Dark Heart

by James Phelan

  So, not a 9-millimeter. This was something with more firepower. A specialized killing machine. And the custom silencer meant the weapon was as quiet as anything else on the market. The perfect tool for an assassin.

  Bahar didn’t get to use it that morning—at least, not in the lobby of that apartment block.

  Walker had inside a second before the weapon was trained on him, so he had few choices. Plan A—beating information out of Bahar—had gone completely out the window. He went for the swiftest, and potentially less lethal option. Call it Plan B. He still didn’t want to kill the guy if he could help it—not yet.

  Walker jabbed hard and fast, his fist hitting the giant’s Adam’s apple, the impact making a sharp cracking sound.

  The pistol dropped to the floor and Bahar put both his hands to his throat, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

  But still, he wasn’t done. Perhaps realizing that worse was yet to come, perhaps knowing that he couldn’t allow himself to be captured and questioned—maybe both those lines of thought being born out of specialist training in a paramilitary outfit back in the Mid East—Bahar lurched forward for his pistol.

  Walker had little choice, in that split second. Plan B was on the scrap heap with A. So, Plan C it was. He hit Bahar hard in the back of the head with his elbow—using his fist against a head like this guy’s would be akin to punching a granite boulder, and broken hands were not in Walker’s list of desirable outcomes. Plan D would have seen him kicking him in the head, lining him up like a soccer player looking to kick the ball across the pitch—but he still didn’t want to kill the guy.

  The impact of the elbow was awesome, and the force shuddered up Walker’s arm and through his shoulders. The giant continued his path forward, the momentum of Walker’s blow adding to the effects of gravity, and he hit the tiled floor of the foyer face-first. The shiny white porcelain tiles cracked on impact. He was out, destined not to come to for some time, and even when he did, he wouldn’t be going anywhere on his feet and Walker couldn’t imagine him dragging himself back to wherever he’d come from.

  Walker looked around. There was a security camera in the corner, the ubiquitous little black plastic dome. He had no doubt that the scene had been captured and recorded, probably on a digital archive somewhere off site, and that feed would soon enough be in the hands of Homeland Security via TrapWire.

  He had two choices. He could drag Bahar upstairs to Bennet’s apartment and question him when he came to—which might take hours, even if he could speak through his crushed larynx. And that was time Walker didn’t have, not to mention the possibility of witnesses coming through the lobby or on level five at any moment.

  So, Walker made do with the other choice, which was to search Bahar and take anything useful, then check on Bennet and get out of there. He checked the SOCOM pistol: two bullets missing. He sniffed the end of the silencer: it smelled faintly of gunpowder and gun oil. He patted down every pocket, finding a folded wad of cash, two spare clips for the SOCOM, two spent .45 cartridge casings, a combat knife sheathed to Bahar’s ankle, a cheap-looking cell phone and a set of car keys. He left the weapons and took the rest.

  34

  Walker found the door of apartment 532 ajar. The peep hole was blown out, as was the lock. Big ragged holes left behind by the .45 caliber rounds.

  He entered, and saw Jim Bennet on the floor in front of him. His head was blown apart and there was blood splatter coating the small entry hall. Walker didn’t need to check for a pulse. Instead, he pulled the door closed, and backtracked to the lift.

  In the lobby downstairs he stepped over the unmoved body of Bahar, and used the guy’s right thumb-print to unlock the cell phone, then headed outside.

  On the street Walker pressed the button on Bahar’s Lexus key-fob. He couldn’t see any flashing lights, nor any Lexus parked on the street out front, so he figured it was tucked away behind the apartment block, or on one of the side streets. He headed across the road for the Beetle, approaching it from the back. Exhaust coughed out of the tiny tail-pipe in small blue-tinted smoke rings, like it was burning minute amounts of oil with every cycle of the pistons. Muertos was in the driver’s seat. He opened the passenger door, got in and said: “Drive around the block.”

  Muertos pulled from the curb and took the first left. She was good at driving a stick; fluid with the clutch and gear changes. The size of the pedals suited her better than Walker.

  Muertos said, “Agent Bennet?”

  “We were too late,” Walker said. He dialed 911 and gave them the address and said an armed assailant was unconscious in the foyer, and to check apartment 532, then he ended the call and took out the phone’s sim card and battery. He snapped the phone in half and started to toss pieces out the window as they headed around the block.

  “Slow down,” he said, seeing a parked Lexus SUV, matt-black paint and blacked-out windows. When he pressed the key-fob the flashers blinked yellow. “Pull up behind, we’re changing cars.”

  “Bennet?” Muertos asked as she stalled the engine. They got out of the Beetle and headed for the Lexus, the two crossing paths behind the car as they switched seats—Walker getting into the driver’s seat, Muertos into the passenger seat.

  “Bennet’s dead,” Walker said, pressing the ignition button on the dash.

  “You’re sure?” Muertos asked.

  “Pretty sure,” he replied. Then looked at her and said, “Yes, he’s dead. Head shot. It was Bahar, Almasi’s guy. He’s the one who’s unconscious.”

  Walker started up the sat-nav system in the center console. “It’s a clean-up operation, and he was the final link. He went in and out and did his third kill of the night.”

  “Third kill?” Muertos asked. “You think Acton is dead too?”

  “We can’t reach him, and he’s made no attempt to contact Overton on her burner, so it’s a fair assumption. We know Bahar took out Overton at least four hours ago, and then he’s here, so he’s had a lot of time in between, and he wasn’t sitting at Dunkin’ Donuts killing time.”

  “We don’t know for sure.”

  “I’ll have Somerville call in to the Secret Service for us, tell them to check in on their Agent Acton.”

  “Shit.”

  “There’s nothing we can do about it,” Walker said, and he took off from the curb. The car was devoid of engine noise. A hybrid. “But we can find Almasi. You up for that?”

  “Find him how?”

  Walker tapped the sat-nav system.

  “Whose car is this?” Muertos asked.

  “Bahar’s.”

  “You think this is a smart move?”

  “He won’t need it.”

  “Because he’s unconscious?”

  “The cops will pick him up. He’s out of the picture.”

  “Did you question him?”

  “Didn’t really get a chance.”

  “Then now what?” Muertos asked, her voice cracking with desperation. “That was our last lead. Sat-nav won’t do you any good if you don’t know where . . .”

  “Here,” Walker said, working the controls of the sat-nav screen. “This will lead us to Almasi.”

  It showed a destination labeled HOME, a rural spot in Virginia about seventy miles south, on B-roads off the I-495 and Route 1, which run parallel to the eastern seaboard. Right in the very direction and along the very highway on which Clair Hayes’ abandoned car had been found. The sat-nav system also showed recent map searches: the three addresses of the three agents stored. Bahar’s hit list, his journey through the night and into the morning, from rural Virginia to Overton’s and then on to the two agents. Incriminating. Useful.

  “Now,” Walker said, as two Metro PD cars flashed by them in the direction of the apartment complex, their lights flashing but sirens off, “we go home.”

  35

  “And when we get there?” Muertos looked at the sat-nav screen, to the blinking dot of HOME, seventy-four miles south, then across at him. “How do we d
eal with Almasi?”

  “We question him. And hopefully find Agent Hayes.”

  Walker glanced at her, then back to the road. The Lexus felt anonymous, just another big blacked-out SUV plowing through the streets, full of power and refinement and entitlement. The heated seats were plush and the engine nearly silent, the noise of the outside world blocked out. The complete opposite to the Beetle.

  “You think Hayes is still alive?” Muertos asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Insurance.”

  “In case she gave false names and addresses of her fellow agents?”

  Walker nodded.

  “Bahar might have called it in as soon as he’d completed the job,” Muertos said, “telling Almasi to get rid of her.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “He may have called Almasi after killing Acton,” Muertos said. Then, a moment later in a quieter voice, “And after killing Sally.”

  “Maybe. But, I doubt it. A guy like that, a job like that, he’d go out, get it all done, call it in once it’s complete. Radio silence in between, if all was going to plan, which it was, up until he met me. Check the call log.”

  Muertos did so, saying as she scrolled down, “Is that how you would have done things when you were in the CIA?”

  “Well, contrary to what you see in the movies,” Walker said, overtaking a truck to make a green light, “we don’t just tool around assassinating people.” He stopped at the next lights, his indicator signaling he was going to turn left, where he’d soon merge to the I-95 and head toward HOME. “At any rate, these days the CIA has got an army of drones in the sky to do their targeted killing for them.” He glanced across. “Anything in that call log?”

  “Last call was to Acton.”

  “Because that’s not Bahar’s phone.” Walker glanced down. “Does that phone look familiar to you?”

  “It’s the same as Sally’s.”

  “Correct. Identical. And I bet the other two agents had the same type too. Burners. Used for this op only. She probably bought all four handsets in bulk at RadioShack or Walmart. Gave them out to her volunteer workforce a couple of days ago, so that they could report in on the movements of Almasi and Bahar and stay off the official cell network. See what other numbers are in there.”

  “Three saved numbers, with the initials of our other three agents.” She looked across at Walker. “So, Bahar killed Bennet and then took this phone. This is evidence, Walker. You should have left it back with that guy so the cops could log it.”

  “Log it?” Walker said, easing on the accelerator as he made the turn and headed for the Beltway on-ramp, which he would take until he could split off to head south on Route 1. “So it can sit in some cardboard box in an evidence locker for a case that’d likely never get to trial?”

  “You left Bahar alive back there,” Muertos said.

  “Are you suggesting I should have killed him?”

  “If he killed Overton, I certainly wouldn’t have minded if you’d said you killed him. Instead, he’ll be arrested, and he’ll be charged with the murder of Bennet, if the evidence supports it, and maybe Overton and Acton too. I just don’t want to jeopardize whatever justice is coming his way.” Muertos went silent for a while, staring ahead through the windscreen. “That’ll lead to trial. Then what? They might have him on camera at the murder scenes of three Federal Agents. Maybe he left some DNA behind at the scene to make the cases watertight. You think he’ll be put away and they’ll throw away the key?”

  “He might post bail,” Walker said. “A big one, sure, maybe in the millions. But they’ve got money, this crowd, so he’ll have a high-powered lawyer, right? Then he’ll disappear.”

  “Unlikely.”

  “True. But you know what? I think the whole scenario of Bahar seeing a police interrogation, let alone a courtroom, is fanciful. More likely is that he’ll be under guard in whatever hospital he’s taken to, getting some bones and ligaments fixed, and while he’s there his group will either bust him out, or—and this is where I’d put my money—they’ll get rid of him.”

  “You’re talking like this is a gangster movie. Killing people in hospital—one of their own?”

  “It’s how this world works, Muertos. This group is connected, and they have reach. Or did you forget those two Homeland guys in San Francisco?” Walker took the freeway entrance, shooting the Lexus down the ramp, the electric motor now working in tandem with the petrol one—which Walker could hear and feel as it kicked in.

  “I doubt they’d have killed us.” Muertos looked across to Walker, who remained silent. “What? You think they would have killed us in the hospital?”

  “No. They’d have had us drugged and bagged and wheeled out and questioned.” Walker glanced to Muertos, then back to the road. “Look, you know how it works, and you’ve seen far worse, even if it’s been in reports and photographs of what happens to illegal immigrants desperate to make their way to new countries. And we know that Almasi and Bahar are intent to kill Federal Agents. Maybe their contacts at Homeland are too.” It was not outside the realm of possibility, but to Walker, as the bodies piled up, it seemed more and more likely that someone at Homeland was bent. Probably for money. If there was as much money in this as Muertos and Overton said, that would be more than enough incentive to the right person. “I think we’ve stumbled onto something sensitive for Homeland, and they wanted to shut us up while they dealt with it.”

  Walker glanced at the sat-nav screen as they settled onto Route 1, headed south. At highway speed they were forty minutes from the dot labeled HOME. It seemed to be in a rural area, which posed a problem. Surveying an urban target was easy, in terms of being able to blend in and remain inconspicuous amid the clutter and hubbub. A rural property, which may have no visible neighbors, and a mile-long driveway, and likely open farmland surrounding it—well, that posed all kinds of tactical problems, least of which was that he and Muertos were sitting in one of their target’s cars. Which, Walker figured, he would have to make the most of. He started to think that he should have taken the SOCOM pistol, but shook it off, because it was probably the murder weapon of at least one agent—Bahar wouldn’t have got close enough to all three agents to shoot them with their own side-arms, and at least two shots had been fired this morning. He pictured Bennet: talking to Walker when he heard someone outside in the hall; a light knock on the agent’s apartment door; Bennet going to the peep hole. Bahar waiting in the hallway, pistol ready, the silencer pressed against the peep hole, waiting for the light on the other side to disappear—then pop, a silenced shot right through the head. The sound of Bennet’s body hitting the floor, then Bahar shooting out the door to make sure his job was done.

  “What do we do when we get there?” Muertos broke the silence and Walker’s reverie.

  “We get Almasi talking,” Walker said, “and find out what’s going on.”

  “Find out how your father fits into this?”

  “That’s what I want to know.”

  “I want to know a few things too.”

  “You’ll get your chance.”

  •

  Harvey called Lewis and said, “It’s done.”

  “Done?”

  “I spoke with our man from abroad. The situation has been cleared up.”

  “And Jed Walker and Rachel Muertos?”

  “I have Krycek on it.”

  “Good. I’ve never trusted the Syrians.” Lewis paused, then said, “I want them gone today as well.”

  Harvey was silent for a while, then said, “You’re sure? Once Muertos and Walker are gone, we can keep this going, right? We can keep Syria open, it’s been a—”

  “We’ve got enough,” Lewis said. “Trust that. Think back to when we started out, what we hoped to achieve. We’ve got more than we need to bring this country to its knees.”

  36

  Walker took the west-bound exit off Route 1 as the sat-nav instructed. This highway was a two-laner, winding with gentle c
urves through semi-rural farmland. This was no Ohio or Indiana or Oklahoma or Texas, where Walker had driven through several times and seen farms that stretched for hundreds of miles, with harvesting equipment that worked on, quite literally, an agricultural scale. Here it seemed there were more estates, hobby farms, houses on modest-sized acreages that the owners agisted out to farmers who ran dairy cattle and horse stables.

  The sat-nav announced five minutes to HOME.

  “What do you want to ask Almasi?” Walker asked.

  “That’s what I’ve been thinking this whole time. What to ask him. I’ll start with the meet in Syria. And then . . .”

  “And then?”

  “Who his American contact is.”

  “Good. And I want to know what Almasi’s contact with my father was. And what’s happening here, killing Overton’s agents—was it just because of the tail, or were they getting too close to unraveling their little people-smuggling party?”

  Muertos nodded. “I want to know who his US contacts are, and anyone he worked with back in Syria. I want to destroy the network, right back at the roots. Then I want to salt the earth. Put them all out of business.”

  “You’ve said that.” Walker glanced across at her. “There’s more to it, though, right?”

  “Don’t be so sure.”

  Walker looked back at the road. “Would you kill them, given the chance? If that’s what it took to shut it down?”

  “I doubt I could do it,” Muertos said. “But I’d rather they were dead, if that means they’re shut down forever. Do I want to do it? Maybe. Could I? I really doubt it. But the world would be a much better place for them being gone. For all these kinds of things to be shut down. To send a message to those who think about preying on future refugees. That’s the real problem here, right? Those fleeing persecution we lock away in camps, and those who profit from it remain free.”

  “Have you ever killed anybody?”

  “No.”

  “Try to keep it that way.”