by Lee Gimenez
“My usual fee?” he asked.
There was no response and Ryan could visualize the FBI woman frowning. Finally she said, “Yes. Your usual fee. High as they are.”
The PI grinned. “I’m worth it. Otherwise you wouldn’t hire me.”
“All right, smartass. Enough banter.”
“What’s the case about, Erin?”
“A high-profile murder. It happened yesterday. Here in Atlanta.”
“Who’s the DB?”
“The president of Face-Look. The big social media company located here in the city.”
Ryan let out a low whistle. “That is high-profile. How was he killed?”
“He was assassinated. From what we’ve been able to piece together, he was shot by a sniper using a high-powered rifle.”
“Any clues?”
“None so far, J.T. That’s why I need you on this case. Your unorthodox methods are good at ferreting out information.”
“Okay, I’ll take the job. But I just got to St. Croix. I’m on vacation. I’ll be back in Atlanta in a week.”
“I need you here now,” Erin said, her voice hard.
Ryan gazed toward the beach and saw Rachel waving at him. She looked delectable in her red bikini.
“No can do,” he replied. “Like I said, I’m on vacation. I’ll see you in a week.”
“That’s not good enough.”
“Listen, Erin. I like working for you. And the FBI cases you’ve given me are some of the best work I’ve done as a PI. But Rachel and I have postponed this vacation too many times.”
“I’m not going to change your mind, am I?,” she said, a resigned tone in her voice.
“I’m afraid not. But don’t worry, I’ll be back next week. I’ll come to your office the day I get back, okay?”
“All right, J.T.”
He hung up the phone and slipped it in the pocket of his swim trunks. Then he strode the short distance to the beach, his bare feet sinking into the warm sand. He sat on a lounge chair next to Rachel’s.
She rested her drink on a side table. “Who was that on the phone?”
“Erin from the FBI.”
Rachel gave him a worried glance. “Does that mean ....”
“No, beautiful. I told Erin I wasn’t going to cancel my vacation.” He smiled. “I’ll work on the case when I get back.”
Her expression brightened and she returned the smile. “That’s a relief.” She caressed his arm and her smile turned mischievous. “We’ve got a lot of catching up to do, you and me.”
Ryan gave her a long look, taking in her intoxicating beauty. She was a tall, lean, and curvaceous woman in her mid-thirties. With long blonde hair, sparkling blue eyes, and classic good looks, she resembled a model. Besides her looks, she also had a razor-sharp mind and a vivacious wit.
Ryan pointed toward her red bikini, which did little to conceal her curves. “Since you’re a CIA operative, you must be working undercover. But looking at your swimsuit, you’re barely undercover.”
Rachel laughed. “You play your cards right and you may get to see a lot more.”
He grinned and they held hands. Then they both looked out toward the rolling surf a few feet away. Ryan felt more at ease and content than he had in a long time.
The warm sun and light breeze lulled him into sleep.
He awoke with a start sometime later and heard the clatter of machinery in the distance. Looking around the secluded beach, he saw nothing except palm trees, rolling surf, and the white sandy beach.
As the sound grew louder, he got up from the lounge chair and shielded his eyes from the bright sun to get a better look.
“What is it?” Rachel asked. “What’s that noise?”
Then he spotted it, a black helicopter flying low toward their location. He pointed. “Chopper. Could be military.”
Rachel stood next to him as they watched the helicopter land on the relatively flat beach. The rotor wash sprayed sand in all directions.
As the craft powered down, Ryan noticed there were no markings on the chopper, which was a Sikorsky Black Hawk. Its bay door opened and three men climbed out and began trudging towards them, their boots sinking into the sand. All three were wearing U.S. Army fatigues, with Military Police markings on their uniforms. The PI noticed they also had holstered sidearms.
When they were a few feet away, one of the men approached Ryan. “I’m Lieutenant Holder,” he said. “Are you John Taylor Ryan?”
“Yes. I’m J.T. Ryan. What’s this about?”
“You need to come with us, sir.”
“You haven’t answered my question, Lieutenant. What’s this about?”
“Sir, that will all be explained later. It’s a matter of national security. You just need to come with us.”
“I’m not going anywhere until I get some answers.”
Ryan noticed the MP’s hands moved and rested on the butts of their holstered pistols.
“We can do this the easy way,” the lieutenant said, “or the hard way. It’s totally up to you, sir.”
Ryan glared at him, then glanced at Rachel who looked bewildered.
“This is not a request,” the lieutenant added. “It’s an order.”
Angry and confused, Ryan balled his fists.
“You better go,” Rachel said in a quiet voice. “You have no choice, J.T.”
The PI took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “All right, damn it.”
The MPs escorted him to the helicopter and they climbed inside.
The rotor blades spooled faster and the engines whined to a loud roar. The chopper lifted off and seconds later receded into the horizon.
Chapter 3
The Pentagon
U.S. Department of Defense
Washington, D.C.
After a five hour flight from St. Croix to D.C. on a military transport jet, J.T. Ryan had been escorted to the small conference room he was in now.
The three MPs who had put him in the helicopter were still with him, posted outside the conference room. On the flight he had been given food and a change of clothes, but none of his questions had been answered.
Ten minutes later the door to the conference room opened and an Army officer wearing his Class A blue uniform stepped inside. Closing the door behind him, he extended his hand to Ryan. “I’m General Keating.”
As they shook hands, Keating said, “Please have a seat, Mr. Ryan.”
They sat across from each other at the conference table and Ryan said, “Am I under arrest?”
The general gave him a wry smile. “Of course not.” The man was tall and wiry, with close-cropped sandy hair, and looked to be in his mid-fifties. He was a brigadier, a one-star general, and from his military ribbons Ryan knew the man had been posted to a long list of duty stations.
“I’m sorry about the abrupt flight,” Keating said. “But in light of recent events, we needed to brief you as soon as possible.”
Ryan nodded, relieved he wasn’t under arrest, but still confused why he was there. “In that case, General, I’d appreciate an explanation. The MP said it was a matter of national security?”
“That’s correct, Ryan. It is.” The man leaned forward in his chair. “Everything I’m going to tell you is classified Top Secret. Is that understood?”
“Yes, General.”
“All right. Yesterday the president of Face-Look was murdered. Have you heard about this?”
“Actually yes. The FBI has already hired me to work on that, when I get back to Atlanta.”
Keating gave him a hard look. “Have they now? Well, our investigation takes priority over that.”
Ryan waved a hand in the air as if to encompass the whole room. “What’s the Pentagon’s interest in this murder?”
“I’ll get to that in a moment. Are you familiar with the DIA?”
The PI nodded. “The Defense Intelligence Agency? Sure. The DIA is the military’s version of the CIA.”
“That’s correct. I’m with the DIA. In fact,
I’m second in command. And I’m heading up the Face-Look investigation.”
“Sir, why is the DIA so interested in this? I would think the FBI would be the best organization to handle a case involving a private company.”
“Under normal circumstances you would be correct, Ryan. But we’ve had Face-Look on our radar for quite some time. We’ve been monitoring them for years. Do you know much about them?”
“I know they’re a large social media company.”
Keating nodded. “Not just large, but the biggest. They’re larger than Twitter, or Instagram, or Facebook.”
“Okay, I’m with you so far. But I still don’t see the military’s interest.”
“Face-Look,” the general continued, “has a worldwide audience of 2.2 billion people. And all of these people give up much of their privacy when they join social media networks. They share personal details, photos, posts, friends lists, family names, etc. They take polls online, read news items, find products to buy, and message friends. And all of this vast amount of information is kept in Face-Look’s computer databanks for practically forever.”
“Face-Look,” the general added, “has become the largest intelligence gathering organization in the world.”
“I didn’t realize how widespread and intrusive they were,” Ryan said. “I’m not into social media very much myself. I’m too busy with my PI work.”
Keating steepled his hands in front of him. “Normally this intelligence gathering is benign. They store the information about people and it is kept private. But we at the DIA have become concerned that if all of this data falls into the wrong hands, the results could be catastrophic. The potential for blackmail, corruption, and criminal activity is vast.”
The general paused as Ryan realized the ominous implications of what the man had just said.
“And now that Face-Look’s president has been murdered,” Keating continued, “we’ve decided to become directly involved.”
“I understand, sir. But why do you need me, General? I’m sure you have military people who can carry out the investigation.”
“That’s true. We do. But having you investigate this case has several advantages. First, you’re based in Atlanta, where Face-Look’s headquarters is located. So you know the area well. Second, we need a civilian face to head this up. The DIA is a secretive organization – we don’t want it known that we’re interested. And the third reason is obvious – you’re former military – you’re familiar with our ways.”
Ryan nodded. “I can appreciate that, sir. But I’ve already committed to working on this for the FBI. I can’t walk away from that.”
Keating waved that away. “You can still keep them in the loop. As long as you understand you work for the DIA. We take priority.”
“I don’t know about this, General. My whole business as a PI is based on the work I do for the FBI, Homeland Security, and other law-enforcement agencies. I don’t want to jeopardize that.”
Keating grimaced. “You have no choice, Ryan. This is not a request. I’m giving you a direct order.”
“What are you talking about, sir? I left the Army years ago.”
The general pointed an index finger at him. “Don’t force my hand. Accept this job or you will regret it.”
Ryan’s blood pressure rose and his hands balled into fists. “With all due respect, sir, what the hell does that mean?”
Keating had brought with him a thick file folder, which he opened now. “This is your U.S. Army service record, Ryan. Very impressive. You served as an Airborne Ranger, then a Green Beret, then finally in Delta Force, Tier 1. The most elite of the Special Forces, even more elite than the Navy SEALS. You received numerous commendations for valor in combat including a Purple Heart and a Silver Star. You were even awarded the Medal of Honor. Impressive stuff.”
The general paused, then said, “You left the Army with the rank of Captain. But if you hadn’t been such a smartass in the military, I’m sure you would have been promoted to Major or even Colonel.”
Keating paused again and he removed a sheaf of papers from the file and slid them across the table toward the PI. “There’s a clause in your Army enlistment contract, Ryan, which you signed years ago. The clause is in small print at the every back of contract. I’m sure you never read it – most people don’t.”
The general gave him a tight, hard grin. “The clause stipulates that in times of a national security need, the Army can re-activate you back into the military. All it takes is a General officer, such as myself, to invoke that national security need.”
Ryan had been unaware of the clause in his contract. But as he quickly scanned the document, its meaning was now crystal clear.
General Keating’s hard grin remained on his face. “Welcome back to the Army, Captain Ryan.”
Chapter 4
Tokyo, Japan
The Asian woman picked up the handset of her desk phone and pressed the encryption button. Then she tapped in a phone number she had committed to memory long ago.
A man answered on the second ring. “Yes?”
“It’s me,” she said in flawless English. She was Japanese, but spoke five different languages. “The operation has begun. We took the first step in Atlanta.”
“Excellent.” The man paused a moment. “Is everything else on schedule?”
“Yes.”
“Very good. Keep me informed as things progress.”
“Of course.” She disconnected the call and hung up.
Standing, she went to a corner of her large, luxuriously appointed office. She was an avid chess player and had installed a life-size chess set in that part of the room. The intricately carved ceramic pieces all resembled Samurai warriors from 17th century Japan. She pushed one of the smaller, but still heavy figurines forward two squares. That particular game opening move was called Pawn-to-King-four. She smiled. It’ll be awhile before I can claim Checkmate. The important thing is the game’s begun.
Then she went to a teak cabinet and poured herself a large tumbler of Chivas Regal scotch. Turning around, she faced the floor-to-ceiling windows of her office.
The room, located on the top floor of the skyscraper, gave her a panoramic view of Tokyo’s ultra-modern skyline. It was nighttime and the rows and rows of high-rise buildings were lit up in a riot of neon light.
The woman sipped the scotch and mulled over her next steps.
Chapter 5
FBI Field Office
Atlanta, Georgia
Erin Welch heard a knock at her door and glanced up from her laptop.
J.T. Ryan was standing at her office entrance, a worried look on his handsome face. Erin closed the lid on her laptop.
“Come in, J.T. Have a seat.”
The man took one of the visitor’s chairs fronting her desk.
“Didn’t expect you back until next week,” she said.
Ryan frowned. “My vacation was cut short.”
“What happened?”
“It’s a long story.”
Erin studied the tall, good-looking man in his late thirties. He was 6’4” and powerfully built, with a weightlifter’s physique. He had close-cropped brown hair and brown eyes. As usual he was wearing a blue blazer, slacks, and a white, buttoned-down shirt. He looked tired, as if he hadn’t had much sleep.
“What, no banter? No smartass comments?” she said, amazed he hadn’t already cracked one of his lame jokes.
“Not today.”
“Okay, J.T. You ready to work my case?”
Ryan nodded. “I am. But I need to tell you something before I start. I’ve got another boss on this besides you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve been reactivated back into the Army.”
“How’s that possible?”
Ryan grimaced. “Some bullshit clause in my enlistment contract. Like I said, it’s a long story. I’m not happy about it, but it is what it is.”
“Now I understand your sour mood. What’s the military’s interest
in this case?”
“They’ve been monitoring Face-Look for some time. They’re concerned with the immense data gathering capability of the social media company. When their top executive was murdered, they decided to get more involved.”
Erin nodded. “All right.”
She opened a desk drawer and took out a file which she handed to Ryan. “In here’s the information we have on the murder. The FBI and police reports, the coroner’s findings, and CSI information.”
Ryan opened the folder and scanned the details. “Not much here.”
“You’re right, J.T. It was a professional hit. They left virtually no clues behind.”
The man closed the folder and stood. “In that case, I’ll get to work.”
“What’s your first stop?”
“The morgue.”
Chapter 6
Fulton County Morgue
Atlanta, Georgia
J.T. Ryan drove his Ford Explorer out of the FBI building’s underground lot and headed south. A short while later he pulled into the parking lot of the morgue on Pryor Street.
He went through the building’s security checkpoint and was shown into the non-descript office of the Medical Examiner. As usual, the whole building smelled of strong antiseptic, the cleaning solvent masking, but not quite erasing the pungent stench of human decomp.
Ryan shook hands with the M.E. and took a chair facing his desk. Ryan had been here many times and knew the man well.
“So, J.T., what brings you here today?” Doctor Mallory asked. The M.E. was a gaunt-looking man with oval wire-rimmed eyeglasses and a pallid complexion.
Ryan leaned forward in the chair. “I’m investigating the murder of Matthew Ross, the CEO of Face-Look.”
“Of course.”
“You’ve completed the autopsy, doc?”
“I have.” Mallory opened a desk drawer, took out a file, and opened it. “My findings are very straightforward. Ross died of a massive head wound. The bullet that shattered his skull came from a high-powered weapon.”
“Could you determine the caliber of the round?”
“Not exactly. But I could give you an educated guess, considering we process an average of 2,500 deaths a year in this building.”