Three Minutes to Midnight

by A. J Tata

  Clearing the first floor was quick. It was a small house. In the garage he saw a blue Chevrolet Malibu. He stepped forward and placed his hand on the hood. Stone cold. Turning back into the mudroom, he found a stairway that led to a playroom over the garage. The floor was littered with stuffed animals, other toys, and children’s books.

  And Pete Cassidy’s dead body.

  Cassidy had a hole in the center of his forehead, and he had fallen backward when he died.

  Next to Cassidy were a blanket and a stuffed animal. Three books were on the near side of his feet. Plastic toys were scattered on the far side.

  Mahegan looked down and saw large footprints with the cloverleaf imprints of combat boots. Mahegan had the horrible thought that Pete Cassidy had been holding his daughter when a competent marksman shot him in the forehead. The child would have fallen to the floor and most likely would have cried as the home invasion team scooped her up.

  Mahegan had to admit that the EB-5 commandos were omnipresent and kept the pressure on like a basketball team’s full-court press. Everyone associated with this operation was being pushed, and only where Mahegan had intervened, as far as he knew, was there success in breaking down the security.

  What is Maeve Cassidy’s secret? Why is she at the center of this thing? Mahegan wondered. He cleared the remainder of the top floor, including two guest bedrooms, a guest bath, and a master bedroom with a large bath. He saw Maeve’s gear spread all over the bed, dumped and searched by the invasion team, no doubt. The items were familiar to Mahegan: T-shirts, uniforms, boots, helmet, body armor, and knickknacks to remind a soldier of home, such as family photos.

  A four-poster rice bed was the central piece of furniture, and it was complemented by a matching dark-wood bureau and a chest of drawers. They weren’t rich, Mahegan thought, but were doing okay. He pawed through the gear, noticing multiple rubber bands, and saw that the clothes had once been professionally rolled and packed for the tightest possible fit.

  He sat on the bed and thought about Maeve Cassidy. Who was she? he wondered. A geologist, a soldier, a mother, and a wife. She had found her husband in bed with another woman, which indicated to Mahegan that perhaps the problems had begun prior to her redeployment. After a year in combat she had most likely had her fill of geology and rocks and shale formations. Their daughter, Piper, would be who she missed the most and would be the most significant point of leverage that anyone could bring to bear against her.

  Was the child kidnapped, also, as insurance? Mahegan wondered.

  The bedroom nearest the master was the child’s room. Each wall was painted in a different pastel color. A twin bed ran across the far wall, beneath the window, and a white chest of drawers faced the bed from the opposite wall. An open chest full of toys and games sat next to the closet door. Pictures lined the nightstand next to the bed, as well as the chest of drawers. The word Piper was spelled out on the wall above the bed in twelve-inch stuffed cloth letters that alternated pink and purple and hung askew.

  Mahegan studied each picture, as if to determine when and where it might have been snapped. Most were of Piper at various stages of her infancy and youth. Some included Maeve and Pete.

  Only one included just Maeve and Piper. The picture must have been taken immediately prior to her deployment, Mahegan thought. Maeve was forcing a smile, while Piper was obliviously grabbing at her mother’s ear. He studied the woman for a moment. She had auburn hair, soft eyes, and a warm, reflective smile. Mahegan also saw toughness in the countenance, which perhaps others might miss. The child’s pink and blue outfit contrasted sharply with the olive digitized pattern of Maeve’s Army combat uniform. She was a soldier preparing to do her duty, and that counted for a lot with Mahegan.

  He noticed the picture was slightly scored and bent, while also being too small for the frame, which was also marred.

  In his early days as a paratrooper, Mahegan had carried a picture of his mother in his helmet. Many soldiers did this so that they were only a quick flip of the hands away from home, and it was not uncommon to see someone staring into the middle of a helmet, as if it were a time travel portal. Once his missions became highly classified, he had sanitized his entire uniform, tacking his mom’s photo on the wall of his locker in the base camp.

  To Mahegan, this picture looked like a helmet photo. He carefully removed the backing, which he could already see was improperly placed in the frame, as if done in a rush. He used a fingernail to lightly remove the waffled cardboard piece between the stand and the photo. As he withdrew the photo from the frame, he saw the handwriting and knew it would be significant.

  Turning the photo horizontally, he saw the faded outline of a drawing that looked similar to the pyramid on the back of a one-dollar bill, complete with floating eye. It was a rough sketch with no detail, a draftsman’s outline. Beneath the base of the pyramid was the phrase PiperCub2012. The ink was more recent than the photo. The letters and lines weren’t smeared, and they seemed to have been drawn on top of the smudges and the minor stains on the back of the photo paper.

  He pocketed the photo, unsure of its relevance, if any. But to Mahegan, it seemed like a deliberate clue. He recalled the name tag he had found earlier, stuffed in the corner of that cell. Maeve Cassidy was trying to signal something to someone.

  Next to where the picture had been was what Mahegan recognized as a soldier’s shower kit, open and obviously pawed through. He pulled apart the opening and studied the contents: toothbrush, nearly empty tube of toothpaste, stick deodorant, disposable razor, tweezers, and two tampons. Next to the shower kit was a small bottle labeled HENNA. He lifted the henna bottle, unscrewed the top, and saw that it was powder extract from the plant. Mahegan knew that tribal leaders in Afghanistan often used henna to darken their beards or line their eyes, much like women applied make-up.

  Mahegan also pocketed the henna, realizing that he had burned too much time in the house with his Cherokee parked out front and a dead body in the playroom. He put the picture frame back together and slid it into a bureau drawer after wiping it down with one of Piper’s small shirts. He folded the shirt and replaced it in the bureau. Mahegan traced his steps out of the house, wiped down the doorknob, returned the door to its original position, and walked down the steps, where an attractive woman with a small child in tow was awaiting him.

  “Anything going on in there?” she asked.

  Mahegan flipped his badge and showed her his creds. “Just a routine check,” he said.

  “Ain’t nothing routine about what I’m hearing. Swingers’ parties, wife swapping, and all that.” She eyed Mahegan. “You involved in any of that?”

  “No, ma’am, and I have to get moving. You have a wonderful day.”

  Mahegan heard the little boy ask, “Mama, what’s a swingers’ party?”

  Mahegan drove to the Irish Pub, retracing Griffyn’s route out of the neighborhood instead of his own entrance. He found himself on a parkway that ran parallel to his original route of entry. Seeing nothing, he doubled back toward the pub, thinking.

  As he was navigating from the shattered remnants of the Cassidy home, Mahegan cycled through his thoughts. Reasonably certain that the EB-5 commandos had killed Pete Cassidy, Mahegan wondered if Griffyn had found the body. And if he had, why hadn’t he established a crime scene? Also, who had taken Piper, and where was she?

  He saw Grace’s car in the parking lot, shut down his Cherokee, and walked into the dimly lit pub.

  “You go first,” he said.

  “Nice to see you, also,” she replied. He forgot that she had an anticipation of social pleasantries, despite the mission at hand, even under pressure. Perhaps, especially under pressure.

  “Yes. It’s good to see you.” And it was. She seemed relaxed and confident. She wore a black V-neck top that accentuated her slender neck. “How was your day, dear?”

  “Much better, Hawthorne. You’re trainable.”

  “Seriously, in about five minutes two foreign men are going to c
ome through this door and attempt to kill us. This thing has gone completely off the rails. Your phone is tapped. Ted or somebody put a locator on there, and they’ve got spyware. They found my apartment because I was curious and left my phone on. They also have a Stingray, which basically let them see the texts between us, find my number, and then find a way to track my phone. That part I haven’t gotten figured out yet. So we need to get moving.”

  “You’re serious.” Grace’s face had gone pale.

  “As a heart attack.”

  “Which you’re giving me. My big news was that Griffyn thinks he’s got something on your fingerprints on the door. He’ll try to lie to you about the time difference, but it’s all smoke and mirrors.”

  “Even more the reason to get moving. I just saw Griffyn, by the way. He’s a complicated man. Hand me your phone.”

  She slid it across to him. Mahegan twisted it with his bare hands, snapping it in two. He pulled the SIM card from the slot and yanked the battery out of the chassis. Walking out of the pub, Mahegan tossed the detritus in a Dumpster. They had both parked in the back of the pub, and as they rounded the corner, he saw another black pickup truck nosing into the same part of the parking lot.

  “Down,” he said. Fortunately, they were near the Dumpster, and Mahegan pushed Grace into the wall, shielding her with his body. He had an oblique view of the action, and as he had expected, two Slavic men stepped from the truck and walked hurriedly around the far side to the front of the pub. Mahegan said, “Stay here.”

  He walked to the pickup, opened the driver-side door, popped the hood, and ripped the wiring harness for the spark plugs from the engine. He shut the hood and then quickly moved to the outside back corner of the pub, with his back to the wall.

  Mahegan let the first man pass and clotheslined the second one with a linebacker-style tackle. He felt the man’s windpipe give a bit. By the time the first man turned around, Mahegan was on him. Two straight rights across the man’s face stung him. Mahegan spun him around and slammed his face into the hood of the truck, denting the metal. Shifting his attention to the second man, Mahegan lifted him on his back and threw him into the bed of the truck. He grabbed wallets, cell phones, and GPS devices. He lifted the other man into the back of the truck, and they both lay there, unconscious but not dead. Mahegan would have preferred dead, but they were in public. He hoped he wouldn’t regret his decision.

  He raced to the other side of the building, saw Grace huddled in the corner by the Dumpster, grabbed her hand, and hustled her into his Cherokee.

  “What the hell is going on? It’s like that zombie movie. They’re everywhere.”

  “No. They’re very specifically focused on people who can interrupt their operation. Look at these wallets,” Mahegan said, handing them to Grace. “Here’s the deal. You follow me in your car to my place.”

  “I thought you said your place was compromised.”

  Mahegan stared at her a minute. He had never said the word compromised. Compromised was a military term meaning “unsecure.” He found it unusual that she would use that term, but let the moment pass and said, “Yes. They found my place using your phone. Whoever is in charge dispatched a team, but they’re no longer with us.”

  “What the hell?”

  “As long as we keep batteries out of phones, we can breeze through my place and then keep on the move. I need to secure some equipment.”

  She quickly perused the wallets. “You’re right. EB-Five from Serbia.”

  “I have a theory which we can discuss tonight. Get in your car and follow me.”

  Grace jumped out of the Cherokee and slid into her own car. Mahegan gunned his SUV. He wasn’t sure, but he didn’t think anyone had seen the two minutes of action in the back parking lot. It was still early in the evening, and unless a cook was on a smoke break, which was entirely possible, they were clear.

  Fully expecting Griffyn to be either following him or waiting for him at his apartment, Mahegan was relieved that no such confrontation was imminent. Grace pulled her vehicle in next to his in the barn, and he shut the swinging barn doors. They ascended the interior steps to his apartment, where he unlocked the door. Several of the anti-intruder devices were still intact, such as the Scotch tape across the door frame, the thin string at ankle level, and the combination lock on the door.

  He swung the door open, and they entered his apartment, which was untouched from when he had left it earlier. He locked the door, removed the rifle, ensured it was loaded, and sat on the bed.

  “What have we gotten ourselves into?” Grace asked. She sat next to him on the bed.

  Mahegan stood and moved the breakfast table next to the bed, along with both chairs. He spread all his booty on the bed and the table. In one bag there were the cell phones with the extracted batteries and SIM cards, the wallets, and the weapons from the Turks who invaded Grace’s home. He also had a GPS device from Petrov’s vehicle and his Blackberry. He laid out the smartphones, wallets, and GPS device from the two men he had shot this morning, as they were approaching the Robertson household. Next came the equipment from the two men he had just knocked unconscious in the back of the Irish Pub. Removing the identification cards from all of the wallets, he laid them out on the table like a blackjack dealer.

  “Two Turks. Two Russians. Two Serbs. All hit men. All twenty-one years old or under. All relative amateurs, but with enough balls to try to do the job. Glock 17s, disposable cell phones, and GPS devices. Tools of the trade and indicators of their mission—to enforce. They enforce with the weapons, communicate with the phones, and find their way around unfamiliar territory with the Garmins. The Garmin GPS devices all have a spot on the Wake and Chatham County borders as their ‘home’ location. I was at that location today. They’re digging a fracking well.”

  Mahegan watched Grace, studying her for a tell, or a sign that she already knew what he was telling her. Instead, all he noticed was a mixture of fear and confusion etched on her worried face.

  Mahegan stood and said, “You said my place was compromised. That’s a military term, not a civilian one. It was an odd thing for you to say.”

  “Is that a question?” Grace countered, standing.

  “It’s a statement. The question is, can I trust you?”

  “I’ve been wondering the same thing about you. I’ve given you information that is helpful to you personally and to this case. I’ve jeopardized my job to help you. What have you done for me?”

  “Other than save your life, not much,” Mahegan said.

  Grace’s defensive posture softened, and her body went slack. “I’m so used to fighting with Ted that I automatically attack instead of talk. I’m sorry. You did save my life, and I’m grateful for that. You defended me when you barely knew me. That counts hugely.” She walked to the window and looked into the fading evening. Through the window Mahegan saw the sun setting into the line of trees beyond the Robertson house.

  “So my place was compromised. It’s a true statement, but a military one, not a civilian one.”

  Grace turned from the window and walked toward Mahegan. “I’m a forensic expert. Evidence gets compromised. Crime scenes get compromised. It’s a common term in the business. You have your language. We have ours. Sometimes the terms overlap.”

  Mahegan studied her face. She looked him directly in the eyes as she spoke and gave no signs of parsing or dishonesty.

  “Okay. I had to ask.”

  “Your antennae are way up, but I understand,” Grace said. She was inches from him, inside his personal space, which he didn’t mind. Not at all. But he also didn’t need the distraction of an alluring woman. She was exotic and beautiful. Not fully Japanese, but more Polynesian, Mahegan thought.

  “Roger. Can I see your wallet?” Mahegan asked, pointing at her backpack.

  Grace paused, then laughed. “You’re serious?”

  “I’m serious.”

  “Why didn’t you just go through it when I wasn’t here? I left everything except my car
keys.”

  “Wasn’t my place to do so. I’m a straight shooter. If we can’t talk like this, then we have no business talking at all,” Mahegan said.

  Grace walked over to the kitchenette, picked up her backpack, and dumped it on the bed with the EB-5 bounty.

  “Toss me in with the rest of them, though I was born in San Francisco and moved here with my parents, who work in Research Triangle Park.”

  Mahegan opened the purse he found in the backpack and pawed through the licenses and other identification cards. She had a North Carolina–issued driver’s license and all the appropriate badges to allow her into the Raleigh Police Department headquarters. She seemed legit, but she was glaring at him.

  “You can get mad. Doesn’t bother me,” Mahegan said.

  “Well, this sure as hell bothers me!”

  “I’m sure it does, but I have to do it. I go with my gut, and I got hung up on the term compromised. Just one of those things. You’re legit. My bad.”

  “That’s it. You’re bad?”

  “We need to talk about all this,” Mahegan said, waving his arm across the bed and table. “Minus your stuff.”

  Grace had crossed her arms and shifted her weight so that one foot was forward from the other, a thinking pose.

  “What about you? Let me see your stuff,” she demanded.

  Mahegan paused, thinking fair enough. He went to his desk drawer and removed his full pack of “Hawthorne” credentials he had removed from his safe this morning. They were in a manila folder and included an ersatz passport and birth certificate.

  “She pawed through the folder and Mahegan realized, a second too late, that he had placed in the folder that picture of his father he had taken from Throckmorton’s house two weeks ago.

  “What’s this?” Grace asked, as Mahegan firmly removed the folder and picture from her hands.

  “My credentials,” he said.