Rogue (An American Ghost Thriller Book 1)

by J. B. Turner

  OTHER TITLES BY J. B. TURNER

  Jon Reznick Series:

  Hard Road

  Hard Kill

  Hard Wired

  Hard Way

  Hard Fall

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2018 by J. B. Turner

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542048385

  ISBN-10: 1542048389

  Cover design by @blacksheep-uk.com

  To my mother

  Contents

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Forty-Eight

  Forty-Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-One

  Fifty-Two

  Fifty-Three

  Fifty-Four

  Fifty-Five

  Fifty-Six

  Fifty-Seven

  Fifty-Eight

  Fifty-Nine

  Sixty

  Sixty-One

  Sixty-Two

  Sixty-Three

  Sixty-Four

  Sixty-Five

  Sixty-Six

  Sixty-Seven

  Sixty-Eight

  Sixty-Nine

  Seventy

  Seventy-One

  Seventy-Two

  Seventy-Three

  Seventy-Four

  Seventy-Five

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Nine days out

  The five men around the table couldn’t agree when the senator would die.

  Clayton Wilson leaned back in his seat and sighed. Along with his colleagues, he’d been studying the classified file for hours. But it was time to make a final decision.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, “my view is that this man is a real threat to our interests.”

  Wilson looked across at Richard Stanton, who was still immersed in the file. Then his gaze fell on the other men around the table. “I believe the analysis we have proves this man will not go away. He is openly advocating we invoke Article 13 of NATO to withdraw. This position seems to be finding favor in some quarters of the media too. And it clearly jeopardizes the security of the whole of Europe, as well as going against American economic and political interests. He will not be silenced. Do we all agree on this?”

  Nods from each of the four men.

  “The speech to the Press Club sent shock waves around our allies. What the hell is going on in Washington, they wanted to know? And that’s why I believe we should use the window of opportunity. We have exactly nine days to neutralize him once and for all.”

  Stanton pinched the bridge of his nose as he looked up. “I agree with the analysis. I just feel that carrying out the operation in a friendly country does pose logistical as well as diplomatic challenges. Isn’t he due to head to China as part of a trade mission in eight months? Wouldn’t that be a more opportune time?”

  Wilson sighed. “The analysis is telling us that the timescale should be within the next thirty days. His popularity and ideas are gaining traction. Young people like him. Old people like him. If he’d stayed on the fringes, fine. But he’s no longer on the fringes. He’s mainstream. We can’t allow this to develop any further.”

  Stanton turned and looked at the other three men in the room. Retired General Adam C. Johnson, Retired Admiral Charles Coleridge, and former director of the CIA Crawford McGovern. The only one of the group not present was Brigadier Jack Sands, a non-voting member, their point man in Scotland. “Gentlemen, I’m with Clayton,” Stanton said. “But I’m concerned about giving ourselves such a tight window of opportunity on this. Adam, what are your thoughts on timing?”

  Johnson looked up from the notes and peered over his half-moon spectacles. “The beauty of the option in nine days is that our latest intelligence shows that the senator is planning to spend a day outside the confines of the summit’s secure zone. We need to take advantage. In addition, we already have an operative within striking distance. We know the senator’s plans for this trip and have for the last three months. A whole set of problems will be presented to us if we wait. I’m with Clayton on this. We do it in nine days.”

  Coleridge nodded, eyes dead. “Agreed.”

  Wilson cleared his throat and looked across at McGovern, his mentor and predecessor at the Agency. “Crawford? Your thoughts?”

  McGovern stared at Wilson. “I’ve followed the senator’s career with interest of late. I met him once at a reception at the British embassy. Very sociable. Very bright. But what takes this guy to a different level is that he is being seriously touted as a presidential candidate. He is going to run. The opinion formers love him, both right and left. He makes good copy. And it’s all increasing his visibility.” McGovern sighed. “I say his visit to the security conference in the UK is perfect. And that’s why, gentlemen, we must green-light this for nine days’ time.”

  Wilson smiled across at McGovern. They were cut from the same cloth. Men who understood the military. Understood what America needed to remain preeminent on the world stage. What it took to stay number one. He knew as well as anyone that withdrawal from the world stage, isolationism, would only benefit China, Russia, and other sworn enemies—including Iran. They’d be free to extend their tentacles. And Wilson and his cohorts couldn’t allow that. That was what people like Senator Crichton didn’t get. An Ivy League background and prep school had prepared him for nothing but academia. And his ideas were dangerous. “We have five in the room giving the go-ahead. We have four agreed on the date. But as you all know, we need unanimous agreement to green-light this.”

  Stanton flicked through the briefing papers for a few moments before he looked across at Wilson. He let out a long sigh. “Our director of operations, Brigadier General McMichael, says both dates are open. But he’s also saying the UK visit is the best option. This briefing was dated seventy-two hours ago. Is that still his position?”

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sp; Wilson nodded. “I spoke with McMichael before I arrived here. His words? We’re good to go. We have a guy in place. We know where he’ll be and when. We can green-light this now.”

  Stanton nodded and scribbled some notes in the margins of the senator’s file. He stared long and hard at the black-and-white surveillance photo of the senator clipped to the front. “Very well. Nine days it is.”

  One

  Nathan Stone stared at his reflection in the mirror. He gazed long and hard at the strange new face. Higher cheekbones, brown eyes instead of blue, nose narrower, face less lined. He didn’t recognize the man staring back at him. Would his sister even recognize him?

  A knock at his door snapped him out of his reverie. Two men in navy-blue jumpsuits walked in and motioned for him to join them. They escorted him down a series of corridors to a windowless room.

  Inside, a man was sitting behind a polished table, a pile of papers in front of him. Nathan noticed a mirror on the wall behind the man. A one-way mirror. Cameras in all four corners of the room. A huge plasma screen on the wall opposite the man.

  The man gestured for Nathan to sit down in the seat across from him.

  Stone complied, and the two escorts left the room, locking the door behind them.

  The man smiled, reached into his jacket pocket, and leaned over to hand Nathan a packet of Winstons with a Zippo lighter. “Go right ahead,” he said.

  Stone tapped out a cigarette, lit up, and watched the blue smoke spiral to the AC unit on the ceiling.

  The man leaned back in his seat. “Good morning, Nathan.” His accent sounded midwestern, educated. “How are you feeling today?”

  Stone dragged heavily on the cigarette. “Do I know you?”

  “No. But I know all about you. Does that surprise you?”

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m a doctor.”

  “No shit.”

  “I’m a psychologist.”

  Stone said nothing and took another hard drag on the cigarette.

  “Are you comfortable here?”

  “What do you mean, comfortable?”

  “I mean, is there anything we can get you?”

  “I’m good.”

  The man nodded. “Do you want to talk about anything?”

  Stone dragged on his cigarette and shrugged.

  The man was quiet for a few moments. “Nathan, do you know where you are and why you’re here?”

  Stone shook his head.

  “I’ve just been looking at your medical notes and history since you’ve been with us, and flashbacks are a recurrent theme.”

  Stone stared at the man. His voice seemed familiar.

  “Do you want to talk about that?”

  “Not really.”

  “I think it’d be very helpful.”

  “I’d like to talk about why I’m being kept here.”

  The man sighed. “We’re looking after you, Nathan. Keeping you safe. We only want what’s best for you. Do you believe me when I say that?”

  Stone said nothing.

  “I’ve been watching your progress, and I like what I see. The physical assessments are first-rate. You’re in very good shape. We just need to work on your flashbacks.”

  Stone wondered what the man was getting at.

  The man glanced at his notes and leaned forward, hands clasped. His gaze didn’t waver. “Would it surprise you if I said I know everything there is to know about Nathan Stone?”

  Stone dropped his cigarette on the wooden floor and crushed it with the sole of his sneaker. “You wanna get to the point, Doc?”

  The man picked up the remote control and pressed a button. Stone turned around. The screen showed surveillance film of a middle-aged white man in a suit walking in what looked like DC, talking into his cell phone. “Can you identify this man?”

  Stone studied the footage for a few moments. “Can’t say that I can.”

  “Take a good look.”

  Stone focused on the footage on the screen. It showed the man hailing a cab.

  “This was taken yesterday in Washington, DC. I’m going to ask you again. Do you recognize this man?”

  “Same answer, Doc. Nope.”

  The doctor smiled as the image froze. Just as the man was about to get into the cab.

  “Why are you smiling?”

  The doctor looked at him long and hard. “Take a good look at this man one final time.”

  Stone did as he was told. He was well turned out. Professional class. “Who is he?”

  “A politician.”

  “What else?”

  “Commit that face to memory.”

  “Why?”

  The man fixed his steely gaze on Stone and smiled. “Why?”

  Stone nodded.

  “Because you’re going to kill him in nine days’ time, that’s why.”

  Two

  Senator Brad Crichton was sitting at his desk in the upstairs study of his colonial mansion in a gated community on the outskirts of McLean, Virginia. In front of him was a pile of briefing papers for his upcoming foreign intelligence trip. He took off his glasses, leaned back in his seat, and stared at the silver-framed photo of his wife and him standing alongside their two sons in a box at a Redskins game. He smiled, remembering his sons high-fiving some of the players after the game.

  He didn’t see his sons as often as he used to. They were off at school. His eldest, Adam, away at Duke Law School, his youngest at Deerfield, a prestigious boarding school in Massachusetts. He was immensely proud of them both. They worked hard. And they weren’t spoiled like a lot of modern rich kids. His wife had done a good job with them, raising them with solid values. Hard work, family, God, and the American way. But he’d also instilled in them the importance of being truly independent and not having the government do everything for you. Self-reliance. Sacrifice.

  He joined the Marines straight out of school and served in Afghanistan. After four years, and losing countless friends, he realized America was making a terrible situation much worse. And it began to shape his political views. Crichton left the military and was accepted into Harvard Law School. His father’s advice had been simple: work hard, be true to yourself, and don’t be afraid to take risks. He graduated top of his class. He got recruited by a top-four New York law firm, Weiss & Weiss. This was followed by years of working long and hard. Unexpectedly, on his fortieth birthday he became a partner. The clients rolled in.

  Among them was a wealthy Manhattan philanthropist, Mort Lintbourg, who began to bankroll his political ambitions. Brad had always been interested in politics. His father, a self-made man who had built a fortune importing Persian rugs into the US in the 1970s, believed strongly in free markets and personal freedom and had spoken of them often to a young Brad. He had listened intently as he soaked up his father’s view of the world. But over the years he had grown more libertarian in his views: economic freedoms, social freedoms, noninterventionist foreign policy.

  Crichton was elected to the Senate as a Republican in 2014. But in the intervening years he had grown increasingly strident in his views. The most eye-catching was his belief that the United States should withdraw from NATO. His popularity ratings took an initial dive, but slowly they seemed to get traction, and now his numbers were at an all-time high.

  His views were popular on the left, and he had garnered numerous plaudits in the media. The fact of the matter was America was trillions in debt and couldn’t afford to keep propping up a Cold War relic in NATO. He was a constitutional conservative who wanted America to start living within its means.

  His star was in the ascendency, and he knew that a powerful team had been assembled by Mort in anticipation of an announcement later in the year that he was throwing his hat in the ring for the Republican presidential primary next spring.

  His phone rang and he picked up after two rings.

  “Senator, hope I’m not disturbing you.” It was his aide Lionel Epstein.

  “Not at all. What’s on your mind?”
<
br />   “Just a heads-up. I’m hearing there’s going to be a paper, which we’re still trying to get hold of, on the conference agenda talking about a five-cent real-money increase on intelligence spending over a three-year time frame. And the US is pressing for two percent of GDP as the norm for all NATO partners.”

  “Yeah, I heard about that last night. What’s your point, Lionel? I’ve got to leave in a few minutes to catch a plane.”

  “My point is the thrust of everyone there will be to agree to this, to try and show how patriotic they are and not look weak on terrorism and all that stuff we’ve heard a gazillion times before. We need to be talking about the vested interests of the military-industrial complex versus the real needs of the American people.”

  “Yeah, I got this, Lionel.”

  “There’s something else.”

  “What?”

  “I’m hearing that one company, Aviotrics Software Inc., who specialize in military computer systems, has been sounding out some staffers on which politicians would want to join their board. Offering crazy inducements. Guarantee if you meet with them, within five minutes they’ll be offering you the earth.”

  “Like I said, Lionel, I got this.”

  “I’m only saying, Senator. They’ve got a $2.4 billion cash mountain to throw around, and they’ve got the best lobbyists on Capitol Hill, and they’re actively trying to recruit amenable politicians.”

  “Well, they can throw around as much as they like, I ain’t interested.”

  A long sigh down the line.

  “You OK?”

  “Too much coffee and too little sleep, Senator.”

  “Lionel, take off for a few days. Recharge the batteries. Like I said, I got this, and I know what I’ll be facing.”

  Downstairs his wife shouted. “Brad!”

  “OK, if that’s all, Lionel, I gotta go.”

  “Have a great trip, Senator.”

  Crichton ended the call. His cell phone indicated a message. He opened it up. It was from another aide, Jessica. It read, Last night was special. Can’t wait for you to return, J. His heart skipped a beat, and he deleted it immediately. Over the last few months, she had been sending more and more personal texts to him as their relationship had become more intimate. He loved spending time with her. She made him feel happy. Young again. Carefree. As if life could still be fun instead of a grind. His mind drifted to the previous evening. A romantic meal at the Mandarin Oriental followed by a nightcap with Jessica at her apartment. She had wanted him to stay over. But that wasn’t an option.