Back Blast: A Gray Man Novel

by Mark Greaney

  “Really? I just assumed you work with Jordan Mayes over there.”

  Brewer knelt under the tape, kept walking. After a few seconds she looked back and saw Andy had ducked the tape as well and remained on her heels. She said, “Sorry, I’m involved in an investigation here. Will you excuse me?”

  “Any thought this might have something to do with the Babbitt killing on Cedar Parkway?”

  “We are looking into—”

  “I mean, it would have to, right? You’ve got bloodstains here. There was a lot of shooting at the other scene.”

  “I’m going to have to ask you to step on the other side of the tape.” Her eyes flitted around, trying to find an officer close enough to help her.

  Andy continued as if he hadn’t heard. “But the weird thing to me is, there is a lot of blood here, especially considering the first event was an hour and a half before the second. No way some guy is going to bleed like that for that long. You have any information about another shooting? Something after Cedar Parkway, and before here?”

  Brewer turned away from Andy, looked around at the scene, as if she was considering what the young reporter was saying. After a few moments her head seemed to clear, and she reached out and grabbed a passing state police officer by the arm.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Is this reporter authorized to be inside the police line?”

  “No, ma’am.” He squared his shoulders at Andy. “Let’s back it up.”

  Andy pulled out a card and pushed it into Suzanne Brewer’s hand. Then he said, “Thanks for talking, Ms. Brewer. I’ve got plenty to run with for now. Call me if you want to talk more.”

  Andy turned away, ducked back under the police tape, and headed off to see if Catherine King had gotten any further in her interview.

  —

  Jordan Mayes finished with his briefing from the confused detective with a handshake. The man had no idea who Mayes was, but the federal credentials he presented trumped any reticence on the Maryland State officer’s part, so he told the man everything he knew about the scene here.

  Mayes turned around to look for Brewer in the large group of men and women working the scene here, but the first person he recognized was Catherine King from the Washington Post. He didn’t know her personally, but he read her column and saw her on TV from time to time. He had a vague memory of King being pointed out to him at a cafeteria in the Green Zone in Baghdad years before, and he was introduced to her briefly in one of Saddam Hussein’s palaces that had been turned into a coalition command center.

  He didn’t have a clue what she was doing standing under an overpass at three thirty in the morning.

  “Mr. Mayes? Catherine King, Washington Post.”

  Mayes’s defenses fired into high gear, but he was polite. “Ms. King? How are you?”

  They shook hands.

  “Please call me Catherine.”

  Jordan Mayes had two bodyguards within arm’s reach, but they didn’t have any clue that this small woman in an overcoat was a threat to his mission. Mayes was stuck talking to her, for a few seconds at least. “Sorry, I’m right in the middle of something.”

  “Wondering if you can tell me if you think this carjacking is related to the Babbitt murder.”

  “Too early to say. I was on my way there, and came over here, just out of curiosity. What brings you out tonight?”

  “Same thing, I guess. I’d love to talk to you, off the record, of course. Can you tell me if you think Babbitt’s murder was related to the work he did with CIA?”

  Jordan Mayes frowned. “I think you should talk with the Maryland State Police. I can’t possibly give you anything more than what they have. If you’ll excuse me, that’s all I really have time for right now.”

  Mayes felt a muscle in his left eye twitch, and he damned the movement.

  —

  Catherine saw Mayes’s immediate discomfort, and she hesitated, unsure just how much she wanted to turn up the heat. Quickly she decided to go for broke. “I noticed you arrived with Suzanne Brewer. She is responsible for protecting CIA personnel domestically, isn’t she? Obviously you must have concerns about Babbitt’s killer targeting Agency assets.”

  Mayes held up his hands in surrender. “That’s a lot of speculation there, Ms. King. Your readers would probably appreciate facts, not conjecture. Like I said, talk to the police.”

  Now she decided to drop the bomb. “Well, I would, but I doubt the Maryland police would have much information about that double homicide in Ward Eight the other night. Are you investigating the possibility of a connection to these crime scenes?”

  “Ward Eight? I’m not sure I know what you are referring to.”

  Mayes was a good liar, but Catherine knew he would be.

  “Washington Highlands. Saturday night. Brandywine Street.” She smiled. “You know the one.”

  “I’m sorry, Ms. King, I’ll have to break this off right there. If you want you can call Media Relations and they—”

  “The Agency’s media people won’t be able to help me on my story. I am aware that you and Ms. Brewer went to the Brandywine Street crime scene the other evening, so I am speculating you had credible intelligence that event was related to a threat on Agency personnel. Then tonight, Babbitt is killed. He was closely affiliated with CIA. You are Clandestine Service, so I’m not sure what your interest in this is, but—”

  Mayes turned and began walking back to the Suburban. His security men, late to recognize their principal’s discomfort, began moving between Mayes and the middle-aged woman following him.

  Catherine backed off with a pleasant “Good night, Mr. Mayes.”

  She received no reply.

  —

  Andy and Catherine found each other in the crazed lights of the crime scene a minute later.

  Andy wore an expression of frustration. “I didn’t get a thing out of her.”

  Catherine smiled, satisfied. “I struck out, too, but I don’t care. Most importantly, we shook the trees a little. I’ll reach out to Mayes in the morning, ask for a meeting on background with him and Carmichael, and helpfully suggest I might just go to the director’s office if I don’t get anything from them.”

  “What will that accomplish?”

  “Carmichael doesn’t like the director. He doesn’t like any director. He resents any oversight. My guess is the director is unaware Clandestine Service leadership is hanging out with the Maryland State Police.

  “I surprised Mayes tonight with what I knew, I could see that. They are going to have to come up with some sort of story for me. It won’t be the truth, but they think it will slow me down.”

  “But it won’t?”

  “No. Whatever direction they try to send me off in will be a feint, but it will show me to look in another direction. You and I need to keep pounding the pavement on this. It’s just getting good.”

  Andy and Catherine began climbing back up the embankment to their car.

  Andy said, “I need to file a story, you know. I’m not an investigative reporter. My editor wants the news, and he wants it now.”

  Catherine said, “File what you know, but not what you suspect. Don’t mention CIA being here at all, but mention Babbitt’s ties to the IC.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t worry, Andy. When I file a story, we’ll do it together. Trust me, it will be worth the wait.”

  Andy smiled as he climbed.

  31

  It was just past four a.m. when Gentry pulled his gray Ford Escort into the parking lot of the Easy Market on Rhode Island. He was careful to park in the same spot as he did the last time he visited this store, and just as careful to pull his red ball cap down low and to walk where the cameras could not get a look at his face.

  The same heavyset young woman with the lazy eye greeted him as soon as he came in the
door. “Hey, baby. How’s your night goin’?”

  “It’s goin’,” he said. He held his right arm down tight against his parka, as much to hide the tear and the little stain of blood that he’d been unable to clean off as to put a small amount of direct pressure on his painful wound.

  “You must work nights, too,” she said, but she’d already turned her head back to the little TV behind the counter.

  “Yeah,” he muttered.

  He headed to a back aisle and found a small section with simple first aid items. He picked up an ACE bandage and two rolls of gauze, some tape, and a single off-brand bottle of antiseptic. He then stepped back to the cooler, where he hefted a six-pack of beer off a shelf.

  LaShondra called out to him. “Oh, I see. You need you some beer for a big party over at your place. Suppose my invite got lost in the mail, is that it?”

  Court smiled, then he scooped up a can of ravioli, a loaf of white bread, and a candy bar, and he brought his food and beer up to the register along with the first aid. He fished some bills out of his jacket with his left hand. “Nah. No party.”

  “Mm-hm.” She said it in a playfully suspicious tone.

  Court hoped she would be too occupied with her TV show to pay any attention to the other items he’d brought to the counter.

  “Oh, baby, you done hurt yourself?”

  So much for that.

  “No.”

  “Then what’s all this for?”

  “Just stocking up on my first aid kit. Going camping this weekend.”

  “Campin’?” she said, as if it were a preposterous concept. “I ain’t never been campin’.”

  Court did not respond.

  She began ringing up the items, scanning the gauze, the ACE bandage, the tape, and the antiseptic. Once she got to the canned ravioli she looked up at him again. Court kept his head turned from the camera on his right, pretending to be reading a newspaper on a rack to his left. The injury to his rib cage burned like hell.

  “Hey, this ain’t yo dinner, is it?”

  Court shrugged. “Yeah.”

  She paused, stopped scanning the food, and Court glanced further to the left. He got the sense she was looking at his face.

  She said, “You don’t look good.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Nah, you sweating. Your skin is white. I mean like really white.”

  “Allergies. Every spring.”

  “You need you some greens.”

  “Okay,” he said, thinking her comment to be rhetorical in nature.

  When she kept staring at him, he glanced up quickly into her good eye.

  She said, “I’m for real. Go get you a can of turnip greens or spinach or something. Don’t cost but two dollars, and you look like you need it.”

  Court did as instructed, following LaShondra’s pointed finger to a shelf. He grabbed a can of turnip greens and brought it back to the counter, set it down, and went back to looking at the magazine rack.

  “You know that’s real good with some vinegar. You got vinegar at home?”

  Court did not. “Sure do. I’ll try it.”

  A minute later he was on the way out the door, a little stressed about the level of questioning from the woman but ultimately satisfied he’d not compromised himself in any way.

  Court realized that people here in the U.S. were nicer to strangers than in the other places he’d traveled in the past five years—when they weren’t shooting you in the ribs, that was. And while Court had no problem with politeness, for a man who lived his life moving through society without leaving a trace, this was problematic.

  As he struggled into the driver’s seat, the pain in his torso limiting his movement, he thought he might have to change his late-night shopping habits so he didn’t get any more probing questions from the ultra inquisitive cashier. He suspected LaShondra was a level of chatty not common among most late-night store clerks, so he could just find another place to make his purchases.

  Court found this unfortunate, because he liked the slightly annoying woman. When she called him “baby doll” the first time he had realized it had been a very long time since anyone had called him by an affectionate name.

  Court pulled out of the parking lot, a sense of sadness creeping into his normally mission-focused mind.

  LaShondra would have no way of knowing it, of course, but she had become his best friend.

  Too bad he would never see her again.

  —

  A half hour later Court knelt in the alley that ran catty-corner to the Mayberry home on NW Quincy Street, and he eyed the area around his rented room. He’d been here for nearly ten minutes, watching the scene, his bags from the market by his side. It would be dawn in a little while, but he was using the security afforded by darkness to survey the neighborhood, making sure he had not been followed or his hide had not been otherwise compromised.

  It had been a shitty night—his covert B&E had turned into a mad run for his life, a leap from a rooftop, explosions and wild-assed, trigger-happy police officers, helicopters, and even a gunshot wound thrown in for good measure.

  Jesus Christ.

  Court had planned it very differently, to say the least.

  He checked his watch, looked to the sky, and told himself he needed to be in the room well before first light, so he stood and crossed the street. All the while half expecting the pops of guns or the wail of sirens.

  The neighborhood remained quiet.

  He entered his room at six, peeled off his clothes, inspected bruises and scrapes that would get no more attention, and cradled his forearm in his hand. He’d not rebroken it—he was sure of this because he knew exactly what it felt like when it was broken—but the tissue around the injury had not appreciated the way Court had decided to spend his doctor-ordered convalescence.

  He wanted to jump into the little shower, but he fought the urge for a few minutes so he could restage his booby trap by the front door. Once he had his device assembled and set, he headed for the tiny bathroom at the back of the apartment.

  Court took a hot shower. The water stung like hell in his gunshot wound but he powered through it, careful to make sure he washed out any foreign debris lodged deep in the sticky mess. He then toweled off as well as he could with the wounded ribs and poured antiseptic onto a thick wad of gauze. Carefully he placed it over his injury, and he used the ACE bandage to secure it by wrapping it all the way around his torso several times.

  That done, Court re-dressed in a fresh set of dark clothing and put on a pair of black running shoes. He pulled the one tray of ice out of his little refrigerator/freezer, and he moved into the closet. Here he lay on his back, the Smith and Wesson on his chest, and his right arm resting on the ice tray at the point of most discomfort.

  He fell asleep like this at six forty-five and he dreamed of killer cops.

  32

  Zack Hightower entered the Violator Working Group’s tactical operations center promptly at eight a.m., clean-shaven for the first time in two years and professionally dressed in a blue suit with a regimental tie. He was feeling better than he had felt in a long time, because he was back on the job, part of the team, and operational. True, at this point he hadn’t worked out his official status or even whether he would be getting a paycheck for his services, but he didn’t care. Mayes and Carmichael knew what he did, and men like Mayes and Carmichael needed a man like Zack Hightower.

  More work would follow; Zack was sure of it.

  Hightower was not surprised to see Suzanne Brewer already hard at work in the TOC. She was that kind of executive. Hightower had seen the type a few times before, always from distance, because he was labor and they were management. Brewer would come early and stay late, and she’d make this operation her life for the duration of it, then she’d move on to something else. But wherever she’d go from here, she would
always move up; she would always leverage her access and her associations to serve as rungs on a ladder.

  She’d step on Zack’s head to help her climb if she needed to, of this he had no doubt.

  Brewer wasn’t the type of person Zack looked up to, but he’d been around the Agency long enough to know a highflier with seventh-floor potential when he saw one.

  That was who she was.

  And, Zack being Zack, he couldn’t help but think about getting her glasses off and her smart business suit wadded up at the foot of his bed.

  He pushed the imagery out of his mind and went back to business.

  He imagined Brewer was the type who would keep her nose clean at all costs, and that meant, he knew without having to be told, that she would know nothing of his extracurricular activities the evening before. She was in Programs and Plans, but she wouldn’t dip her toe into non-sanctioned programs or plans such as an extrajudicial killing in the USA for all the money in the world.

  “Morning, Ms. Brewer,” he said as she hurried over to him.

  Brewer wasn’t a chatty person. She was all business. “Good. You’re here. I need to fill you in on what happened last night.”

  “Please do.” Zack feigned surprise and interest, and the two of them stepped into a small glass-walled conference room.

  As she sat down she said, “Around eleven p.m. yesterday Courtland Gentry murdered Leland Babbitt, director of Townsend Government Services.”

  Zack just said, “I’ll be damned.” He smiled inwardly, thinking he deserved a fucking Oscar for his acting abilities. He wasn’t surprised in the least that Gentry was getting fingered for the hit. Denny Carmichael was a crafty old fox, after all.

  She continued, “Shot him in the chest, then led Babbitt’s security detail on a chase across Chevy Chase and Bethesda.”

  He blinked. “Oh.” Zack’s surprise was authentic now. Apparently they had hard evidence Gentry was there at the scene. But Zack still had to employ his acting talents, because it was becoming clear Gentry had been in range of Zack’s Remington, and Zack had failed to see him. “That is very interesting.” He said it as slowly and flatly as he could. “Any idea where he went?”