Muffled Echoes

by G. K. Parks

  “I knew I wouldn’t have made it. I didn’t realize I was bleeding out at the time, but I knew that physically I wasn’t capable of making a run for it. And he did save me, which confuses matters. Like I said, I don’t have any idea what’s going on, but there’s something strange going on with him.” I looked around the room. “I don’t want him here. I don’t want him to have access to Martin or this house. Is that understood?”

  “Yeah, okay.” Jablonsky sighed. “I think you’ve been through a lot lately. Is it possible that it’s clouding your judgment?”

  I knew he wanted me to agree, so I shrugged. If Lucca wanted me dead, he had ample opportunities. Obviously, he wasn’t all bad, but I had a feeling the boy scout wasn’t as honorable as he initially appeared.

  “Just be careful around him. We can’t afford a leak on the Shade intel. We have to find these guys. We have to figure out if they are plotting something and what that is, and we gotta stop it.”

  Jablonsky laughed. “You do realize that I’m in charge of the team. I’m the one who says that shit. You’re the one causing trouble and being a pain in the ass. Hell, I never expected it would be worse with you as a victim instead of an investigator.”

  “Face it, I’m both, so you get twice the trouble for the same price.”

  “Lucky me.” He narrowed his eyes. “Is there anything else going on that I need to know about?”

  “No.” Mark had an uncanny knack for knowing when something was bothering me, but I’d already come off sounding like a paranoid loon with control issues. That was enough for one day. “So, tell me what to do, boss.”

  He crossed the room and picked up the remote on the nightstand. Turning on the television, he flipped to one of the world news channels for a few minutes, caught the headlines, and then turned to a sports channel. After a few minutes, he grew bored of the highlights.

  “Want some chow?” he asked. “Marty said there was a leftover roast in the fridge.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Yeah, he said you’d say that too.”

  Mark moved the remote to the desk, so it would be out of my reach and went downstairs to make lunch. While he was occupied, I opened the police file and scanned through the inventory list and forensic analysis of the SUV where Donaldson and Ivan had been found. Ivan’s full name and personal information weren’t included in the report, but someone in the police department must have known the true extent of Ivan’s helpfulness.

  “Hey,” I called, hoping Mark would hear me despite being two floors away. A few minutes later, I heard footsteps on the stairs. “Hey,” I tried again, “have you spoken to anyone in the police department’s counterterrorism unit about Ivan?”

  “Not yet. The commander in charge was asked to join our task force. That meeting is scheduled later this afternoon when Homeland drops off Horvat.”

  “Can three law enforcement agencies share intel without driving each other crazy?” I asked. Then I began humming the theme song to the Odd Couple.

  “Cut that out.”

  “I will if you take me to the meeting.”

  “No.”

  “C’mon, Mark, pretty please.” I batted my eyelashes at him. “I want to know what’s going on. Plus, I might possess valuable intel. As far as anyone knows, I’m the only person who can identify a possible Shade operative.”

  “You said it was dark and you were too impaired to get a good look when the opportunity presented itself. You’ve done all you can. You found the connection to Ivan. Unfortunately, Detective Donaldson won’t be able to answer our questions. However, his notes and files might shed some light on the matter. His CO will be in attendance as well. We can handle this. You compiled the footage and intel on Shade’s suspicious activity. DHS and other intelligence agencies have provided surveillance footage and satellite images. We have this under control. The FAA is tracking the cargo plane’s course. We’ll find the drop site. We’ll find the cargo. And we’ll find these fuckers.” He put a plate on my lap. “You’ve done all you can. Now eat your lunch.”

  Twenty-four

  “Alex, stop fidgeting,” Martin said in a tone that I most definitely did not enjoy.

  “Don’t tell me what to do, and do not for one second act like my caretaker. I’m not a child.”

  “Fine.” He threw up his hands and walked away. “You figure it out.”

  “Pretentious piece of shit,” I mumbled under my breath after he was gone. I glared at my reflection in the mirror. “You’re such a bitch, Parker. Snap out of it.” Well, at least I had been fair and called us both names; although, it did nothing to reinforce my claim that I wasn’t a child.

  It had been ten days since the roadside firefight. The injuries I’d sustained prior to that had healed enough that bandages were no longer required. The incisions made during surgery were tender. But the glue holding me together had dissolved, and I remained in one piece. The prescribed bed rest was now an irritant. I wanted to go to work. I wanted to see how things had progressed.

  Four days ago, Jakov Horvat was transferred into OIO custody. The assault team was now being questioned by the federal government, and due to the Patriot Act, Jablonsky had taken a creative license with their civil liberties. If they were innocent or had been racially profiled, I would have wondered if we were the good guys, but that wasn’t the case. They’d fired on us and would be charged with multiple counts of attempted murder, aggravated assault, assault with a deadly weapon, and whatever else we uncovered. There was no question about their guilt, just about how far reaching their criminal activities went.

  Lucca had phoned twice since my conversation with Jablonsky. The first time, he had asked how I was. The second time, he had provided an update on the progress that had been made concerning Pepper. Since the police department was now an active entity in gathering intelligence on Shade and any potential plots, progress was being made. The restaurant was shut down, and the owners and manager had been taken into custody.

  Inside the freezer, a crime technician discovered a trap door that led to a walled-in storage area. The freezer was the only access point into the room. Inside the storage area were cases of Kalashnikov rifles, Makarov pistols, PPS submachine guns, Dragunov sniper rifles, and an assortment of knives, grenades, and other small incendiary devices. Given the location, it was obvious the employees of Pepper had access to the stockpiled artillery, so multi-agency surveillance teams were keeping a watchful eye on the twenty-seven employees. But I didn’t know if any of them had been brought in for questioning.

  Despite doctor’s orders, Jablonsky was on his way to pick me up. It’d been approximately two weeks since Donaldson was killed. My memory concerning those events hadn’t changed. The details remained vividly the same. The questions I initially couldn’t answer upon remembering the event remained unanswerable, but the task force wanted to bring me in for another debriefing which was why I was fidgeting with my button-up shirt which wouldn’t fit over the cast on my arm.

  “Screw it.” I balled up the shirt and threw it into the hamper. Then I went into the bedroom to find Martin typing at his computer. “I suck.” He ignored me and continuing clicking keys. “I hate this. I hate the way I feel. I hate that you’ve been forced to take care of me. I loathe being taken care of.”

  “Yeah, I got the message loud and clear.” He glanced back at me, cocking an eyebrow in surprise. “Are you still planning to go to work?”

  “Yes, and I hate that I want to be there. I do, and I don’t. And I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” I slumped onto the bed. “Your girlfriend is a psycho freak.”

  “Yes, she is.” He stopped typing and spun the chair around. “You do realize that you’ve had these meltdowns a lot since we’ve been together. And I mean a lot. I’ve lost track since I’ve run out of fingers to count on. At first, I thought maybe it was me, but then I realized it’s you.”

  “Did I mention I’m a bit psycho?”

  “You’re stressed. This isn’t good for you, and
this definitely isn’t good for us.” His gaze continued to linger on me. “You haven’t said what’s so urgent that it can’t wait until you’re fully healed. Alex, you don’t need to set yourself back. You go stir crazy and then just crazy, and,” he shook his head, “everything spins out of control from there. What’s going on? Talk to me.”

  I snickered. “This might be the first time I’ve ever said these words and had them be absolutely true, but I am not at liberty to discuss it. It is a matter of national security, and it scares the hell out of me.” Something else was also scaring the hell out of me, but that was another discussion for another day.

  “I don’t like it.” He rubbed his eyes and leaned back in the chair. “You’re just answering questions. Why can’t you do that here or over the phone?”

  “Security issues,” I said, finding some peace after verbalizing my feelings. My normal methods of dealing with stress had all been taken away. I couldn’t run or workout or even pace. Hell, even drinking was barred for now, so talking was my only release. “Damn, I need to get laid.” I winked at him, and he chuckled.

  “That makes two of us.” His eyes traveled down the length of my body. “Is that why you’re wearing nothing but dress pants and a bra? Are you hoping to seduce one of your colleagues? I’d like to point out that since you told me I had to keep it in my pants at work, I’m requesting that you do the same.”

  I looked down. “My work clothes won’t fit over the cast. And this is important. I really don’t want to show up in a sweatshirt or t-shirt to talk to these people. So what do I do, Mr. Fashionista?”

  Martin crossed the room and opened the closet. He sifted through the racks of clothes and found my suit jacket. Like most things, it had been tailored and didn’t have a lot of extra sleeve space for a bulky cast. Replacing it on the hangar, he picked through the rest of the clothes in the closet, but I didn’t have any short sleeved work items. Finally, he shifted to his side of the closet and removed one of his freshly pressed shirts from the hangar.

  “Here,” he said, handing me the light blue shirt, “but for the record, I want it back.”

  “We’ll see.” I grabbed a black tank top and went into the bathroom to change. It wasn’t exactly work appropriate, but I didn’t have a choice. I left Martin’s shirt unbuttoned, tied a knot at the bottom, and returned to the bedroom so Martin could roll up the sleeves for me. “How do I look?”

  “Like you’re trolling Wall Street for some tail.”

  “Great, high-end hooker, just what I wanted.”

  “Hey, you said you wanted to get laid.” His face contorted into mock horror. “Does this make me your pimp?”

  “Shut up.”

  “I thought the pimp called the shots.”

  “Martin,” I whined.

  “Hey,” he pulled me into a hug, trying hard not to cringe at the state of his once neatly ironed shirt, “make sure that you’re well enough to do this. If you need to come home and Jabber’s busy, call me. Okay?”

  “I thought you agreed not to take care of me anymore.”

  “It’s not you I’m worried about. It’s my shirt.”

  * * *

  Upon entering the conference room, a chill traveled down my spine. The mood in the room was bleak. Several serious faces remained focused on the projection in front of them. Lucca cast his eyes in my direction and offered a welcoming nod. Jablonsky pulled out the nearest chair for me before taking his seat.

  I’d met with the DHS agent earlier when he’d first delivered the file on Shade to us, but I couldn’t remember his name. The woman seated beside him was Bethany Tinsley, the commander in charge of the police department’s counterterrorism unit. She’d delivered her fair share of press conferences, and so far, her record was perfect. Hopefully, we’d keep it that way. Agents Lucca and Cooper were on the opposite side of the table with our Interpol connection, Patrick Farrell. The other two people must have been from other agencies, but it would have been a waste of time to guess which ones.

  “Special Agent Parker,” the DHS agent said, “I’m Assistant Director Stuart Behr from the Department of Homeland Security. We met briefly.”

  “Yes, sir.” I nodded, feeling my brainwashed training kicking in. “What can I do to help?”

  “We appreciate your willingness to assist, given your condition.” His eyes traveled to my arm, and I retracted the wounded appendage from sight. “Our speculation that the organization we’ve dubbed Shade might be a terrorist cell has led to numerous unsettling discoveries over the last few weeks.” He glanced down at his notes. “You showed concern over the increased activity at their base of operations. From your reports, it appears that contraband has traded hands. Our sources indicate that Shade supplied a domestic faction with military grade weaponry. As of now, we do not know the extent of these weapons, but in light of recent discoveries, we believe they are dealing in Soviet era arms.”

  “We’ve tested the cargo plane, the restaurant, and other possible transaction sites for radioactivity, chemical residue, and biological components. So far, the scans have been within normal parameters,” someone else added.

  “Agent Parker, what can you tell us about the night you were attacked and Detective Donaldson was murdered?” Behr asked. Before I could speak, he added, “We’ve read the initial reports, the police account, and we’ve spoken extensively to SSA Jablonsky and Agent Lucca. There’s no need to rehash old news.”

  I blinked a few times. “With all due respect, I can’t help you.” I leaned back in the chair. “That’s everything.”

  “Please,” Behr implored, “you must have found some indication that led you to seek police assistance.”

  “Niko Horvat is highly placed in Shade. The last I heard, we don’t know who’s in charge, but Niko might be. We’ve speculated that he has plentiful connections, and he’s been added to the watchlist. Since we’ve attempted to monitor his travel plans, I figured there might be some way he was subverting the system. Fake papers can be bought for a price, but since we have our feelers out for that type of activity, I did some more checking which led to Jakov Horvat.” I glanced at Jablonsky. “He’s in custody.” Mark nodded. “That was the connection I found. He had similar features to his cousin, Niko.”

  “Jakov’s immediate family is under surveillance. We’ve examined his phone records. There have been no communications between him and Niko, so how did you come to that conclusion?” Tinsley asked.

  “It was a hunch,” I admitted. “Their passport photos were practically identical, and Horvat is an incredibly common name. It would be understandable why the authorities wouldn’t realize the connection or ping Jakov. However, Jakov has made a couple of suspicious trips from the Balkans to the U.S., but I suspect that it was actually Niko who made the trek instead.”

  “How did Niko obtain Jakov’s passport?” Behr asked.

  “I don’t know. I never said he did. I just think he might have,” I said.

  “The passport records indicate that Jakov made a return trip from Serbia to the U.S. However, there was no record of him having ever left the United States,” Jablonsky said. He rifled through the stack of papers and pushed one across to Behr. “My people know their shit.”

  “So you pulled Jakov’s records, found out where he lived and worked, and went to the police department?” Behr asked, the accusatory tone in his voice. “Why didn’t you report this to your superiors or to me?”

  “She did,” Jablonsky growled. “She left me the passport information.”

  “But that was after she approached Detective Donaldson and set up a meet with his confidential informant,” Tinsley said, scribbling down a note.

  “I had nothing to report at that time. It could have been a glitch or an oversight. Thousands of people travel daily. I needed to make sure that Jakov Horvat hadn’t been returning from a trip out of the country,” I said.

  “Then why didn’t you speak to Jakov directly?” Behr asked.

  “Because if he was involve
d, it could have tipped our hand on the investigation into Shade,” I argued.

  “Alex,” Mark hissed, and I fell silent.

  “I guess the next question is why did it take you so long to remember these details? You didn’t write a report on Jakov or your intentions to monitor his activity,” Behr said.

  “I don’t know how things are done at Homeland,” Lucca replied, “but here, we do the work first. Actions speak louder than words.” I glanced at the boy scout, wondering when he grew a pair. Something was definitely off. “Why would Parker report something if there was nothing to report? It could have been nothing.”

  “Except it wasn’t,” Behr said.

  “Stuart, I didn’t realize you wanted to crucify my agent for bringing this shit to your attention and giving us a fighting chance to stop another attack on American soil,” Jablonsky barked.

  Behr swallowed, clearly indignant and pissed. “I’m just trying to get the facts straight before moving forward.”

  “Are they straight enough for you?” Jablonsky asked.

  Deciding that we shouldn’t be at war with each other, I cleared my throat. “I’ll answer your question, but my reasoning is nothing more than a restatement of previous facts. During the struggle that resulted in Detective Donaldson and his CI being killed, I’d been forced to consume a large quantity of alcohol and sustained a concussion. You can read my medical reports yourself, but it screwed with my mental capabilities.”

  “Are you still impaired?” Behr asked.

  “I don’t believe so,” I replied.

  “And the reason for your extended medical leave is due to…?” He raised an eyebrow.

  “Severely sprained wrist and doctor’s orders following surgery after nearly bleeding out on an off-ramp,” I snapped. “But this is more important than any one person. This is certainly more important than me. We took an oath to defend this country from all enemies foreign and domestic, and I can’t stand by when a threat of this magnitude looms overhead.”