Chasing the Son

by Bob Mayer

  “Two minutes,” Gator warned. “Want me to delay them? Blow a tire or two out?”

  “Hold on,” Riley said into the throat mike. “You’re still lying,” he directed at Sarah.

  “His name is Horace Brannigan,” Sarah said. “That’s it. That’s all I know. I swear on—“ she faltered, trying to come up with something she could swear her life upon.

  She couldn’t which told one all they needed to know about Sarah Briggs.

  “Gator, shoot some tires,” Riley ordered.

  The roar of the Barrett firing echoed through the night air. A second shot followed the first.

  “Not only is their ride down,” Riley said, “but your friends are going to be hesitant to advance with a big gun out there having the advantage on them. So we have time. How much cash do you have here on site?”

  Sarah was startled by the sudden change. She started to shake her head, but the pressure of the barrel on her forehead prevented that. “Not much.”

  “I’m really growing tired of your lies,” Riley said. “You were boasting about it a minute ago. How much?”

  “Two and hundred and fifty thousand,” Sarah said.

  “So half a million,” Riley said. “Degenerates always half down in lies and double down in bets. And you’re degenerate, Sarah. Let’s get it.” He pulled the gun back slightly.

  Sarah opened her mouth to protest, but there was something in Riley’s eyes that stopped her. She got up then walked into the master suite behind the balcony. She went to a painting, took it off the wall, revealing a safe with a keypad.

  She quickly tapped on the pad. As it swung open she reached, but Riley was faster, shoving her back away from it.

  He glanced in, then reached in and retrieved a pistol lying on top. “Nice try. I’d have killed you. You can thank me later.”

  Chase had silently followed them, still trying to catch up to reality. Riley stuck an arm into the safe and swept the contents out onto the wood floor. Bundles of cash, jewelry, two more guns, several passports.

  “Cover her,” Riley said to Chase.

  Riley knelt and quickly looked at each passport, checking the names. Then he divided the money, expediently eyeballing two piles without counting. He reached in his combat vest and pulled out a lighter. He broke it in half, then poured the fluid onto one pile of money. He put the passports on top of that.

  “That’s your take,” Riley said. “We’re taking the other.” He emphasized the point by quickly stuffing that pile into a bag he pulled out of one of the closets. It was a Gucci, but recognizing such wasn’t in Riley or Chase’s repertoire. “Now. Last chance. Everything about Horace Brannigan. or I burn your money and your passports. You won’t be going anywhere before some very bad people get here.”

  The deep roar of the Barrett echoed.

  “Keeping their heads down,” Gator reported over the radio.

  Riley retrieved another lighter out of his combat vest.

  “Little anal on the lighter thing, aren’t you?” Sarah said.

  “They’re useful. It’s an old survival habit from my winter warfare Army days.” Riley flicked it. “What haven’t you told us? The other half, just like the money?”

  Sarah eyed the passports. “That’s pretty much it. Seriously. Okay. I put out some queries, to see if I could find little Brannigan.”

  Chase finally found his voice. “Why?”

  “Leverage, Horace,” Sarah said. “One can never have enough leverage.”

  “Against me?” Chase asked. “Or Erin?”

  “Both.” Sarah sighed. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again Horace. But Erin was here. I still needed to control her.” She shrugged. “And I was curious. You have to admit, there is a certain, hmm, shall we say, pathos to the tale.”

  “Did you get anything back?” Riley asked.

  “He’s definitely not with Erin’s family in Oklahoma,” Sarah said. “I had a very discreet agency out of Oklahoma City do the checking. They lost the trail about a month after Erin’s mother died. He disappeared from Oklahoma and never came back. And that, gentlemen, is it. I didn’t pursue it further.”

  Riley stared at her. “I think you might be telling the truth. At least part of it.” Then he shook his head. “But you’re still lying, Sarah. There’s more to all this than you’re telling us.”

  “I’ve told you everything,” Sarah said.

  “Doubtful,” Riley replied. He nodded at Chase. “Grab the bag. Let’s go.”

  As he turned, Riley tossed the lighter onto the pile. The money and passports roared into flame.

  The last they saw was Sarah Briggs, arms folded, passively watching the small pyre that contained her cash and fake passports burn.

  * * *

  Sarah Briggs, at least that was the name she was currently using, watched the pile burn to ash, then walked to the balcony. There was no sign of Chase or Riley. Ghosts disappearing back into the darkness.

  A phone rang and she went over to her nightstand and opened it. There were a half dozen ‘burners’ in there and she pulled out the one that was buzzing.

  “Fix your damn tires,” she ordered the man calling her. “I have to be at the airport, ASAP.”

  She hung it up, then reached under the bed and pulled out a black leather shoulder bag. She dumped it on the bed. Handcuffs, whips, dildos and various other devices tumbled out. Along with a leather binder. She picked up a particularly large dildo and unscrewed the base. She shook and a thick wad of hundred dollars bills fell out. Then she put her finger in and pulled out the passport that had been jammed in there, curved around the interior. She began flexing it, straightening it out.

  She’d learned long ago that men, whether they be customs, police, or even criminals, would never search the device. They’d laugh, make comments, but never touch it.

  Thus the perfect hiding space. She repacked the bag, then went to the closet.

  There was work to be done.

  Chapter Four

  Thursday Noon

  “Three can keep a secret if two are dead,” one of the three said.

  The other two responded: “Except for the Ring.”

  They put their fists together, Institute rings shining on their left hands. It was a complicated move, but they managed to bump rings with each other. They were seated in a booth in the back of the High Cotton Bar on East Bay Street in Charleston. It was an upscale place, full of tourists and a scattering of locals. It was early afternoon but several empty glasses littered their table, a sign of nerves not as steady as their oath. For two of them, at least. The third had a half-full glass of water in front of him.

  “I heard this Dillon guy was a bad ass on the football team,” one of the men said. He was the youngest of the three, having just graduated and not yet taking his ‘position’ at his daddy’s firm in Savannah.

  “Jerrod, I was a bad ass on the football team,” the biggest man at the table said; he was seated on the same side as Jerrod. He was a former lineman for the Institute team, whose gut had not seen the inside of a gym since graduation. The mound of flesh pressed up against the table. His name was Chad Mongin Jr., a first name he hated, but his father had been a Chad, his father’s father had been a Chad and so on down the line until some fellow who’d stepped off a boat in Charleston harbor carrying the name Chad from whatever country he’d departed from. Thus he came from a long line of Chad’s. And the last name, Mongin, represented a family that had come to the Low Country in 1685.

  Despite his size, it was obvious to any observer, and there was one, that Chad was not the dominant figure at the table. That honor fell to a young man sitting alone on the other side, dressed casually in expensive jeans, and a button-down shirt, layered under a sweater. He was a page in Esquire come to life with his brown hair, sculpted cheekbones, and overall model looks. Those pages where they showed other men how they were supposed to dress and look, although most could only do the dress since looks had something to do with genetics.

  Preston
Holland Gregory was the son of the senior Senator from South Carolina and chairman of the Select Committee on Intelligence. While Chad might fit in at a toga party chugging beer, and Jerrod in a library perusing literature, Preston would fit perfectly in the halls of power, which is what all twenty-two years of his life had been directed toward and his future portended.

  “Gentlemen,” Preston said, not calling his friends by their names, since he actually didn’t consider them his friends, although they didn’t know that. “My father’s aide informed me that this Dillon fellow comes from Mrs. Jenrette and—“

  “Shit,” Chad muttered. “When is that old witch going to let it go?”

  “I do not believe,” Preston said, “she will let it go as long as she breathes. Hopefully, that won’t be very much longer. Nevertheless, we are to cooperate with this Dillon chap.” He said that with the slightest of English accents, an affectation he’d started at the Institute and was growing stronger each month, since no one pointed it out to him. It might have been too much Downton Abbey; or the fact he was heading off to Oxford for graduate school in a few months and his subconscious was preparing him. Or he might simply be one of those dicks who need affectations like a fake English accent.

  “I don’t like it,” Jerrod said, looking nervously around the bar. “We told the investigators everything they needed.”

  “There are deeper forces at play,” Preston said. “People are coming after our parents. Our parents, who are finalizing a deal with Mrs. Jenrette concerning Sea Drift on Saturday.” He nodded at Jerrod. “I know your father has a lot of capital tied up in the Sea Drift proposal.”

  “My father doesn’t exactly fill me in,” Jerrod said.

  Chad snorted in derision. “My family gave up too much on the island, but they still have a slice. An important one.”

  “Yes,” Preston said. “And your family will be well paid for that slice.” He looked at one, then the other. “We are the future. We can do much better than our parents have.”

  “Your father is a United States Senator,” Jerrod noted. “What more do you want?”

  Preston simply smiled back at him, without saying anything.

  Chad downed his drink in one quick swallow. “You two might. My family squandered almost everything.”

  Preston graced both of them with a smile. “Don’t worry old chaps. I’ve got both your interests in mind despite what our parents do. We’re the next generation of the Ring. But we’re going to be bigger than our fathers. We’re going to own everything of importance from here to Savannah. And then we move on to Atlanta and Washington.”

  “You sound like Sherman,” Jerrod muttered.

  “Fucking Brannigan,” Chad cursed. “Why did he have to show up in the Sinks?”

  “It really—“ Preston paused as a figure loomed up to their table. Dillon was wearing a long black overcoat, jeans and a black T-shirt.

  “How y’all doing?” Dillon asked, a bit heavy on his own southern accent. He didn’t wait to be invited, but slid in next to Preston, who could not hide his irritation at the close proximity of another human being and scooted away, until he was trapped against the wall.

  Dillon pointed. “Jarrod Fabrou, right? Chad Mongin? And you must be Preston Holland Gregory. Your pappy is the Senator, is he not?”

  “Did you check our yearbook photos?” Preston said, trying to reclaim some ground. “Or Google us?”

  Dillon ignored the question. “I’ve been watching y’all for a little bit. Habit of mine. In Afghanistan, I’d have my platoon set up recon at least twenty-four hours before we were supposed to hit a target. I was never a fan of those midnight swoop-ins with no advance eyeballs on the target. Those can go to shit in a heartbeat. At first my company commander wasn’t thrilled with, having to detail a chopper to send the recon element in. But it worked so well, eventually every platoon in the company was doing it.”

  “You were in combat?” Jerrod asked.

  “No,” Dillon said. “I’m making it up because I’m a liar.”

  An awkward silence followed, one that Dillon allowed to last.

  Preston finally stepped into the breach. “We’re here as requested. Is this in reference to the unfortunate incident with Greer Jenrette?”

  “No,” Dillon said. “I want to conduct a survey on how much you enjoyed your time at the Institute. Whether you would recommend the experience to other high school seniors seeking to better their lives.”

  “Listen,” Chad began, leaning forward, his gut pushing the table toward the other side, but Dillon’s palm on the wooden top halted it. “We agreed—“

  “To come here and answer questions,” Dillon said. “Not ask them.”

  “So ask,” Preston said.

  “The Quick and the Dead,” Dillon said.

  The three exchanged glances.

  “That’s what you were doing that night, wasn’t it?” Dillon asked, not quite a complete question, almost a statement. “With Wing? And Greer Jenrette?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I used to think bayonet training was over-rated and out of date. But then I was with a squad that got trapped inside a hut. In the middle of Bum-fuck Nowhere Afghanistan. It’s actually a pretty country if you don’t have to fight in it. Fantastic snow-covered mountains. Sweeping vistas. And hard-ass fighters who will gut you in a heartbeat. Speaking of gutting, that brings us back to bayonet fighting. The Quick and the Dead. That’s what the cadre screamed at us rats when we did bayonet training. Remember?”

  He looked at Chad. “You must have been on the bayonet committee, right? All the football players were. I was. Easy duty. Scream at rats. Make them practice all that parry, thrust, recover crap. Then the fun part. Put helmets and pads on them and make them beat the shit out each other with pugil sticks. Of course, sometimes we forgot the helmet and the padding.

  “Funny thing is, the last recorded bayonet charge by the U.S. Army was in Korea in 1951. But the Brits, they actually did one in Iraq in 2004. Low on ammo, a unit of Brits charged some ragheads and scared the living piss out of them. Still, there are a lot of other martial skills the time could be better spent on than using the bayonet, which is why the U.S. Army has actually done away with the training. But we keep it at the Institute, like we keep a lot of things at the Institute that have outlived their actual usefulness. Like close-order drill. No use for that in combat. Not like we’re redcoats facing Napoleon at Waterloo.

  “But that’s not the point of bayonet drill. It’s actually designed to reverse what we were taught growing up—you know the Christian thing: love each other, blah, blah, blah. Most people are actually kind of reluctant to kill another person. Any of you fellows ever kill anyone?” Dillon stared at each one in turn. Jerrod didn’t meet his gaze; Chad did, but said nothing and Preston simply stared back.

  “Anyway, the goal of bayonet drill is to get soldiers to drop that reverence for life, other people’s lives that is, and get them wrapped up in the chaos and emotion and adrenaline-pumping insanity that is combat. And I assure you, it’s pretty much that. Kipling’s unforgiving minute. Got to keep your head, yada, yada. So that’s why there’s all the screaming and yelling and getting in your face during bayonet drill; besides the fact we liked screaming and yelling and getting in rats’ faces as upperclassmen, didn’t we? Not like you can do that in the regular army with real troops or in a law office or a board meeting. Real soldiers and real people don’t put up with that kind of bullshit.”

  “Do you have a question in all of that?” Preston asked.

  “Patience Grasshopper,” Dillon said, drawing blank looks from the others. “No Kung Fu for you, eh? Probably never watched Monty Python either. I like the oldies. Anyway. Back to the Quick and the Dead. I vaguely remember hearing rumors while I was a cadet that there was this group called the Ring.” He held up his hand, showing his Institute ring. “You know, ring-knockers. I got one.” He rapped the top of the table. “But a special group of cadets were invited into this secret group called the Ring; me I wasn�
�t invited ‘cause I don’t have the lineage. Got to be born into it apparently. Is that correct?”

  None of them said anything.

  “Anyway,” Dillon said, “I’m digressing. I heard rumors that some members of this Ring group would take rats and make them fight each other, just like with pugil sticks, but with their M-14s and their chrome-covered bayonets and using body armor to protect the vitals.” He reached into a pocket on his long coat then pulled out the weapon Mrs. Jenrette had given him. He slapped it down on the table with a solid thud. “Like this one. So tell me. Is that true?”

  Chad’s mouth was open, his brain trying to process the long string of words in which Dillon had wrapped them. Jerrod was staring at the bayonet as if it were dripping blood. Which left Preston.

  Preston clapped once, then twice, then several more times, mockingly and slowly, until he stopped. “Bravo. Bravo. A command performance. But which part of ‘is that true’ do you want the answer to? You implied quite a few things. Most of them incorrect.”

  “Was Greer Jenrette killed interrupting a forced Quick and the Dead?” Dillon asked.

  “You know he wasn’t,” Preston said. “You’ve read the investigation.”

  “I don’t know anything for certain.” Dillon leaned back in the booth and looked at all three, a sweeping gaze. “I didn’t finish my story about the hut. Me and six other Rangers were trapped there. We had one man badly wounded, but medevac couldn’t get to us. Dust storm down in the lowlands where the choppers were based. And things were getting mighty grim. Ammo was running low. And the enemy was gathering, building up for one last rush. By the way, if you ever get into combat, you’ll learn quickly you can never carry enough ammunition.” Dillon smiled without humor. “But I don’t foresee that in any of you-all’s futures. Not a one of you signed an ROTC contract. Anyway. We ended up fixing bayonets. I mean, I gave the order. Just like they do before a parade. Except these bayonets weren’t chrome plated—“ he pulled the blade out of the scabbard—“ but cold steel. Razor sharp. Had a fellow in the platoon that loved sharpening ‘em for everyone and he was good at it so we all let him. Some backwoods good old boy, or should that be good young boy, from Arkansas. Good man.