by Tim Kehoe
“Well, then quaint might be in my future.”
“But don’t hold me to it. It could be more now. Galena gets busy this time of year with all the Chicago tourists checking out the fall leaves.”
“Cool. The inn on the bluff, I’ll check it out.”
“I think it was called Betty’s Inn or Betty’s Manor or something,” Emma said as she pulled a laptop out of her bag. “Here, I’ll look it up for you.”
She clicked around for a few minutes and found Betty’s Bluff Inn. She said they were running a fall colors special. If I didn’t eat a thing, I’d have enough for four or five nights. Great.
“Are you from the Midwest?” I asked.
“No. I grew up in Oregon. But my mom and dad live in California now. How about you?”
“I kind of grew up everywhere, sort of like an army brat.”
“Where do you live now?” she asked.
Right here on this bus, I thought. “I was living in New Canaan, Connecticut, until recently,” I replied.
“Nice.”
“It’s okay.”
She closed her laptop and slipped it back in her bag.
“Can I ask a huge favor?” I said.
“Sure.”
“Can I borrow your laptop real quick? They’re offering a sneak peek at this new book, and I’m dying to read it,” I said, holding up my dad’s book.
“Oh, I love Robert Jones. Is it a chapter from his book that comes out next week?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Then yes, you can use my computer, but only if I can read the chapter when you’re done.” Then she added, “It’s sad what happened to him.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “It is.”
I pulled up my dad’s website, entered the code, and found one excerpt available for download. There was a counter that indicated additional excerpts would be available in twenty hours. I read the first excerpt.
The Central Intelligence Agency, better known as the CIA, was headquartered in Langley, Virginia. Not too far from the CIA’s assassin training grounds, called The Farm. Carson Kidd had fond memories of being trained at The Farm.
The CIA had recruited Kidd right out of college. Kidd had studied economics and foreign languages in school–two skill sets the CIA treasured dearly.
Kidd entered the CIA a naïve intellectual type but, after nine long months at The Farm, the CIA had turned him into one of the most elite and deadly killing machines on the planet. Kidd was equally equipped to kill someone at one thousand yards with a high-powered sniper rifle as he was to kill someone three feet away with his bare hands. And that was actually what he wanted to do today. He wanted to kill someone for summoning him back to Langley. He hated coming to CIA headquarters. It was full of executive pencil-pushing types. Men and women who had either never been in the field as active spies or, as in Kidd’s case, an assassin. Or if they had been spies and killers, it had been many years ago. And now they all sat behind desks, getting fat and telling other people what to do. Kidd hated desks and, more than anything, Kidd hated being told what to do.
He squeezed his fists tight as he walked up to his boss’s office, deep inside the Langley building. He pushed the door open and walked in without knocking.
“Well, it’s good to see you too,” Kidd’s boss, Director Douglas, said as he stood up from behind his desk. “Come on in. Don’t bother knocking or anything.”
David Douglas had been the Director of International Organized Crime for over six years and he had personally recruited and trained Carson Kidd.
Shortly after being named Director of International Organized Crime, Douglas realized that the Salvatore crime syndicate had penetrated most of the world’s government organizations, including the CIA. The Salvatore crime syndicate was based in Sicily but had a large and vast network that covered most of the globe. It was far and away the most brutal Mafia organization in the world, and Douglas knew that if he was to have any chance at taking on such a powerful organization, he would need to build an elite force of killers from the ground up. A group that was free from corruption. A group that could kill the world’s top killers and then disappear into the shadows.
Douglas personally put his recruits through the CIA’s brutal assassin training program. Douglas’s team had been given black operation status. The black ops designation gave them freedom to operate without having to report to anyone inside the CIA. Technically speaking, black operations didn’t exist. They didn’t appear on any budget or spreadsheet. Nor did the people that work them. They were ghosts. They were set loose to accomplish their missions by whatever means necessary. The only real rule that applied to the CIA black ops programs was they were only allowed to operate outside the United States. All internal operations inside US borders belonged to the FBI. At least on paper.
“What am I doing here, Douglas?” Kidd demanded. “You know I hate coming here.”
“Carson, I’d like you to meet John Gibson.” Douglas motioned to a man sitting in a leather chair in the corner of the room.
Gibson didn’t get up, and Kidd didn’t acknowledge the man’s existence. He just continued to look at Douglas.
“What am I doing here?” he demanded again.
“Have a seat, Carson.” Douglas motioned to a chair directly in front of Douglas’s desk.
Carson picked up the chair and repositioned it so he could see Douglas, Gibson, and the door. Some habits died hard.
“Okay,” he said, sitting down. “Now are you going to tell me why you pulled me out of France?”
Douglas sighed and pursed his lips tight. Kidd could tell this was going to be bad news.
“What?” Kidd insisted.
“Mr. Gibson is my counterpart at the FBI. He heads up their organized crime program here in the states,” Douglas said.
Kidd looked at Gibson. The FBI was at Langley? That was one for the books.
“What?” Kidd asked. “Are you here for some pointers? Want some trade craft advice from the pros, do you?”
“Funny,” Gibson said.
Douglas interjected before Kidd got too fired up. “They’re our friends, Carson. Let’s try and remember we’re all on the same side.” Douglas paused, pushed his chin down a little, and looked at Kidd for a sign that he understood.
“Okay,” Kidd said. “Right. We’re all one big happy family.”
“We’ve got a situation here,” Douglas continued. “It’s pretty bad.”
Kidd could now tell that Douglas was serious. That something was truly wrong.
“What’s going on?”
Gibson got up, walked over to Douglas’s desk, and sat on the corner. “As you know, the Salvatore crime syndicate has had a major operation in Chicago for years.”
“Yeah,” Kidd said, wondering what in the world this had to do with him. It would be illegal for the CIA to do anything about the Salvatore syndicate in Chicago. That was clearly FBI territory.
“Well,” Gibson continued, “my team has had a pretty good track record of infiltrating them.”
“Okay,” Kidd said impatiently.
Douglas must have seen that Kidd was growing restless, so he jumped in.
“The FBI was doing a stellar job until a local Chicago woman named Jensen got in the way,” Douglas offered.
“Got in the way how?” Kidd asked.
“Jensen took over the local gang task force in Chicago,” Gibson said.
“At the city level,” Douglas added.
“Right,” Gibson continued, “and she has been cutting very aggressive deals with all of the Salvatore scumbags. She’s offering up sweet cash rewards and witness protection plans to anyone who is willing to rat out other Salvatore scumbags. She’s cut over forty deals this year. Many of them with stone-cold killers.”
“So she’s giving these murderous thugs a pile of cash, a new identity, and moving them to some secret location where they get to live out the rest of their miserable lives in comfort,” Kidd said, “instead of rotting in some jail cell
?”
“Yes. She’s moving the mobsters and their families,” Gibson said. “She’s moved over two hundred people so far.”
“Our taxes at work,” Kidd commented.
“Not ours,” Douglas corrected. “This is a state-run witness protection program. Not federal.”
“A state-run program?” Kidd asked. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“Illinois is the only one in the union that does it,” Gibson answered. “But here is the best part. The state isn’t that big and, according to Illinois law, all the witnesses must remain in the state.”
Douglas jumped in and stole Gibson’s thunder. “So some idiot in the Illinois state department has put all the witnesses in the same small town. Some small tourist town called Galena. Can you believe it?”
“That’s messed up,” Kidd agreed. “But I still don’t see how this is a CIA issue.”
“You’re right,” Gibson said. “It’s an FBI problem. Or at least it should be.” Gibson sighed.
“The FBI has a mole,” Douglas said. “The Salvatore syndicate has been tipped off that all of their rats are sitting fat and happy in Galena. Gibson believes that someone on his team leaked it.”
“So the FBI has a mole.” Kidd threw his hands up in the air. “Welcome to the club. The Salvatores have penetrated every level of government in almost every country on the planet. It’s unbelievable.” Kidd laughed and then continued, “But so what? They’ll send some guys to kill all of these turncoats and everyone wins. Problem solved, right?”
“You’re right,” Gibson agreed. “That’s exactly what they’ve done. The bodies have already started to appear. Apparently the Salvatore syndicate is so excited about wiping out these traitors, they’re calling in their best assassin.”
Recognizing the opportunity, Kidd sat up in his chair.
“That’s what I thought too,” Douglas said.
“The Sicilian? They sent the Sicilian to Galena?”
Douglas nodded. “It is the perfect storm. The perfect opportunity to take out the world’s top assassin.”
“Man.” Kidd stood up. “For the first time ever, we know where the Sicilian is? You’ve got to be kidding me.” Kidd was giddy with excitement. It was like Christmas morning. He had spent six years tracking down Salvatore’s top killers. And these weren’t your average street-corner-gang thugs. These guys were pros. They lived in the shadows. They had rock-solid aliases. They were nearly impossible to find. They had families. They looked and acted like everyone else. They could be your butcher or accountant. But the Sicilian was different. He didn’t live in the shadows—he was a shadow. There were days when Kidd wondered if he was even real. Maybe the Sicilian was just a rumor. No one knew for sure.
Twice Kidd was certain he was close to catching him. But he came up empty-handed both times. But now Kidd would have the upper hand. He knew where the Sicilian was. And once he got a hold of the forty ex-Salvatore scumbags who were now in the witness protection program, he would even know who the Sicilian was going to kill. It felt like a neatly wrapped present had just been handed to him until Kidd remembered that they were talking about a town on US soil. “It would be illegal. The CIA can’t operate inside US borders,” Kidd said reluctantly.
“Technically this is true,” Douglas agreed.
“But,” Gibson interjected, “from what little I know, it seems like your team is the only group on the planet that might have the knowledge and skills to find and kill this guy. This Sicilian, as you call him.”
“And,” Kidd added, “technically we don’t exist. I don’t exist. How can I break a law when I don’t exist? I’m black ops!”
“Exactly,” Douglas agreed.
“This is really a job for Anton, though,” Kidd said. “I could go in there and kill this guy. Believe me, nothing would make me happier. But people would notice. I’m good at what I do, but I’m not subtle. That’s Anton’s skill set. And that’s how the Sicilian kills. They are both masters at making even the most bizarre deaths look like accidents. Anton thinks like the Sicilian. I think he’d be your best bet for finding this guy and killing him without drawing attention.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Douglas said. “And that’s why I sent Anton and his family to Galena two weeks ago.”
“Well, there you go,” Kidd said. “Problem solved.”
“Turns out he’s having a hard time finding the Sicilian,” Douglas said. “And the witnesses keep showing up dead. If we don’t find the Sicilian soon, he will have killed all forty witnesses and disappeared back into the shadows forever.”
Kidd sat down. “What do you mean Anton can’t find him? It’s not that big of a town, right?”
“Right,” Gibson agreed.
“And Anton has the list of witnesses, right? I mean, he knows who the Sicilian is going to kill?” Kidd asked.
Douglas looked concerned.
“Okay,” Kidd said. “I’ll go to Galena. I’ll find and kill the Sicilian. But it ain’t going to be quiet.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
* * *
I just sat and stared at the screen. Not only was my mom Carson Kidd, she was an assassin? A weapons expert? She had never even shot a gun, as far as I knew. And to top it off, I’d traveled with her all over the world while she’d killed bad guys! How do you handle information like that? I took a deep breath and handed Emma her computer.
“Thanks,” I said.
“No problem. Let me know if you need it again. It’s a long trip.” She slipped the computer into her bag.
I pushed back in my seat and tried to stretch my legs. Buses and planes were brutal for someone my height.
“Have you ever done this before?” I asked. “Ridden the bus?”
“No. This is my first time. I hate the hour train ride from Westport to Yale to see Andrew. I’m not sure how I’m going to sit for over twenty hours.”
“Is that how long our ride is?”
“Something like that,” she said. “You’ll have another three hours from Chicago to Galena.”
“Great. Do you go see Andrew up at Yale a lot?” I asked.
“Not a lot. He’s superbusy with school and directing,” Emma said.
“Oh. Directing? Like a play?”
“A musical. He’s part of Dramat at Yale.”
I assumed by the way she said “Dramat” that I was supposed to know what Dramat was. And I was clearly supposed to be impressed. I wasn’t. I’d met enough private school punks over the years to know what they were like. Heck, my dad had been one. I said nothing. But I must have made a face.
“Hey,” she said defensively, seeing the look on my face. “Andrew’s a good guy.”
“What? I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to. But Andrew’s not like that. He also rows crew for Yale.”
“I’m sure he does.” I smiled. “Ivy league, rowing, drama—I’m sure he’s a normal great guy.”
“Seriously!” she exclaimed. Her face was red. I’d hit a nerve. “How about you, mister?” she said, trying to change the subject. “Anyone special in your life?” she asked.
“Nope.”
“Come on. There’s gotta be someone? Somewhere?”
“Nope,” I said. “I literally have nobody anywhere.” And I didn’t. No good friends. No family. Nothing left.
“So what’s Andrew’s musical about?” I asked.
“It’s Annie,” Emma replied.
“Annie?” I repeated. “At Yale? Isn’t that, like, a kids’ musical?”
“I know, it sounds a little crazy. But Andrew’s vision for Annie is amazing. Really.”
“His vision—for Annie?”
“Yeah, he’s very excited. It’s hard to explain. He describes it as sort of Annie meets Hamlet.”
I said nothing. There was a long silence before Emma said, “You said you lost both of your parents? That sounds rough.”
“What’s this? You’re changing the topic,” I said.
“I’m a reporter. I’m always curious to hear the story. And I’m tired of talking about me.”
“I don’t want to bum you out,” I said. “My mom died about seven months ago, and my dad died a couple of days ago. It hasn’t been a great year.” I stared at the seat in front of me. I had never talked to anyone about my mom. Or her death. And, obviously, I hadn’t had a chance to talk about my dad or grandpa. At least not with anyone but Douglas. I don’t know what it was about Emma, but I wanted to tell her everything. I wanted to tell her how much it had hurt when my mom had died. And how much it had hurt when my dad had stayed away after the funeral.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Furious.”
“No, it’s okay.” I continued to stare at the seat in front of me. “I’ve just never really talked about it before.”
She stood up. “Here,” she said. “Scoot over. I’m gonna sit on your side.”
I slid into the seat next to the window, and Emma sat down next to me. She smelled great.
“What happened to your mom?” she asked.
“Oh, man. I’m not really sure.” I rubbed my face. “It’s kind of a long story.”
She put her hands in the air. “Well, we’ve got nothing but time.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to talk about it. It’s just—just different. My life is different.”
“Your life is different?” she said. “I’m dating a much older guy that’s putting little orphan Annie’s death to music, and you think your life is different?”
I smiled. “Right. Your life is messed up.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” she said.
“So tell me. What is so messed up in Emma’s world?”
“No, no. You first. You tell me what happened to your mom, and I’ll tell you all about the incredible, caring, nurturing world that Tom and Cindy created for their lovely little Emma. That is, before Tom went off to jail.”
“I bet Tom and Cindy have got nothing on Robert and Terri,” I said.
“Oh.” She smiled. “We’ll see. Tell me about Terri.”
“I don’t know. I don’t want to scare you away.”
She gestured around again. “Where am I gonna go?”
I sighed. “All right, so what do you want to know?”