Black Sunrise

by Brett Godfrey

  It was her eyes.

  They conveyed something special, something alive. The jade eyes emanated a piercing intelligence, but there was something else. From the warmth of her expression, Roady guessed someone she greatly liked—or loved—took the photo. Her dad, maybe? Jackie Dawson? A boyfriend?

  Kenehan pondered the photo and his reaction to it, trying to find a word for the quality it captured. Vulnerability? No, not at all. Openness? Maybe.

  The photo was much more descriptive than the photos of the Dawson girl. She had not posed for it, so it captured her personality more candidly. It seemed fitting to Roady that her dossier contained this photo.

  The dossier depicted a young woman who was full of life and joy. The kind of woman who made spreading happiness and sharing the excitement of challenge a personal signature. The more he read, the more real she became. The sheets below contained printouts of various social media posts and pictures. Dawson’s file had not contained such things; Kenehan wondered why not.

  It’s a picture of a pretty girl whom I’ve never met before. So what’s with the pull? Something I’m ginning up to get myself motivated? Or is it that I’ve met her parents and seen the fear in her mother’s eyes?

  There was no second photo, so he lowered the bottom edge slowly and continued to study the image, noting the shape of her ears and the way the corners of her mouth formed small dimples. Her eyes radiated guileless confidence. He imagined she would be steady under pressure, just as her father appeared to be. Kenehan recalled Mark Jensen mentioning her outdoor survival training and how much she had gotten out of it.

  She’s just a subject, he scolded himself. Remain objective.

  Kenehan glanced at Jensen. The man has a lot to be proud of. A lot to lose. He must be going out of his mind with this. He judged that Jensen was fairly fit and tan for a guy with a desk job. He had the kind of personality that said he realized there was more to life than just arguing cases in court and making money. Different from a lot of high-dollar lawyers. Jensen had less of the vainly affluent air of superiority he’d seen in other men of similar professional stature, of whom Roady had encountered many. Girl comes from good stock, Kenehan assayed. He felt a powerful sense of remorse as he contemplated what might have become of these two beautiful women who vanished during the process of getting into a car after a day of shopping.

  The worst-case scenario was obvious.

  In spite of the Old Man’s pep talk, he had to be realistic. But there was clearly money behind both of these girls. He could hope it was a kidnapping for ransom and that they were still alive. The undeniable possibility that some degenerate beast may have taken them for his twisted pleasure made him queasy. The world was full of sick bastards who were willing to ruin other people’s lives for their own gratification. The thought of finding the girls in the possession of such a person was repellent and attractive at the same time. He would love to rescue these women and just maybe have the chance to—

  Stow that for later. Get to work.

  He dug into the files now, memorizing them.

  An hour later, the group split up to head for their various assigned destinations. Sand rode with Mark and Janet in their rental car, on the way to the mall where police had found his car.

  Brecht, Thomas and Ortega followed Sand’s car in a minivan rented from Hertz, into which they had loaded four Pelican cases containing various items of crime scene equipment, communications gear and other electronics. Takaki and Boyer had gone to arrange lodging and a place to berth the mobile command coaches that would hit Denver tomorrow.

  “What a bunch,” Sand said, breaking a silence that had lasted for twenty minutes as Jensen negotiated his way northward along the lockstep crawl of I-25. Sitting behind Mark in the rear seat, Janet nodded in agreement.

  “What do you think of them?” she asked.

  “Quite a mix,” Sand observed with a wry smile. “Little of this, little of that. The lady is supposedly an expert in computer intel. The Old Man, as they call him, and his protégé, Thomas, are a couple of top-end spooks. NSA types—or CIA. Seen their kind before. I’m guessing Brecht was in the OSS, or Office of Strategic Services, in his youth. The other two, the former FBI spooks, are harder to read, but I can tell you a couple of things about that long-haired boy.”

  “Yeah?” Jensen was interested. He had come to respect Sand.

  “First, that boy is lethal. He moves like a cat. I suspect he could snap your neck in a half second and not even blink. Did you notice the scars on his forearms? The calluses on his knuckles? The steel in his eyes? He’s trained with a blade, his fists and his mind. I’d like to know more about him.”

  “Robert, what was all that about back there? Were you in their line of work? And did you really work for President—” Janet started.

  Sand turned in his seat to look back at her. “I’ll tell you the story sometime, but not just now. Well, we wanted horsepower, didn’t we? I think we got it. Bus-loads of private operators driven by a boss with something to prove and the experience to get it done.”

  Jensen was beginning to think that with Sand on board, they may have picked up even more horsepower than just what Brecht had brought to town. “What’s the second thing?”

  “I think he fell for your little girl just looking at her picture.”

  Chapter 24

  “Working at Starbucks beats sitting in class all day, doesn’t it?” Beeman asked. “You’ve never regretted dropping out?”

  “You can say that again.” The barista smiled. “How did you know?”

  Beeman picked up two cups of coffee and returned to his table. He glanced at his watch. Eight-fifteen. Kim was quite late, which surprised him. The town of Steamboat Springs was not large enough to have traffic problems, and Kim had struck Beeman as a man far too disciplined to be late accidentally. So Beeman concluded that either Kim was making him wait for psychological reasons, in which case he should arrive soon, or the meeting was off because someone had compromised Kim and his team.

  Nothing to do but wait and plan.

  Beeman’s intuition had always worked that way. He’d always believed in the power of deductive reasoning, but his greatest mental feats had generally sprung from his intuition, his innate awareness of things that were invisible.

  He assumed he was under surveillance even as he sat there, so he decided he’d already waited too long. He was giving up too much.

  He made an exaggerated show of looking at his watch and stood to leave.

  A block away, he saw Kim leaning nonchalantly against Beeman’s own Toyota, smoking a cigarette. This fit the pattern Beeman was building in his mind. Kim was creative, taking small risks to project the image that he was always one step ahead of Beeman, that he would always turn out to be the one in charge, so Beeman had better get used to it.

  Beeman smiled.

  In the dozen paces remaining, he formulated his response.

  “Oh, there you are! What a relief. I thought I’d made a mistake. I went to the coffee shop and waited for you there.”

  “We do not wish to draw too much attention to our acquaintance, Arthur.”

  Beeman, who preferred using his surname, very nearly corrected Kim. Realizing that this would be out of character for the role he’d chosen to play, he stopped himself.

  “Call me Artie. I hate Arthur. Or you can call me Dr. Beeman if you like, Jimmy.” He gave a small smile.

  Kim smirked in return. “Let’s go for a ride.”

  Beeman got in the car and started the engine, reaching across to unlock the passenger-side door. Kim slid in and pulled his door shut. As the car pulled away, Kim unrolled the window on his side of the car. The morning mountain air was still cool.

  Beeman kept one eye on the rearview mirror. Kim would have a preplanned destination; likely a place without witnesses and limited escape routes, one that would compromise Beeman’s immediate physical safety. He glanced to his right and saw that Kim was adjusting his own side-view mirror. Kim was also in
terested in determining whether anyone was following them, which meant that his own people might not be the only observers Beeman had to worry about.

  Within two blocks they came to a red light in the middle of town. Beeman stopped the car and looked at Kim. “Where to?”

  Kim looked at his watch. “We have plenty of time. Mr. Pessoa’s bus won’t arrive for another three hours, so why don’t we just head on down the road toward Craig and talk while you drive? I’ll have you back in town in plenty of time to drop me off and pick him up.”

  Beeman was not surprised Kim knew Antonio’s name and bus schedule.

  He’d assumed North Korean intelligence would have had him and the young fool under observation for quite some time; an operation of this magnitude would have taken a great deal of resources and planning. There were likely electronic listening devices in the cabin and perhaps even hidden video cameras as well. Antonio was probably under surveillance of his own at this moment. There might even be an agent with him on the bus. Probably another Asian. Beeman doubted they had made contact with Antonio, who was obviously too skittish to trust under the additional pressure that would cause.

  “It must be hard,” Beeman said.

  “What’s that, Artie?”

  “Running a spy operation in a nation where you stand out so.”

  “You’ve got that racial thing going again.”

  “Who, me? Aren’t you planning to wipe out all of us?”

  “See, that’s what I’m talking about. ‘Make America Great Again’ has turned into ‘Make America Hate Again.’ Despite the sculpted rhetoric of the liberal media, a massive silent majority in America laps up the sauce of xenophobic hatred, of petulant isolationism. They thrive on the sweet adrenal rush that comes from fantasizing about taking out all enemies, foreign and domestic. So hardworking Asians like me always draw suspicion.”

  “Did they make you memorize that?”

  Kim laughed.

  Beeman felt contentment settle into his chest. “Global war is coming.”

  “And it might rain this afternoon. Just drive the car.”

  Ten minutes later when they were on a winding two-lane highway, Kim spoke again. “You strike me as a dangerous man, Artie,” he said casually, tossing his cigarette out the window.

  Beeman shrugged and said nothing. The silence hung in the car for a time. Beeman enjoyed it, knowing that Kim expected some sort of response from which he could more closely gauge Beeman’s personality and predict how he would respond to various manipulation tactics. After a while, Beeman noticed that Kim’s gaze was riveted to the side-view mirror.

  Beeman had become distracted and had failed to notice that a car had come up behind them. It was a police car, the state patrol. No sooner did Beeman realize this than the lights atop the patrol car began to flash.

  “Pull over slowly, right over there, slowly, and listen to me,” Kim said sharply. “You were not speeding, so this could be a serious problem. Whatever happens, make no trouble. Do nothing other than what the officer tells you. Comply with every command he gives. Make no argument. If he tries to arrest either or both of us, we go peacefully. My people will handle it from there. Do you understand?”

  As he pulled the Toyota to a stop on the shoulder of the road, Beeman shot a sideward glance at Kim and nodded.

  Could this be a ruse Kim had orchestrated?

  Could the police have tracked the girls to Beeman?

  Had Antonio cracked or slipped up, leading the police to Beeman? That had always been a major risk.

  Death is life is death, thought Beeman. Only time will tell.

  Beeman’s hunting knife was strapped to his calf beneath his baggy trousers. His age and appearance would possibly buy him time to kill the officer, and perhaps Kim as well, and make a dash for safety. He watched the patrol car in his mirror. He reached across and opened the glove box, removing the registration and proof of insurance; then he pulled his wallet from his back pocket and took out his license.

  Two minutes passed.

  Beeman put down his window and placed his hands on the wheel with his license visible for the approaching officer.

  “Step out of the car, sir,” the cop barked. Bending down to see Kim, the patrolman added, “You too, sir. Step out of the car.”

  “Certainly, officer.” Kim opened his door and stepped out, and the cop moved two paces backward so that Beeman could step out as well. As he did so, the patrolman took him by the elbow and guided him to the other side of the car, away from the road.

  “License and registration,” said the trooper.

  Beeman handed them over and waited while the officer returned with them to his cruiser to run them against outstanding warrants. Five minutes later, the officer returned and handed back the license and registration.

  “What do you suppose I stopped you for?”

  The possibilities are endless, Beeman thought. Kidnapping. Conspiracy. National security issues. Failing to signal. Helping to orchestrate World War III. Treason. Lack of social skills. Poor taste in friends.

  “Was I speeding?” Beeman asked, offering the only offense he had not committed.

  The officer shook his head resolutely. “Nah. You weren’t speeding, sir.” He continued to stare at each of them in turn, his eyes moving back and forth like a spectator at a tennis tournament. “You don’t even know, do you? You don’t even realize what you did. You weren’t even thinking.”

  Now the officer nodded, as if the lesson were sinking in. It seemed vaguely comical to Beeman. This had to be something completely out of the blue. But what was it? If he were to arrest them for capital crimes, the officer would not have undertaken to do it on his own.

  “Your goddamn cigarette!” The officer stabbed the air in front of Kim’s face with his finger. “The driest summer we’ve had in a hundred years, fires burning in six places, millions in suppression costs, hundreds of thousands of acres of forestland gone—just like that.” The officer snapped his fingers to punctuate what he was saying. “And folks, you just tossed a lit cigarette butt from the car without even thinking about what you could start. Jesus, what does it take to get you people to turn your heads on?”

  “Officer, I’m glad you pulled us over. I don’t even smoke,” Beeman said obsequiously, “and I have lectured this idiot about how he makes the rest of us into victims with his filthy, stinking, antisocial habit, but he keeps not listening. So thank you. Now he’s hearing it from more than just me.” He shook his head in disgust at Kim and then softened his tone somewhat, turning back to the patrolman. “You going to take him in? Should I follow you?”

  The officer started cooling off. He shook his head. “Naw, but I’m thinking of writing you a citation. The fine would be over one thousand dollars. As the operator of the vehicle, you are responsible for unsafe conduct on the part of your passengers. You realize that? You were driving, so you are legally responsible for any objects thrown from your car. That’s the law.” He turned his face to Kim. “How would you feel if he got a big ticket for your carelessness? Would that be fair?”

  Kim shook his head forcefully. “That would be awful, sir. I don’t know what to say. I’m really sorry. He’s been right all along, and I’ve been an ass. You’re right, officer. I didn’t even think about what I was doing, but you can bet—I will in the future.”

  The cop seemed placated. “I’ll tell you what. We’ll just let it go with a warning this time. But if something like this happens again, I will write a ticket, and I’ll take you both in. Swear to God. Remember this: you start a fire—you’re looking at prison time. You got that?”

  “Most definitely, officer. Read you five by five,” Kim assured him.

  “You in the Army, son?”

  “No, sir. Marines.”

  “Well, I was Army. And we had a saying: You can always tell a marine. But you just can’t tell him much. Semper Fi, son. Get your head out of your ass and your ass on the road.”

  Kim chuckled politely. “Yes, sir.”


  “Alright, boys. On your way.” With this, the uniformed man turned on his heel and stomped back to his patrol car. As Beeman stood watching, the officer sat behind the wheel. He reached down and pulled a microphone to his lips, making a radio call; then he started the car and pulled onto the highway to turn the car around to head back toward town.

  After a few seconds, Kim shook his head and got back into the car. When Beeman joined him in the vehicle, he smiled. “That was impressive, Artie. Indeed. You have a mind for espionage.”

  A handy segue, mused Beeman. “Not really,” he retorted with a snort. “I really just don’t like smokers.”

  “But you appear to have no aversion to fire,” Kim said softly.

  This confirmed Beeman’s suspicions. He was under total surveillance. They had seen his little session with Kitten.

  “Nothing like an outdoor barbecue,” he quipped as he pulled back onto the highway. A mile or so down the road, Kim shifted in his seat to face Beeman.

  “Of your ruthlessness I have little doubt.”

  “I’m not ruthless. I just like to …” Beeman had been about to say “experiment,” but he changed his course mid-sentence. “… to entertain myself.”

  “And yet I wonder why you would be so careless with your freedom. If you had touched off that lighter, you’d surely be in custody now. And all of that screaming. The risks you take are unreasonable. You jeopardized my goals, not to mention your own life. You must be more discrete. I must insist that you keep this situation with your women under control, do a better job of staying below the radar.”

  “I strike you as careless? You’re the one who tossed a lit cigarette from the car in plain view of the highway patrol.” As soon as he said the words, something troubled him. How had he failed to see the cruiser?