by PT Reade
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” I arched an eyebrow.
“He vanishes, is what,” Becker replied.
“You mean you lost him?”
“Lost. Vanished. It makes no difference,” Lynch said. “Six years ago, Teach went AWOL after an op in South America, and neither his handlers nor the DoD knew where he went. Initial reports indicated he might have been KIA, but later sightings suggested otherwise. Unfortunately, a man like that stays hidden if he chooses to. We’ve spent years searching for him.”
“You’re not the only one.”
“Imagine our surprise when the bastard pops up in an NYPD holding cell, only a few days ago,” Becker continued. “It was a bloody miracle. We were holding him until our superiors could decide what to do next. Then that bomb went off and buggered everything up.”
“Now he’s in the wind again,” Lynch added.
I nodded as two sets of eyes settled on me, awaiting my reaction. “That is an exceptional report fellas. Gold stars all around. But just one question …. What the hell does it have to do with me?”
Daly smiled in the driver’s seat, either at my sarcasm or some nugget of information she held that I didn’t. Probably a little of both.
“It’s because of you that we found him at all,” she said. “Your lead helped the NYPD grab him. Now someone is jerking you around, making you chase the man once more. We think there’s a connection. “It’s possible someone wasn’t content to let Teach go on his way. A man with his past would have secrets—secrets people don’t want out.”
I frowned as the puzzle pieces continued to shift.
“Help us, help you,” Becker suggested. “Find any leads on Teach and report to us immediately. Even before you tell the police. We are trained to handle him; they are not.”
I glanced at the agents in the car. They were as desperate to find Roland Teach as me, and to complicate matters, we had a third party-a psychotic bomber also trying to get a slice of the action.
It made my head spin.
“Here.” Becker handed me a thick black folder. Inside was Teach’s military file, complete with a less-than-flattering cover photo. There were dozens of pages, documentation and diagrams, operational instructions and reports. “We need Teach as much as you do, but we want to work together in bringing him down. He’s dangerous, and we know he was involved in what happened to your family. This file might help.”
My family. My son, Tommy, and Sarah. God, I missed them.
Sarah would have known what to do with all this. She always had an incredible skill for sorting through the bullshit and finding the truth. For digging into the grimy depths of humanity and coming up with gems. It’s what made her so good at her job.
My mind suddenly lit up. Jobs. Previous jobs.
“So, can we count on your help?” Lynch pressed.
I weighed the folder in my hand, all too aware of the expectant eyes settled on me. “Ok,” I said, turning to Lynch. “But I might need something from you in return.”
THIRTY-TWO
The meeting with the intelligence guys ended abruptly as they dropped me off two blocks from the station. I promised not to shoot at them, and they promised to share any leads. I was pretty sure they were lying about parts of the story, but I may have been too. In any case, we all wanted the same thing; to find Teach.
He had resurfaced for a reason. To finish an old job, or complete a new one.
Thinking about past jobs had given me an idea. I needed to tap into the police records, but my access to the building was still restricted.
Never one to concede defeat, I talked Rey into letting me borrow his laptop and login details. It was already linked up with the department’s systems, and I needed more than the singed documents I’d salvaged from the burning station.
“Ok, man, but you owe me,” he’d said as he’d left me, unsupervised at the doorway of nearby cop-diner, McKenzie’s. It was an average place, clean and sanitary, with lots of wood finishes, but nothing too over-the-top. Being just a couple blocks from the station, it was a regular place for beat cops and detectives alike, but right now, it was nearly empty. Everyone was out working their asses off, especially after the latest blast. Stepping inside, one of the cooks looked up and nodded a silent greeting before turning back to a TV fixed above the bar. It was tuned to a news channel showing the day’s events on repeat. A sole waitress leaned on the bar; her eyes also glued to the screen.
With Rey gone, I set to work. There was no sense in both of us staring at the same computer screen, with just ninety minutes left before the bomber had promised more destruction, time was too precious to waste. Everything I needed to know was a few keystrokes away; I just had to get close enough to log in to the network.
Rey went off to coordinate with the Brooklyn CSU and the EOD teams about the most recent explosion, while I followed a hunch.
For privacy, I chose a booth near the back of the bar and slid into the corner. With my back to the wall, I could watch anyone coming or going. I wasn’t in the mood for any more surprises. I booted the laptop and watched the waitress walk my way, a generous smile pasted on her lips.
“What can I get you?” she asked, teasing a curl out of her eyes.
My gut yearned for another beer, but I ordered coffee, a club sandwich and the WIFI password, which the waitress brought quickly before returning to the counter and the engrossing television show. I felt reassuringly invisible as I logged onto the NYPD network, opened Teach’s official arrest record and began cross-checking the details against the black folder handed to me by the spooks.
According to the Police report, the cops had grabbed Teach in Lower Manhattan at the Morningside Hotel. My mind slipped to another hotel nearby, The Chelsea, a place that held less than fond memories, but I forced those thoughts down.
Teach was a big catch for the NYPD. His arrest had warranted the start of a full-scale investigation.
Technically, it was all privileged information. Cops aren’t supposed to dig into files not relevant to their cases, and much of the government paperwork was marked Top Secret, but there was no time for red tape.
The government folder painted Teach as a lethal professional. The man had worked across Asia, Europe, and South America, performing black ops, espionage and overwatch support on dozens of highly classified operations. Many of the pages were redacted, which made me wonder why include them at all, but intelligence is always compartmentalized. Even the spies don’t know everything.
The information was detailed, but of little use tracking the man in New York. I already knew he was a skilled operative, his exploits in Yemen and Panama made little difference. Sighing in frustration, I began flicking through the folder more quickly. I nearly skipped over a page, when the heading caught my eye, causing me to pause. Known Associates.
A list of five names were printed in faded ink, four of which carried military rank—presumably his former colleagues or army unit, but one, the last one on the list stuck out as curious.
Luisa Quinto.
Nothing more showed up for the name in either the NYPD database or government folder, but Google worked it’s magic and provided some interesting results.
Luisa Quinto, environmental activist and award-winning reporter in Colombia. She had written for The Guardian, New York Times and a number of newspapers in her native country, earning a string of accolades for her insightful writing and investigative journalism.
I quickly scanned a couple of her pieces. They were good. Powerful, rousing articles. Over the course of a few years, her editorials appeared to transition, from innocent concerns of strip mining to real anger over worker exploitation, and corruption at the highest levels of government both in the US and Colombia.
Then they simply stopped. I got a bad feeling as I wondered how such passion could be extinguished so quickly.
I kept looking for more information on Quinto, but it was a common name, especially in South America and my Spanish is no bueno. Hundreds, th
ousands of results popped up. I was getting nowhere in filtering them, just about to close the browser, when something caught my eye. An old social media profile, from a now-forgotten website. The name matched, as did the location—Cartagena, Colombia.
Most of it was in Spanish, but the pictures crossed all language barriers. There on the screen, between backyard picnics and waterfalls, the pretty Latina woman looked happy, content. One picture showed her collecting a diploma. In another, she was feeding a goat and laughing. The final picture made my heart jump.
It was uncaptioned and carried no name. A tiny, insignificant photo in an otherwise deserted corner of the internet. Two people stood on a farm with rolling green hills in the background. Rows and rows of crops spread out behind them, and a rustic outbuilding stood nearby, with a handful of tools propped against it—rakes, hoes, pitchforks. The couple looked happy—wearing the types of smiles brought on by love. On the left was Luisa Quinto—beaming with joy, a flower in her hair and a hand on her belly, pregnant. Next to her, with an arm wrapped around her waist, stood Roland Teach.
THIRTY-THREE
I threw myself into digging up more on Luisa Quinto, but all accounts seemed to stop a little over two years ago. No more articles, no more references. Only a handful of newspaper clippings showed up. They looked promising but were low-quality scans and entirely in Spanish. I saved the screenshots and wrapped the images into an email which I fired quickly over to my favorite translator.
I typed, “Rey, please translate this for me ASAP,” before hitting send.
With no more information on Quinto, I mentally filed her details away and dug into Teach’s possible targets.
Though few witnesses were cooperative, the police were reasonably confident in narrowing it down to one of the three men they questioned.
The police had interviewed Kellerman, but he hadn’t been forthcoming with the reason someone might want him dead. An extremely wealthy guy, with considerable influence in the financial sector. Clearly, the man had friends in high places, either that or he’d greased the right hands. The police couldn’t pursue the case. There had been pressure from higher up the food chain to let it drop. The rich and the powerful had a way of making their own rules.
Jason Haymer was similarly wealthy thanks to his tech-startup in California, but he had been much more co-operative. His full interview was on file, but nothing of interest stood out. The final potential victim was out of the country, and only the transcribed calls existed on file. Nuresh Patel made his money in steel, owning half of India, by most accounts. He too, was evasive, but could offer no reason why anyone would try to kill him.
Damnit, Teach. Who were you after?
The three men had plenty of potential enemies, but none stood out as violent. The worst case seemed to be a bribery scandal involving Patel in his native country.
One headline read, “Reputation Scarred.”
We all have scars.
I thought back to other scars I had seen recently, ragged marks etched into the neck of a man I met less than twenty-four hours earlier.
Something started my mind wandering down a different path. I typed in another name into the NYPD database.
“Lewis, Lincoln.”
Sure enough, the big man’s record sprung into life. A mottled past of petty theft, violence, and fraud that seemed to have quieted down over the past ten years or so. I scrolled further and found references to his wife, Joanne Lewis.
Her cause of death only three years ago was not listed. That would require a trip to the coroner’s office. The record was inconclusive, but a brief internet search from the date three years ago, showed indications of foul play and revealing comments. Amid the usual outpouring of sympathy across the biker forums, were threads of anger and resentment. Some people going so far as to suggest Joanne had been killed … by a rival gang or even a professional.
Conspiracy nuts or a real connection? Hard to know.
Skipping back to Lincoln’s record, I scrolled further and found nothing more of interest. I was about to close the computer when a summary of his military career appeared at the bottom of the page. It offered little detail—the important stuff would be secured on a Department of Defense database somewhere. It did indicate the man had been severely injured in service, though. Below his army dates, it listed his rank and role.
L.Lewis. First Leuitenant. EOD. Explosive Ordinance Disposal Technician.
My god.
Lincoln was a bomb expert.
THIRTY-FOUR
Something was wrong. It became clear from the moment I pulled up near the Dog House once more. Gone was the throaty rumble of dozens of motorcycles, gone where the crowds of men and women hanging around out front and shooting the breeze. Instead, the quiet hum of the nearby freeway and the general buzz of New York city background traffic filled the air.
Only two men remained out front, and I was willing to bet my Indian these assholes weren’t bikers.
Donnie had evidently come to the same conclusion; she stiffened behind me as we climbed from my bike and strolled as casually as possible toward the entrance. With twenty minutes before noon, we had no time to waste.
I had decided to call on her for help, asking her to swing by on the bike before we both returned to the club. Confronting Lincoln with her at my side may convince the man to see sense. At least, that was the plan.
The two goons out front spotted us from about seventy feet away and immediately moved into positions. Tactical positions.
They didn’t carry firearms out front, but I could tell from the khaki combat pants, the bulging sports jackets and the squared-off buzz cuts, these guys were professionals. Military or ex-military. The most dangerous thing in the world is a man with a gun and belief. True for me, true for the men in front.
As we drew closer, the one out front held up a palm, halting our progress.
“Just play it cool,” I whispered to Donnie beside me. “Follow my lead.”
Donnie said nothing, giving me no indication whether she was happy to go along with my plan or not.
“Morning, fellas,” I said in my most non-threatening voice. As I closed, goon number two moved into position behind his partner. They were apparently trained in stop and search procedures, which made me wonder if they had been police at some point. I knew the one in front was carrying his sidearm under his right arm, which meant he was a leftie, and I would need to maneuver my body to remove it, and then twist to disable him. His partner would react quickly, so I would need to fire a round into his knees or shoulder as soon as possible.
Killing number one would be easier, but that brought with it a whole world of problems for a cop, even an ex-cop like me.
“Sorry sir, this site is closed. Health and safety hazard, under orders from the city planning commission.” The second thug with a chin that reminded me of Buzz Lightyear, thrust his head forward. It was a piss-poor excuse, but they clearly felt we didn’t pose much of a threat.
“Bullshit,” Donnie said “I’m going inside, you just try and stop me.” She marched forward as if on a rally for world peace, all pumped up full of pride and gusto.
The first man, seeing her as more of an annoyance than me, stepped across and placed a palm squarely on her shoulder. This time with more force, he began, “No ma’am. This area is off—”
My throat threatened to leap from my mouth as Donnie cracked her head forward on the man’s nose, twisted on a heel and pulled the very same gun I had been so sure was under his jacket. She immediately fired two shots into his chest and spun toward the second man who was bringing a pistol up.
Before I knew what was happening, I had my own weapon moving. I fired two shots myself and dropped the second goon.
Heart racing, I started after Donnie who had already stormed off toward the clubhouse.
“Jesus. Are you insane?”
“Probably,” Donnie replied. Eyes fixed straight ahead.
“Donnie, you can’t just shoot people for god’s sake. Do
n’t you get what’s going on here?”
“No, you don’t fucking get it. Those two were about three seconds from putting a bullet in each of our heads. I made a choice, and I acted. That’s it.”
“No, that’s not the end of the story. Maybe they were going to shoot us. Probably, even. But there are a hundred better ways to deal with a situation like that than killing people.”
“You just shot someone too.”
“I had to, thanks to you.”
“I got the job done, let’s get inside and finish this.”
I stepped in front of the woman and could almost feel the anger fizzing off her. The gang had been her whole life, and Lincoln the closest she had ever known to family. In the previous twenty-four hours, she had learned the man she called father was not only going to die but was probably a bomber working with the arch enemies of the family she knew. It was a lot to take in, and I needed her to stay calm.
Without raising my hands, I stepped in front of Donnie and looked her square in the eye. “This situation is screwed up, I know.”
“You don’t know nothin’.”
“I know enough to realize that right now your brain is going a mile a minute and you feel like your blood is about to boil. Your head doesn’t know which way is up and the most natural solution seems to be shooting things.”
Her shoulders dropped slightly as some of the fight left her.
“Those two assholes had it coming. If what you told me before is true, these men murdered the SMC. Even my worst enemies don’t deserve to be butchered like that. I made a choice.”
“And what if that choice went wrong. What if your round hit someone else, me, a kid?”
Donnie frowned and looked at the ground. “Look, I-I’m trying to help. I don’t know what else to do. I just …” Her words trailed off.
I placed a cautious hand on her arm, and when she didn’t flinch, I spoke. “It’s the hardest thing in the world not knowing what to do. Right or wrong is still moving forward, but uncertainty is like a fog hanging over everything you do. Let me go inside and get some answers from Lincoln. Maybe we got it all wrong. I hope so. But either way, I need someone watching out here in case more armed goons show up.”