The Echo of the Whip

by Joseph Flynn

  His next stop might be Cuba. He got up and started to pack a traveling bag. He had a loaded Glock 27 stashed in his Land Rover. Things got really hairy, suicide by cop might be preferable to disappearing into a government black site. No telling what they’d do to him there, given the shit he’d tried to perpetrate. That and the two guys he’d killed.

  He went down to his ride, dug out the Glock and sat behind the wheel.

  He thought if he shot it out right where he was, the cops might find Busby had just moved in across the street. If he had to go, he might as well take that bastard with him. Only the cops never came.

  After a two-hour wait, Brock went back inside, taking his gun with him just in case. He pulled up the video he’d thought might be a trap. What he saw boggled his mind. The L.A. cops, lots of them, had wanted to bust McGill. Well, him or somebody who was in that Chevy Suburban with him. McGill got out of the SUV like he was on his way to a Sunday picnic or something, started talking to some big shot cop like you could reason with those guys and …

  The picture switched from McGill to the sky.

  Two army attack helicopters zoomed in and looked like they were going to eat the police chopper that was hanging in the sky.

  Back to McGill and the top cop, who maybe was feeling more susceptible to reason now.

  Then another cop in a different uniform arrived and pretty soon everybody was shaking hands. The L.A. cops dispersed. McGill went on his way: no muss, no fuss. Well, yeah. You can whistle up attack aircraft in nothing flat, who was going to give you a hard time?

  Thinking that sooner or later McGill was going to come after him for trying to kill his wife, Brock started to tremble. McGill wasn’t going to let him go with a handshake: no harm, no foul. He was going to take Brock’s head off. Maybe not literally, but probably close.

  If Brock had known just what McGill was capable of, and whose wife he was threatening, he’d have forgotten all about becoming an anarchist and going into politics. He’d have stayed in investment banking, made his pile of money and made do with that.

  Now, Jesus, now, he’d have to … make an offering of Busby and …

  He couldn’t quite say even to himself that he’d surrender. If he did that, he’d still have to answer for Bahir Ben Kalil’s death and Howard Hurlbert’s, too, at a minimum. He’d probably get the death penalty. That was the price of killing a U.S. Senator.

  So maybe he would have to do himself in.

  But he’d sacrifice Busby first and see if that might make any difference in what punishment would be doled out to him.

  He thought he knew how he might sic the feds on Busby.

  His computer, apparently, hadn’t been phished, but maybe he could drop some bait in Busby’s digital pond. That or use some innocuous human intermediary.

  Southern California

  The domestic audience for the McGill vs. LAPD video was even larger than the international viewership, at least for the first 24 hours. Two of the more interested observers sat in hotel rooms separated by 90 miles. At the Santa Barbara Biltmore, Edmond Whelan sipped a Macallan 25, neat. At the L.A. Airport Marriott, Eugene Beck partook of a Smog City Little Bo Pilsner.

  Each man offered to himself, aloud, a contradictory sentiment about what he’d just seen.

  Whelan said, “That sonofabitch has got to go. Killing him would cut the heart out of the Grant administration.”

  Beck said, “That SOB will be almost impossible to kill. I could get my ass shot off just trying.”

  Seeing McGill defuse a potentially violent situation with a mob of cops scared Whelan.

  Watching the same thing intrigued Beck.

  He wondered if he’d have had the nerve to do what McGill had done. Get out of his car with just the one dude. The other guy had to be Secret Service. Still, if things had gotten to the point of a shooting war, McGill and the agent would’ve been cut to pieces.

  Of course, it would have taken an overload of testosterone and a complete absence of brain cells to open up on the president’s husband in broad daylight with the whole world watching. Still, that didn’t mean there wasn’t at least one gomer among all those cops who qualified on both counts. Things could have gone wrong. About as wrong as wrong ever got.

  McGill had to know that. Didn’t matter to him, though. He still made his play.

  Guy had to have massive gonads.

  Pretty good luck, too, the way those army attack birds showed up so fast.

  All that was what intrigued Beck.

  And scared Whelan.

  He would have been even more frightened had he known what the man he’d coerced to kill McGill was thinking. Namely that Beck would solve his problem by taking out the guy who was trying to play him for a sap.

  The irony was, Beck, after watching the video, had become so fascinated by McGill that he was already thinking of how he might do him in. Just as an intellectual exercise. Right?

  The answer to that question was: Most likely.

  38,000 feet over Prince Edward Island

  Captain Welborn Yates sat in the right hand seat of the Bombardier Global 5000 as it cruised through the night sky over the Maritime Provinces of Canada. He, his wife, their twin girls, his parents and a gentleman introduced only as Smythe, who shook everyone’s hand and then retired to a private cabin, were the only passengers aboard. The pilot and first officer had brought the aircraft across the Atlantic from London, but once the New World was on the radar an invitation was extended to the guest from the USAF.

  “Captain Yates,” the pilot said, “would you like to sit in the right-hand seat to make sure we don’t go astray over North America? We wouldn’t want to cause a bother to American or Canadian air defenses.”

  Welborn snapped off a salute and replied, “At your service, sir.”

  He’d been hoping all along that they’d let him in the cockpit, if only for a moment, but didn’t want to be pushy enough to ask. He thought the flight crew was showing their appreciation for his good manners. Then the pilot, Group Captain Rowan Davies, RAF (retired), shared with Welborn the fact that the crew had been informed by Welborn’s father, the former personal secretary to Her Majesty, how his son’s career as a fighter pilot had ended.

  “Terrible thing that automobile crash taking the lives of your friends and brother pilots,” Davies said. “That and ending your own military flying career.”

  “Yes, it was,” Welborn said.

  “Smashing how you settled accounts with the blighter responsible.”

  Remembering how auto thief Linley Boland met his end, his small boat being rammed by a much larger vessel, Welborn replied, “That’s the word for it, all right.”

  Before that discussion could go any further, Welborn saw Davies straighten in his seat. If the pilot had been standing, he would have come to attention. He said, “Yes, ma’am. Immediately.”

  He gestured to Welborn to put on his headset. As Welborn did so, having seen Davies’ change in demeanor, Welborn thought the queen must have called for some unguessable reason. His guess had the right degree of prominence, but the wrong side of the ocean.

  Davies whispered to Welborn as his headset was going on. “Your president.”

  “Madam President, this is Captain Yates. How may I be of help?”

  “Please don’t argue with me, Welborn. That would be a good start.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Whatever you say.”

  “I’ve reviewed your request for promotion, and taken into account your reason for wanting it. Carina Linberg is one smart lady. I’m sorry she’s no longer working for the Air Force.”

  “Yes, ma’am. That is unfortunate.”

  “As your request was written, however, I’m going to deny it.”

  Welborn winced. He’d been all but sure he’d soon be a major. Playing it safe, though, he hadn’t said anything to Kira about it. Now, he was going to have find some other way to —”

  The president continued, “I think you undervalue yourself to me and my administration.
You’ve probably heard that Vice President Morrissey has announced her candidacy to be my successor.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “My hope is you’ll stay on if she asks you to serve in a capacity similar to what you do for me.”

  “I’d be honored, ma’am.”

  “Yes, but would you take it, if offered?”

  “I’d have to talk with the vice president first.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’d also have to speak with Kira.”

  “Well, as the person who introduced the two of you to each other, I think that’s fair. In any event, I don’t think the rank of major is sufficient for your position. I’ve promoted you to colonel, and as you’ve already promised not to argue, I trust you’ll accept the promotion.”

  Welborn tried to keep his head from spinning. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll do my best to honor your faith in me.”

  “You must make your parents very proud, Colonel Yates.”

  “I try my hardest with them, too, ma’am.”

  “Good. Now, see if you can impress Carina Linberg as well.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Group Captain Davies, held a thumb up in front of a questioning facial expression.

  He’d been too much of a gentleman to listen in to the president’s half of the conversation.

  Welborn returned the gesture.

  Then he told Davies, “Let’s see if we can put a call in to South Florida.”

  Chapter 8

  Thursday, March 26, 2015 — Los Angeles, California

  McGill’s phone rang at six a.m. The ring tone was “A Beautiful Morning,” by The Young Rascals. The tune had been a hit in 1967, and the times being what they were, his mother’s obstetrician had it playing in the delivery room when he was born. He’d felt a special attachment to it ever since.

  He didn’t even mind hearing it early that day, as he was already out of bed and tying the laces of his running shoes. He, John Tall Wolf and Elspeth Kendry were going for a run before they got down to business. Sweetie begged off, choosing to coordinate family matters with Putnam back in Washington. After the run, McGill planned to have another chat with Mira Kersten and see if his instincts about her being pregnant were on the mark.

  Maybe ferret out some other reason for her requesting his help.

  He thought Patti might be calling him — from somewhere other than her bath — to share news of great importance. Or just to say hello. Which was also no small thing.

  Only it wasn’t the president of the United States calling. It was Mindy Crozier.

  So said the ID screen on his phone.

  “Hello, Mr. McGill. Sorry for calling so early. Did I wake you?”

  “No problem. I’m already up. Just about to go out for a run.”

  “That’s cool.”

  “Where are you, Mindy?”

  “Heading south on PCH.” Pacific Coast Highway. “Coming back from Santa Barbara. A friend and I were on our way to San Francisco when my mom texted. She said you came by our house asking for me. You almost made Mom swoon, being who you are.”

  “I try to be careful about that,” McGill told her.

  Mindy laughed. “Ha, yeah, that’s cool, too. Anyway, I thought I better come back and talk to you.”

  “You don’t have to postpone your trip. We can talk right now.”

  “No, that’s okay, we’re almost to Malibu already, and I’d rather talk in person. Where are you going to run?”

  McGill had thought to run through residential areas of Beverly Hills, feeling it should be pretty quiet that early in the morning. Now, he changed his mind. “Palisades Park, Santa Monica.”

  “Great. That’s right on our way.”

  “We’ll be somewhere between San Vicente and the pier. Look for two heart-throb guys and a woman with an automatic weapon.”

  “Okay, that shouldn’t be too hard to find. Probably hook up within an hour.”

  Going down to the hotel lobby, McGill met with Tall Wolf and Elspeth.

  SAC Kendry was doing penance, getting up early, for her overzealousness with the LAPD yesterday. She was letting Deke sleep in while she took bullet-catching duty.

  Tall Wolf was fine with the change in the running plans.

  Elspeth didn’t like that McGill had told anyone where they’d be running.

  McGill told her, “Elspeth, you and John are armed. We faced down a hundred cops yesterday. I think we’ll be all right.”

  Elspeth asked if she should arrange for another attack helicopter escort.

  Moonlite Diner — Fort Lauderdale, Florida

  Carina Linberg thought she was getting too thin. She’d never enjoyed cooking, and the galley on Irish Grace, while adequate, didn’t encourage her to prepare more than the most basic of meals: grilled beef, chicken or fish. Salads were limited to two or three veggies. Sometimes just shredded lettuce with bottled Italian dressing. Even her desserts were prosaic. Supermarket pastries and Dove chocolates.

  Actually, the chocolates were quite good.

  Still, she was thinking of making some changes. As she’d told Welborn Yates, though, there was no way she would sell her boat. If she ever needed to get out of Dodge, metaphorically speaking, you couldn’t beat a seaworthy, well-provisioned sailboat. Small yacht, if you wanted to be generous about the description. You just motored quietly out of your marina when no one was looking, set sail for any point of the compass and you were gone.

  With the vastness of the world’s oceans and the profusion of maritime traffic, it would be easy to hide. She wondered what it said about her, though, that she thought she might be on the run from the law someday. She had no criminal record, no intent of acquiring one. Still, at the back of her mind she thought it was a good idea to have a quick getaway handy.

  The waitress brought her breakfast: two eggs, bacon, hash browns and a chocolate milk shake. That ought to pack on a few thousand calories. Of course, what she should do was eat smarter and get back to exercising more regularly, too. She’d once been able to do a set of ten full-extension chin-ups. Forty pushups. She hoped she could still do a small fraction of both.

  She blamed both her discontentment and her itch for self-improvement on Welborn.

  Colonel Welborn Yates.

  The handsome, faultlessly polite young bastard had gone ahead and gotten his double-jump promotion. There was only one way in the world that had happened. The president had come through for him. More than he’d even wanted. The commander in chief must have decided a major wasn’t good enough for her pet Air Force officer; so she’d made him a colonel.

  Hell, maybe Patti Grant, another older woman, had the hots for him, too.

  Nah, she had her own stud fantasy figure. McGill was closer to Carina’s age than Welborn was, but thinking of him didn’t light her up the same way. Maybe she was just a dirty old —

  “Colonel Linberg, ma’am. Captain Tinker reporting for duty.”

  Her morning breakfast date had just arrived, and honored her with a brief salute.

  Charlie Tinker had been nicknamed The Model Marine by more than a few of the women at the Pentagon, military and civilian. He might have been Welborn’s dark-haired older brother. Fashion magazine handsome with a small scar on his chin from a shrapnel nick, he’d set many a lady’s hear aflutter.

  Only he’d limited his dalliances with females who worked outside of the federal government in general and the Department of Defense in particular. He and Carina had a friendly but completely professional relationship when they’d both been in uniform. She’d still been in the Air Force when Charlie left the Marines. The whispers were he’d gone to work for the CIA.

  Carina had found that rumor plausible, but knew better than to try to verify it.

  By the time she had left the service and had gone to work for WorldWide News, she’d heard that Charlie had entered civilian life and established himself as a freelance photographer specializing in war zone images with a sideline in natural disasters. She’d gotten his emai
l address and complimented him on his work. Said they should get together for a drink sometime.

  They did just that, and on their second drink Charlie revealed he was gay. Dating women was just a cover for his military days. Now that being a gay Marine was acceptable …

  He would be coming out publicly the next day.

  Another possible romance for Carina shot to hell, but they remained good friends.

  Charlie lived down in South Beach and was happy to accept the breakfast invitation when Carina called. He kissed her cheek and took a seat in the booth opposite her. Then he looked her over and gave his right hand a small side-to-side waggle.

  “What?” Carina asked. “I look that bad?”

  “You were born too gorgeous to ever look bad, but you’re not happy. You’re letting yourself go a little.”

  Carina took a long slurp of her milkshake. “I’m sure you could fix me right up, only you weren’t born that way.”

  Charlie grinned. “I have straight friends, if you’d like an introduction or two.”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  The waitress came and took Charlie’s order. She gave him her best smile and even managed to sneak in a light touch of his arm. Never knowing both flirtations were wasted efforts.

  “Men,” Carina said when the waitress had departed, “even the gay ones.”

  “Now, now. Right after we eat, I’ll sneak you into Homestead.” The U.S. Air Force base in South Florida. “We’ll steal a B-2, and you can drop bombs on anybody you please.”

  Carina laughed. “That’d cheer me right up.

  “How about you let me share your breakfast and then you can share mine?”

  “That way your new little friend will know you’re spoken for?”

  “Yeah, and we can talk about why you wanted to see me without my going hungry.”

  Carina pushed her plate to the middle of the table. Charlie took a piece of bacon.

  “I’ll understand if you can’t help me, but what I’d like to know is anything you might know about our government’s spooks working as assassins.”