A Soldier's Revenge

by Matthew Dunn

  They’d brought camp beds and personal belongings, so they could stay somewhere in the house until Cochrane was captured or dead. There was no negotiating this point, they added sternly. Lives were at risk, and on that point the police had primacy to do whatever was necessary.

  Celia and Robert reluctantly agreed, advising them that they had no need for their makeshift beds. There were perfectly adequate spare bedrooms they could use.

  The detectives said that the squad car containing two uniformed cops that had brought them here would be parked one mile away at the end of the lane that led to their property. When their shift ended they would be relieved by another car and officers, but there would always be a police presence in the valley. Now and again, they might drive up to the house to check on everyone, so the residents were not to be alarmed if they saw a police car approaching.

  The more senior of the detectives said, “That way you have four armed men all over this place if Cochrane comes here. But here’s a thing. You might not want Cochrane to be caught. If you try anything stupid, we’ll know.”

  The detectives started making checks of the house and its surroundings.

  Celia, Robert, and Faye remained in the kitchen, deep in thought.

  It was Faye who broke the silence. “They don’t trust us.”

  “They don’t.” Robert walked to the window and watched one of the detectives walk along the side of the valley rise. “But maybe they’re right to stay with us. We don’t know Cochrane’s intentions.”

  “Meaning what, Uncle?” asked Faye.

  Celia answered for him. “There is a strong probability that Will is guilty and is now in an unhinged state of mind. Who knows what he’ll do? We’re the only people he knows in the States. Even if he doesn’t know why, he will probably gravitate toward us. And we have the boys to think about.”

  “And protect.”

  Faye couldn’t prevent anger welling up inside her. “Whether he murdered her or not, Will Cochrane is most certainly connected to what happened in that hotel room. He . . .” She stopped when she saw the twins standing at the base of the stairs. “We told you to stay in your rooms until we called you. This is a grown-up conversation.”

  Shock was evident on the boys’ faces.

  Billy asked, “Uncle Will killed someone? Is that why the police came? Is that why Uncle Will’s not here?”

  Faye glanced anxiously at Robert and Celia. “I don’t think we can keep this from them any longer.”

  “I agree.” Robert walked to the twins and put his hands gently on their shoulders. “Everything is going to be okay. We think there’s been a mistake. Here’s a deal—we’ll tell you what we know once we’ve worked out how to tell you what we know.”

  Faye said to the boys, “How about I take you out to dinner tonight?”

  Billy nodded.

  Tom replied, “I want to stay here. I have a headache.”

  Faye gave him some aspirin, while saying to Robert, “Maybe it makes sense to speak to them individually.”

  Robert said to the twins, “Can you leave us to finish our grown-up chat? Go back to your room and play with your toys? Maybe you could record some nice messages on the teddies that Uncle Will bought you. You could tell him that you hope he’s okay and gets here soon. That would be nice for him.”

  The boys did as they were told, though their expressions remained confused and uneasy.

  Faye said, “When we tell them, we should immediately reassure them about their future. Tell them that whatever happens, they’ll be looked after by us.”

  Celia looked sternly at Faye. “Us means you as well, Faye. You’ve got to ask yourself about your future. If Will can’t clear his name, you’re the only relative young enough to look after the boys. But you’ve got to get over this . . . this . . .”

  “That’s enough, Celia.” Robert studied Faye. “But my wife’s right. I know it’s tough, but somehow you need to overcome your grief about your sister’s murder. Billy and Tom need you now more than ever. Do you think you have what it takes?”

  Faye’s anger faded as she remembered being in floods of tears washing dishes while the twins were in her care. But that was months ago. Was she stronger now? She thought she might be. She hadn’t cried in weeks, and before that the episodes of gut-wrenching sorrow had become more sporadic. But it remained a question of trust. Could she trust herself to once again carry the enormous burden of parenting? She guessed it didn’t matter. She had Robert and Celia as backup in the house if she had another meltdown.

  Faye said, “Why don’t I take Billy out for dinner tonight in Roanoke? I can talk to him there. And you can cook Tom a nice meal and talk to him here.”

  The Granges nodded. “Perfect.”

  Two hours later, the two detectives finished their rounds of the property. Both were uneasy. The Granges’ house was miles from civilization. They had at least eight acres of land. Worse, there were no distinct borders with the wooded countryside beyond. The only consolation was that the mile-long drive that led to the main road at the bottom of the valley was the only way a car could get in or out. But to their knowledge, Cochrane didn’t have a car. And the house itself was big. Six bedrooms. Three doors to get into the house. The ground-level windows were old; their locks would be easy to jimmy open.

  The senior detective said to his colleague, “This is bad. On or off duty, we keep our guns on us at all times.”

  Chapter 13

  In the National Zoo, the light was beginning to fade as early evening descended, accompanied by renewed rain. Most people were leaving quickly to seek shelter or head home.

  Philip Knox remained where he was, his raincoat and umbrella an indication that he always came prepared and was never surprised by a switch in weather.

  He was sitting on a park bench, staring ahead while listening to the sound of water pounding his umbrella. Very deliberately, he’d been in the same spot for sixty minutes, watching others around him, but most important, making himself visible to one man. He couldn’t see that man, but he knew he’d be watching both Knox and his surroundings. The man was cautious and would only approach when it was safe to do so. Now, there was no one to be seen. This was a good thing.

  The man now approached from behind the CIA officer and sat on the bench next to him. He was forty-one years old, tall, muscular, and had hair that was long and tied into a ponytail, a hairstyle left over from his infiltration of an eastern European arms cartel.

  Knox looked at him. “Hello, Simon. Everything okay?”

  Simon Tap didn’t immediately respond, just sat looking ahead at the park, rain washing over his uncovered face. A minute later he asked, “What is it this time?”

  Knox chuckled. “No time for small talk?”

  “No,” responded the former Delta Force operative who’d subsequently spent three years in the CIA’s Special Operations Group, before being kicked out for coldly executing five Taliban men in Afghanistan. “Just get on with it.”

  “Very well. I need you to stick very close to certain police detectives. And armed with what information they give you, I’d like you to be one step ahead of them.”

  “You want me to locate a criminal they’re hunting?”

  “Clever, Simon.” Knox handed him what looked like a cell phone, though it was twice the size of a standard phone. “The NSA gave me this. You won’t be able to communicate using this, but it will be able to hear every call and read every SMS, incoming and outgoing, in her phone.”

  “Her?”

  “Detective Thyme Painter of the New York Police Department. She and her partner—Józef Kopański, usually known as Joe—are leading the manhunt for a man called Will Cochrane.”

  “The guy on the news, the one who killed a woman in NYC.”

  “The very same. Now, I’ve met Detectives Painter and Kopański and subsequently did some checking up on them. They’re the best detectives in New York; probably the whole East Coast.” He handed Tap photos of the cops, adding, “Painter has a
n artificial leg, makes her walk awkwardly. And the reason half Kopański’s face looks the way it does is because he pissed off a perp who was holding a bottle of nitric acid. They’ll stand out.”

  Tap’s frame was motionless as he asked, “You want me to grab Cochrane and wait for cops to arrive?”

  Knox skirted the question. “I will pay you two hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Lot of money compared to the last jobs. You sure you can cover that up without the Agency knowing a large chunk of their cash has gone missing?”

  Knox smiled. “If you knew the size of the annual budget under my control, most of it deniable and unaccountable, you’d possibly have an argument to state that I’m underpaying you.” His tone turned serious. “You’ve never let me down before. Will you do it?”

  Tap shrugged. “Can’t promise I’ll get him without good police data from”—he held the device—“this. But if I get good leads, I’ll close him down. It’ll be a walk in the park once I have him in my sights. Then I’ll call it in to the cops.”

  “Actually, Simon, if you don’t mind, I’d rather you didn’t.”

  Tap was quiet.

  “I told Painter and Kopański that the Agency couldn’t interfere in their police matter. It was a lie. See, the thing is, it’s better for everyone if Cochrane doesn’t remain on the run. But it’s also better if he’s not incarcerated. He’s got too much stuff in his head. Too many things he might spill to get a reduced sentence. Because—”

  “He was a covert operative.”

  Knox always admired the rapid thinking of the asset he’d used many times without the Agency knowing. He liked to think of Tap as his cutthroat razor—for the most part delicate and precise, but extremely capable of creating an awful mess if needed. “I need Cochrane permanently removed.”

  “Then my price has just doubled.”

  Knox had anticipated this and had ensured he could squirrel four hundred thousand dollars out of his slush fund without anyone noticing.

  Tap asked, “Does NSA know why it made this gadget for you?”

  “It believes we’re merely keeping tabs on the investigation and that if we hear anything from the cops that they don’t understand but we do, then we can subtly steer the detectives in the right direction. NSA thinks their tool is to help capture Cochrane.”

  Tap was deep in thought. “If I kill Cochrane close to cops, what will they think has happened?”

  The CIA officer shrugged. “I’ll muddy their thinking—tell them that there are a vast number of foreign people who want payback for Cochrane’s service to the West. He killed some of theirs. They decided to end his life while he was on the run and vulnerable.” He added, “We have a deal?”

  “It’ll be done.”

  Knox’s tone was earnest and urgent as he replied, “Don’t get close to him.”

  “I can handle myself.”

  “With most people, yes. But with this one things are different. He’ll easily kill you if you’re in close proximity to him. Trust me on that. Get a rifle, or whatever works for you, and take his head off from a distance.”

  Chapter 14

  My bus was on route 81, about an hour away from Roanoke. The entire journey south, I’d had my jacket collar and hood up, pretending to sleep. I wished I really could have got some shuteye. I was dog-tired.

  The bus was at full capacity. Most people were dozing. Thankfully, the interior was in darkness. I was in an aisle seat. Next to me was a young man. He looked like a college student. He hadn’t said a word to me when he got on the bus in D.C. Just played games on his phone for half an hour before slipping it into his pocket and crashing. He’d been asleep ever since.

  The bus slowed down, and I opened my eyes. Ahead of us traffic was moving slowly. I couldn’t see why. Maybe an accident.

  But I couldn’t afford to make assumptions. I kept looking ahead.

  Five minutes later, I saw flashing lights on the highway ahead. We were four hundred yards away, moving at crawling pace.

  Most likely an accident, I repeated to myself.

  But as we got closer, my stomach flipped. Two squad cars were parked horizontally across the highway. A gap the width of a truck was between them. That was the only way to get through. Other cop cars were stationary behind the makeshift roadblock. And in the gap, two officers were allowing vehicles to slowly go through. Each time, they lifted a spike strip. Once the car was through, they replaced the strip and checked the next vehicle in the queue. I bet the cops had another spike strip farther down, in case a car tried to rush the gap behind another car.

  On the Amtrak, I’d had room to move. But in here I was trapped. The roadblock had to be for me. The police would pay particular close attention to public transportation. We’d be thoroughly checked.

  My heart was beating fast, and I could feel perspiration on my back.

  What to do?

  I could force the driver to let me off.

  But he’d call the cops. There could be dozens of them at the roadblock. The detectives who’d earlier pursued me had used clever discretion and caution. They wanted to catch me without escalating matters and endangering lives. But the guys ahead of me might not be so patient. With the number of vehicles around me, this could turn into a chaotic shootout.

  A thought occurred to me. The cops ahead would know about me holding up a car outside of Philly. Maybe they were expecting me to have done the same to get here. I looked at the guy next to me. He was still sleeping. Most people in the bus were oblivious to what was going on outside. Very slowly I started easing the guy’s cell out from his pocket.

  He moved.

  I froze.

  But he was just adjusting his position while still sleeping.

  I got the phone out.

  His eyes were shut. He didn’t move.

  I entered the bathroom. The place stank and would have been a dreadful sight for anyone needing to use it. I didn’t care. What I needed urgently was privacy.

  I called 911.

  A woman answered. “Operator.”

  In a Virginian accent I spoke in fast, hushed tones. “I’m in my blue Porsche. An Englishman’s held a gun at me. Think he’s the guy on the news. We’re on route 81. Traffic’s not moving because there’s a police roadblock ahead. He’s out of the car, freaking out. Oh, shit, he’s coming back!”

  I hung up and turned off the cell in case the operator tried to call back. I turned on the sink tap, removed the battery, and held it under the running water. Replacing the dripping wet battery into the phone, I was sure the device was now completely inoperable. If its owner were to wake up, turn it on, and get a call or SMS from the police, he’d take one look at me and work out what was going on.

  I went back to my seat and slid the phone back into the passenger’s pocket.

  God knew if the cops were going to fall for this. I chose a blue Porsche because I thought it would be unusual. And I hoped the police at the roadblock would be desperate to get me close enough to them so they could gun me down.

  For one minute the methodical checks continued. Then everything changed. The guys in the gap remained in place. But two other officers were ahead of them, waving traffic through. The spike-strip cops were no longer lifting and setting the trap back down with each car that passed.

  They were getting traffic moving.

  And hoping the mythical Porsche driver would feel comfortable to proceed. Once he was close to the roadblock, the cops would fling the spike strip back in place and draw weapons.

  At least, that’s how I hoped they were thinking.

  We were very close now. Thank goodness there were no real blue Porsches in front of us.

  The cops were pointing at vehicles and instructing them to pass.

  I held my breath.

  Three vehicles were in front of us. Vehicles one and two were told to proceed. Ditto vehicle three.

  Come on, come on, I thought to myself.

  The bus engine rumbled as we picked up speed and passed the pol
ice.

  Now I saw two more squad cars positioned in exactly the same way as the first, plus two officers with another spike strip.

  But the strip wasn’t in place. We were let through.

  I exhaled as the bus changed lanes and continued its journey.

  It was 7 p.m. as the bus pulled in to Roanoke. I disembarked, with only fifty-three dollars in my pocket.

  I went to the station’s men’s room and changed into my newly acquired clothes—a Windbreaker jacket, jeans, and hiking boots. I looked at my face in a mirror. I looked like shit: face drawn and heavily stubbled, eyes hollow and red with dark bags underneath, and lips that were cracked in places. The good thing, though, was that from a distance I would look nothing like the guy in the newspapers. But close up I was sure I’d be recognized.

  Still, the beard would grow. And every day of being on the run, I’d get thinner.

  I was used to being alone. Parents killed. Sister keeping her distance from me because she knew that lots of people wanted me dead. My work as an operative mostly done without support.

  But God, this was different. What I’d give to see just one friendly face.

  Anyone who could look me in the eyes and tell me they knew I wasn’t guilty of murder.

  That encouragement would mean more than a hundred hot dinners, a bed, and a full night’s sleep.

  Time to focus.

  On foot, I made my way out of Roanoke.

  One hour later, I was in the outskirts of the city. I found a quiet street and stopped under a streetlamp. Most of the street was in darkness and there were few houses in this area. I ate the last of the food I’d bought in the Baltimore convenience store, my stomach rumbling as I did so.

  That’s when they stepped out of the shadows and came at me from different directions.

  Three men.

  With knives.

  Muggers.

  They were wearing hoodies. Two of them white, one black. All of them in their early twenties. They surrounded me.