Recon

by David McCaleb

  “Mr. Harmon?”

  “Yes, sir,” he said, scratching his neatly trimmed beard. Eyes were bloodshot, starting to sag underneath. He’d been to the bathroom to wash blood from his hands, but still picked at what was dried under his fingernails. That sweater would never come clean.

  “Mind answering a few more questions?”

  “Sure. Can I talk to Lori first?”

  “Absolutely. No problem.”

  Carter peered through the small bulletproof window in the gray steel door at an empty hallway. “Looks like Sheriff Jenson is still talking with her. Mind if we go through this now? It’ll get you out faster. I appreciate your cooperation. You’ve heard about the gang problem we’ve had?”

  “I can wait. Rather not come back.” The killer took a deep breath and pushed his fingers through tight red locks. “But I don’t know what else I can add. Been through it twice. Can I see that parking lot video? I don’t understand why I can’t remember more.”

  Never answers my damn question. Knows exactly what he’s doing. Poker-faced. “Don’t see why not. Maybe it’ll jog your memory.” Carter slipped out and grabbed the DVD off his desk. Walmart’s security manager wasn’t there tonight, but the store supervisor gave it over when Carter promised he’d bring it back the next day. Yeah, right.

  “Your vehicle was parked near a light. Surveillance camera had a perfect view.” Carter slipped the disk into a player at the end of the table and fast-forwarded to 9:49, then pressed Pause. “If you honestly don’t remember this, well—it’s graphic. As graphic as a black-and-white security video can be.”

  Harmon shrugged. “If I did it, I need to see.”

  Pencil-neck pulled his chair closer to the TV. “Okay by me,” in a nasal voice, as if speaking through a pipe.

  Carter put it on slow motion. The closest gangbanger lunged at Harmon with the knife. He deflected the attack, grabbed the man’s wrist and locked his elbow, then snapped that arm and pushed the guy’s head through the rear window of the Explorer. He slammed a fist onto the back of his neck, slicing it open on the sharp edge of the broken window seal. As the body dropped to the pavement, one of the other thugs pulled a pistol from the front pocket of his sweatshirt. Harmon pushed it away, the gun firing three times into the air. He punched the attacker’s neck, grabbed the pistol as the body fell limp, and took aim at the last one sprinting away. That one knocked over the shopping cart in his haste. He was at full speed when Harmon shot twice with his left hand. The gangster fell, only his feet remaining inside the view of the security camera. Pause.

  Harmon stared at the screen.

  “Three seconds!” Carter said. “You killed two people, almost three, without a weapon of your own, and don’t remember. Sure you’re not a black belt or something?”

  Harmon rubbed a knuckle. “Building manager. Like I said.”

  Time to press. Carter sat and pointed at the screen, rewinding a few seconds. “Look at this. The guy who pulled the pistol. You punched him in the neck. Look at your hand just before that. You’re not making a fist. It’s flat, like a blade. I saw this guy’s body. You didn’t hit him. You stuck your hand into his neck, grabbed his throat, and yanked it out. That’s why you’ve got all that crud under your nails. That’s only second number two. A building manager, buddy, you’re not. The last guy, the smartest of the bunch, runs. Just not fast enough. Two shots. You plant one bullet in each thigh of a moving target. Three seconds.”

  Carter stood, tipping his chair so it crashed to the floor. Harmon was lying. But what could he charge him with?

  Pencil-neck shook his head, as if anticipating the question.

  Carter had nothing. Hell, he should thank Harmon for cleaning up. “You can’t see the rest in the video, but you scrubbed his face on the asphalt. According to our only witness, the guy in the Charger, you were swearing like a sailor. That’s saying a lot coming from a house framer. He thought you were the assailant. Thank goodness no one else was packing or they’d have shot the wrong guy.”

  No reply.

  Carter picked up the three-page witness statement from the table and pushed it toward Harmon. “I don’t get this. He said you kept yelling, ‘Who are you? Who hired you?’ as you beat the perp’s head against the blacktop. Why were you asking him that?”

  Red stared at the video screen and blinked. “I still don’t remember any of this. I’m sorry. Wish I could be more help.”

  Yeah, sure he did. He knew Carter had nothing. “That must’ve been when your wife got your attention. If she hadn’t, you would’ve been guilty of manslaughter. The first two were self-defense, but this guy was running away. Good thing you didn’t kill him. . . . For your sake, that is. NHI.”

  Harmon furrowed his brow.

  “NHI. No humans involved,” Carter said.

  Harmon squinted, and rubbed the bridge of his nose, as if to clear away disturbing thoughts. “Can I see Lori now?” Hell, this wasn’t going anywhere. Might as well order cocktails.

  “Yeah. That’s enough for now. Let’s get you home.” Carter turned the doorknob. “I’ll see if the sheriff’s done with her.” He shut the door behind him, making sure it didn’t slam.

  What was missing? Harmon was evasive for certain, but displayed no signs of it. Carter, if anyone, could read signs. He knew people, personalities, and when the two didn’t fit. Could tell when he was looking at the wrong pieces, or when some were missing. Oftentimes, like tonight, he couldn’t put it together right away. It all had to bounce around in his mind until the parts formed a meaningful whole. The other detectives in Chicago had called it women’s intuition. All the time jealous of his clearance rate. He walked down the hall, head down, thoughts bouncing.

  Turned the corner and bumped into Sheriff Jenson’s belly.

  “Oof,” said the portly man. “What you find out?”

  Jenson’s long, skinny legs led up to an ample middle, capped by skinny arms and neck. If he didn’t know where something was on his gun belt, he’d have to feel his way. Country boy, North Carolina type. Once Carter had settled in, this hillbilly first impression faded. The sheriff was slow spoken, but highly intelligent. Nothing got past him without notice.

  “You mean other than don’t get on his bad side? Nothing. Just like he said on the ride here, he doesn’t remember anything after he pulled his wallet, till his wife started yelling. Can’t figure out why I don’t believe a word of it. You pull his record?”

  “Yep. Nothing in it. Didn’t ’spect to find nuthin’, nohow. Hell, known his father for years. ’Nam vet, his daddy was. Tony played football with my boys. Get one hand on a pass and he’d bring her in. Not a single fumble, no matter how hard he got crunched. Back then he was small, but you had to add thirty pounds for meanness. Nasty as a boar hog on the field. One time some poor linebacker got between him and the end zone. Bastard woke up four minutes later, five yards back, and six points down.”

  Carter shifted his feet. “Sheriff. Uh, I’ve got to—”

  “Sorry. Other than a speeding ticket, clean. Talked to his wife. Damn, she’s a hot number, isn’t she? Real upset. Still shaky, so I didn’t ask too much. Said he works as a building manager at Varneck’s.”

  “What does she do?”

  “Some exec at a think tank, whatever that means. ‘Process improvement,’ she says. Sounds like bullshit to me.”

  Carter leaned an arm on the gray-painted cement block wall. “No reason to keep him. Mind if I let Red go home?”

  “Who’s ‘Red’?”

  “The killer. You know—Mr. Harmon. Said everyone but his wife calls him Red.”

  “Huh. Wouldn’t have thought he went by that. Once got in a fight with my youngest for calling him ‘Carrottop.’ Get him. I’ll let his wife know they can go.”

  Carter slipped back into the debrief room. Harmon was still sitting, arms on the fillet table, eyes focused nowhere. “Okay,
been a long night. Thanks for sticking it out. Stay in town till we contact you. Go home, get some sleep. Try to put it behind you. Remember, we’ve got counselors on retainer who can help you guys talk through things. Especially the kids.”

  “Thanks. I’m sad they saw it, but glad no one got hurt—well, you know what I mean. We’ll keep an eye on the kids. They’re at my parents’ now. Always sleep good there. At least tomorrow’s Saturday. We can all sleep in.”

  The chair screeched as pencil-neck stood. “I’ll let you know when a suit’s been filed.”

  Harmon stared at him, blank-faced. “We’re not charging you,” pencil-neck added, scratching a blotchy red cheek. “But this is America, so you’ll be sued by someone. Probably the house framer, for emotional distress. I advise getting a lawyer.”

  Carter rolled his eyes. “Mind signing the incident report?” He pushed the form toward Harmon. The killer signed quick as a doctor, pen clicking over the knife-marks, and pushed the papers back.

  “You ambidextrous?” Carter asked.

  “Not that I know of. Think I do pretty much everything righthanded.”

  Reload

  To save his family—and the free world—Red Harmon is back in the line of fire . . .

  A sinister enemy is stalking elite military operator Red Harmon and his loved ones. Turning the hunter into his prey, Red uncovers a plot that spans nations and draws him into the remote snow-covered ravines of North Korea. His objective: penetrate the darkest prisons of this mysterious nation to restore national security—and save all he holds dear.

  Caught in the danger . . .

  Red’s not the only one who’s been living with secrets. His wife Lori is a lot more than the typical suburban soccer mom she appears to be, and she’s stumbled onto something massive. The future of world peace depends on them—and on an enemy soldier with a powerful personal agenda. If Red’s mission fails, the balance of superpowers may never recover . . .

  Acknowledgments

  My debt of thanks in this writing endeavor is enormous. Though my name is on the cover, without the contributions of friends, colleagues, and subject-matter experts, this novel wouldn’t be worth reading. Always first, thank you to my wife and family for your continued support for, and tolerance of, my writing. For being the first to ask questions, provide suggestions, and point out error where I had seen none. Thank you for helping me be who I am.

  I am always grateful to all the members of my AA group—Authors Anonymous—for my weekly dose of accountability and humility. With a special thanks to Lenore Hart and David Poyer for your patience and sage wisdom in guiding our motley crew.

  Thanks to Betsy Glick, FBI Public Affairs, and Agent Cronan, FBI Denver Field Office, for your time and guidance on procedure. Thanks to all the gun nuts, rednecks, and gearheads that I’ve had the pleasure of knowing through the years. I could never list you all, but you provide more character fodder than an author could possibly ask for. I consider it an honor when I am counted among your number.

  Many thanks to my agent, Anne Hawkins. You are an absolute doll. To my editor, Michaela Hamilton, for believing in me, in the series, and your constructive critiques. To Alexandra Nicolajsen, Vida Engstrand, and the entire Marketing team at Kensington for your posts, tweets, interviews, covers, memes, and plethora of other efforts to keep us headed downrange.

  Thank you to Google for my last bazillion free searches. I may have spent plenty of time in Rocky Mountain National Park, but never Israel’s West Bank. You’ve provided articles, stories, photos, and videos, and have never complained that I don’t click your ads. I cheerfully take you for granted.

  Thank you to the entire thriller community of authors. You guys are open, encouraging, and willing to share. An inspiration. Thank you to International Thriller Writers for all the fun and your support. To the superstar authors Marc Cameron, David Poyer, Alan Jacobson, AJ Tata, and so many others, thank you for your willingness to read my manuscripts and provide blurbs.

  Lastly, thank you to my readers, for sharing, for enjoying my work, and for letting me know when I run awry. I appreciate each one of you. Please, connect with me on my website (DavidMcCaleb.com), Facebook (McCalebBooks), or Twitter (@McCalebBooks).

  I apologize for my thoughtlessness if I have left anyone out. All errors, as always, belong to Trump.

  Meet the Author

  David McCaleb was raised on a farm on the rural Eastern Shore of Virginia. He attended Valley Forge Military College, graduated from the United States Air Force Academy, and served his country as a finance officer. He also founded a bullet manufacturing operation, patented his own invention, and established several businesses. He returned to the Eastern Shore, where he resides with his wife and two children. Though he enjoys drawing, painting, and any project involving the work of hands, his chosen tool is the pen.

  Recon is the third novel in the Red Ops series that began with the acclaimed thriller Recall, which was nominated for the International Thriller Writers Best First Novel Award, and continued in Reload. Please visit David McCaleb on Facebook or at www.davidmccaleb.com.