Termination Orders

by Leo J. Maloney

  Soon another waiter placed his sixteen-ounce New York strip steak in front of him. It better be rare, he thought. “Make it so rare, it’s illegal,” Hodges always said when he ordered, chuckling. But he wasn’t chuckling now. He took the steak knife and tore into the meat. It was a pale pink. He motioned to the waiter.

  “You call this rare?” he growled, pointing to the steak as if the waiter had put a turd on the plate.

  “My sincerest apologies, sir,” he responded, obligingly. “I will send it back to the kitchen at once, sir. We’ll have another one out for you right away.”

  “Goddamn better.”

  The waiter took the plate away, and Hodges hit his fist hard on the table. That idiot senator—some young Martha’s-Vineyard-vacationing asshole playboy who had probably read a book on negotiation tactics once and thought that made him enough of a man to play with the big boys—establishing dominance or some shit like that. Hodges ate whelps like him for breakfast. He didn’t need a book to tell him how to establish dominance. Hell, he’d written the book on intimidation. He could make that bastard shit his pants just by looking at him.

  Hodges was so angry, he almost missed the man who had walked into the restaurant, cruised right past the hostess, and headed straight for his table. This was a man in his late thirties or early forties, wide-shouldered and solidly built, in serious shape, wearing a garish Hawaiian shirt, large sunglasses, and carrying a thin folder of some kind. Hodges had never seen the man before in his life, but like so many people he had just met, Hodges disliked him. The man pulled out the chair, straddled it, and sat down, encroaching on his space, facing him from across the table.

  “Hello, Lester.”

  Hodges’s eyes narrowed. “Who the hell are you?” Hodges saw another man approaching: Keller, his chief of security, who had been watching from a corner of the room. He stood by. If Hodges raised a finger, he would throw this guy out into the street like a dog and give him a couple kicks in the gut for good measure. All he had to do was give the signal.

  “What the hell are you, a journalist? You with some newspaper or something?”

  “No,” the man said, laughing. “Not quite. I’m more of a freelancer. My name,” he continued, “is . . . now listen well, because I want you to remember this, and it looks like you’ve had a few already, and you might forget. I’m known as Cobra.”

  Hodges looked speechlessly at the man, this man known up until this moment by code name only. The man who had been causing him so much trouble, whom no one seemed to be able to find, and who was now sitting so close to him at a table, it was as if they had a goddamn lunch date. All he could do was stare.

  “So you’ve heard of me,” said Cobra. “Good. That makes this even simpler. I want you to listen well. I know you answer to someone. You’re not smart enough to pull this off on your own. I want you to tell him that I found you, and I want you to tell him that I’m coming for him. He can hide, but sooner or later, I’m going to get him.”

  Hodges laughed uproariously. “What the hell are you gonna do? As far as I’m concerned, you’re a fly on the wall. You’re an ant under my feet. In fact, I’m having a hard time figuring out why I shouldn’t just have Keller here take care of you right now.” He noticed that some people in the restaurant were staring.

  “Oh, I don’t think you want to do that, Lester.”

  Hodges gave the signal, and Keller reached out to put his hand on Cobra’s shoulder. But Cobra was quicker. He blocked Keller’s arm, grabbed two of his fingers, and snapped them back with a sickening crack. His leg swooped under Keller, causing him to fall hard, drawing gasps from other patrons and staff.

  “What are you looking for here?” demanded Hodges angrily. “A payoff or something? You looking for money, Cobra?”

  “No, Lester, I’m not interested in your money,” he said. “Here’s what I want. I want to watch you squirm. I know what your division has been up to. Your dirty little secret: I know, and I want you to know that I know. And I want your boss to know, too. And I want you two to go on with your lives, knowing that I’m coming for you. When you least expect it, I’ll strike, and I’ll hit you both hard. You got that?”

  Hodges could only glare at him, his right hand gripping the steak knife involuntarily. Through his fury, he said, “I don’t know who you think you are or what you’re hoping to accomplish here, but you should remember something, too. You’ve threatened the wrong man this time, and believe me, you’re gonna pay.”

  Cobra got up, looking satisfied with himself, and turned to walk away.

  You think you won, don’t you? Hodges thought. He motioned for Keller to approach. Keller, who had quickly gotten to his feet despite his injured fingers, leaned down, and Hodges said quietly, “Follow that man. I want to know his real name, his address, and the name of his goddamn third-grade teacher by the end of the hour! And have the car brought around.” Keller motioned to the other two bodyguards and gave them instructions while cradling his injured left hand. Then he rushed out the door to follow Cobra. Hodges got up and charged behind him. The maître d’ made the slightest move to get in his way. “Put it on my tab,” Hodges barked at him. “And don’t you dare charge me for that overcooked steak!” He barged past, out of the restaurant, into the sunny DC street.

  His town car pulled up. Once inside, he got out his phone, fumbled with the buttons, and made the call. The phone rang twice, and then he heard, “Les, what is it?”

  “Ed,” he said, “I gotta see you. I don’t care where you are or what you’re doing. I gotta see you right now.”

  Morgan hit the street at a brisk pace, and with a mere glance toward the gray sedan he knew was parked on the curb across the street, he turned and began walking west. The street was a wide, one-way thoroughfare, sidewalks packed with pedestrians who occasionally broke off randomly to cross the street. The use of the crosswalk here, if it ever happened, was purely incidental.

  “You think he’ll bite?” said Conley’s voice in Morgan’s ear.

  “Yeah, he’ll bite,” said Morgan, after tacking a Bluetooth receiver to his ear for show. It would attract less attention if people thought he was on the phone, but the real transmitter was an undetectable earpiece that was lodged in his ear. It was state-of-the-art and practically invisible. Not the kind of equipment available at Radio Shack, but Conley still had the contacts in the city to hook them up. “I got a chance to size him up in there,” Morgan continued, dodging a woman with a baby stroller. “He’s got more balls than brains, that one. You got the tracker onto his car?”

  “Without great complication,” said Conley.

  “That’s why I always picked you as my partner, Peter. Now, what do you see?”

  “You’ve got a tail,” said Conley, unworried. It was all part of the plan. “About thirty paces back and closing. Tall man, black hair. He looks like he’s holding something in his hands.”

  “Yeah, that’ll be his fingers,” Morgan chuckled. He went on without looking back or giving any sign that he was aware of the man following him. “Just like old times, eh?” Morgan said jovially.

  “I’d love to reminisce, Cobra, but I think your attention would be put to better use by concentrating on the mission, huh?”

  “Just be where you need to be at the right time, and leave the rest to me.”

  “Got it, partner. See you in”—a short pause—“three minutes, twenty-six seconds. Out.”

  Morgan squeezed his way past pedestrians, sustaining a pace that was quick enough to keep his tail on the verge of losing him but not hurried enough to actually lose him.

  Two blocks down, Morgan turned a corner, and the busy road became a tiny back street, wholly residential, with parked cars half on the sidewalk, where an old woman carrying groceries was the only soul in sight. He walked another block and didn’t have to look back to know that Keller was behind him and closing. That’s right, asshole, just keep coming.

  Morgan turned into the alley and made right for the trash can. He took
off the lid, stuck his hand in, and his fingers closed around the grip of Wagner’s tranquilizer gun, right where he’d left it, along with a tiny belt of spare darts. “Just in case,” Conley had said.

  Morgan and Conley had predicted that he would be followed out of the restaurant and decided it wouldn’t do to kill someone in a crowded city. A corpse attracted police and the media. On the other hand, when people see a guy passed out in the alley, they assume he’s drunk and, for the most part, leave him alone.

  Morgan hid behind a Dumpster and clicked the safety off. He had taken Keller by surprise in the restaurant. To be bodyguard to a guy like Hodges, Keller would have to have some serious combat training. Plus, he must be a good ten years younger than Morgan. This guy would be able to handle himself. All the more reason to bring him down with the first shot, he told himself.

  He heard Keller’s footsteps, hurrying down the alley. This was going to be even easier than he had thought. He raised the gun to take aim. Keller would be wearing body armor, but the needle would go right through the bulletproof mesh. Morgan aimed it about chest-high and inhaled. Keller passed the Dumpster, moving at a measured trot toward the end of the alley. The dart left the muzzle with a whisper and plunged into Keller’s back. He yelped in surprise and spun around, a savage look on his face. Fall. Fall, Damn it! He didn’t. He saw Morgan and charged. With no time to reload, Morgan tossed aside the gun and the darts and braced for impact.

  He ducked as Keller swung at his face, but the bodyguard followed it up by sinking his fist into Morgan’s gut. Morgan doubled down involuntarily, and Keller elbowed him hard in the back. Morgan fell forward on the paved ground.

  He lay there for a second, dazed, until he felt Keller’s arm wrap around his neck, getting him in a choke hold. He groped for the dart gun, hoping to use it as a bludgeon. His hands hadn’t found the gun, but they had closed around something—the tiny belt of darts.

  Keller raised him to his feet, the meaty, muscular arm tightening its grip on Morgan’s neck, cutting off his air and circulation. He could feel himself fading away as he thrashed, trying to break free, to no avail. He only had one chance. With fumbling fingers, he flipped the plastic covers off each needle in the belt. Holding the curled-up belt in his fist, he stabbed it, as hard as he could, into Keller’s neck.

  Keller released him and staggered back with a roar of pain. Morgan relaxed. But Keller didn’t and retorted with a hell of a right hook to Morgan’s temple, which caused him to trip on a discarded cardboard box and fall forward. His head fuzzy, phasing in and out of focus, Morgan was dimly aware of Keller bending down and picking up a two-by-four. Morgan rolled onto his back just in time to see this mountain of a man, looming for what seemed like miles over him, raise the piece of wood far above his head, ready to come down and crush Morgan’s skull. Still dazed from the punch, Morgan could only raise his hands ineffectively, waiting for the blow.

  It didn’t come. He looked up at Keller and saw that he had an oddly blank look on his face. He blinked hard three times, frowning in dumb confusion. Then his fingers slackened, and the plank fell to the ground. He tumbled forward, onto his knees, and collapsed on top of Morgan.

  It took more strength than Morgan expected to roll him off and onto his back beside him. Morgan got up and wobbled to the far end of the alley, aching all over. The alley opened to a back street where Conley sat in the idling car.

  “What the hell happened to your face?” asked Conley. Morgan touched his face and noticed that blood was trickling down his nose, which was tender and swollen.

  “I thought you said the effect of the tranquilizer was instantaneous,” said Morgan, his voice muffled because his nose was blocked by the blood and swelling.

  “Well, you know,” said Conley, “as with all your narcotics, your mileage may vary. There’s a first-aid kit in the glove compartment.”

  Morgan took out the kit and applied some gauze to his nose. “Do you have a lock on Hodges?” he asked.

  “Here, take a look for yourself.” Conley handed him a device that didn’t look much different than a latest-generation cell phone. It showed two dots moving on a digital map. “He’s about a mile to the north. It shouldn’t take us long to catch up. Think you can navigate with that leaky nose of yours?”

  Morgan nodded and poked gingerly at it, checking for damage. At least it didn’t feel broken. “Yeah, I got this. You’re going to want to take the next left.” Morgan unbuttoned his Hawaiian shirt, took it off, and put on a fresh black T-shirt he had brought along.

  “Think he’ll lead us to our man?” asked Conley.

  “He’d better,” said Morgan. “Because I’m getting tired of this shit.”

  CHAPTER 31

  Morgan and Conley caught up with Hodges’s town car in a few minutes, and Conley maintained a distance of a few blocks between them. They avoided visual contact—there was no need for it while they had the tracker. They drove for nearly an hour, as the city gave way to an industrial suburb. As the cars grew sparser, Conley had to keep a greater distance to avoid being seen, until they were almost a mile behind their quarry. Finally, the little dot on the map came to a stop.

  They were driving alongside a row of warehouses, run-down and separated from the street by a rusty old chain-link fence topped with equally rusty barbed wire. He could see Hodges’s car peeking out of a gaping section of one labeled Warehouse 6, which was about two hundred feet away. As Conley drove past without slowing down, Morgan saw Hodges get out of the driver’s seat and stride furiously into the warehouse, where two guards were posted at the door. Conley turned into a narrow side street and parked the car.

  “Got the camera?” asked Conley. Morgan pulled out a digital SLR with a massive telephoto lens. They got out of the car and slinked toward Warehouse 6, which was now half a mile away. They were halfway there when Conley held up a hand, in their old signal that meant “stop.” “Hold on,” he said. “I think someone else is coming.”

  They bolted behind a Dumpster as another car, a sleek silver Audi sedan, rolled in through the gate in the fence and into the open warehouse door.

  Morgan scanned the surroundings. He couldn’t go in through the same gate as the car, or he would be seen, and the fence was too high to climb over. The warehouses closest to them, he had noticed, were liberally covered in graffiti. His eyes ran along the fence, looking for something he knew must be there. He found it, a short way back toward where they had parked—a gap in the fence, concealed, not large, but large enough for him to squeeze through.

  “Conley, I’m going in.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “I need to see who it is. I need to hear what they’re saying. Do you have your comm?” Conley nodded. “Good. Try to get a clear view of the inside from out here. I’ll keep you posted when I can.”

  Before Conley could protest, Morgan ran for the gap in the fence, pulling a thread in his shirt as he wriggled through it. He dashed for the warehouse, taking cover behind car-sized boxes wrapped in tarp that were arranged in the yard, until he approached number six.

  Now what? He was too likely to be seen if he approached from the front, but coming in from the back would put a huge empty warehouse between him and his targets. That’s when he looked up at the graffiti again.

  It hung down like a hem over the edge. The roof here was not at the very top of the warehouse but was over a squatter area that jutted from its side. The kids who tagged it had to have gotten up there somehow. If they could, so could he. He ran along the side of the warehouse through the little alley between it and the one next to it. He got his answer when he rounded the back corner and found a service ladder that led to the roof.

  He climbed it, slowly, steadily, as quietly as possible, until it took him to the top. Over the edge, he saw—beyond the small nest of discarded joint tips and cigarette butts—just what he hoped for: windows, waist-high from the top surface of the lower tier.

  His real problem, of course, was the roof itself. It looked strong e
nough to hold him, but even a light step might reverberate loudly in the expansive hollow of the warehouse. This was the time to be careful and methodical. He made his way across the roof, one . . . step . . . at . . . a . . . time.

  What should have been a thirty-second walk at a leisurely pace took him nearly three minutes of cautious, deliberate movement. He could just barely hear the voices of two men barking at each other below. Standing right above them, he peeked into the window, concealing himself as much as possible. He could see them both, but it took him a few seconds to make out the other man’s face through the glare from the clear blue sky. Son of a bitch.

  “Cougar,” he said, only loud enough for Conley to hear him over the comm, “it’s Nickerson. It’s Senator Edgar Nickerson.”

  “Shit,” said Conley, through his earpiece. “We got him, Cobra. That’s all we needed. Now get the hell out of there.”

  “I need to hear what they’re saying.”

  “Cobra, don’t be stupid. We have our lead. Sticking around is suicide.”

  Morgan chose to ignore Conley. Chances like this didn’t come around every day. He edged closer to the window. The roof underneath him creaked, and he froze. But the two men seemed to take no notice, so he leaned in and listened.

  “The son of a bitch knows, Ed. He’s got proof.”

  “He didn’t ask for anything?”

  “No. He basically came out and said that the point was just to rattle us.”

  “I’m glad to see that’s not working at all.”

  “You think I’m scared? I’m not scared of that . . . that piece of crap. He’ll be begging for me to let him die by the time I’m done with him.”

  “I’m sure. Do you know who that piece of crap is, Les? He’s a former CIA spook. A good one, too. You think your hired monkeys can take him? You think they can outsmart a man like him? You think you can, Les?”

  “I took care of the journalist, didn’t I?”