Line of Fire

by R. J. Patterson

  “About the only way I’d do that for a friend was if he’d saved my life two or three times,” Michaels said. “Only one time wouldn’t justify it for me.”

  “It was a gutsy move, for sure,” Blunt said. “We’re monitoring the family’s communications and have someone in the local sheriff’s department keeping an eye on Acworth to see if he does anything out of the ordinary. And if he does, we’ll be ready to take action.”

  “That’s not good enough,” Michaels said. “If he does something horrific, I’m going to be skewered for it.”

  “My resources are stretched thin here. If you’d like me to officially bring in the CIA—”

  “That's inviting a whole host of problems for me.”

  “Look at it this way,” Blunt said. “Even if Acworth did something terrible, would it look worse than what you did to get blackmailed into releasing him?”

  Michaels sighed. “The optics for what I did in the past would certainly be worse.”

  “Then you did what you thought was best for you politically,” Blunt said. “We’ll do whatever we can to make sure you don’t suffer any blowback from your decision to release Acworth.”

  “I’m counting on you, J.D. Don’t let me down.”

  Michaels hung up and Blunt put his phone down. He drummed his fingers on his desk, contemplating how to manage all the moving parts. First, there was Director Quinn desperately wanting to avoid his own scandal from something in the past. Then, there was President Michaels, who was also blackmailed into doing something he didn’t want to. And while the two incidents didn’t seem linked before, the connection forming through Firestorm’s investigation was through Preston Vogle. On top of all that, Blunt had to consider the possibility that this all led back to a dead senator, Wilson Wellington.

  But does Wellington even matter? What difference does it make if Vogle had ties to the senator?

  Part of Blunt wanted to ignore the nagging question. But the other part of him knew it might lead to the break the team needed to capture Vogle. Blunt remained undecided about which tact to take next when his phone buzzed.

  “How’s the investigation going, J.D.?” Bobby Besserman asked. “I’ve been dying to get an update.”

  “It’s . . . going,” Blunt said. “I’m not sure there’s anything we’ve figured out definitively since we last talked.”

  “Not even anything on Wellington?” Besserman asked.

  Blunt paused, unsure of how much information to divulge about both Besserman’s boss and the president. “I’m still trying to figure out where he fits in or even if he fits in.”

  “Then I’m here to help.”

  “How so?”

  “If you’ve got the afternoon to spare, we might be able to get some of those things answered shortly.”

  “I don’t really have an afternoon to spare, but if it means I could put this whole issue with Wellington to rest, I’ll move my schedule around for you.”

  “Good,” Besserman said. “I’ll be at your office in half an hour to pick you up.”

  “To pick me up? Where are we going?”

  “To one of your favorite places: Sperryville, Virginia.”

  * * *

  BLUNT WAS STANDING outside when Besserman eased into the Firestorm parking lot and rolled down his window.

  “Ready for a ride in the country?” Besserman asked.

  Blunt stared at the car, a red Ferrari F430 Spider. “Can we be any more conspicuous in this thing?”

  “We’re going to look at property valued at four and a half million dollars,” Besserman said. “But a government-issued vehicle will have every eye-ball glued on us. Think the people up here trust the government?”

  Blunt nodded before he opened the passenger side door. “You’re probably right.”

  “I know I’m right,” Besserman said before shifting into gear and then turning onto the main road.

  During the trip, Blunt updated the deputy director of the CIA about their hunt for agent Preston Vogle. When Besserman asked how they figured out he was behind it, Blunt concocted a plausible story about one of Vogle’s aliases being in Berlin at the same time Alex Palmer was murdered.

  “What about the other agent?” Besserman asked. “Randy McPherson?”

  “There was also evidence that Vogle contacted an assassin in Saudi Arabia just before McPherson was murdered.”

  “So, he may not be working alone.”

  Blunt nodded. “We’re exploring all avenues at this point, but we won’t know anything for certain until we apprehend Vogle.”

  The conversation moved on, but Blunt couldn’t help but feel dirty. He’d just lied to one of the best allies at the CIA all to protect Director Quinn, who was being blackmailed for crossing some line. Maybe Quinn’s actions were legal, maybe they weren’t. Blunt didn’t know. But that didn’t console him about having to deceive one of the people he trusted the most at the agency.

  When they finally arrived in Sperryville, Besserman rolled through town before turning off the main road.

  “Are you sure this is the right road?” Blunt asked.

  “Pretty sure, maybe a seven on a scale of one to ten.”

  Blunt stared at the screen on his phone. “My app is rerouting us.”

  “Does it say I’m still going the right way?”

  “I’m not sure now.”

  “What’s wrong?” Besserman asked.

  “You get this far out of the city, coverage isn’t guaranteed. It’s spotty up here.”

  “Good thing I’ve been here before,” Besserman said. “I’m going to stick with my gut.”

  A few minutes later, Besserman turned into the private enclave where Wilson Wellington’s estate was located. Blunt tried to shake off the images of the last time he’d visited the place, the last time he saw Wellington alive before he killed himself.

  Besserman put his car in park and unlocked the doors. “Looks like we’re here.”

  Blunt scanned the driveway, which contained several other cars. Near the steps leading up the porch, he noticed a handcrafted sign with the hours of the estate sale.

  “I’m afraid this might be over my budget,” Blunt said as he studied a flyer he’d pulled out of a slot beneath the sign.

  “You only need something just south of a million dollars for a down payment,” Besserman said. “Didn’t you get rich from being a senator?”

  Blunt shook his head. “Apparently, I did it all wrong.”

  As he reached for the door, it swung open and two couples exited the house. Both of the women smiled at him, while the men ignored him.

  “What did I say?” Blunt said as he glanced at Besserman.

  “You can still make the women swoon, J.D. You’re a nightmare for every husband . . . over sixty-five.”

  “Did you have to add that qualification there at the end?”

  Besserman chuckled. “Face it, J.D. You’re not exactly a spring chicken anymore.”

  “Can you just let me wallow in that illusion for maybe ten seconds before you deflate my ego with all the empathy of a lioness eating her own cub?”

  “Would you prefer I lie to you?”

  Blunt shook his head, feeling another twinge of guilt for deceiving Besserman. “Let’s just go inside and get this over with.”

  Besserman took the lead, while Blunt followed closely behind. They met a woman named Margo Devereaux in the entryway. She stood with her hand extended, while her other arm hugged a leather notepad against her chest.

  “Welcome, gentlemen,” she said. “Are you here for the estate sale, or are you interested in purchasing the property?”

  Blunt and Besserman took turns shaking her hand before responding.

  “Perhaps both if the price is right,” Blunt said with a wink.

  She stared blankly at him. “If you’d like to purchase the house, please see me. Otherwise, the late owner’s son, Collin Wellington, standing near the fireplace in the chartreuse polo, he can assist you with estate items for sale.” />
  “We’ll speak with Collin first,” Besserman said.

  Blunt and Besserman strode across the room as the only other remaining couple in the house exited through the front door, leaving Collin all alone.

  The duo exchanged pleasantries and introduced themselves using aliases before beginning their conversation in earnest.

  “This is quite the place,” Blunt said. He glanced at the spot in the room where he last spoke with Wellington before he committed suicide. “Lots of memories here for your family, I’m sure.”

  Collin nodded. “Some good and some not so good. But it’s time for us to entrust this place—and my father’s things—with someone else.”

  “That's a shame,” Besserman said. “Shenandoah in the fall is truly a magnificent spectacle. With all those rich colors, I never want to leave when I’m up here visiting.”

  “I couldn’t agree with you more,” Collin said. “So, are you interested in the property?”

  “Maybe,” Besserman said. “However, I would love to see what kind of artifacts are lying around this house. I’m a bit of a history buff, and I’ve found that people have all kinds of treasures tucked away that oftentimes family members have no idea exist.”

  “Is that so?” Collin asked.

  “It is in my experience,” Besserman said. “I once found a Mickey Mantle rookie baseball card tucked away in a shoebox in a storage unit I purchased. It’s how I bought my car out there. True story.”

  Collin peeked through the blinds. “The red Ferrari?”

  “That’s the one,” Besserman said.

  “Impressive.”

  “So, what do you say we take a look at everything in your father’s basement?” Besserman said.

  Collin cocked his head to one side. “Who told you this was my father’s house?”

  Besserman nodded at Devereaux. “The agent when we first came inside. I’m sorry. Maybe I wasn’t being sensitive to your loss.”

  “No,” Collin said. “My dad was an asshole to everybody, myself included. Him being gone means I don’t have to be tortured by him whenever I bring his grandkids around.”

  “Every dad makes mistakes,” Blunt said.

  Collin shook his head. “Not every dad makes colossal mistakes, the kind of insurmountable screw ups that leave his kids spending more time in therapy than working most days.”

  “Having a good father can be like winning the lottery,” Besserman said. “Having a bad one feels like you were the lucky one who got struck by lightning. What most of us get is somewhere in between.”

  “Well, I was the one that got electrocuted then. I can assure you that I didn’t shed a single tear at his funeral.”

  Besserman patted Collin on the back. “How about we look in the basement and find something that’ll make you rich so you can shed some tears of joy.”

  “I’m less interested in the money and more focused on getting this house and everything in it out of my mind for good,” Collin said. “I’d just as soon burn it to the ground.”

  “Then why don’t we get started before you throw that match?” Besserman said.

  Collin led them outside through the back porch and explained why there was no inside entrance. “I heard my dad once say that he built this house with an exterior entrance to the basement in case there was ever a need to take shelter during a tornado. But after going down there earlier this week, I think it was more of a place to protect all his secrets.”

  “Secrets?” Blunt asked. “What kind of secrets?”

  “He was a senator. Wilson Wellington? Ever heard of him?”

  Blunt nodded. “The name sounds familiar.”

  Collin opened the padlock and led them down a set of rickety wooden steps. He pulled a string attached to a dangling overhead bulb, illuminating part of the room. Once he reached the floor, he turned on a light and led them into an adjacent room. Instead of an unfinished basement like the stairwell, this room was painted and carpeted. Bookshelves lined the top half of the wall above a set of cabinets.

  Collin pulled open one of the doors and gestured inside. “It’s all right there. Whatever it is he was doing. Probably blackmailing people to get more money for big donors.”

  “I take it you’re not a fan of modern day politics,” Besserman said.

  “No, I think it’s a farce. Just a bunch of old people squabbling over their precious little piece of power and a few young people who think they will be the answer to the system only to become engulfed by it before the end of their first terms.”

  “That’s quite cynical,” Besserman said.

  Collin frowned. “You think I’m wrong?”

  “Actually, I think you’re dead on,” Besserman said.

  “Well, you gentlemen enjoy yourselves while you’re looking through that. We’ve got about twenty minutes left for this estate sale. I’m going back upstairs in case we have any new customers.”

  “Sounds good,” Blunt said.

  Besserman and Blunt started rifling through the file drawers in the cabinets. They found pages just like the ones Collin had so glibly described. Stacks and stacks of favors traded between other members of congress all documented. But that wasn’t what made Blunt’s heart skip a beat.

  “Holy moly,” he said as he sifted through one file. “Would you look at this?”

  Besserman rushed up to Blunt and peered over his shoulder. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “This folder is labeled MH-Allectus. Take as many pictures as you can before the son gets back. We don’t want him to know we’re going to destroy his old man’s reputation.”

  They divvied up the folder and started taking picture after picture of the documents. As Blunt neared the end, one image struck him the wrong way, and his mouth fell open with a gasp.

  “What is it?” Besserman asked.

  “Come take a look at this one.”

  Besserman scanned a photocopy of the report. “We’ve had it all wrong about this program.”

  “Completely wrong,” Blunt said.

  Blunt pulled out his phone and prepared to take a picture when they heard the door behind them creak open.

  “What’d you—” Collin asked as Black and Besserman turned around, phones out in their hands. “What are you doing with that? I didn’t say you could take pictures of anything. My dad was an asshole, but I still don’t want you to tarnish his good name, as fake as it might be.”

  “In that case, I’d like to purchase these files,” Besserman said. “I’ll give you fifty grand for these right now.”

  “Nope, I’m not interested. I changed my mind. Who are you guys really?”

  “Look, I told you that we’re simply interested in your father’s estate,” Besserman said.

  “Well, delete those photos and then show me on your phone,” Collin said, holding out his hand. “I’m not going to let you defame him like you appear to be planning to do.”

  “I won’t let that happen either,” said another man standing behind Collin.

  Before Blunt or Besserman could respond, Collin collapsed to the ground after getting whacked in the back of the head by a gun. The man trained his weapon straight ahead as he stepped over Collin and strode toward Blunt and Besserman.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” the man said. “I’m going to need you to pull out your guns, drop them, and then kick them over to me. And then I’m going to need your phones.”

  CHAPTER 21

  BLACK AND SHIELDS ROLLED down the interstate as they discussed their next move. Getting assigned to watch Tony Acworth return home from prison seemed like a strange assignment. Of course, the president’s requests often took precedent, but Black wondered if his involvement would be appreciated by Michaels. The president’s long-standing animosity toward Black had simmered, but if things with Acworth went sideways, Black knew he’d get blamed.

  After stopping to get something to eat in Williamsport, Maryland, Black and Shields resumed their trip back to Washington. With their plan mapped out to dig de
eper into Vogle, Black dialed Blunt’s number. The call went straight to voicemail.

  “Let me try him at the office,” Shields said.

  About a minute passed before she shook her head.

  “Not there either, huh?”

  “Nope,” she said. “Let me try his assistant and see if she can tell me where he is.”

  When she hung up, she relayed the information to Black.

  “She said Blunt left sometime after lunch with Besserman. Blunt said something about being gone for the rest of the day.”

  “And he didn’t tell her where he was going?” Black asked.

  “Just said he was going to be out.”

  “That doesn’t help us, does it?”

  “We’ll try again later,” Shields said.

  A few minutes later, Shields’s phone buzzed with a call from Mallory Kauffman, who worked for the NSA. Shields had requested her help in expanding the facial recognition search for Preston Vogle.

  “Please tell me you found something,” Shields said after answering the call and placing it on speaker.

  “I got a hit not five minutes ago from an auto parts store security cam on the outskirts of Sperryville. I’m texting you the address now.”

  “Anything else you can tell me?”

  “He got into a dark Mercedes sedan with the license plate YHT-6111 and was heading west on Lee Highway. I wish I had more, but that’s all I got for you.”

  “Okay, thanks,” Shields said. “You’re a peach.”

  She hung up and turned toward Black. He jerked the steering wheel to the right, darting in front of a car in the far right lane in order to get on the interstate exit.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “We’ve got to go after him,” Black said.

  “Of course we do, but do you have a plan for how we’re going to find him?”

  “I don’t need one because I know exactly where he’s going,” he said as he glanced at his watch.

  “You know where he’s going?”

  Black nodded. “I do now. There’s only one reason he’d be in Sperryville.”

  “And why’s that? Because they have the best whiskey in the state?”

  “No, because that’s where Wilson Wellington’s vacation home is located.”