This was a perfect solution for Dan. He didn’t want to halt service to his country. He did want to get back to his personal interests that involved ocean studies. He had a marine biology degree and had even published some scientific study results.
Dan agreed to transition into this special arrangement through the last two years of active service. He received a ‘sterile’ separation that left no hint of future trails. It allowed him the anonymity and privacy that he relished. He also received a private chain of contact that he could initiate.
Now, five years had sailed by without snafus, but recent experiences pushed Dan toward believing that he might need to make contact with friends in high places.
16. TYING UP LOOSE ENDS
Frank scanned the view from where he sat behind the wheel at the foot of the driveway. The left-side fence ran from the carport across to the neighbor's house corner, closing off easy access to the back yard from that side. There were shrubs and a few small trees along the fence line obscuring the view into the yards.
Greg opened his door, got out of the car again, veering toward the front door. Frank opened his door, stepped out and around the front of the car, then up the drive and into the carport. As he approached the door into the house, he stopped, ear close. Sounds like a radio. It was soft, from somewhere deeper in the house. He knew this door led into the kitchen, having spotted the vents from the road. He stayed there, listening. The doorbell rang, There it is... He waited to hear Greg to start talking to their guy. As he did, Frank put his hand on the door knob, turned it very slowly, could feel the latch let go but the door didn't budge. Deadbolt. Still nothing of a conversation.
As he waited, hand on doorknob and ear pressed to the door, he heard the bell again but no other sounds. Coming back out of the carport, he caught his partner's eye, shook his head, then signaled that he would try another entry point around the side or back yard. Greg nodded. As planned, Greg would stay there, ringing the bell every minute to keep some attention on his presence for anyone inside.
Frank walked past him and scurried past windows to approach the right side of the house, where there was more fencing and a gate. As he approached the gate, a dog in the next yard over greeted his presence, first with a throaty growl and followed by loud barking. Frank hated that, but knew he needed to proceed.
He clicked his tongue and spoke softly. "Hey boy. It's okay. Just me. It's okay. Good boy." He waited. After pausing for a few moments to let Bowser settle down, he put his hand on the latch and slowly activated it. He breathed a sigh of relief when it snicked open and the gate pushed into the side yard space. Bowser had reduced his urgent barking to conversational. Frank saw him through fence slats, trotting back and forth along his side of the yard, snuffling and sniffing at the ground. The deeper growl snuck out between other noises, telling Frank to watch out. He could only hope that the fence did its job as an effective barrier.
Working toward the back, pausing to sneak peeks into windows along the way. As he cleared the corner to the back of the house, he saw a slider door. Continuing a slow approach, he moved until he was standing just to the side of it. He waited, heard the doorbell again, could barely hear the muffled sound of the radio, did a quick, bobbing glance through the glass. He saw what appeared to be a small office space, a desk and chair, door to hallway open. A gentle push on the edge of the door's hand slot and the door slid open a half inch.
Frank pulled his pistol, eased the safety off, took a slow breath and slid the door open enough to slip into the small room, froze in place. He heard the doorbell ring again, waited. No other sounds besides Eric Clapton's melodic prediction that after midnight, they were going to let it all hang out. His eyes scoured the room in a sweep, saw an open tackle box on the floor. Pistol box. He mouthed "Fuck!" A few cartridges and miscellaneous firearm supplies were laying on the floor around the box. That was all Frank needed to know in the moment.
He made no move, eyes laser-focused on the open door, listening for any new sound. Anything appearing fast in his vision within the next few moments was going to catch a bullet.
He allowed the doorbell one more ring, preceded by several sharp raps on the door, made by the class ring Greg wore on his left hand. Finally moving forward, he crept to the open doorway, took a quick glance left down the hall, then turned right to the front door and opened it. Greg stepped in across the threshold, nodded to acknowledge Frank's finger at his lips. As Greg closed the door behind him, Frank used the back of his hand, wiped the sweat from his upper lip, then brow.
Within a couple more minutes, they'd cleared the house and knew that their target was gone. The only other thing they knew for sure was that he had not driven away in his van. Frank fumed. He didn't want to call Steve, but knew he would have to update him on this development. He made the call, received terse instructions; Clean up the entry and return to where they had posted earlier on the highway.
17. WHO ARE THOSE GUYS?
“If your old car is available, I could do some discreet detective work. I want to find out who owns that boat. You can be damned sure there aren’t many Turismo forty-fours within a couple hundred miles of here.”
“I don’t see why not,” Joe replied. “It’s just taking up space in the garage. You can use it and park it there when you come home. There’s a remote for the garage door in it, since I always park in the driveway. I’ll make sure to park over to the side so you will be able to pull in and out whether we are here or not.”
“I might need to stay away for a while...." Dan added, "considering my recent visitors.”
“Hey, don’t worry about that. The car's yours to use as long as you need it, and the good news, it's still insured!"
"Thanks, Brother." Dan reached out and two open palms met to form a tight grasp. "You're saving my ass here."
"Let’s consider one more thing," Joe suggested. "How about checking in with me down the road? I know you're independent, but I'm going to worry if I don’t hear from you.”
“Yeah, that’s a good idea," Dan agreed. "I'll call you in a couple days if I don't see you by then. If you haven’t heard from me after three days, you could call the locals. By then, a ‘missing person’ report could carry a little weight, especially if you show them a video.”
They shook hands again, locked eyes. Dan understood Joe's concern and willingness to be there. He appreciated having the friend and the resource.
“Let’s go upstairs, Dan. Before you head out, I’m going to see if those yahoos are still there.” They went up the steps, into the kitchen. While Dan informed Sandy that he'd have to pass on the taco dinner, Joe retraced steps to the front room where he could look up the street.
"Is everything okay, Dan?" She asked as Joe was returning to the kitchen.
"My van's acting up a bit. Joe said I could use your old car. Hopefully, I won't need to use it for long." Joe shot a thumb's up to Dan. With that, they went back downstairs and into the garage.
"I guess they gave up, Dan. The car's gone. You keep in touch now."
As Dan got into the car, Joe activated the door opener from the wall switch. Dan reversed out of the garage, and with a nod to his friend, backed into the street and drove away.
18. FOLLOWING A HUNCH
Frank chewed at his lower lip. Not accustomed to being fooled, this disappearing act of Hardesty's started eating at him before they'd left the house. As they sanitized their illegal entry by wiping away prints, neither of them spoke. They returned to the car and drove back to the main road, then west toward the coast. At a corner, Frank pulled the car off the road where a small service station and mom and pop market sat. Transmission thrown into reverse, he tucked it into the shadows next to the store. Now they were facing the main road. He remained silent, stewing.
◆◆◆
Greg stole glances over at his partner from the corner of his eye. He hadn't been in the game as long, relied on Frank for his expertise. Secretly, he harbored concerns that Carmichael had become a loose cannon. Sit
ting here, he could feel the simmering turmoil coming from the driver's side. As he thought about that, Frank turned, reached back to pick up the binoculars, shoved them at Greg.
◆◆◆
“Here, keep your eyes on cars coming this way. I've got a feeling, if we haven’t already missed him, our Mr. Hardesty is going to be coming down the road, and if he does, I don’t want him getting away again.”
Greg started to protest but Frank glared him into silence.
“You were just standing at the door with him. Picture him with a hat and dark glasses. Let me know when you see him or someone who looks like him.” Frank returned to silent brooding. Greg watched the cars coming and going. Five minutes later, he saw a maroon Subaru coming down the hill.
“This could be him.”
Frank snapped from the dark place he'd been, sat up, stared out the windshield. “Is it, or isn’t it?”
“I think so. Same color hair on the sides. Ball cap. Dark glasses.” Frank turned the key, dropped the tranny into drive and stepped off the brake. The sedan began a slow forward roll, oak tree shadows flickering, receding over the dark blue roof. Their faces turned in unison, tracking the square back sedan as it passed by.
Three cars separated them from the Subaru by the time they entered the roadway. Frank kept his eye on the vehicle and when he had the opportunity, he passed a small Toyota in front them to close the distance.
◆◆◆
"Frank, he might see us!" was something Greg should have suppressed from blurting out to prevent "Shut the fuck up!" from sneering out of the right side of Frank's mouth. His cigarette bobbed on the left side, syncopated with each syllable.
The road was a ubiquitous 'S', descending to the ocean. Tawny grasses filled the curves, sprinkled with interruptions of thistle, small clusters of wild poppy or verbenas. When Greg asked if they should update Steve, Frank ignored him.
19. THAT DARK BLUE CROWN VIC
Dan was certain that his only chance of figuring out who the boaters were was to track down the Turismo. Success in that would tell him more about what led to his dangerous and disastrous morning. If he made good time, he could hit the small boat harbors in and around Santa Barbara. He hoped it would be easy. Those things were heavy on his mind as he left Joe and Sandy’s place and drove out of the neighborhood.
His heightened alert status was back on from the moment the garage door opened. As he drove, he found himself looking side to side, watching for the Ford that had been blocking his driveway. The only one resembling the car parked at his house was one he almost missed. It sat facing the road, snuggled next to the Quick~Shoppe and easy to miss if he had not looked that way. He wasn’t certain at first. Then rooftop shadow flickers caught his eye. The car was moving and two faces were looking toward him. As he continued on past, he kept view of it in his mirrors and the sedan pulled into traffic a few cars behind him.
He maintained speed until he saw the blue sedan jump out of line and pass the car ahead of it. Dan increased pressure on the gas pedal. He planned to grow the distance, hoping he’d have an opportunity to pull off somewhere, keep his exit hidden by a turn in the road. He had success leaving the Ford further behind at first. As he drove, there were fewer opportunities to turn off. The local homes thinned and a stretch of undeveloped land on either side of the road increased.
Before driving around a large bend, he decided the turn off for the dump was as good as he could get and it was coming up. The turn off was immediately after the bend. With no signal, as he rounded the curve, he slammed on the brakes, made a quick turn. This road was a combination of dirt and gravel. As soon as he was off the asphalt, he slowed down to reduce the dust cloud while going up the slope.
He was out of luck as far as hiding spots, as there were no vehicles present and the gate was closed. He pulled close to where the embankment came down on his left and stopped. At best, his tail would keep going. At worst, that Ford would pull into this place and they would be face to face.
Dan jumped out, ducked down so that he had the embankment to his back and crouched behind the car. He pulled his pistol, cracked opened the slide to see a round in the chamber, then waited.
20. FRANK
As they wound down the road, Frank watched for any possible turns the Subaru could have taken. There were few turn-offs along these dried, grassy coastal hills. When he noted the dump station turn sign, he considered the upcoming turn as a possible. Above the rise just beyond, he could see a small dust cloud billowing.
“This might be it, Greg. Get ready.” He slowed and then turned off onto the road on the right side. He eased the sedan forward and as they made the curve, he saw the back end of the Subaru, the car parked up next to a slope. He didn't see a driver. Transmission into park, he killed the engine.
"You go up your side," he directed Greg. "I'll circle around from the left."
◆◆◆
Greg opened his door and stepped out. The crunch of gravel was absurdly loud. His grip on the Sig 220, usually sound, was way too slippery. He paused at the front wheel well of the Ford, glancing over at Frank, who was easing past the driver's door, held up a finger.
Frank called, "Hardesty. Step out!" and Greg thought the Colt .45 in Frank's hand looked more like a cannon. Frank nodded toward the Subaru’s rear and Greg took a deep breath, his heart racing. He lowered his posture, advancing toward the rear of the small car. His partner watched the Subaru, with glances toward Greg’s progress.
21. GREG
Great!... I get to be the bait... Frank's hanging back... see what happens... trial by fire... That's okay... I'll show him I can carry my weight...
He eased up the grade, walking a slow curve toward the rear of the hatchback. Watching the far edge where the rear window met the frame. Any moment he anticipated a face or shoulder to break that line. He was ready to shoot. His arc brought him to within a few yards of the rear.
He didn't have time to recover from the gunshot’s sound. His feet came out from under him in a searing, shattering blast of pain. His pistol went flying as he went down. Both of his hands opened to clutch at his ruined ankles. The bastard shot him from under the car. He'd pitched his eyes toward the space between the car and ground when he heard the next shot.
22. FRANK
As Greg crept forward in an arc toward the rear of the Subaru, Frank moved slowly from the left side, shadowing his partner's progress. They'd have a crossfire advantage, should they need it. As Frank left cover of the car, a shot rang out. He saw Greg drop from sight, heard him scream in pain.
Frank lurched forward, Colt extended, aimed where he expected to see a crouched body behind the car, three feet off the ground. That move was his last voluntary movement. A bullet entered his chest, tore into his heart, leaving a tattered, broken pump. His momentum carried him forward, down to the ground. His eyes saw the figure lying on the ground, pistol pointed. A thought flashed... follow-up call to Steve.
His eyes tracked to the shooter’s face. The last thought was a murky one–Hardesty.
23. TRYING TO CRAWL
Greg gave up on the idea of a call for help. Any action that caused his legs to move sent daggers of pain up from somewhere near where ankles had been. The only thing he could do was grab at the ground, try to drag himself away from the scene, but going nowhere fast. Every inch, he gained with agony.
Suddenly, through miserable progress, two shoes in front of his face. He started a roll to his side which only sent new torment stabbing him. Though his effort was in the shoulders, torso and hips followed obediently. Legs tagged along, feet refused to stay behind, though their attachment was tenuous at best. Then, through the pain and fear, he felt a hand on his shoulder.
24. A BRIEF INTERVIEW
Dan stood in front of the man on the ground. He watched him begin a roll to his side, then halt in an agonizing moan. Dan placed his hand on the man’s shoulder, and the man turned his head and neck until their eyes met.
“Hardesty, you don’t know what yo
u’ve done,” he croaked out, raspy, breathless.
“I’ll tell you what I’ve done, mother fucker. I 've just defended myself against you and your partner’s felony assault. Now, who do you work for and why the fuck are you bothering me?”
The man stared at Dan, said nothing. Dan moved around, placed one knee on the man’s shoulder, patted at the pockets of the jacket. He pulled a billfold from a breast pocket, exposed the empty shoulder holster. He flipped open the wallet, found a government-issued I.D. that said this was Gregory Johnson, Central Intelligence Agency. The photograph, minus the pain, matched the face contorted in front of him.
“Gee whiz, Detective Johnson, this doesn’t say you’re a detective or with the county.”
Dan lowered his face, got up close and personal to Greg’s ear. At the same time, one hand slipped under Greg’s neck, applied firm grip to the man's larynx. He didn't crush it, but knew the guy felt a threatening pressure.
“What the fuck is the agency doing with me?” Dan growled. The man grimaced, trying to tighten his neck in defense against the pressure. “You guys have something to do with that boat." It was a statement, not a question. Greg turned his eyes to Dan, said nothing.
Dan stood, walked over and around the car to the other guy’s body. He found similarly issued I.D. for a Franklin Carmichael, not much else. Dan came back around, planned another attempt at gaining information. He saw the Greg guy struggling to turn onto his side. When they made eye contact, Greg raised another pistol, fired a shot. It went wide as Dan pulled his gun, returned fire, and the man’s head snapped back.
Predators and Drones Page 4