The muffled crunch of cat food came from outside. Red poured himself another two fingers and sat back down. “Just the shrink. Sato’s the one who told us we needed to get some time away.”
Stacy clanked the mug on the workbench. “Carter told me four days ago about her. We dug around. She had more security clearances than I could count. Lots of government agencies sent their high-value assets to her. She had three ex-husbands, all on alimony, and she was living way outside her means. Expensive cars. Second home on Martha’s Vineyard no one knew about. I did some tracing, found she had an offshore account and, sure enough, had received payments from Paili. Went back years. I passed it up the chain and was immediately given an order to cease and desist.”
Lori straightened. “So, Sato’s already being investigated by someone higher up.… But you were referring to her in past tense.”
Another glance passed between Stacy and Carter. “I believe it’s proper to refer to Sato in that manner.”
Lori leaned forward, resting elbows on knees. “Shit, Stacy. CIA can’t just go killing a contractor without a trial. What if someone made a mistake?” She stared at Red. “You know about this?”
He lifted his hands. “New to me.” The crunching from outside ceased. The shadow turned, bounded across two other windows, then dropped away. “But as far as I’m concerned, if she was the leak, you already said it. Good riddance. She might as well have been the Jamaican that pointed a pistol at Penny. The bitch needed to die. That’s what you guys are talking about without saying it, right? Someone killed this woman?”
Stacy stared at the floor next to her chair where the feline’s shadow had rested. She rolled her mug between her palms. “None of us will ever know. Based on the transactions in her account and the way I got shut down, she’s already offshore and being interrogated. Possibly disposed of.” She tipped her head back, emptying her cup. “One more for the missing persons list.”
Chapter 35
A Taste of Blood
Red’s eyes snapped open. 0513. He swung his legs over the edge of the warm bed, sat up, and flipped off the alarm so it didn’t sound in another two minutes. No need to wake Lori. He pressed palms to his temples and rubbed in a circle, trying to heat the synapses of his mind. He stood in the ebony-dark room and picked up running shoes, shorts, and T-shirt he’d set out the previous night. Then made his way around the end of the mattress, stepping slowly, curling his toes to keep from jamming them into his dresser’s stubby feet. The door closed behind him with the softest of clicks.
The dim hallway was paved in wide-plank heart pine reclaimed from a barn loft that had originally stood on a corner of their property back when they’d first purchased it a few months ago. The rest of that structure had been too rotted to warrant anything other than a lit match. He padded in bare feet across the warm boards toward a glowing light from the living room. One of the kids must’ve gotten up for a drink in the night and left the switch on.
A familiar solvent scent, mild and slightly sweet, floated down the hall. Standing on the threshold, he squinted at a blazing wagon wheel chandelier, bright enough to light a crime scene. He groped for the switch and flipped it off. The pain behind his eyes subsided. A candle glowed in the middle off the table, dancing shadows of a daylily arrangement in orange against one wall, like the fire after the RPG in the West Bank.
“Hey!” Lori’s voice.
He glanced in the direction of the sound. She stood at the end of the table, cradling an artist’s brush between three fingers like a cigarette holder, gripping a multicolored palette with the other. A white button-up oxford covered arms and chest, pulled on backward so the collar propped below her chin. The back fell open like a medical gown, revealing bare skin and delicate white panties. Red, brown, and green striped the cloth across her abdomen.
“What you—” His voice was rough with sleep. He grunted, clearing his throat. “What you doing up?”
She circled the brush in the air. “Painting.” She stood before an easel with a canvas the size of a jerrican resting on it. A dim silhouette of her shapely breasts quivered on the wall, the candle projecting through the thin shirt cloth. “Turn my light back on.”
Red closed his eyes and flipped the switch. After a minute he cracked them open and stepped behind her. Kids wouldn’t be up now. He wrapped his arms around her belly and pulled her against him, sliding his hands up to cup her breasts.
She pressed her ass into his groin. “Didn’t get it all out last night?” She reached behind her neck and stroked his beard.
He huffed. “Hope I never get to that point.”
A corner of her mouth opened and she pulled away, fanning the palette before her nose. “Brush your teeth. You could start a fire with that.”
Red pinched her nipples softly and stepped back. “What’re you painting? Haven’t seen you with a brush in a while.”
She placed the palette on the table atop sheets of splayed newspaper. “I woke up last night and couldn’t get back to sleep. I kept having this image flying through my brain. Even if I dozed off, there it was. I didn’t know exactly what it was at first. Just some colors and movement, but I had to work it out.” She pointed the handle at the canvas. “This is what I’ve got so far.”
The painting’s background was burnt red with a blue-gray wedge across the lower portion. Yellow lines striped across that section, dividing it in two. A paved road. A prairie falcon with ballooned, brown-flecked chest stood in the middle atop a shiny black raven whose head was craned at unnatural angle. The predator’s talons spread open the rib cage of its prey. Its beak was tipped in crimson, and its tawny wings were spread, protecting its kill.
“Nice. Graphic. Should I be worried about you sneaking up on me?”
She touched the beak with her brush, leaving a white highlight, sun glinting off the wet blood. “Don’t make it something it’s not. Just accept what is. I’ve had the idea ever since we got back from Israel. Needed to get it out, on canvas, or it was going to drive me crazy.”
Red snatched his keys off the kitchen counter. “I’m heading to PT this morning. Need to get to the bunker.” He wrapped his arms around his chest. “Taking the team on a swim. Hope the stinging nettles have cleared out.”
She stuck out her lip in a coy pout. “Don’t wear yourself out.”
In the blazing overhead light, her smock hung as thin as a sheer curtain. Colors streaked her half-naked body. A lustful ache filled his belly. Would the team care if he was late? He checked the black-faced diver’s watch on his wrist. Fifteen minutes to make a twenty-minute drive. Damn.
Penny stepped into the hallway between them, hand over her eyes and peering through a slit in her fingers. She stumbled as if half-drunk and hugged his waist. A yawn. “Time to get up?”
Red stroked her hair. His wedding ring snagged on a knot. “It’s Saturday, princess. No school today.”
Her arms tightened around him. “Where’re you going?”
“Work.”
She stared up, confusion knitted into the wrinkled skin of her scowl. “Why today?”
“Need to keep my team fit and focused. We don’t have any bad guys to chase right now, but need to be ready when we do.” Couldn’t shield her from the reality of his job anymore. She’d witnessed more than most green operators. He grabbed her around her waist, lifted her into a hug, then dropped her down. She made her way back to her room, hand still shading her eyes from the brilliant living room light, staggering in a sleepy stupor. What a trouper. He’d finally confided in Lori how Penny had shot the Jamaican and, to Lori’s credit, she’d taken it in stride. For a second, pride had even flashed in her eyes. They had promised each other their daughter would be evaluated by a child psychiatrist, but were still screening candidates.
Red glanced at Lori, smacked his lips in a mock kiss, and gazed at the painting once again. The striped road. His two worlds divided. Yet, they
’d been forced together at Pikes Peak. And again in Israel. But the melding had brought peace to their home instead of the stress he’d feared. A dead raven. A falcon. The threat against his family had finally been slain, a task he’d been working for months. Its weight had been lifted, but he hadn’t recognized it until now.
His body ached to be stretched, his muscles to be tired, and his skin to sense the chill of salt water. To be alive amid pain. To strain to lead the pack. The taste of blood was in his mouth again.
Recall
In case you missed the first Red Ops thriller, Recall, here is a sample excerpt showing the introduction of series hero Red Harmon. Just turn the page to enjoy more exciting drama from thriller master David McCaleb . . .
Meet Red Harmon, a special ops veteran who learns he never left the call of duty . . .
To a trio of muggers, Red looks like just another suburban dad. But when they demand his wallet at knifepoint, something snaps. In the blink of an eye, two muggers are dead, the third severely injured, and Red doesn’t remember a thing. Once an elite member of the Det, a secret forces outfit whose existence is beyond classified, Red thought his active service was over.
But his memory is coming back—and a lethal killing machine is returning to duty . . .
Facing an unthinkable nuclear threat, a volatile international power play, and a personal attack against his family, Red has no choice. He must rejoin his old team, infiltrate the enemy camp, and complete the biggest mission of his life . . .
Chapter 1
Three Seconds
Tony “Red” Harmon yawned as he rubbed burning, fatigued eyes with a palm. His cuff slipped back from his watch. 9:47 p.m. Too late for the family to be out. Nick dragged his feet on concrete, cheeks puffy, hand gripping Red’s index finger. So tired he didn’t even ask for a treat as they walked out of Walmart, past the candy machines. He looked up, snot glistening under a pink nose. Red winked at him, surprised yet again how his son looked like he’d cloned his mother’s eyes.
The shopping cart was full of things they needed, but didn’t want. School supplies and vegetables. A wheel with a flat spot clacked a steady cadence as Red pushed it under a rush of warm air blowing from above, into the January chill outside. How’d he always end up with the broken ones? He pushed with one hand, straining his wrist to keep the thing straight, pulling Nick with the other. He stepped slowly, careful not to slip on the frozen pavement. Just ahead, little Penny held Jackson’s hand so tight his fingers were turning blue. Her head was high. She was obviously pleased Dad thought she was mature enough to guide her younger brother through the perils of the parking lot.
Hope his fingers don’t go numb, Red thought.
“Look for reverse lights. They’re the ones that’ll run you over,” Lori told them. She reached for Penny, then tucked her hand back into her peacoat, as if trying not to be too controlling. Narrow hips swayed as she kept pace with the kids.
Red looked back down at Nick, who was yawning again. “Tired, buddy?”
“I wanna go bed.”
He laughed. “Me too. Been looking forward to it all day.”
Lori glanced back, smiling, and lifted her chin.
They passed through a fog of exhaust from an old Ford pickup, the decal of a deer and crosshairs on the back window. The smell of gasoline stung his nose. Their SUV was parked far out, under the same pole as always, the lamp casting a cone of brilliance like a stage spotlight. A few snowflakes whisked through its beam like mayflies in summer. They passed a red Nissan Armada, just like the one their petite Filipina neighbor drove, the vehicle’s tires tall as her shoulder.
The Armada was running, but without lights. Penny waited, watching the bumper, then scurried behind it with Jackson in tow. No more parked cars, so she skipped the rest of the way to their new Ford Explorer. Somehow it already had a dent in the quarter panel, and enough fruit juice in the carpet to make your soles sticky as a lint roller.
Penny had just pulled Jackson around the far side when Red heard two thumps—doors shutting. He glanced back. It was the Armada. Three people were following them through the dark, hands in pockets, heads down.
Red passed through a warm pocket of air rising from the pavement. He put Nick’s hand into Lori’s and reached for the keys. The horn beeped, the door locks snapped up, and the interior lights glowed. “Kids, get in.”
He pushed the cart to the rear bumper, leaving it sticking into the traffic lane. The kids jumped into the back and slammed the door, smiling, glad their once-a-week shopping torment was over. Red grabbed Lori’s shoulder, opened the passenger door, and pushed her in. The three men stepped past the shopping cart. Red locked the doors and tossed the controller into Lori’s lap, relieved as the door slammed shut.
All three wore black jeans low on the hips. Two were tall and sported matching red sweatshirts, hoods pulled up. A tight-fitting blue one covered the third, a short, slender man. He came close while the others stood back. When he lifted his head, the pole light illuminated a Roman nose and light brown skin. The hood shadowed the rest. He pulled a long knife with a serrated blade from his pocket. Its sharpened edge glinted in the brightness. His voice was young and scratchy. “Your wallet, bitch!”
Sure. Take the damn thing. Red glanced to the SUV. The kids were bouncing in the backseat, blowing into cupped hands, unaware. Lori had pulled out her phone and was dialing. She could drive them out if she had to. Red reached to his back pocket and pulled out the wallet, staring at the gangbanger’s eyes. They were empty, soulless, like his nephew strung out on meth when his sister had called for his help last year.
Red held the wallet next to his hip for a second, then took a step back. He slipped it into his pocket. What the hell was he doing? His life wasn’t worth risking over a couple maxed-out credit cards. His vision blurred, then focused on the glinting edge of the blade. It was as if he were watching his own body from above. His arms spread, hands still as steel. Words surged from his chest, from someone caged inside him, forcing their way through his voice box. “Come and get it . . . bitch.”
“Tony!” Lori said again. Only now did Red realize she’d been screaming it. Her eyes were wide, pleading. She pointed to the ground. One of the gangbangers lay on his belly, blood running from his legs and a small pool forming under his head. Red was bent over, knuckles clenched in the man’s hair, pulling him off the pavement. His forearm was bloody and he pressed a snub-nosed revolver at the mugger’s brain stem. Where’d the pistol come from?
The thug’s eyes were closed; he wasn’t moving. Dead? Resisting the urge to let go, Red laid the guy’s head on the asphalt.
“Tony, you don’t have to kill that one.” Her voice was shrill.
He backed up, pointing the pistol at the still body. Red licked a metallic taste from chapped lips, breathing fast and shallow as a panting dog. What the hell was going on? A tall man an aisle over held up leather-gloved hands, backing away. He ducked into a Dodge Charger, tires squealing as he accelerated out of the parking lot.
Red slowed his breathing, then turned to Lori. “The kids?” Where was the Explorer? He spotted it a few spaces away. The shopping cart lay to one side, three boxes of number two pencils scattered across the pavement like pickup sticks. He jumped over the mess, landing next to two bloody heaps, the bodies of the other muggers. He squinted as the light reflected off one of the scarlet pools and stifled a retch.
The SUV’s rear window was broken. High-pitched crying blasted from inside. He ripped open a back door and saw all three kids in the seat, huddled.
“You guys okay?” No answer, just more crying. He grabbed Nick’s shoulder. The boy’s frail body was quivering. “You hurt, buddy?”
Penny looked up. “Is it over?”
A smear of blood was across his daughter’s cheek, tear tracks streaking through it. He cradled her head, trying to wipe her face with his thumbs, only making a bigger mess wi
th the blood from his hands.
“I’m okay,” she said, wiping her nose with a knuckle. “The— the blood. It’s not ours.”
The debrief room was gray, cold, and Spartan. Detective Matt Carter had designed it to look more like a morgue than a police interrogation chamber. “Three seconds!” Carter said. “Hard to believe.” He sat in front of the stainless-steel table he’d bought when the seafood plant across the street went out of business. The shiny, sterile slab and knife slots of the tabletop fit the mortuary theme perfectly.
He felt in the pocket of his tan d’Avenza herringbone sport jacket for the pack of Wrigley’s gum. “That’s all it took . . . three seconds.” He unwrapped a stick, then checked the time on his titanium Tag Heuer. No clocks in his debrief room. It hadn’t been a long night yet, he thought. Two delinquents dead. One all but. They’d deserved it, murderous punks. Feeding their habit. If all three were gone there’d be less paperwork. The commonwealth attorney perched, buzzardlike, next to him at the table. Pencil-neck politician. Probably resented being woken up this hour.
Wasn’t long ago that Carter had left Chicago’s mean seventh district to become a detective in the sheriff’s department of his sleepy hometown in New Kent County, Virginia. He still did homicide investigation, but at nothing like the one-a-day burn rate his team had done for years. The whole bloody confusion was still too familiar.
The killer sat across the table. His reflection in the stainless steel was distorted, fuzzy from a surface scarred by years of filet knives. Carter threw the green pack of gum on the slab, then stood and paced, neck back, eyes closed. So, what’s wrong here? Stupid question. The killer, Mr. Harmon.
Guy has a good job. Nice family. No record. Acted in self-defense. Video from the parking lot cameras proved it. Even pencil-neck said they couldn’t charge him. But Harmon’s story didn’t make sense. Experience told Carter when a piece didn’t fit, something was hidden. But he had to be careful not to overstep legal bounds.
Recon Page 27