A Fire in the Night

by Christopher Swann

  Jonas frowned. “Who? The cop?”

  “The civilian,” Cole said. “He’s helping the girl. I got his photo and sent it to Kobayashi to get an ID.” He took a deep breath through his nose and exhaled loudly. “We resupplied. Get all the gear loaded. Soon as I learn where he lives, we head out.”

  Jonas was about to say something when Cole’s phone rang. Cole looked at the screen—Kobayashi—and smiled. “Synchronicity,” he said to Jonas, then answered the phone. “Tell me you have good news,” he said.

  “That depends,” Kobayashi replied on the other end.

  “I don’t like riddles.”

  “The man in the second picture is Joshua Sams, a sheriff’s deputy in Jackson County, North Carolina. He was in the Army, served as a military policeman, and then returned to North Carolina, where he has been a deputy for seven years.”

  “What about the other one?”

  “Ah,” Kobayashi said. “The other one. His name is Nicholas Anthony. He was a professor of medieval literature at Western Carolina University until nineteen months ago, when he went on extended leave to take care of his wife. She died of pancreatic cancer a few months later.”

  “How touching,” Cole said. “So why would he be helping the girl? Is he a Boy Scout?”

  Kobayashi barely paused. “I do not understand your reference.”

  “A do-gooder,” Cole said. “Helps old ladies across the street, protects orphans. Is that it?”

  “I cannot speak to his altruism, but I believe his motive is more personal,” Kobayashi said. “It appears that Dr. Anthony is the brother of Jay Bashir. He is Annalise Bashir’s uncle.”

  Cole gripped the phone tightly. “Now that is interesting,” he said in a soft voice that made Jonas turn to look at him, eyes alert and wary. “Especially considering that you never mentioned an uncle. Would’ve been helpful to know when we started looking for the girl.”

  “An error that has been corrected,” Kobayashi said smoothly.

  Fuck you, Cole thought. If they had known about an uncle, then Poncho and Dawes might be okay right now. Cole swallowed his anger—he could ream Kobayashi later. “You have an address for this professor-uncle?” he said.

  “He lives outside of the town of Cashiers. I will send you the address.” Kobayashi paused, the silence stretching.

  “You make me nervous when you’re quiet,” Cole said.

  “We have reason to believe Dr. Anthony is more than a professor,” Kobayashi said. “He served in the US Marine Corps before getting a PhD in medieval studies from Notre Dame. He then taught for many years at several universities in Europe and the Middle East before returning to the United States.”

  “Okay, so he was a Marine,” Cole said. “We’ll be careful.”

  “Dr. Anthony’s mother emigrated to the US from Afghanistan just before he was born,” Kobayashi continued. “He is fluent in Dari and Arabic and, of course, English, and he reportedly has a working knowledge of several other languages. His career has taken him to places that are of great strategic interest to the United States, especially in the Middle East. When he was not teaching, he often traveled in the region to do research.”

  “Skip to the end,” Cole said.

  “We believe with a high degree of probability that Dr. Anthony was an intelligence officer,” Kobayashi said. “Perhaps military, but most likely CIA.”

  Cole had always thought the metaphor of a thought appearing in your brain like a lightbulb turning on was a stupid cliché, but now he felt like someone had flipped on a set of stadium lights in his memory, illuminating his earlier, half-realized thought about his picture of the professor in handcuffs. He had recognized the man. Cole felt a grin stretch across his face.

  “Mr. Cole?” Kobayashi said.

  “I’m here,” Cole said, still grinning. “It’s not a problem.”

  “Dr. Anthony was trained by your government as both a soldier and an intelligence officer,” Kobayashi said. “His skill sets would make him rather more dangerous than a mere professor of literature.”

  “Nothing we can’t handle,” Cole said. “But this changes things somewhat. Makes for a higher risk factor.”

  Kobayashi’s voice grew fractionally cooler. “Meaning?”

  “Meaning we need to renegotiate our contract,” Cole said. “An extra ten thousand. Each. For that we’ll bring you the flash drive and take care of the girl.”

  “And Dr. Anthony, I presume.”

  “I’ll personally deliver you the man’s head on a spike.”

  There was more than a hint of amused contempt in Kobayashi’s voice. “The picture you sent me showed him in handcuffs. Would he not currently be in jail?”

  “If he hasn’t already been released,” Cole said. “But he could be in fucking Saskatchewan and I would get to him.”

  Kobayashi was quiet for a moment. “There is an old saying,” he said finally. “A man who desires revenge should dig two graves.”

  Now Cole smiled like a man appreciating a dogfight. “If you know the enemy and you know yourself,” he said, “you need not fear the result of a hundred battles.”

  Silence at the other end of the line. Cole waited the man out, letting the silence build.

  “Very well,” Kobayashi said finally. “Each remaining man of your team shall receive ten thousand dollars upon successful completion of your mission.”

  “Pleasure doing business with you,” Cole said. “Soon as you send us that address, we will be on our merry way.” He disconnected before Kobayashi could, then smiled at Jonas. “Easy money,” he said. Then he laughed.

  “You said something about a spy?” Jonas said.

  Cole tapped at his phone, then held it up to show Jonas the photo of Nick. “He’s one of the cousins,” he said. “And I know the motherfucker.” He laughed again and started pacing around the room. “God, karma is a cast-iron bitch.”

  Jonas frowned. “What are you talking about, Cole?”

  Cole stopped pacing. “That job I took in Lebanon before I formed this team? When my ear got all chewed to shit? We were hired by the cousins. It was a fucking shit show. They sent two spooks with us. The one in charge died.” Cole stabbed his finger at the photo of Nick on his phone. “And he was the other one.”

  HICKS HAD TAKEN the Georgia plates off the Suburban and replaced them with a Florida plate he had lifted from a car in a strip mall outside Tampa. Now the two SUVs headed up into the mountains, Hicks driving the Suburban with Cole and Zhang, Waco and Jonas following in the Tahoe. At their backs the sun had fallen behind the tree-lined ridges, burning golden for a few moments before slowly fading to a sullen red, smearing the horizon and backlighting the ridges so they turned solid black as the red light faded, and then the ridges were swallowed up in the oncoming night.

  It took them less than half an hour to return to Highlands, and both Hicks and Waco drove carefully, obeying the speed limit. The streetlights were on and small knots of people were strolling the sidewalks, enjoying the cooler evening or maybe heading to a late dinner. Cole knew it was a risk driving the Suburban back up here, but they hadn’t had time to find a replacement, and they couldn’t all fit in the Tahoe. Plus, so many tourists drove large SUVs that he hoped theirs would blend in, along with whatever camouflage the Florida plate provided.

  The two vehicles crawled through the streets. No one took any notice, least of all the police. Cole wished they could confirm whether or not the professor was still in jail, but they didn’t have time. Once through town, they stayed east on Horse Cove Road rather than turning north onto 64 for Cashiers. Buildings gave way to trees, and the road rose up onto the back of a low ridge and then doglegged to the right and began a series of switchbacks down the other side of the ridge. A single car passed them in the opposite direction, and then they were alone for nearly a mile, everything silky darkness past the range of their headlights as they wound through the trees. They came out onto the floor of a valley that ran due east. Fields opened on the left, along with a
few homes, their lights yellow and dim in the dark. They left those houses behind and plunged back into the woods, the road turning one way, then another, before it finally curved north toward Whiteside Cove, the valley where the professor lived.

  Cole sat in the front passenger seat of the Tahoe, looking out the windshield but seeing instead the face of the man they had come up here to find. He continued to burn with a fury he’d thought he’d become too callous to feel. The rush of anger felt good, righteous—cleansing. It clarified things. This professor-spy had hurt him, kicked him right in the balls. Winslow had fucked up, but Dawes had been a good man, their communications specialist, steady under fire. He had an ailing father wasting away in a VA somewhere—Kentucky, maybe. Cole would make sure Dawes’s father was taken care of. And Mandy in LA. And he would take care of Poncho too. Poncho was alive, granted, but he was in the hospital, no doubt under heavy police guard. No way to extract him without a firefight. Better to take care of the girl and this professor now, and then they could see about springing Poncho.

  “Field coming up in five,” Zhang said from the back seat.

  “Copy that,” Hicks said, his hands on the wheel.

  On their left, Whiteside Mountain rose into the night, a high central granite face with lower cliffs to either side, like a collapsed layer cake. They passed a turnoff for a lodge on a low rise to the right, where Cole could see the flickering light of a bonfire maybe a hundred meters through the trees. Then the road curved and the firelight vanished behind them. It would be dark as the inside of a boot in a few short minutes. Perfect.

  Out of the gloaming appeared a small house with a dirt driveway and an American flag on a pole, and then it disappeared as they drove into a darkened tunnel of trees. Then the trees fell away, and on their left they saw a red log cabin and another house, behind which a broad field rose up the base of Whiteside for a couple hundred meters before reaching the tree line. The road continued straight past the two houses, then curved left, marking the far end of the field.

  They took the left curve and then, just before the road hooked back to the right and tunneled into the trees again, Hicks turned left onto a dirt road that led into the back of the field. After a few yards Hicks braked to a stop, and five seconds later the Tahoe pulled up next to them. The five men got out of the vehicles, Cole, Hicks, and Waco with their pistols drawn, Zhang and Jonas taking out duffel bags and gun cases from the back of the Suburban.

  There was an outdoor floodlight shining from the corner of the nearest house, a cold white star in the dark. Cole kept an eye on the house while Hicks watched the road. No one came out of the house; no voice called to them. The others pulled on black tactical overalls from one of the duffel bags, then stood guard as Cole and Hicks did the same. Jonas opened the other duffel bag and the hard cases and passed out their gear. Each man already had a pistol and a knife, and to that Jonas added an MP5 submachine gun with a suppressor and extra magazines. Jonas made sure every man’s comms were working. Waco passed out sticks of face paint, which they applied to each other’s faces for camouflage. Less than ten minutes after they had parked, they were ready to go. Zhang checked his weapon’s suppressor, and Jonas kept his eyes on the surroundings, but Cole felt the men standing there, suspended, waiting for him.

  Cole kept his voice low. “We cross the road and head due east through the trees about one klick. I’ll take point. The target is at the southern end of the lake there. We’ll stop fifty meters out and assess. All we want is the flash drive. Once we secure that, the girl and her uncle are both expendable.”

  They each nodded, Hicks adding a quiet, affirmative grunt. Cole paused. He could feel the men ready to go, feel their blood surging like his own. They wanted to find the man who had hurt them, wanted it as badly as he did. Cole felt something in his chest tighten so hard that it was both painful and beautiful. Goddamn, to be with these men, hunting with them under the stars at the foot of this mountain. This was what they had been born to do, right here, at this moment.

  “Let’s go,” Cole said, and he walked toward the road, MP5 in both hands, and his men followed.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The door to the cell block was unlocked and swung open. Nick sat up, nearly hitting his head on the bunk above him. Chief Davies and another police officer walked into the cell block and looked at Nick through the bars.

  “Time to go,” Chief Davies said.

  “Go where?” Nick said.

  The police officer unlocked the cell door and opened it wide.

  “Home,” the chief said. His expression was pleasant enough, but something in his eyes made Nick think he wasn’t altogether happy. Rita must have pulled some strings.

  “The DA isn’t pressing charges?” Nick said. He was still sitting on the bunk.

  “Not at this time,” Chief Davies said, his mouth drawn a little tighter than before.

  Nick almost felt sorry for the chief. He wouldn’t be happy in his position either. He wanted to say something, apologize somehow, but instead he just stood and walked out of the cell, the other two men escorting him. Time to get home and check on Annalise. And then he and his niece would leave these mountains.

  NICK DROVE OUT of Highlands, nearly taking out a mailbox on a particularly tight curve. It was a quarter moon, but Nick could barely see anything beyond his headlights. Peering through the windshield, he drove with one hand and with the other dialed Bhandari, then put his phone on speaker. After two rings, there was a click. “Duty officer, DDA,” a male voice said.

  “DDA Bhandari, please,” Nick said.

  “The DDA is not available—”

  “Tell her it’s Nick Anthony. Tell her Bottlecap.”

  “The DDA is not available,” the man said.

  There would be an operational code, Nick knew, some magic phrase that would get him access to Rita. “Look,” he said, “this is—”

  A red Mercedes coupe slowly pulled out onto the road ahead of him, either not seeing Nick or misjudging the distance. He yanked the wheel, swerving to the left to avoid rear-ending the Mercedes. The Honda’s suspension protested loudly. He sped around the Mercedes, which honked at him, and then found himself driving straight toward a van coming around the curve up ahead. “Shit!” Nick shouted, pulling back into the right-hand lane with a squeal of tires. The van blew past, missing him by inches.

  “Sir?” the man on the phone said.

  “Anthony, Nicholas, EIN 428165312,” Nick said, hands gripping the wheel. “I have a priority message for DDA Bhandari.”

  “The DDA is not—”

  “I was talking to her earlier today. Put her on the damn phone. I have a—”

  A series of clicks, then a dial tone.

  Furious, Nick reached for the phone, but his headlights picked out a sharp turn to the right just ahead, and he hit the brakes and hauled the wheel to the right. The Honda left skid marks as it crossed the center line but stayed on the road. Once out of the turn, Nick veered back into the right-hand lane, the SUV rocking slightly. At this rate, he would run into a tree or another car. Nick ignored his phone and kept his hands on the wheel. He had to make it down the sharp switchbacks here on Horse Cove Road, and once down in the valley he could pick up speed and make it home.

  You have to hurry, Ellie said. She’s alone.

  Nick clenched his jaw and said nothing. When Ellie had been dying at home, Nick had rarely left her side, paying locals to deliver groceries and prescriptions and medical supplies. He had bought a hospital bed for her and put it in the living room so she could look out the windows at the lake and the mountain. He had brewed teas for her and tried to make her laugh and only cried when she was asleep, going into their shared closet and letting out half-choked sobs. One day, when Nick had been rubbing lotion onto her feet, Ellie said, her voice weak but clear, “I don’t want to leave you alone.”

  Nick didn’t stop rubbing her feet, although something in him shuddered at her words. “I’m fine,” he said, and he even looked up at h
er and smiled.

  She looked so small in the bed, almost swallowed by her pillows and quilt, but her eyes burned fiercely in her pale face. “I hear you at night, you know,” she said. “In the closet.”

  Now he did stop rubbing her feet. “Ellie.”

  “Shh,” she said. “I’m dying. I get to talk.”

  He stood and began pacing around the living room, as if by moving he could erase what was happening.

  “Nicholas,” she said, and at the word he stopped, although he gazed at her quilt and not her.

  “I’m going to die, Nick,” she said. A nerve twitched in his jaw. “And when I do,” she continued, “you’ll be alone.”

  Still not looking at her, Nick said, “Because we didn’t have kids.”

  Ellie said nothing for so long that Nick finally dragged his gaze from the quilt to her face. His breath left him at the sight of Ellie weeping. “Oh God,” he said, hurrying forward. “Oh, El. I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

  “That wasn’t what I was thinking,” she said. “And even if I was, I wouldn’t say that to you, Nick. That’s not fair.”

  Fair. Nick wanted to laugh, except he knew it would come out like a bellow. None of this was fair. God, fate, the universe, whatever, had fucked him in the ass and was taking Ellie from him. But he swallowed his anger and instead got a tissue and gently wiped Ellie’s tears away. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry I said it. And I’m sorry I never wanted … that I was too scared to—” He couldn’t finish, couldn’t say I was too scared that any kid I had would go insane like my mother. Ellie already knew, but still he couldn’t say the words aloud.

  “Shut it,” Ellie said. “We’re grown-ups. We made our choice, together.”

  Nick realized he was crying, but he made no effort to hide it, just smiled through his tears. “I wish I’d made a different choice.”

  Ellie reached out a thumb, wiped a tear from Nick’s cheek. “Well,” she said, “might not be too late.” When Nick stared at her, Ellie raised one eyebrow. “You think I’m too sick to jump you right here?”