by E H Jennings
Carson took a deep breath and reached for his wallet. Tucked behind his driver’s license and concealed carry permit was a picture. He should have taken it out years ago, but he simply couldn’t bring himself to do it. He studied the ever-fading image of the woman he had once loved. Running his thumb over the creases, he let himself drift back to a time and place when things were still normal, back to a time when he still had his innocence, when he still had his parents…when he still had her.
But he didn’t drift long.
The buzzing of the phone in his pocket interrupted his thoughts. Before Carson could even say hello his younger brother started telling him the news.
Carson listened, and was soon in a dead sprint back to his truck.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The brothers agreed to meet at Carson’s house on the outskirts of Coal Creek. After maneuvering the serpentine back roads at break-neck speed, Carson was the first to arrive.
He climbed from his truck and glanced up at the old wooden structure. Calling this place his house was really a misnomer, seeing as it wasn’t really his, nor was it a house. It was a store. King’s General Store. And it had served the basic needs of Coal Creek for more than sixty years.
His grandfather had built and opened the store in the fifties. Upon his death, it was passed on to Carson’s father, who retired from the military in order to run it full-time. After his father’s suicide, and with his mother in the nursing home, Carson had accepted the reins by default six years ago.
Though his parents’ house, the home he and his brothers had grown up in, was less than a hundred yards down the hill, Carson chose to stay in a small loft above the store. He couldn’t imagine being alone in a house that had once been so full of life. Instead, he opted for a twin-size bed and two bookshelves as his makeshift home. It served him fine. He was a man that had always required very little.
Sprinting onto the porch, rocking chairs swaying in the evening breeze, Carson unlocked the door and hurried inside. He flipped on the lights and started pacing.
His mind raced and his heart pounded. He started to sweat.
His little brother. Missing.
He cursed and collapsed into a chair near the counter. He remembered the moment Colton had first told him about the job opportunity.
Carson slammed his fist on the table, knocking off an empty coffee cup and shattering it on the floor.
Colton knew very little about Carson and Connor’s time with the Agency; few people did—or so Carson had previously thought. So in that moment, though warning Colton of the perils of the job, Carson had smiled and patted his brother on the back. The unabashed pride on Colton’s face had been enough to bring tears to Carson’s eyes.
Now, the tears came for a very different reason.
It was his fault. Whatever terrible thing had happened to Colton could have been prevented had he simply had the backbone to stop it. But he had been a coward. With a pat on the back, it seemed Carson had assured his brother’s demise.
He was about to start making calls when he heard the crunch of gravel out front. A few moments later Connor strode into the room, a cell phone pressed against his ear.
“I just got here, sweetheart. I’ll call back as soon as I can…I will…Okay, I’ll tell him…Love you too.” He clicked off.
The two men held each other’s eyes, a thousand emotions being communicated all at once. Finally, Connor stepped forward and sat opposite his older brother. He tossed the phone on the table and leaned back, rubbing his eyes.
“That was Alyssa,” he said, referring to his youngest daughter. “She said to tell her Uncle Carson that she loves and misses him.”
Carson nodded and tried to smile.
Another silence ensued, lasting longer than before.
“We have to go find him,” Carson said quietly. “I don’t care where he is or who has him, we have to find him. And quickly.”
“Where do we start?” asked Connor.
“The woman. The Agent Sampson you described over the phone. Are you certain she was legit?”
Connor rested his elbows on the table. “She wasn’t carrying any infallible identification, but my gut says yes. She just had the look, the slimy evasiveness all those bastards seem to have. If she wasn’t CIA, she was a damn good actress.”
“Which should frighten us. Especially considering she knows about Mirkwood.”
Connor looked confused. “How the hell is that possible?”
Carson shrugged. “The CIA obviously feels threatened by whatever’s happening and is pulling all the strings it knows to pull. Meaning, namely, they’re doing all they can to get us involved.”
“Yeah, that much I figured out.”
While Carson retreated into his thoughts, Connor looked at the thick scar coiling down the right side of his brother’s face. With time, its coloration had grown to closely match the rest of the skin.
Carson looked up and said, “We have to go to Paris.”
Connor nodded. “I checked on it earlier. There’s a flight out of Louisville leaving tomorrow at 2:15. It connects through Atlanta.”
“We need to be on it,” said Carson, rising from his chair. “But we have several arrangements that need to be made first.”
“Such as?”
“You head on back to Lexington and take care of Amy and the girls. I’ll finish up here and make some calls. We’ll be in touch later tonight.”
“Carson, I can stay and—”
“Your family’s first priority, Connor. I’ll exploit some old contacts and get things moving.” The two men shook hands. “We’ll get him back. Whatever it takes.”
Knowing he couldn’t change his brother’s mind, Connor gave him a hug, holding the embrace longer than usual, then moved towards the door. But as he reached it he slowly turned back, the icy knot in his chest compelling him to ask the question.
“Did we do this to him, Carson? Is this our fault?” Connor swallowed hard, trying to drown the guilt growing inside him. “Has the past finally come back to haunt us?”
Carson’s expression didn’t change. His voice was even, so steady it was almost frightening. “My past has been haunting me for years, Connor. Let’s get to work.”
• • •
Carson’s hand flew across the page, writing the words as neatly as possible while trying to keep up.
He had the store’s hard line pressed against his ear and the person on the other end was using an untraceable cell. Carson was in his small office just beyond the kitchen, where in six hours Lucian Blevins would be scrambling eggs and brewing gallons of coffee for men headed to the mines.
Lucian was a long-time family friend, and despite being in his mid-seventies still insisted on working fifty hours a week.
When the voice stopped, Carson dropped his pen and surveyed what he had written. It was a list of five names, one of which was his own. Beneath three of the names were a few lines of personal information.
“Sir,” said Carson, “I couldn’t possibly thank you enough.”
“Think nothing of it,” the weathered voice replied. “I hardly consider us even.” There was a shuffling noise and Carson heard the man coughing. “But please tell me, son,” he said, coming back on the line. “This situation you’re in, what else can I do to assist?”
“Nothing as of yet, sir. But the need may arise over the next few days. Could I contact you then?”
“For a soldier who served as you did, I’m always available.”
“I’m grateful, sir. Should I employ the usual lines of communication?”
The man listed several numbers and Carson wrote them down. The two men said their goodbyes and clicked off.
Carson studied the page again.
Five names. Five. That’s all that was left. He read them once, then twice, then a third time, the images flooding into his mind.
The explosion, the fire, the screams. The taste of blood. The man dragging him along the pavement.
He blinked rapidly, tryi
ng to focus. Minus himself and Connor, he had three names to work with: Lee Jacobs, Chuck Rosario, and Troy Mendez. All were good men, which in this case meant skilled, deadly men with the unique talents necessary to help him get Colton back.
General McManus had only given a phone number for one man, and while Carson felt he could easily find the others with a little digging, there had to be a reason why his former boss had omitted them.
The phone number belonged to Troy Mendez. Noting the current addresses of each man, Carson began to see what needed to be done.
He dialed the number and waited. After five rings he nearly hung up, but on the sixth a groggy voice answered. “Watergate Hotel, Dick Nixon speaking.”
Carson’s brow furrowed. “Hello?”
He had to pull the phone away from his ear for the boisterous laughter that followed. After a violent hiccup, the voice said, “But really now, who the hell is this?”
“Mendez?”
“No, that’s me. I said who the hell are you?”
Carson suddenly remembered how much Troy Mendez had once loved home-stilled moonshine. It was the very thing, among other libations, that had eventually gotten him ousted from the Special Forces. It was obvious that vice had not abated over the last six years.
“Troy, this is Carson King.”
A long silence. “Carson?”
“Yeah, it’s me. Can I go ahead and assume you’ve been drinking?”
“…Maybe,” he finally answered, laughing again.
Carson didn’t laugh. “How quickly can you sober up? I need your help.”
Mendez took another long swig from what Carson imagined was a well-worn Mason jar. “It may be a little while.”
“Do you remember Colton, my little brother?”
Carson waited for Mendez’s intoxicated mind to remember. To his surprise, Mendez answered with poignant lucidity. “Fourth of July barbecue, 2003. Your folks place. Little guy, funny, smart as hell. He and your old man made some damn good pork brisket too.” He took another drink, the liquid sloshing in the jar. “Yeah, I remember him.”
“He was abducted in Paris fifty-four hours ago.”
Carson listened as the glass jar shattered on the floor.
“What can I do?” asked Mendez.
“The CIA investigated it and claim they found no leads. There’s another guy involved, a Xavier Thorsby. He was deep cover in Lebanon.”
“Lebanon? Shit.”
Carson went on. “Thorsby’s missing too, which adds another layer to this thing. We’re gonna need boots on the ground if we want any realistic hope of finding Colton. There’s a flight out of Louisville tomorrow—”
“Hell yeah,” said Mendez. “I’m in.”
Carson could hardly keep from smiling. Men like Mendez never changed. They were forged in steel, faults and all.
“There’s something else, Troy.”
The sound of running water started up in the background.
“Name it.”
“Chuck Rosario lives in Dothan, Alabama. How far is that from you?”
“Hour and a half, two hours tops. Got an uncle that lives down that way.” There was a brief pause as the realization hit him. “Ol’ Chucky, huh? You thinkin’ of gettin’ the boys back together on this?” His voice quivered with excitement.
Carson wasn’t excited at all. “Trying to. You think you could drive down and meet with him, let him know what’s up?”
“Sure,” came the reply. It was difficult to hear him over the sound of the water. Carson assumed he was taking a cold shower in an attempt to shake off the buzz. “But why not just call him? Have him meet us in Louisville?”
“I spoke with McManus. He didn’t give me Chuck’s number. Must not be a good way to contact him.”
Carson waited while Mendez stuck his head under the stream. “Yeah,” he said, slapping his face several times. “Boss Man always was pretty damn mysterious about things. Who knows, though? Knowing Chucky, that paranoid son of a bitch may not even have a phone.”
“So can you do it?” asked Carson.
“Of course. I’ll leave here in ten minutes.”
“But Troy, you’re drunk…”
“Nah, I got a liver like an Abrams tank. Can I reach you at this number?”
Carson gave him his cell. Mendez agreed to call as soon as he made contact with Rosario. Carson also told him about Lee Jacobs, who lived in Wytheville, Virginia.
“I’ll pay a visit to Jacobs while you’re checking in on Chuck,” Carson added. “Call me as soon as you can.”
“Will do.”
“And Troy?”
“Yeah?”
“I really appreciate this.”
He chuckled. “Not as much as I do. I live for this shit, man.”
They clicked off and Carson methodically got his things together.
He gathered a bag full of clothes, supplies, and other items he thought he might need, including extra ammunition. He strapped a shoulder holster on that he hadn’t worn in years, then slid his Glock 9mm into it. On his waist was the concealed weapon he carried with him everywhere—a Springfield XDS .45.
He glanced at his other weapons, which he kept in a hidden compartment inside the wall of his loft.
Deeply distrusting the banks, his grandfather had once used the secret room to hide away cash and other valuables. Carson had found it to be equally useful as an armory. After grabbing a few more select pieces, he slid the wall back into place, grabbed his duffle, and hurried downstairs.
He locked the door and set the alarm system, then climbed into his truck, a 1986 Dodge Ram that spit, sputtered, and spat just about everywhere it went. It was his father’s and Carson had never seen a real need to buy anything else.
Right now, he deeply regretted that decision.
It was a three-hour drive to Wytheville. If the truck didn’t fall apart, he hoped to make it in two.
As they sped into the night, the King brothers were thinking of only one thing—Colton. Fifty-four hours was a long time and getting longer with each passing second. Though unspoken, they both knew it would be a miracle if they ever found him at all, much less still breathing.
They understood the situation was grim. But neither yet realized the full weight of what had been set in motion.
CHAPTER NINE
Georgetown, Washington D.C.
Lieutenant General Warren McManus sat in his library, a cup of black coffee in one hand, a novel in the other.
The only one of Ernest Hemingway’s great works to win the Pulitzer Prize, The Old Man and the Sea was McManus’s favorite work of fiction.
That meant something, considering the walls of the room in which he sat were covered from floor to ceiling with more than two thousand others. They were mostly classics, including numerous works by the timeless poets. Every book was leather-bound and neatly arranged in handcrafted mahogany shelving.
A man’s library is a reflection of his soul.
McManus was sitting in a Chesterfield wing chair. A few paces behind him a fire crackled in a brass-plated wood stove. Closing the novel, he surveyed his oasis.
This was the place he came for comfort, for revival; and certainly, as he had this evening, it was the place he came when he felt conflicted.
He and his wife, Ruth, had purchased the five thousand square foot brownstone almost thirty years ago. It had cost a small fortune even then, but Ruth had come from a family of great means for whom money was never an issue. McManus was more of a rural-dweller; but knowing it would make his wife happy, he had agreed to the purchase under one condition: his library.
He stood from his fireside chair and sat the novel and his empty cup on the massive oak desk. He then packed his pipe, lit it, and began pacing.
Two large windows stood on either side of the fireplace and he glanced out them as he walked by.
Their brownstone was perfectly situated amid the social life of the Capitol’s upper echelon. Ruth soaked it all in like a dry sponge; the refined galas and
parties and thousand dollar-a-plate charity dinners seemed to give her life meaning. He was happy for her, but the comings and goings of society’s social elite had never earned his interest. Money in and of itself meant nothing to McManus.
He’d been born with nothing and he’d take nothing to his grave.
He drew on the pipe, letting the smoke filter slowly from his mouth. He watched the gray tendrils twist and coil as they rose, dissipating as they reached the ceiling.
A few moments later, he returned to his desk and sat down.
It had greatly pleased him to hear Carson King’s voice, but it had also troubled him. That was why he was here, tucked away in his library. It was also why he had chosen to read Hemingway. Many of Hemingway’s stories, especially The Old Man and the Sea, had a way of melding violence and serenity, somehow coupling them in such a way that a beautiful product emerged.
Soldiers and poets. Blood and beauty.
The sound of the ringing phone didn’t startle him. He had been expecting the call.
He listened, gave a terse reply, and gently placed the phone back on the desk.
He was already in full uniform and his ride would be arriving in a few minutes. If he was honest, he would have much preferred to toss another log on the fire and remain hidden deep within his leather fortress.
But that was an impossibility. The meeting was far too important.
Standing in the mirror, he studied himself. The uniform fit perfectly. At 71, his chest and shoulders still bulged—the result of fifty years’ worth of daily workouts—and his silver hair was combed back in as stately a manner as any politician on the Hill. His eyes were blue, his skin tan, and his mustache perfectly matched the hair atop his head.
With a final adjustment of his coat, Warren McManus grudgingly left his library.
The Lincoln Town Car was waiting in the driveway.
As he stepped into the crisp autumn night, he knew he was ready. He was well aware of the battle into which he was treading, but his life had been defined by battles.
He would do just as he had always done.
He would win.
CHAPTER TEN