Rogue (An American Ghost Thriller Book 1)

by J. B. Turner

  The more she thought about it, the more she realized she was drowning in work.

  Friel ran harder. She felt the fierce sun beat down on her. DC was hell in the summer. She wished she’d taken off up to her sister’s place in Vermont, overlooking Lake Champlain. But instead she’d insisted on covering for another staffer, who was sensibly spending two weeks in Cape Cod.

  Her reasons were purely selfish. She wanted to be in DC whenever she could for Brad. She wanted to show him how committed she was, not only to her work but also to him. She missed him when he went out of the country. Missed his touch. Missed his company. He made her laugh. A lot. She could see their relationship was getting more and more serious. He was spending time with her. Evenings with her. She hadn’t told a soul. She valued his love and friendship, and it wouldn’t be right to divulge her personal life at this stage, even to her closest friends. The truth of the matter was she was having a full-blown affair with a US senator, her boss. If the newspapers found out, she would be hung out to dry. She would be the one at fault. She was surprised at the risks he was taking. Taking her out to upscale restaurants at night. Theater trips. Classical concerts. People had to notice. It was almost like Brad didn’t care if news of their relationship got out. Then again, maybe he was just a natural risk taker. Then again, so was she.

  Ten minutes later, Friel was back in her third-floor apartment with line-of-sight views to the Capitol. She felt privileged to live and work where she did. But more than anything she felt privileged to work for the senator. She gave her all for him. She believed in him. And he believed in her. In them. She felt excited for her future.

  After a cooling shower, Friel put on a summer dress and poured herself an iced tea. She sat down and flicked through the Post and the Economist.

  Her cell phone rang. She didn’t recognize the caller ID. “Hi, Jessica speaking.”

  A beat. “Jessica, you don’t know me . . . but I need to talk to you.”

  “I’m sorry. You don’t know me? So how did you get this cell phone number? Are you a journalist?”

  “Yeah . . . I got it from a friend.”

  Friel was intrigued. “Who?”

  “Rather not say. I was given it in confidence.”

  “Listen, I’m going to hang up.”

  “Don’t do that, Jessica. I need to talk to you.”

  “What about?”

  A deep sigh down the line. “Your boss.”

  “Not possible.”

  “Look, it’s vital I speak to him.”

  Friel sighed. “Buddy, whoever you are, this is not how it works.”

  “I have information about your boss. I want to warn him, but I can’t get through to him on his cell.”

  “He changed his number a couple of days ago.”

  “Shit.”

  Friel sensed the guy was genuine but couldn’t tell for sure.

  “I need to get something to you or him right fucking now. Do you understand?”

  “Look, I’m going to hang up and call the cops.”

  “I want to warn you. Your boss is on a fucking kill list. People want to kill him. Do you understand that?”

  “You crossed the line, pal. Don’t ever call me again.”

  Seven

  Seven days out

  The cold morning sun peeked over the horizon as Nathan Stone looked through the window in his room. He took a drag on his cigarette, filling his lungs with smoke, and watched the clouds flit across the endless sky.

  A sharp knock at his door, and the same two men, keys jangling from their belts, came in. They escorted him again to the windowless room with the one-way mirror.

  The psychologist was scribbling notes and yawning. “Take a seat, Nathan,” he said without looking up.

  “Early start,” Stone said, crushing his cigarette in an ashtray.

  The psychologist nodded and smiled.

  “What?”

  “I just wanted to start by saying that we are delighted with your progress.”

  “You got a thing for me, Doc, is that it?”

  The psychologist laughed. “As I said, we are pleased with your progress.”

  Stone felt an anger building inside him. “Don’t bullshit me, Doc. You know this is like a holiday camp for me.”

  “Your physical tests show that you’re in remarkable shape.”

  Stone didn’t respond.

  “My colleagues have asked about nicotine patches for you. How do you feel about that?”

  “Not an option, Doc. I like my smokes.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Stone said, “I want to know where I am.”

  The psychologist sipped his coffee and stared at Stone. “At this moment in time, you don’t have to know that.”

  “This is an American facility, right?”

  “It is an American facility.”

  “What’s the big secret about the location?”

  “Nathan, you’ll know better than anyone that we all only know a small part of the big picture.”

  “It gets light early here. Are we in Alaska?”

  The psychologist gave a wry smile. “No. We’re a long way from Alaska. But you will know sooner rather than later.”

  “Guaranteed?”

  “That’s a promise.”

  Stone sensed the psychologist was building up to something.

  “Nathan, we know all about you. Your motivations, background, what gets you going—you understand what I’m saying?”

  “You wanna get to the point?”

  “The point is we have been monitoring you to see if you still have the skill set required to do a particular job. It’s high level. Classified. But we believe you are equipped and ready to do this again.”

  “You know what I can do.”

  “You’re a valuable asset. You don’t have compunction about who lives and dies. And that’s a very valuable commodity in our line of work.”

  Stone shifted in his seat.

  The psychologist sighed. “We believe in you. And we want to see you out there again . . . My question is, are you really ready to take that first step?”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  The psychologist smiled. “You see, that’s why we like you, Nathan. It’s not about what you want. It’s you thinking about how you can offer your services. We respect that. Admire that.”

  “You want me to kill someone to prove myself?”

  The psychologist leaned forward, hands clasped. “We’re looking for you to show you’ve still got it.”

  “I’m listening.”

  The psychologist looked at his watch. “It’s 5:49 a.m. I’d like you to take the elevator down to subbasement Level F.”

  “F?”

  “Right.”

  “Then what?”

  “When you get off the elevator, turn right and head down to the door at the farthest end, which leads through to a TV room. A young man is in there just now, drinking tea, watching a rerun of a Cardinals game.”

  Stone nodded.

  “We want you to go in and make yourself a coffee from the machine, make small talk. And then at 0600 hours precisely, kill the man.”

  “Kill the man?”

  “Correct. Afterwards, you will get back in the elevator and get off at Level C. You will then be escorted to your room. Is that clear?”

  “What about the body?”

  “What about it?”

  “Do you want it disposed of?”

  The psychologist shook his head. “That’s not your problem.”

  Stone took a few moments to digest what he’d been told. “Who is he?”

  “He’s someone we want taken care of.”

  Stone cleared his throat. “Very well.”

  “You good?”

  Stone took a moment to answer. “Oh yeah.”

  A minute later, Nathan Stone was escorted from the windowless room and walked to the elevator. The doors opened and he stepped inside and punched the button for Level F. The guards stared at him as the d
oors shut. He descended several levels in the steel box elevator before it came to a juddering halt.

  A ping sounded and the doors opened. Heart beating hard, he turned right and headed down a poorly lit corridor. Stone pushed through the door at the end of the hallway and looked around. An open-plan TV room. Large screen, football playing as he had been told.

  Stone saw the back of the black man’s shaved head. He walked over to the adjacent kitchenette and fixed himself a coffee. The man turned around and nodded.

  “Who’s winning, bro?” Stone asked.

  The man winced. “Cardinals are destroying the Chiefs,” the man drawled.

  Stone took a sip of his coffee as he moved closer to the screen. His mind was racing as he considered how he was going to kill the man. He saw a clock on the wall, the red second hand turning relentlessly. Three minutes and twenty-four seconds to go.

  “Pull up a seat,” the man said. “Where you from?”

  “Originally New York.”

  “Where’bouts?”

  “Down around the Bowery.”

  “Tough part of town.”

  “Used to be. It’s all hipster bullshit these days. What about you?”

  The man fixed his gaze on the game. “What about me?”

  “Where you from?”

  “Tampa.”

  “Florida boy, huh?”

  Stone noticed a camera high up in a far corner of the room, red light on. He was being watched. Were they watching right now? In real time? He glanced at the clock. One minute forty-eight seconds to go. “Used to work down in Miami. Miss the weather.”

  “Hell yeah.”

  Stone lit a cigarette and breathed smoke out of his nose. “You smoke?”

  The man shook his head. “No, thanks. Gave up years ago.”

  Stone dragged hard on the cigarette, filling his lungs with the smoke. “Smart. What part of Tampa you from?”

  The man turned around. “What’s that?”

  “I said what part of Tampa you from?”

  “You wouldn’t know it.”

  Stone dragged on his cigarette and dropped it on the concrete floor, crushing it with his foot. “Try me. I’ve worked all over Florida.”

  “Ybor. South of Seventh. You heard of it?”

  “Can’t say I have.”

  The man focused back on the game. “Fuckin’ dump, man.”

  Stone looked again at the clock. Less than a minute. The second hand moving. Past the five. Then ten. Not long now. He got up from his seat and began to walk back to the kitchenette but doubled back to position himself behind the man. He took off his thick leather belt. “Hell of a game.”

  “Yeah.”

  Stone stepped forward and wrapped the belt around the man’s throat. He pulled tight. The man kicked out, knocking over a footrest and spilling his tea on the floor. His arms flying, the man arched his face up as Stone stared down. He saw the same terror he’d come to know so well. He pulled harder and harder until there was no give. The leather bit down into the man’s throat, crushing out the air. Mouth agape, eyes bloodshot. The man struggled for nearly a minute. Then Stone saw the life drain out of the guy. No movement. Dead.

  Stone held the belt tight for another ten seconds just to make sure. Then he let go, the dead man slumping motionless back in his seat.

  He unwrapped the belt from the man’s neck and put it back on his jeans.

  Stone turned and looked up at the clock. It showed 0601 hours precisely. He headed out through the doors. He took the elevator back to Level C as instructed. Waiting for him were the two guys in uniform.

  He was escorted back to his room.

  Stone lay back down on his bed as they locked his door. Then he gazed up at the flaking white paint on the ceiling, affording himself a smile.

  Eight

  It wasn’t even five in the morning and Clayton Wilson had already completed thirty of his sixty daily laps in the empty Ritz-Carlton pool, close to the Pentagon. He had never been a late riser. He couldn’t abide not getting a start on the day. It was the way he’d been since he was a boy. And this day was no different.

  Wilson’s mind drifted to the task at hand. He was in charge of the operation to kill the senator. The Commission trusted him to oversee each and every targeted assassination.

  His purpose was to ensure the military-industrial complex of the United States of America flourished. He was a patriot. And he knew the interests of his beloved country went way beyond the boundaries of what had been laid down by fickle politicians.

  The beauty of the Commission was that they didn’t exist. Not officially. A back channel with the Pentagon ensured that only a select few were in the loop.

  Wilson had a meeting with the back channel—the vice chair of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, now a four-star general Wilson had himself promoted fifteen years earlier. At 8:00 a.m. Wilson would secretly update him on preparations.

  Wilson was on his final lap. His mind was beginning to feel sharper. Clear despite the three single-malt whiskies he’d enjoyed the previous evening in the bar. He was sixty-two years old but felt as fit as he had when he was fifty. He’d retired from the CIA at sixty. But still he was serving his country. And would do so until the day they put him in the ground.

  Wilson thought back to his grueling old life. The punishing hours. The foreign postings. The eternal meetings. The interagency rivalries. The politics. The secret wars. The intelligence disasters. The overthrowing of regimes. The installing of regimes.

  He realized the importance of the measures America was forced to take to ensure its own liberty and that of its allies around the world. He thought of his part in the overthrow of the Chilean government. He knew there had been some internal dissent within the CIA on that one. But mainly those in the know knew Allende would have to go. He saw better than most the creeping influence of communism in all its guises. Whether through peasant struggles against landowners or student occupations of universities. He saw the hand of the Reds at work. They were smart. They wanted to undermine a country on America’s doorstep. Same with Central America. Sandinistas in Nicaragua were just a bunch of Soviet-backed Marxists out to overthrow a stable country.

  Wilson finished his customary swim by 5:25 a.m. He put on his white Ritz-Carlton terry robe and Nike flip-flops and took the elevator back to his fifteenth-floor suite. He picked up his copy of the Post left outside his room. Then he showered, shaved, and ordered himself a pot of black coffee, freshly squeezed apple juice, and scrambled eggs and toast from room service.

  He got dressed in a dark-navy suit and white shirt, put on his maroon silk tie, and his black leather oxfords. He read the paper and watched Fox News talking about the existential threat from the Islamic State across the Middle East.

  A soft knock at the door.

  The room service waiter served his breakfast at the huge dining room table in his suite.

  He ate alone, Fox down low. After he’d eaten, he opened the drapes. In the distance, across the freeway, the lights were on in the Pentagon.

  Wilson finished his first coffee of the day and poured a second. He then checked his emails on his iPhone. One from his son, who was working for a hedge fund in Manhattan, one from his wife, on vacation with her mother in Florida, and one he’d been anticipating.

  He switched on his MacBook Pro and opened up the encrypted email program. He clicked twice on the link he’d been waiting for. It asked for his date of birth, place of birth, his mother’s maiden name, then his new password, which he’d memorized earlier that week. He entered all the details, and the encrypted email opened. It contained only two words.

  Looking good.

  It also contained an attachment.

  Wilson clicked on the attachment and watched the silent footage of the man entering the room, then pouring himself a coffee. He stared as the man made small talk with the target. Then he watched as the victim was strangled to death with the man’s belt.

  Wilson was satisfied. He closed the file and used an advan
ced piece of software to erase all traces of the clip and the email from his laptop and iPhone. He gulped down the rest of his coffee.

  His cell phone rang.

  He recognized the number. Fellow Commission member Richard Stanton.

  “Clayton?” Stanton asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You get the message?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Are we still green-lighting this?”

  “Yeah, one hundred percent. This is our guy.”

  Nine

  It was just after midday when the Gulfstream carrying Senator Brad Crichton began its descent to the military air base in the Scottish Highlands. He felt slightly nervous about the reception he would get at the upcoming conference as chair of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. He didn’t like the hymn sheet that American politicians had been singing from since the end of the Second World War. But he would use the conference as an opportunity to outline his vision on where America should be headed in the world.

  His views were increasingly popular back home. His meteoric rise and media profile had made him the darling of the Republican Party’s right wing. He was getting great poll numbers with his vision for a “truly free” America. But he knew the reception at the conference would be altogether cooler.

  Crichton looked out the window as the clouds dissipated and the rolling hills and mountains of Scotland came into view. He thought again of his career trajectory. He chalked it up to what his father had imbued in him. Being straight. Honest. Principled. At heart he was, like his father, an old-school libertarian. Some had called him a Jeffersonian Republican. It was true he believed in limited national government and reduced federal spending. And he was the darling of the Cato Institute. Socially liberal, fiscally conservative. But he was well aware that he was in uncharted waters and attracting serious attention from friend and foe alike.

  The more he appeared on TV, the more traction he got. He talked of how US military dominance and interventions around the world and foreign wars were making America less safe. He was building a power base in the Republican Party that was growing daily. And some analysts speculated that he might even be a possible front-runner if he ran for the presidency.