The Double Man (Jack Widow Book 15)

by Scott Blade

  Widow said, “Something on your mind, guys?”

  The jarhead cop was all business. He asked, “You got an ID, sir?”

  Widow said, “Why?”

  “Sir, I’m a Kodiak police officer, and I’m asking for your identification.”

  “I can see that. But I’m asking you what for? I’m not operating a vehicle. I’m not loitering. I’m in a public place minding my own business.”

  “Sir, I’m asking for your driver's license. Do you have it on you?”

  Widow thought for a quick moment and said, “I don’t have a driver’s license.”

  “Sir, do you have a form of ID on your person?”

  Widow glanced over the jarhead cop’s shoulders, once at the female cop, and then at the clean-cut cop. The female was cool, calm, and collected. Next to the jarhead cop, she appeared to be the most professional. She wore a pair of aviator sunglasses. Widow could see a tiny blip in their reflection that he thought might’ve been him.

  He could turn right, fall over the ledge, dive into the water below, and swim down deep. He probably could swim beneath the wharf. They would have to regroup, call in divers and boats and the Coast Guard. He might get away. Maybe. But he didn’t do any of that.

  He said, “I got a passport.”

  The jarhead cop said, “Where is it?”

  Widow said, “Back pocket.”

  Which, he knew was exactly where the cops didn’t want it to be because it meant they would have to ask him to stand up and reach behind him to grab it and pull it out. They didn’t want him to say it was there because that’s where he would also keep a gun.

  The jarhead cop said, “Stand up for me please, sir. Slow.”

  Widow looked at him again, glanced at the other two, glanced at the clean-cut cop’s unholstered weapon. He thought about going over the side again. He could make it. He was a good swimmer. Being a former SEAL, that was a given. But he couldn’t outswim bullets at his back, and Widow had experience being shot in the back before. He never wanted to feel that again. So he turned back toward the police. He scooped his right leg that had been dangling over the side of the wharf over the water and put it over the lip and planted his foot on the concrete. He started to stand up.

  The jarhead cop held one hand up, palm facing Widow. It was his left hand, the hand that wasn’t resting on his gun. It wasn’t his gun-drawing hand. He said, “Move slow, please.”

  Widow slowed down his pace and stood up on both feet. He kept one eye on the clean-cut cop’s weapon.

  The jarhead cop said, “Hold up.”

  Widow froze, his hand halfway back to grab his passport out of his pocket.

  The jarhead cop asked, “You got any weapons on you?”

  Widow paused a beat. He remembered once stabbing a guy with a toothbrush. But he wasn’t carrying a toothbrush, not today. He had used one back at Liddy’s place, and he left it there sitting on the sink.

  Widow said, “No weapons.”

  “Okay. Get your ID out.”

  Widow continued reaching behind him. He kept his other hand out, palm out and visible for the officers to see it was empty. Widow fished around in his back pocket and pulled out his passport and reached it out in front of him for the jarhead cop to take it. The jarhead cop looked Widow in the eyes with a stare that looked like it came from years of working as a drill instructor in the Corps. Maybe the guy had done that very thing. He moved his gun hand away from the butt of his Glock and stepped forward, his boot went up on the curb and the sidewalk, followed by his other one. He kept his eyes on Widow’s and stopped walking at arm’s length. Widow moved his hand up and extended the passport out. The jarhead cop took it and inspected it.

  The passport’s cover was crinkled and worn. The interior wasn’t much better.

  The way the jarhead cop flipped the pages, he accidentally started from the rear and worked his way all the way to the front, passing up dozens and dozens of stamped locations that Widow had traveled to.

  The jarhead cop didn’t ask about all the country stamps. He flipped until a bald eagle stared at him along with the Preamble to the US Constitution: "We the People." He looked down at the photo in the passport. He held it up, a little high because of Widow’s height, and out in front of his face until Widow could only see half the guy’s face.

  The jarhead cop cocked his eyes over to the photo and then over to Widow, and back to the photo. He followed this action by doing it a few more times. The eyes darted to Widow’s face, back to the photo, back to his face, and so on.

  The jarhead cop lowered the passport and inspected the information. He read out loud. “Jack Widow?”

  “That’s right.”

  “It says here, your passport has expired.”

  “It has?” Widow asked.

  “Yep.”

  “That doesn’t nullify it though. Not as an ID.”

  The jarhead cop looked up at Widow and said, “I didn’t say it did.”

  Widow stayed quiet.

  The jarhead cop asked, “You former military?”

  “Navy.”

  “What rank?”

  “I got out at commander.”

  The jarhead cop nodded. He held the passport closed with his index finger jammed into it, bookmarking Widow’s photo. He looked Widow up and down.

  Widow tried to be polite by smiling and asking a counter question to show interest in the guy. It was a longshot, but sometimes that old military comradery is planted down deep in a man. Sometimes it was down in the core, making it harder to ignore. Widow tried to be tactful, to bond with the guy.

  So, with a smile on his face, he asked the most obvious question of obvious questions. Widow asked, “You were a jarhead?”

  It worked—sort of. The jarhead cop grinned half a smile and said, “What gave me away?”

  Widow nodded and asked, “What rank?”

  “I retired at master sergeant.”

  “That’s impressive. You did twenty years?”

  “I did. How long were you in?”

  Widow said, “I was in sixteen years.”

  Although that wasn’t technically true. He did four years at Annapolis, worked in the Navy for a while before the NCIS tapped him. Then he went to school in Quantico and was recruited into Unit Ten, where he went right back into the Navy undercover and through BUD/S, SEAL training. The rest of his time was as a SEAL, but really, he worked undercover for Unit Ten.

  The jarhead cop said, “I was in twenty years. I would still be in if I could.”

  “What happened?”

  The jarhead cop reached down and patted his right leg, top of his thigh. He said, “I got shot in the leg. I can walk and jog and all. At the time, I had to go through months of physical recovery. It was nearly a year before I could walk without a cane.”

  “You look good now. No one would even know.”

  The jarhead cop said, “I still look funny running.”

  Widow cracked a smile and stayed quiet.

  The jarhead cop said, “Listen, you don’t have any weapons on you, right?”

  “I already told you no.”

  “I’m going to ask you to turn around and face away, keep your hands up,” the jarhead cop said.

  Widow furrowed an eyebrow involuntary. He looked at the three cops, one by one again, and then he asked, “What for?”

  “Just comply please, Mr. Widow. I’ll explain, but first we need to check you for weapons.”

  Widow frowned, but in the end, what choice did he have? Resisting would just make matters worse. So he did as the jarhead cop asked. He lifted his hands up over his head and turned around slow.

  The jarhead cop said, “Put your hands on top your head.”

  Widow put his hands on top of his head slow.

  “Interlock your fingers,” the jarhead cop said.

  Widow did as he was told. The jarhead cop moved in closer and pocketed Widow’s passport. Widow could sense the other two cops moving in closer and circling around to the ten and three on
a clockface from him. He confirmed it with his peripheral vision. He saw both of them from one side of his line of sight and then the other. He kept his head as straight as he could.

  The jarhead cop put both hands on him and patted him down. He checked Widow’s pockets, waistband, both arms and sleeves, both legs and pant sleeves. He stopped in the front and was more reluctant to pat Widow down in his groin. The jarhead cop was so reluctant Widow could’ve smuggled a firearm in his underwear, in the front, and the jarhead cop would’ve missed it. Of course, Widow wouldn’t have done that. It's the dumbest place to conceal-carry. Forget about the obvious dangers to a man. It’s not practical or tactical. You can’t draw a gun very quickly from your underwear. That takes time. He’d have to undo his belt, unbuckle his pants, and pull them down just to reach in there to pull out a gun.

  Once the jarhead cop was done with his search, he stepped back and tapped Widow on the shoulder. He said, “You can put your hands down and turn back around now.”

  Widow kept moving slow. He let his arms lower down to his sides, kept his palms out, and he turned around. He stared at the jarhead cop and glanced at the female and then the clean-cut cop. He looked back at the jarhead cop and asked, “Satisfied?”

  “Yes. You are unarmed.”

  “I told you that.”

  The jarhead cop said, “I had to be sure.”

  Widow asked, “Wanna tell me what this is all about?”

  “Were you over near Lucky’s about an hour ago?”

  Widow said, “I have no idea what Lucky’s is?”

  “It’s a sports bar. It’s over in a plaza. Were you behind it in the alley between other buildings … downtown?”

  Widow said, “I don’t remember seeing any bar.”

  “Were you in an alley downtown an hour ago?”

  “I might’ve been.”

  “Did you have an altercation with some local boys?”

  Widow thought for a moment. He didn’t want to give the guy more information than necessary, but he also didn’t want to lie. Lying to police is a whole other set of charges that he might already be facing. So he told the truth but kept it simple.

  He said, “They attacked me. I defended myself.”

  The jarhead cop asked, “You beat up five guys?”

  Widow stayed quiet.

  The jarhead cop asked, “By yourself?”

  Widow stayed quiet.

  The jarhead cop said, “So there was a firearm discharged. The bar staff heard it, and we located the bullet.”

  “That was quick.”

  “It slammed into the back of a laundry mat. Luckily, the building is made of brick. The owner was in the back office when the bullet hit the exterior wall near his head. If it had been siding or wood, then he might be dead.”

  Widow stayed quiet.

  The jarhead cop said, “Where do you keep your gun?”

  “I don’t own a gun.”

  “Did you shoot that gun?”

  “I don’t own a gun.”

  The jarhead cop said, “You were there?”

  Widow stayed quiet.

  “Are you refusing to answer my question?” the jarhead cop asked.

  Widow didn’t want to lie, but he didn’t want to admit the truth either. Impasse. So instead, he reverted to a time-tested measure—the Socratic method.

  He asked, “You think I was there?”

  The jarhead cop said, “We know you were there.”

  Widow searched his memory banks for a security camera. Maybe he had been seen on one back at the alley? But he was pretty sure there were no cameras and no witnesses, except for the guys he left in a heap on the ground.

  “How do you know that?”

  The jarhead cop raised his hand and pointed at the trash can. Where Widow had discarded his empty espresso cup and said, “You left behind a paper espresso cup. I’m sure if we pulled the prints, yours would come back. Plus, one of the guys told us they were attacked by a man who …”

  He trailed off before finishing his sentence and smiled.

  Widow asked, “What?”

  “One of them called you Captain America.”

  “What?”

  “He said you were like Captain America. You know? A muscle-bound pretty boy who beat the shit out of five big guys like you were a super soldier from a science experiment.”

  “Pretty boy?” Widow asked. He had been called a lot of things in his life, but never that.

  The jarhead cop said, “Yeah. That’s you. Gotta be.”

  Just then, the female cop spoke for the first time. She stood to Widow’s left. The tips of her boots were about fifteen feet away from the tips of his shoes. She said, “It’s him.”

  The jarhead cop said, “Did you fire the gun?”

  Widow said, “I don’t own a gun.”

  The jarhead cop said, “One guy is in the hospital, you know?”

  Widow stayed quiet.

  The jarhead cop said, “He likely won’t breathe right again. He might need medical assistance for the rest of his life. You know what that means?”

  Widow stayed quiet.

  The jarhead cop said, “It means he might need a device around his throat to help him inhale and exhale correctly.”

  Widow stayed quiet.

  The jarhead cop asked, “You do that to him?”

  “They attacked me. Five of them. They had weapons. I was unarmed. They had rebars and a gun.”

  The jarhead cop reached to his belt and pulled a set of handcuffs out of a leather pouch. He held the cuffs by one side, and the other side dropped and dangled from his hand like a metal noose.

  Widow stared at them. He was no kind of a gymnast, but he could move fast, faster than people often thought because of his stature. He could tuck his head in, fold his body inward so that he was a smaller target, and he could turn right, run, and dive off the wharf. He could still make his water escape. At least there, he would be free from handcuffs and cops and interviews and paperwork and possibly a trial. But Widow had done nothing wrong. That’s the inevitable dilemma of a fair and equal justice system. It punishes the guilty and frees the innocent, but it takes its sweet time doing it.

  The jarhead cop said, “We have to take you in. Come peacefully, and we’ll get this all straightened out.”

  In the end, Widow put his hands out, palms up, and offered his wrists to the jarhead cop. Technically, the jarhead cop should’ve cuffed Widow from behind, but he didn’t. Probably because of Widow’s cooperation or his military record and comradery or all of them, the jarhead cop cuffed Widow in the front, and they led him over to the back of the female’s patrol car. He went in the back seat.

  The clean-cut cop had his Glock out the whole time until Widow was secure in the back seat of the female cop’s car. Then he holstered it.

  17

  Nervous and a little uneasy, Peter sat in a pickup parked across the street from where Widow was being arrested. The truck belonged to Liddy’s company. It was unmarked, low miles. The interior was a burnt-orange leather. The truck was matte black on the outside. The dashboard had all the bells and whistles of a new truck, only it wasn’t new. It wasn’t right off the lot. It was five years old. The odometer showed less than thirty thousand miles on it. Actually, it showed just over twenty-three thousand. The vehicle didn’t get driven much. It was unmarked on the outside because it was for company use, which meant it was used to transport guests from the Kodiak Airport or their hotels in city of Kodiak to the dock, where they would board the same seaplane that Peter flew Widow in, unless the number of guests was larger than four.

  If there were more than four, then Peter took them in Liddy’s larger seaplane. The larger plane was parked on another part of the island. They used it more to transport different guests together to one of the other islands in the Kodiak Archipelago, all depending on what package they purchased. The hunters were put together in hunting parties, all based on what the game was, the hunters’ country of origin, the time slots they preferred, and
most importantly, the dollar amount on the package’s purchase price. The more money they spent, the better time they had. The same system went for the sports fishermen. It was all standard operational procedures. It was all standard practice among Alaska’s largest gaming companies and lodging services.

  The Kodiak Archipelago contains roughly 5,360 square miles of land when combined. There are numerous islands. Kodiak is the largest. And there are forty smaller glaciers that can be traversed by foot.

  Peter looked at himself in the rearview mirror and wiped his face dry with his hand, as if that would calm him down. He was about to deliver his boss the bad news. His boss wasn’t Bill Liddy. He was Bill Liddy’s keeper.

  Peter picked his cell phone up off the seat and looked at the screen and unlocked the phone. He scrolled until he saw the number and dialed it. The phone rang once, twice, three times. On the fourth ring, he prayed for voicemail. He didn’t get it. Instead, he got the Broadcaster.

  The Broadcaster said, “Yes?”

  “I have bad news.”

  “I’m listening?”

  Peter said, “They got him.”

  “Who? They have who? And who are they?”

  “The stranger. The new guy. Jack Widow. They arrested him.”

  The Broadcaster asked, “Who arrested him? The cops?”

  “Yes. KPD. They have him in custody. They just arrested him.”

  “Peter, you were supposed to get rid of him. You’re proving to be quite useless. You know nothing about this stranger. You let Liddy get away from you. I told you to get rid of this guy, and you couldn’t even do that. Now you’re tell me he’s staying longer because he’s in lockup?”

  Peter said, “Not yet. They’re arresting him right now. At the ferry. He was going to leave. I swear. I’m watching the whole thing. He bought a ticket. He was waiting for the next boat.”

  “How did this happen? What did he do?”

  “He’s not the only one. My guys are already in jail.”

  The Broadcaster asked, “What? How?”

  “I sent them to give Widow a message. To expediate his departure.”

  “And?”

  “He beat them up.”

  “What?”