  They were good to go.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Venice gathered the team into the War Room.

  Jonathan and Boxers had been in the basement armory when she told them that she had news. She said it was big, and that they should come up right away. While known for an expansive sense of drama, Venice was never one to bluff, so Jonathan was anxious to hear what she had to offer. By the time he and Big Guy arrived in the War Room, Venice was already ensconced at her command module. Occupying the end of the long conference table, opposite the enormous LCD television monitor/computer screen, she was surrounded with multiple keyboards and mice, a cornucopia of toys that rendered all doors useless and all secrets moot.

  “What’ve you got, Ven?” Jonathan asked as he entered. Boxers was right behind him and he closed the door.

  “You said Wolverine wants you to find and track down your friend in the Corvette.”

  “Indeed.” Jonathan could tell from the set of her smile that something big was on the way.

  Venice explained, “I thought to myself, how in the world will I ever be able to trace down a random red Corvette and tie it to a particular person? I suppose I could have dredged up a list of all Corvettes sold, but my God, that would take forever. So I got to wondering—”

  “Do I have time to make a sandwich before you make your point?” Boxers asked.

  Venice glared, but she barely broke stride. “So I got to wondering what other options were available to me. And then I remembered how we knew about the Corvette in the first place.” She looked expectantly at Jonathan, clearly waiting for him to connect his own dots.

  “You know I don’t like this game, right?” he said.

  “Your body cam!” she said. There was a triumphant tone in her voice. “I remembered how it was that I saw it in the first place. I saw it on your body cam! So I was able to replay the video, and with a little manipulation, I was able to find his license plate number.”

  Jonathan recoiled. “You mean it was that easy?”

  She scowled. “No, of course not.”

  “Of course not,” Jonathan parroted. How could he have thought that anything would be easy? “But you’re still smiling. I presume that means you’ve taken another step.”

  “I have,” she said, and she started typing. Up on the screen, computer stuff happened. Lots of screen movement and numbers, and finally a list of license plate numbers, addresses, and makes, models, and years of automobiles.

  She used the arrow pointer of her mouse to highlight a particular line. “Here’s the license plate you found on the car. It’s a Missouri plate.”

  “Is this public record?” Jonathan asked.

  She looked offended. “Of course not. This was actually a very tough get.”

  Boxers growled.

  “And as you’ll see,” Venice went on, “the license plate in question does not belong to the car it’s attached to. Unless he was able to turn a Dodge Viper into a Corvette.”

  “The Viper is a good car,” Boxers said. “I’d prefer one of those over a ’Vette any day.” When Jonathan gave him an impatient look, Big Guy feigned surprise. “Oh, I’m sorry, I thought we wanted to talk about irrelevant shit. My bad.”

  Venice’s jaw set, and Jonathan stifled a chuckle. “Go ahead,” he said. “I’m listening.”

  Venice held the glare for another second or two to sell her point, and then returned her attention to her screen. “That plate—that Viper—belonged to a Samuel Deffenbaugh out of St. Louis. He passed away earlier this year at the age of eighty-two.”

  “I didn’t even know he was sick,” Boxers grumbled.

  “Please give it a rest, Big Guy,” Jonathan said. “What’s the significance of him being dead?”

  “I thought it was interesting,” Venice said. “Think about it. Our guy has license plates that belong to someone who died. Now look at this.” She zoomed her picture in closer on the license plate. “Look at the date on the tag. It’s new. He’s got another two years to run on those plates.”

  She clicked to a different screen. “Now, if you look at the transfer records for the Viper—”

  “You’re kidding, right?” Jonathan interrupted. Exasperation had morphed into pure admiration. Who thought of dong this level of research?

  “I thought it was important,” she said, but her eyes stayed on the screen as she searched for what she was looking for. “There it is, right there.” She navigated the mouse arrow to the right spot. “In the transfer record, the plates are li
sted as lost.”

  Jonathan cocked his head. He wasn’t getting it.

  “Not stolen,” she said, her voice gaining more excitement. “But lost. That means our man has two years to use someone else’s plates free and clear. No record is going to show anything stolen.”

  “Suppose he gets pulled over?” Boxers said. “Won’t that be a problem?”

  “Thank you for asking,” Venice said with an even bigger grin. “So, I looked up Mr. Deffenbaugh’s driver’s license.” More clicks, and a new image. “Gentlemen, meet the new and improved Samuel Deffenbaugh.”

  “That’s my guy,” Jonathan said. He’d recognize that jawline anywhere. It amused him to think of what it might look like now.

  “I thought that might be the case,” Venice said. “Now here’s the bit of bad news. I ran the image through all the facial recognition software—and as you know, we have the best available—and the image came back negative.”

  “What does that mean?” Jonathan asked.

  “Well, on the large scale, it means that there’s no record of him. He’s as invisible as our Mr. Stepahin. And before you ask, yes, I looked for all Samuel Def-fenbaughs—there are more of them than you think—and none within the correct age range look anything like your guy.”

  Truth be told, Jonathan wasn’t going to ask that because it hadn’t occurred to him. This was the way Venice’s mind worked. Her logic stream tunneled her into some wild, unexpected places.

  “But there’s good news within the bad news,” she said. “All indications are that these off-the-grid guys are some kind of government contractors.”

  “How can that possibly be good news?” Boxers asked.

  “Because it’s data,” Venice said. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Now we can say with a pretty high degree of reliability that the government is somehow involved in whatever is going on. The question is, why would the United States government be trying to kidnap congressmen’s and senators’ children?”