Recon

by David McCaleb

  Lori glared. “You killed her?”

  “No. Bear got her.” He waved a hand in dismissal. “And I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”

  She slipped the revolver back into the stretchy front pocket of her jeans. “She could’ve told us who sent her.”

  “I know. I wasn’t trying to kill the woman.”

  “Just comes naturally,” Lori mumbled.

  It did. No sense in denying that. Killing wasn’t enjoyable. But it was nice to be skilled at something. An operator. That’s who he was. He’d tried to take Yoga alive, but did what was necessary to accomplish the primary mission. In this case, keeping his wife and daughter safe.

  Penny glanced down from the high limb on which she still sat. “Don’t be mad, Mom. He didn’t mean to.”

  Red sensed there was more in his daughter’s response than she’d expressed. She was scared Lori would be mad at her for killing the Jamaican. He gave her a reassuring smile.

  Lori opened her mouth, glanced at Penny, then squatted on a branch and jumped down. Thin flakes of bark twisted in the air as they floated and landed in her hair.

  He stepped up the hill, away from the trail. A smooth branch a little longer than his father’s cane lay next to a tree trunk. The bark had long dried and fallen off, leaving the wood grain bleached and smooth. A perfect walking stick. He grasped it and pointed up the slope. “We’ll want to go around. I’d like to try and scare away the bear, to search the woman for what she was carrying. Maybe some ID. Find out who she was. But we can’t risk angering the animal.” Maybe it was better this way. Yoga had needed to die, and it wasn’t his fault.

  But she would’ve called her command center before engaging her target like that. When she didn’t report back, they’d send someone after her. At least this way, when her body was found, she’d just been killed by bears. If the drone’s thermal display was poor enough quality, the aggressors might believe she’d accidentally tracked those beasts instead of Red and his family. A long shot, but all he had at the moment. As his dad used to say, Wish in one hand, spit in the other. See which one fills up first.

  Chapter 23

  USCG

  Carter’s eyelids were already shut, but he squeezed them tighter as an ache in the back of his head grew to a splitting pain. He inhaled salt air. Sun warmed the nub of his cheek. A seagull’s laugh blew on a stiff breeze. The gust chilled his body. He lay flat on his back, atop a hard surface. It rose and fell, as if suspended in a hammock. He lifted a hand over his face to shield his eyes from blinding sun.

  He started to sit, but hands pressed him back onto the rigid bed. “Stay down, sailor,” said a gruff voice. The accent was from…where? He pressed his foggy mind to remember. Where was he? How’d he get here?

  Rhode Island. That was the accent. Similar to Boston, but only half the attitude. The guy couldn’t be too threatening. Eyes adjusting to the light, he dropped his arm. Peering through slits, he studied full, red cheekbones. Blond hair pulled back in a bun. The gentle curves of a woman’s face. Her blue cap read USCG in white lettering. Not quite pudgy, but short legs stretched blue fatigues at the thighs. Must be the auxiliary.

  But how…where? Recognition flooded in with the memory of straining to pull the rope aboard Javlek’s sailboat, just before he hit the water. Sonofabitch must’ve coldcocked him with that rod he was carrying.

  Carter sat up, this time pushing aside Blondie’s hands. He’d been lying upon a thin aluminum stretcher on a stainless steel deck. Drops fell from his nose and upper lip. A clear plastic mask covered mouth and chin. Was this woman gassing him? He snatched it off and gulped salt air. A clear hose ran from the mask to a quart-sized green oxygen bottle. His toes squished inside soggy socks, loafers gone, pants lying beside him, flannel boxers soaked through. Where the hell were his shoes? Those were four-hundred-dollar Ferragamos. Somewhere beneath him, near his feet, emanated the rumble of diesel engines at low speed. The small area was encircled by stainless handrails and bulkhead. The craft appeared to be a fast response unit, at least forty feet long, with an enclosed center cabin.

  Blondie’s voice was low, the tone calming. “Take it slow. Don’t stand up.”

  Carter swiped his thumbs across his eyelids, squeezing water away, then blinked to clear the remaining haze as he shook his hands dry. The boat plowed into a swell, and the craft shuddered. White spray shot up like a fountain despite their slow speed, floating upon air as they drove through it. “What happened?”

  “Let’s get you situated,” she said.

  Gripping under his arms, she pulled him to a storage bin. He eased his back against it. Could’ve done that himself. Not like I’m a cripple. Still, the newness of waking from death cautioned him to not resist a bit of aid.

  “You were in the ocean for a spell. You remember knotting your pant legs? Turned your trousers into a life preserver. Not many people know how to do that. You former Coast Guard? Got a nasty gash on the back of your head. Need some stiches once we get shoreside.”

  Carter reached back to touch it, but she slapped his hand away.

  “Don’t do that. It’s bandaged.” She held up fingers. “How many?”

  “Three.”

  She glanced down at her hand, then held up another finger. “How many this time?”

  “We gonna do this all day? You got four there.” One wriggled and she dropped a digit. “Now three.”

  Another glance at her hand, as if she had to count them herself to be sure. “Uh-huh. You better stay down till we’re docked. Lay back on the stretcher.”

  He waved her off. “How’d I get here?”

  Her cheery smile faded. “You’ve been in and out of consciousness since we pulled you from the water. You’ve got a concussion for sure. Why don’t you tell me your name? And how you got in the water.”

  The ache at the back of Carter’s skull rose again. He reached around to cradle it, but dropped his hand, remembering her earlier rebuke. “We were getting set to tack. Javlek said—”

  “He the only other one on your boat?”

  “Yeah. Just him and me.” Carter had been clocked on the head. Maybe he wasn’t remembering it correctly. Could he be wrong? “Never went below, so I suppose there could’ve been someone down there who could’ve whacked me. Even so, the prick must’ve thrown me overboard. Make it look like a drowning.”

  A corner of her mouth curled up, but then the smirk vanished quickly, as if she were trying hard to hold back a laugh. “No one else you know of, though? Just trying to make sure no one is missing.”

  Anger burned his neck. “That sonofabitch clocked me with a flagstaff. He’ll have to come ashore soon. He called his boat a Bermuda forty, whatever that is. Mistress Two. Blue hull. I’m pressing charges. I’ll bet—”

  Javlek stepped around the side of the cabin, blue blanket draped over his shoulders. His weathered, tanned skin shone pale and thin now. He smiled and sat on the storage bin next to Carter. “Oof,” he wheezed.

  Blondie jabbed a finger at him. Command in her voice. “Told you to stay up front!”

  Carter struggled to stand, but the boat was rocking and he couldn’t keep his balance. Blondie had incredible sea legs to stay upright in these waves. He dropped back down on his butt, jolting the pain in his head back up to a scream.

  Javlek rested a hand on Carter’s shoulder, grip weak. “Thank God you’re OK. You look like I feel.”

  Carter winced as a new wave of nausea rose and fell. “You clocked me, you sonofabitch!”

  Javlek let his hand fall to his lap. His gaze wandered to a spinning radar atop the cabin, as if embarrassed. “We both got cleaned. The boom.” The blanket slid from his shoulders. “I’m an idiot. That rope of yours got bound in the winch. Happened to me once before. I slipped over to help, and next thing I see is a bright flash. I woke up almost overboard, leg tangled in the same rope. Mistress Two was listing hard to p
ort. The cockpit almost filled with seawater. I dropped sail, looked around, yelled for you. Didn’t know how long I was out. The radio wasn’t submerged, so I called for help. Bilge pumps were running, at least. I cranked up one of the engines so the batteries didn’t wear out.” His cheeks creased in a smile. “Fired right up, even with the entire motor compartment underwater. Got them breathers airtight. Yes, sir. At least I did somethin’ right.”

  Too many details. The old man was lying, trying to play dumb. But politicians were so hard to read. “The boom got the both of us?”

  “Got the goose egg to prove it.” He twisted to face the bow. A swollen purple bruise was clearly visible through close-cropped hair. He could’ve given it to himself, sure, but it was large enough he would’ve been knocked unconscious anyhow. Javlek pointed at Blondie. “Chief Petty Officer here tried to put me in a neck brace. Told her I weren’t no boat goat.”

  Her eyes narrowed. She held up a clenched fist. “Listen, you condescending sonofabitch! This boat goat’s been a sailor her entire life. She could tack your little ship blindfolded without getting whacked in the head and needing the Coast Guard to haul her soggy ass ashore. Just ’cause you’re old as dirt and got nailed on the skull don’t mean I gotta take any more of your crap.” Her cheeks glowed red as a Christmas ornament. Standing in front of them, she was barely taller than the seated men. She clasped her hands behind her back, as if to stop herself from throwing a punch. The tear of Velcro being separated came from behind her. Quicker than Carter’s eyes could follow, she clamped a padded cream-colored collar around Javlek’s neck. Before the man could get his hands up, she’d cinched the straps tight. “You didn’t even know what year it was when we pulled you off your sinking ragtop.” She pulled out a thick roll of white athletic tape and wrapped it around the brace several times, overlapping the Velcro.

  “I survived a year as a POW,” Javlek protested. “I don’t need this sissy thing.” He slipped both thumbs beneath the collar.

  Blondie put her nose right up to his. “You take that off and I will handcuff your ass to the handrail. Your decision, old man.” He must’ve been stroking her the wrong way earlier. She shoved the tape back into her blue trousers and stepped into the cabin. A tall, skinny man in the same blue uniform stood just inside, one hand on the ship’s wheel and another on the throttle. Wouldn’t a craft this size take at least a crew of three? Where was the other? Blondie slammed the door shut.

  Javlek glanced at Carter, worry in his eyes. “Sorry, but I had to piss her off so she’d leave. Listen. Don’t tell my wife about the accident. She’ll make me get rid of the boat. I just whacked my head on the underside of a cabinet below deck. That’s all that happened, if she asks you.”

  Maybe this guy wasn’t bluffing about the mishap. The explanation—the real one—sounded stupid enough. “What’s it worth to you? The wife is the least of your worries.”

  Javlek scooched forward on the storage bin, tendons of his neck stretching the skin tight like ropes of a sail, fear in his eyes. “What you asking for?”

  Mistress Two bobbed behind the vessel in the cut of its wake. Why hadn’t Carter noticed the sailboat in tow before? A long white line ran to a cleat on its bow, taut and straight despite the distance. The nose of the vessel pitched up, fighting its capture like a hooked marlin. Listing to port, a stream of water flowed like a garden hose from the starboard, bilge pumps still working to empty their load. Naked masts glinted in sunlight. Beneath the boom, a man in blue fatigues stood at the helm.

  Carter lifted his chin. “A story like this could be political suicide. Retired vice chair of the JCS isn’t safe on the water? A Navy man who can’t sail? You’ll look inept, or demented, or both. I’ll keep my mouth shut, but only if I’m getting paid in information.”

  A metallic melody burst from the pocket of his slacks. Carter stretched to gather his dripping pants from the deck, dug around in the wet cloth, and pulled out his phone. He thought he’d lost it in the water. His daughter had given him her upgrade for Christmas, and this model was water resistant. Colorado on the screen. Maybe it was Red! He pressed it to one ear, plugging the other with a finger so he could hear. “Hello?”

  Disappointment crashed as an unfamiliar voice came through the tiny speaker. “Yeah. This…oh, hell. I can’t remember who he said I’d be callin’. But Red gave me this number. You know him? Guy with a copper-colored beard. Had his little girl with him.”

  Carter propped an elbow atop the locker, but couldn’t muster the strength to hoist himself up. He flopped back down again. “Yeah. Red. He OK? What’s going on? Who are you? How’d you get this number?”

  The crackle of an angry engine mangled the man’s voice, as if he were driving a hot rod. “Name’s Lam. Red gave it to me before he left. Told me to call it first chance I got. And to tell you… Wait. What’s your name?”

  “Carter.”

  “Yeah. That’s it. Told me to tell you he’s alive, but headed to Cheyenne Mountain. Who are you? FBI or something?”

  Carter pressed a palm to his forehead. “Yeah… Or something. What happened to Red?” He listened as Lam described the last twenty-four hours, how he’d been attacked on his way to work in Dark Canyon. That a friend named Andi had been shot. Then a run-in with a huge Rastafarian in camo. And how Red had foolishly refused to stay in some sort of electric grid. The man’s sentences trailed off at times. The guy had been shot, and up all night. Sounded beat. Or maybe Carter couldn’t follow his convoluted descriptions due to his own pounding headache.

  “I had the generator building wired so tight it’d fry the balls off anyone thought they could get in.”

  Carter closed an eye as salt spray from the bow cascaded across his face. “Red tell you anything else, besides where he was headed?”

  “No. Said for you not to tell anyone else. That you’d know what to do.”

  Carter glanced at his watch. It’d be six o’clock in the Rockies. What the hell did Red think he could do…and without telling anyone? Did that mean no one in the Det too? Was he supposed to organize some sort of rescue mission? But how, without resources? “Thanks for the call. Sounds like we owe you one. This phone you’re on, can I get back in touch with you if I call it?”

  “Unless I’m in a dead spot. And they’re plenty out here.”

  “Thanks again. Get that shoulder looked at.” Carter clicked off. He glanced at Javlek. The man was gazing mournfully at his trailing sailboat. Maybe he could use the retired admiral’s help. He had good connections, though also to Moses.

  No. Break it down. What were the facts? Lam said Red and his family had been attacked atop Pikes Peak. In an organized, well-coordinated effort. Sounded like high-stakes players. So the solution couldn’t involve Javlek. That man may have helped create this problem. And Red’s warning to not tell anyone else confirmed it. So, no involving the Det. Was he worried about a mole inside the organization? Up to now, Carter hadn’t considered that being the source of the list on Moses’ computer. But if Jamison was correct and Moses was trying to sell the data, it had to come from somewhere. Could be his source was in the Det. As a fusion cell, they certainly had access to intel from many sources. Depending upon how accurate this list was, it could be devastating. And if CIA operatives were named, fatal.

  So, the answer had to be below the radar, a local player, someone or something who up to this point hadn’t had a stake in the game. Did he know any cops out west? Any of his old FBI connections stationed there? Anything at all? Grace had provided Red’s sister’s cell phone number, but that woman had only been able to confirm Red, Lori, and Penny had headed to Pikes Peak the morning of the shooting. She didn’t know their current whereabouts and was worried senseless. He squinted as bright sun blasted through another wave of bow mist, filling the deck with a beautiful rainbow. Even Blondie was smiling as she stepped from the cabin. He had only one option.

  Carter thumbed Callback.
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  Chapter 24

  Scrugs

  The door of the flimsy camouflage-painted trailer shuddered under Lam’s knock. The metal tinked like a tin can. Still no answer. Old Scrugs must be out hunting, or maybe had a late night at Jo-Jo’s Bar and was passed out hungover on the side of a mountain road. Could be shacked up with his obese girlfriend, but they weren’t on speaking terms, last Lam heard.

  The mechanic had slipped past the feds’ checkpoint at Cow Mountain, easy enough for anyone who knew the trails. Driven all the way back out to Route 67, then to Cripple Creek, and laid down an Andrew Jackson for a made-in-China mobile charger. What a rip-off. He’d powered up his phone there in the parking lot and called Carter, just like Red had asked. That had been a disappointment. Turned out the man wasn’t a fed. Just a no-count detective of some sort. Why would Red have wanted Lam to call that guy? Then, after they’d hung up, he’d called right back, asking if Lam knew any park rangers or local law enforcement that could be trusted.

  Lam had no connections. “I avoid those guys like the plague,” he’d told him. And Elway was back at the generator house covering the scene. Even so, that park ranger wasn’t any kind of hunter.

  Carter had sounded half-drunk. If Red and his little girl needed help, it surely wasn’t coming from that guy, either. Now that Lam had been freed from Dark Canyon, it fell to him to figure out how to find Red and his girl. That meant he’d be covering open valleys with mile-long sight lines, so he needed a weapon with more range than the 1911 pistol under his belt. Which was why he’d come knocking at Scrugs’s trailer.

  He let the screen door slap shut and stepped down the pile of stacked cinder blocks beneath the front door. Bud’s tail wagged eagerly. Scrugs’s 150-pound blood hound was named after the beer, not short for buddy. The monster shook his head, ears slapping jowls, spraying streams of slobber and a few black flies. Poor thing. Lam had once phoned in an anonymous tip of cruelty to Animal Control because Scrugs left the dog outside year-round. But the pound claimed they couldn’t find Scrugs’s place, then blamed Lam for a prank call. The mobile home was certainly hard to find, tucked high inside a mountain gully with trees and brush growing up all around. No driveway. You just had to know how to look. Like hunting. How to follow a trail. That wasn’t something you could teach a desk ranger over the phone.