The Nature of the Beast

by GM Ford

  The Nature of the Beast

  G.M. Ford

  Copyright 2013 G.M. Ford

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever including Internet usage, without written permission of the author.

  eBook formatting by Maureen Cutajar

  www.gopublished.com

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  1

  Pay attention! By the numbers. Always by the numbers.

  “One.”

  Bipod. Loosen the locks and push the legs down through the snow.

  “Two.”

  Receivers. Attach the upper to the lower, without losing the zero on the scope.

  “Three.”

  Connection. Attach weapon to the bipod.

  “Four.”

  Adjust for elevation and remove the caps from the lenses.

  “Five.”

  Assume the prone position.

  __

  The man known locally as Bryce Caldwell was a creature of habit. Give or take a minute or two, Caldwell arrived at the Dennis County Aquatic Center at eleven each morning. Thirty minutes of socializing and lackadaisical laps, twenty minutes steaming in the sauna, a quick shower and he was back out on Chester Street by noon.

  Predictably then, at two minutes thirteen seconds past the hour, Bryce Caldwell came strutting out the dressing room door, nodding amiably here and there as he made his way toward the diving board at the far end of the pool.

  __

  Seven hundred and twenty one yards from the diving board, the shooter settled his chin onto his chest, and pushed the Kevlar and fiberglass stock tight against his shoulder. He made an adjustment to the BORS optical ranging system mounted on top of the scope and waited as the computer’s trio of sensors annexed the flight angle, the temperature and the barometric conditions and then calculated a ballistic solution. He readjusted the focus. The image was remarkable. The face on the crucifix Caldwell wore was turned aside in the classic manner, the crown of thorns, clear as day.

  The shooter settled deeper into the snow, wiggling himself around until he was satisfied with the stability of his firing position. He snapped the lead onto the radar vital signs monitor. Several seconds passed. The screen blinked to life. He adjusted the contrast and watched his respiration signature on the LCD and then closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing.

  __

  Caldwell mounted the diving board, paused long enough to allow the local matrons to admire his leonine physique then walked forward, bouncing up and down several times as he readied himself for yet another display of aquatic agility.

  Caldwell lifted his arms above his head, raised himself onto his toes and…and then did something he’d never done before, he lowered his arms and looked back over his shoulder, out through the massive glass front of the building, toward the frozen foothills beyond the edge of town, staring intently, as if some vestigial inner ear detected the whisper of fate.

  Later perusals of police reports confirmed that the word most often used by those unfortunate enough to have borne witness to the moment was “exploded.” Or at least that’s how it seemed to the patrons of the Aquatic Center that morning, as major portions of Bryce Caldwell’s splintered spine and pureed internal organs formed a scarlet armada on the surface of the pool, a full second and a half before the sound of the shot arrived.

  What followed was wild scramble for cover, accompanied by a calliope of screaming and gagging. Several tense minutes passed before anyone noticed the big spidery hole high up in the front window.

  2

  West Coast Operations Director Bobby Duggan levered himself from his chair, stretching and rolling his neck as he walked across his office and out into the hall. Bobby had stayed a ‘Bobby’ in the manner of southern men, allowed to retain his boyish moniker into middle age, an affectation, for some reason, denied his more northerly counterparts. He walked slowly, as if ambling down some country lane on the way to a favorite fishing hole.

  He crossed the deeply carpeted corridor and used his key card on the door directly opposite the water cooler, stepped inside and closed the door behind himself. The air was silent and still. When the multimodal biometric scanners had finished their perusal of his person, the inner door automatically clicked open. He stepped inside.

  Daniel Rosen doused his computer screen as the security door eased open. Rosen was new school, one of the recent breed of Secret Service Regional Supervisors who, contrary to long-standing tradition, had not risen through the ranks, but rather had been plucked straight from business school for his administrative capabilities.

  Several years younger and a several inches shorter than Duggan, Rosen was forty years old, slightly under six feet, with a black scouring pad of hair, pale translucent skin and eyes so dark they seemed to disappear into his face.

  “He’s on the way,” Duggan said without preamble. “Jumped on a dead-head flight from Brussels ten minutes ago.”

  “Just as you predicted,” Rosen conceded.

  Duggan shrugged. “Not exactly rocket science. In the past twenty-four hours, he’s made eleven attempts to contact Gilbert Fowles. Jackson Craig’s not the most patient man in the world.” Bobby made a rueful face. “He’s an old hand,” he said. “You’re only going to be able to put him off for so long before he figures it out.”

  “But leaving his post without orders…”

  “Turns out he finagled a leave of absence,” Bobby said.

  “From whom?”

  “His INTERPOL supervisor. Renee Latchman.”

  Rosen scrunched his face into a knot. “He should have had the decency to resign way back when.”

  “As long as the investigation has fallen to us…” Bobby began.

  Rosen’s dark eyes flashed in anger. “I did everything possible to pass on it. The deal was consummated before they ever said a word to us.”

  “Sooooo….” Bobby said. “As long as we’re stuck with this…”

  “I can’t see how a one-handed man whose been off the dance floor for five years is the right man for a job like this.”

  “If his medica
l evaluations can be believed, physically he’s pretty much back to where he was before he lost the hand. Maybe better. As you recall, he’s recently applied for reinstatement to regular duty status,” Bobby reminded.

  Rosen scowled. “We told him that wasn’t going to be possible under current regulations. I assumed that was the end of it.”

  Bobby made a rude noise with his lips. “He signed himself up for the physical competency course we run trainees through. Finished eighteenth out of eighty three. Most of them twenty years his junior, all of them with two hands. Citing his disability just ain’t gonna float here, Dan. The Equal Opportunity hounds are gonna be all over us like ugly on an ape.”

  Rosen looked away. “I’m not interested in making new policy,” he snapped.

  Bobby carried on as if he hadn’t heard. “Last thing we want to do is get into a pissin’ contest with a hero.”

  “A one-handed hero,” Rosen amended.

  An uneasy silence settled over the office.

  “We’ll need to monitor him very closely,” Rosen said finally.

  “I believe we might be able to dovetail our other disciplinary matter into this thing. Perhaps kill more than one bird with a single stone,” he grimaced. “If you’ll forgive me the unfortunate figure of speech.”

  3

  When Emelda’s hand touched his shoulder, Gilbert flinched hard enough to bang his head on the car’s upraised hood. He stood rubbing the sore spot, waiting for his heart to stop the drum solo. Gilbert expelled a great whoosh of air and covered her hand with his own. She smiled, wan and worried, but a smile nonetheless.

  “I think you’re going to have to go get Becky,” Emelda said.

  That his wife had been able to cross the breezeway from the house to the garage without Gilbert noticing spoke volumes about how distracted he was. At least that’s what Gilbert told himself. The alternatives included the unpleasant possibility that the years living as a civilian had eroded his skills to the point where he was more of a liability than an asset at moments such as this.

  “She remembers the last time,” Emelda said, sensing Gilbert’s uncertainty.

  “I know,” Gilbert said, closing the hood of the car.

  She looked over her shoulder. The rhythmic slap of the basketball on pavement drew her eyes toward Michael, who, at nearly five years old, was more or less oblivious to the situation. As far as he was concerned, their last name had always been Browning, they had always lived in Western Pennsylvania and they were simply taking an unexpected vacation, like when they went to meet his grandparents. She watched as Michael used every ounce of his being to launch the basketball upward, where it hung on the rim and then fell through the net.

  Becky was another matter. She’d been eight the last time they been forced to decamp. She remembered being Rebecca Fowles, remembered the palm trees, the sand between her toes and the warm breeze from the ocean. The adjustment had been difficult for her. In the past year or so, her wardrobe had faded to black while her grades had merely faded.

  “Are you sure we can’t call?” Emelda tried. Righteous indignation flashed in her dark eyes. “They’re supposed to take care of things like this,” she hissed.

  Gilbert shrugged. “They’ve been breached,” he said.

  “How can you be sure?” she demanded.

  “There’s no other way,” he said. “That’s why I set up my own cut-outs. Just in case.” His lips were tight. “Somebody’s got a leak.”

  “But…”

  “Requests for the kids’ birth certificates. Our credit information. Somebody’s sniffing around our lives.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. I…” His voice had begun to rise. He composed himself. “I tried to send an emergency message to the service.” He raised his hands in frustration. “It bounced. The protocols have changed.” He stepped over and took her in his arms. He whispered in her ear. “Right now, I’m not sure who to trust, so I’m not going to trust anybody until I get you guys someplace safe,” he said.

  “Maybe it’s some kind of computer glitch. Maybe we can come back here,” she tried. “You know, take up our lives again.”

  “Maybe,” he said without conviction. He shook the fear from himself, took a half step back and looked her in the eye. “We’ll figure it out,” he said. “In the meantime, it’s best we err of the side of caution.” The terror in his gut screamed like a chainsaw. He turned and walked quickly toward the house.

  “Beckster,” he called. “Let’s get it girl. Times a wastin’.”

  He didn’t expect an answer. These days, Becky was far too sullen for shouting. Gilbert kept walking, all the way through the house and out onto what had once been a service porch, a space his daughter had converted into her own private cavern.

  Gilbert knocked. No answer. No surprise.

  He pushed the door open and stepped into the room. What had once been a shrine to Hanna Montana and the Jonas Brothers, had, in recent months, taken on a considerably darker tone. Day-Glo red NO TRESPASSING sign tacked diagonally across a Third Eye Blind poster. Gilbert walked to the alcove at the back left of the room. The inner sanctum of the inner sanctum.

  Becky was exactly where Gilbert expected her to be, parked in front of her computer engaged in Facebook. ‘He said she said’ for the electronically inclined.

  “Time to go,” he said softly.

  “I’m not going,” Becky said without taking her eyes from the screen.

  Gilbert didn’t argue. All the books said not to argue. Instead, he stepped forward and flicked the red power button on the surge protector. The computer screen winked and then went dark.

  Becky jumped to her feet. “This is so gay,” she shouted.

  “Don’t use that word like that.”

  “It’s just a word,” she insisted.

  “I’m sorry,” Gilbert said.

  Becky grabbed her backpack and slung it angrily across her shoulder.

  “Yeah. That’s right. Sorry is definitely what you are,” she said as she flounced from the room.

  Gilbert sighed and turned out the lights.

  4

  Jackson Craig thanked the flight crew for the uneventful ride and stepped out into the balmy California night. Maybe sixty-five degrees. The sky as clear as it got around here. For just a moment, he imagined he could smell the ocean. Amused by his sudden fit of whimsy, he cast a glance toward the bottom of the jetway. As he’d expected, a size fifty-six welcoming committee was standing at attention at the bottom of the metal stairs, gazing up at Jackson Craig with a baleful stare.

  Craig smoothed his suit around himself and started down. The welcome wagon had a big round bullet head, a thick neck and a blue suit half a size too small. He introduced himself as Special Agent Todd Blackledge and offered a hand. Craig nodded a cursory greeting and filled the proffered paw with his suitcase.

  They worked their way through LAX in silence, bypassing U.S. Customs, out the underground door to the VIP parking area where a female LAPD Auxiliary officer kept a watchful eye on a creeping line of luxury vehicles.

  Force of habit swept Craig’s eyes in a wide arc. At the far left of the area, three gleaming SUV’s idled along the curb, their dark, tinted windows screaming security. Craig looked around, hoping the armada was intended for someone else but knowing in his heart that it wasn’t. His superiors weren’t taking any chances.

  At the far end of the ramp, a sudden flash of color caught his eye. A boy was working his way down the line of cars and limos. Mixed race. Latino and something, maybe Chinese. Red hoodie sweatshirt, Dodgers baseball cap sideways on his head. Holding up his oversized shorts with one hand and hawking newspapers with the other. Leaning in car windows, hollering from the sidewalk, the kid was a whirling dervish of a salesman, never stopping, talking trash as he waddled from car to car.

  “Tomorrow’s news today,” he yelled. “LA Times.”

  A hand appeared from one of the limos. He put a paper in it. The hand disappeared inside and then r
eappeared holding a bill.

  “Thanks ma’am. I ‘preciate it. Very nice of ya,” And then he moved on.

  “Uh oh.”

  Craig looked over his shoulder. The LAPD Auxiliary Officer was staring into the distance and moving his way. “It’s Paul the Pendejo,” she said in a low voice.

  He followed the line of her eyes until his came to rest on an overweight airport security guard lumbering down the sidewalk in their direction.

  “A problem?” Craig inquired.

  “This here’s technically a security area.” She raised and eyebrow. “Ain’t no reason for it but you know, wouldn’t want nobody hasslin’ the rich folks.” Her eyes crinkled in amusement. “Marvin ain’t supposed to be pedalin’ his papers in here,” she said. “He and Captain Beefheart there been goin’ ‘round and ‘round about it.”

  The kid was oblivious to the approaching threat. He sold several more papers and pocketed several more bills. The line of cars began to crawl forward like a centipede. Half a dozen segments slipped out over the exit ramp and disappeared. Another six appeared at the end of the line and began to inch forward.

  The kid redoubled his efforts, moving faster now, handing out papers and pocketing money. As he neared the end of the line, he looked up and made eye contact with Jackson Craig. “Paper, mister?” he asked.

  “You’ve got company,” Craig said.

  The boy looked over his shoulder. “Damn,” he said. But by that time it was too late; the guard was upon him. The guard belly bumped Marvin, sending him flying, fanning the bundle of newspapers out over the sidewalk like playing cards.

  “Whaddid’ I tell you,” the big guy shouted down at the boy.

  “Hey,” the kid said from the ground. “I got brothers and sisters to feed. Don’t be getting all brittle on me here dawg. I ain’t hurtin nothin.”

  The guard was unmoved. “This time you’re coming with me, you little son of a bitch,” he yelled.

  “I ain’t the son o’ nobody,” Marvin protested. He struggled to his feet. “And I sure as hell ain’t goin no place wit yo fat ass. Now get offa my damn papers.”

  The guard started for Marvin. Craig inserted a restraining hand between them. A dull echo sounded as his palm collided with the guard’s sternum. The guy stopped dead, rocking on his heels as if he’d run into a brick wall. He stood for a brief, angry moment, scowling down at the palm pressed against his chest and then grabbed the offending hand as if to wrest it from his shirt-front and cast it aside.