With a Vengeance

by Marcus Wynne

  “That was plenty fast,” Hunter observed.

  “Helps to have a shit hot Congressman in your hip pocket.”

  “It does at that. It does at that.”

  6

  In a suite of offices inside a high rent high rise in downtown Chicago, Hunter, Lisa, and a lean, expensively dressed woman named Claire Fleming sat at a polished mahogany table and took stock of one another.

  “Would you like some coffee? Water?” Claire Fleming said.

  “No thank you,” Lisa said. Her face was still and impassive.

  Claire Fleming looked like an ultra-marathoner slipped into the latest business couture. Her face was sharp edged, stripped of fat, and she moved with an economy of motion and abundance of energy that suggested an uber-athlete. Her eyes were quick, too, Hunter noticed; she gave her full attention to you when she looked at you, but snapped her gaze over to see how the other person was reacting.

  Formidable, was his assessment.

  “I’ve been asked to render any service you might require in the matter of Alec Frovarp,” Fleming said.

  “The only service we require is a complete and total accounting of his history, his employment by your organization, and his current whereabouts,” Lisa said.

  “Certainly,” Fleming said. She withdrew three loose pages from a slim manila folder in front of her on the table. “Here is what we have.”

  Lisa took the papers, spread them out between her and Hunter. There wasn’t much -- a brief bio of Frovarp, born in Chicago in 1972, high school and then the Navy, where he went through BUD/S with distinction, assignment to Team 2, served with distinction, then detailed to classified projects, then left the Navy, and came on the books as a contractor for the Special Operations Division. Lisa and Hunter both looked at each other when they read the one line summary of his activities there: “engaged in various counter-terrorist functions and activities.”

  The last line was the capper: “contract terminated by mutual agreement” and the date. It was exactly two weeks after Flight #923.

  “Why did you let him go?” Hunter said.

  “I don’t know,” Fleming said. “All we have is what you have in front of you. He asked to be let out of his contract, and his supervisor agreed to let him go. He was a very good performer, but apparently he’d had enough.”

  “And so where is he now? You guys never let anybody go without knowing how to find them if you need them,” Lisa said.

  Fleming let a hint of condescension slip into her fixed, professional smile. “I’m sure that’s the popular perception, Agent Coronas, but the truth is we’re like any other American organization. If people want to leave and seek better opportunities for themselves elsewhere, then they do so. If they wish to come back, they can do so. We have had no communication with Mr. Frovarp since that time. We have no other contact information for him other than a private postal box at a mailing service in Centreville, VA. And we have had no other contact with him since the date on that sheet.”

  Hunter kept a poker face as he watched the micro expressions on Lisa’s face.

  “And may I ask why the FBI and the Air Marshals are interested in Mr. Frovarp,” Fleming went on.

  Lisa leaned forward. “Because your highly trained and expensive asset is a suspect in the Sword of Allah case.”

  That struck home, Hunter saw. Fleming’s carefully constructed response was a piece of art.

  “That can hardly be the case,” Fleming said. “Mr. Frovarp is a highly patriotic American with a distinguished record in the service of his country. The only way he’d be involved in this matter would be if he were taking them down.”

  “What was Frovarp working on before he took off?” Hunter asked.

  “The specifics are still classified…”

  “Let’s not waste each other’s time measuring how much juice we got,” Lisa said. “You can tell us now, or you can tell us later, with a Congressman’s hand up your ass flapping your lips like the local meat puppet.”

  Fleming couldn’t hide her response; it was if she’d discovered a turd in her Steuben crystal wineglass.

  “You’re not cleared…” she tried again.

  Lisa held up her cell phone. “Ten numbers. Direct line. Still want to go there?”

  Fleming thinned out her lips, if that was possible, and slipped another sheet of paper out of the manila folder.

  “Had it all along, huh?” Lisa said. “Just hoped we wouldn’t ask for it, is that how it goes? What happened to all that post 9/11 transparent flow of information between agencies? I ought to smoke your high and mighty ass just on general principles.”

  That completely stumped Fleming.

  Lisa snapped the paper out of Fleming’s hand, set it next to the other papers. Hunter turned it slightly with one finger, and read the two thin paragraphs on the page.

  “Deconstructing aviation security assessment and vulnerability analysis by militant Islamic operational cells working within the United States mainland,” Hunter recited. “Now isn’t that timely? And interesting?”

  Fleming still couldn’t speak.

  “So he’s working on bad guys targeting airplanes in the United States, and he disappears two days after Flight #923 shows what a mockery the AVSEC system is, then a year later his name comes up in connection with the Sword of Allah operations?” Hunter went on. “Nobody in the Outfit thinks that there might be some kind of connection there? Something beyond weird coincidence?”

  “Jesus’s ass,” Lisa said. “You people never change, do you?”

  “There is no connection…no connection that we are aware of, that links our former contractor Frovarp to Sword of Allah. We had no data on any such organization, and we have fully opened our records to your investigation in looking at the principal suspects at this point,” Fleming said.

  “That may change, Fleming,” Lisa said. “Tell your bosses that. And this stone walling bullshit will change…or people are going to start looking for new jobs. Tell your bosses that, too.”

  Fleming took that in, then measured her words carefully. “If there’s a perception on your part that there is some kind of stone-walling, I apologize for my part in your misunderstanding. No one is stone walling here. We have just as much interest in running down the Sword of Allah case as you do…and of course, now that we’re appraised of the possible involvement of Alec Frovarp, we’ll be watching it all the more carefully. We would appreciate updates from you if you uncover any further information regarding Frovarp’s possible involvement. We will renew our efforts to contact him…”

  “Don’t do that,” Lisa said. “We’ll find him. If you have any other information relating to how to find him, we want that. Names of operators he worked with, contact info…”

  “For obvious reasons we can’t divulge the contact information and names of current operators, Agent Coronas,” Fielding said. “But we’ll reach out through our channels and do what we can.”

  “Let’s make sure we don’t trip over each other out there,” Hunter said.

  Fielding looked long at Hunter. “That’s very good advice, Agent James.”

  The three of them sat there for a long silent moment.

  “Is there anything else?” Fielding said.

  “No,” Lisa said. “We’re done. For now.”

  7

  “So put it together for me,” Lisa said. She touched her coffee cup to her lips, then lowered it, and tapped her trigger finger against the rim twice.

  “A veteran whose wife was killed on #923…a special operator who was working on domestic aviation security threats, one with a hard-on for me from a long time ago…revenge, pure and simple?” Hunter said.

  “Or rubbing the US’s nose in how bad aviation security is, still,” Lisa said. “They’ve killed some people, yeah…but more of what has gone on has been classic terrorism and media management -- knocking out the Air Traffic control system, killing a couple of pornographers and blowing himself up…if they were really looking at doing a body
count, why not take down a plane or two? Shoot them, bomb them, hijack them, whatever? They seem intent on making the case without racking up the body count…”

  “So far. Or they could just be whipping up the frenzy and then making the big move…that would underscore our helplessness…”

  “Jesus,” Lisa said. “I don’t like to think of what that might look like.”

  “Either do I,” Hunter said. “I remember the look on Alec’s face when he said, ‘Bodies falling out of the sky will get their attention…’ I don’t want to see a Lockerbie over Chicago.”

  “My guys are running down Torkay with a focus on his relationships. If there’s some linkage with Frovarp, we should find it. We’re doing a historical on him, looking at the timeframe right after 923. What have you got?”

  “There’s some guys I can talk to,” Hunter said. “They may or may not be able to tell me anything about Frovarp.”

  “Agency?”

  “Yeah, green badgers mostly.”

  “Green badgers?”

  “Contract operators. It’s the color of their ID badge.”

  Lisa shook her head with disgust. “The color of this world is all black.”

  8

  “One of our own? One of our own fucking people!” Natalie Sonnen shouted. “Is that what is coming out?”

  “His name has come up…” the Deputy Director of Central Intelligence, Hector Gomez, stammered. “Sam Walters is looking into it…”

  “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” the President’s National Security Advisor shouted. “Put every resource we have on this, everything! If this Frovarp has one ass hair worth of involvement, I want to know! Find him, now!”

  “We’ve tried,” the DDCI said. “He’s a contractor, he knows how to disappear if he wants to. He might just be off fishing and hunting in Montana for all we know. We’ve got a team going over his last reported addresses, doing a deep dive to see if we can any hits on any of his known identities, but he probably has a few that are off the shelf…these operators, they live and breath this stuff, they’re always prepared to run out the door if they have to…”

  “Then put some of his ilk on his tail. I want this guy found, and found yesterday.”

  9

  The assassin woke up and put his face on.

  He was thin, wiry and hard, and moved with the fluid economy of a combat athlete, which he was. He shaved carefully, playing the razor over the high sharp cheekbones and the dark, almost mahogany tan skin. His facial hair was sparse, like most Filipinos, but he preferred the smoothness of a fresh shave. So did his women, who were many, mostly Asian but occasionally he indulged his taste for the big titted Midwestern blonde.

  He chose his clothing with care. Expensive Italian lace ups, pleated and comfortably roomy Hugo Boss trousers, a Ralph Lauren polo worn tucked in, topped by an expensive hand tooled leather belt.

  He liked the look: Asian exotic, well dressed, a hint of money.

  Just the kind of look an off-duty stockbroker might cultivate here in the Windy City.

  A calfskin wallet with an integral sheath to hide his Hideaway knife; he generally carried three of them: one on his belt, one on his wallet, another beneath his collar, but today he was only going with the one.

  He had a different tool to work with today.

  He took out a battered old Colt Government Model .45 automatic. The bluing was worn down to silver metal in several places. He liked the heft of it in his hand, the weight and solid surety it gave him when he used it.

  And use it he had.

  On several US government employees in Manila, including one Navy SEAL outside of his girlfriend’s apartment; on dozens of suspected government collaborators in different parts of the Philippines; here in the States against seven fund raisers and politically connected expatriates who needed to go down…

  Oh, yeah. Use it he had.

  He checked the weapon to make sure the magazine well was empty and the chamber was clear; then slid back the hammer and then, carefully, slipped the cocked and unlocked pistol deep into his waistband over his left pelvic bone. With his left hand in the deep pocket, he was able to hold the pistol below the waistline, and the big pleats and a little bit of muscular tension in his core muscles hid the weapon. He walked back and forth in front of the mirror, and was satisfied that the natural flow of the pant while he walked concealed the big pistol very well.

  After all, he didn’t need to conceal it for long.

  He took a deep breath, then settled himself into a relaxed state and let his eyes fall into “soft focus.” His vision expanded into an arc slightly greater than 180 degrees, and his neck elongated and his postured changed, became more upright, his gait almost like a prance as he walked back and forth, back and forth…till he was just about completely past a lamp and then he pushed up the pistol with his left hand, took the grip in his right hand as it popped up over the waist line and then whipped it in a sharp back hand motion at the lamp and pressed the trigger just as the pistol came on line with the lamp…

  Snap.

  The whole motion took less than a second; actually, he’d been clocked once, in training, at performing the whole motion in .43 of a second.

  On the street, the fractions of a second didn’t really matter.

  Or it hadn’t to all the men and women he’d killed over the years.

  10

  “I need some air,” Hunter said. “And it’s time to call it a day. I’ve had enough of this for now. I’ll make some calls later on, see if I can run down some guys. You?”

  “I’m waiting on some field reports,” Lisa said. “I’ll be a while. If anything comes up, I’ll give you a call.”

  She smiled, and it was a genuine, and intimate smile, that surprised and warmed Hunter. It wasn’t something that he saw in her often.

  “Lisa…you want to get something to eat later on?”

  She nodded. “Sure. I’ll give you a call when I get clear. I like Italian.”

  “I got the place for you. Might have to elbow some old school wise guys out of the way, but the food is great.”

  “Sounds good. See you later.”

  She turned back to the papers on her desk, touched her Bluetooth earpiece and tucked it more firmly into place on her delicate skull.

  Hunter liked her fingers.

  He was still chuckling at that strange thought when he hit the elevator and descended to the lobby. He’d forgotten to hit the P1 key for the parking garage, but the sun was shining, and it was a beautiful day, and why not get outside for a few minutes and breath in some air that was run through a whole series of filters and conditioners?

  That felt right.

  Hunter strolled through the lobby, nodded to the security guards at the front desk, then stepped out onto the busy street. It was the end of the work day, and all the office lovelies were out in full force; young women in expensive suits striding along with expensive running shoes on, their dress shoes in the designer totes they kept over their shoulders. No shortage of young guys, either. Hunter wondered what that would be like; to have a ‘regular’ job, work in an office at regular hours, plan his weekends and happy hours, take a vacation once or twice a year…have a normal life.

  A normal life.

  He grinned at the thought, which brought him a few appreciative glances from passing women. He’d been grinning a lot at the thought of women, lately, a welcome diversion from the tension of this case.

  And that thought brought back that feeling in the pit of his stomach once more.

  Or was it something else?

  Pay attention even to trifles…

  When you get a “feeling” you get it for a reason…

  So what was this feeling he had?

  Hunter looked around. Coming up behind him was a young Filipino man, well dressed, expensive sunglasses hiding his eyes, his left hand in his pocket…

  …left hand in his pocket…

  …something wrong with the way his pants folded…

  …and the way he
walked seemed peculiar…

  …the slight prance, the head held unnaturally erect, not turning to look at the girls he passed by, the girls who gave him a second, even a third glance as he went by…why?

  And in that place, that special place in the seasoned warrior’s mind, all of those little bits of information, of things that were out of place, fell into a slot in Hunter’s mind, a slot that was labeled:

  Sparrow….

  Hunter charged the Filipino man.

  The assassin was taken off guard, for just a moment, by the sudden switch from being the hunter to the hunted, the stalker to the stalked. Hunter was counting on that split second of delay to be able to smother the presentation he saw coming, saw telegraphed in the micro-expressions and the pre-movement firings of the great muscles…

  Hunter slammed his open hand against the assassin’s left pelvic bone, pinning the gun (felt like a Government Model, standard issue for the Sparrows…) and jammed his thumb into the other man’s eye socket (can’t fight against the reflex to protect the eye, the head will turn…) and when the head turned, Hunter slammed his other hand into the back of the man’s head, twisting like a corkscrew and drove his opponent down onto the pavement, pinned his head with a knee, and drew his weapon. Hunter scanned the crowd, looking for back ups or sleepers, then pressed the muzzle of his P-229 against the Sparrow’s head and hissed, “Oh, we’re going to have a nice little chat….”

  Chapter Two

  Lieutenant Colonel Morgan Block twitched his joystick, and the F-16 leapt with the speed of thought, tilting to one side as he banked over Washington D.C. His wing man, Major Percy Tart, or “Pert” as his fellow pilots called him, banked in perfect unison. The two F-16s circled over Washington DC on Combat Air Patrol, part of the enhanced aviation security measures in place since the Sword of Allah incidents.