by Tom Fowler
“Goddamn, Dad.” Lexi handed him the laptop. “Why would they be after him?”
“I don’t know. By the time he would have made the leap, I’d already gone back to finishing my time as a mechanic and teacher.”
“But you feel responsible.” It wasn’t a question. Tyler nodded. “You didn’t get him in trouble, Dad. Maybe he did something awful.”
“Maybe,” Tyler said, though he didn’t believe it. “He seemed like a good kid, though. His immediate superiors liked him well enough, too. I think he got caught up in something too big for him.”
“Seems like a long time,” Lexi said. “If he landed in trouble almost ten years ago, why would people go after him now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Shouldn’t you?”
“I’m working on it,” Tyler said. “I just found all this out. Smitty didn’t have a detailed feel of the case to give me. He’s just worried about his son.” Tyler pointed at the screen. “Can you tell me what all this means?”
“I don’t know the ins and outs of how your app works, either,” Lexi said. “It scours social media. I saw it scraping posts and photos. It makes some calculations about who people’s close friends are based on what it finds.”
“I guess these would be the folks to start with.” Tyler perused the names, none of which were familiar to him. Based on the information displayed, Jake’s identified contacts never served in the military.
“What are you going to do?”
“For now, I want to know where Jake went,” Tyler said. He picked up a small notebook and jotted down the relevant details for the people the app selected.
“You could print the screen, you know,” Lexi said, the corner of her mouth turned up in amusement.
“You spend twenty-four years in the army, and you forget how to write. I need the practice.”
“Dad.” Lexi stared at Tyler. “I still want to know what you’re going to do. These guys could tell you anything. What if one of them knows where Jake is?”
“It’s a good question.” Tyler closed the laptop and set it aside. “I’m not sure. This isn’t an investigation, and I’m probably not qualified to be doing whatever I’m doing. If someone tells me where Jake is, I’ll check it out.”
“Be careful. I know you feel responsible in some way, but still. I don’t want my only parent to be a jailbird.”
“You could go live with your grandfather.”
Lexi wrinkled her nose. “Aren’t you supposed to meet him for lunch today?”
“Shit,” Tyler said. “I already postponed on him once. I guess I need to suck it up and go.”
“He’ll probably understand.”
Tyler tore off the notebook paper and slipped it into his pocket. “Probably . . . but he wouldn’t let me live it down for a month. Besides, every now and then the old man says something useful.”
“That’s funny,” Lexi said. “I feel the same way about you.”
All Tyler could do was smile.
9
Tyler’s father moved into a retirement community when he turned seventy-five a couple months ago. He didn’t need the extra support many residents did, but the place was nice, and his dad had the money. Tyler was supposed to help him move and didn’t as he was busy with his last case for Patriot Security. Ever since, his father seemed salty when they talked. Bailing on lunch today would only make it worse.
His father called Tyler while he was en route. “You’re coming this time, right?”
“Nice to talk to you, too, Dad.”
“Yeah, yeah. You blowing me off again?”
“I’m headed your way now. Am I meeting you at your apartment?”
“Sure. We’ll just stay here. They opened the restaurant again. Food is good. And you’ll finally get to see the place.”
It was a minor guilt trip, but they counted, too. “All right. See you soon.”
The 442 lapped up the miles from Baltimore to Bel Air, the seat of Harford County. Farmland surrounded pockets of civilization, and Bel Air formed one of the largest—and the most expensive—such pocket. Zeke Tyler sold his house in Pasadena without telling anyone. The old man remained sharp, so Tyler couldn’t question his mental fitness. Maybe his father finally got lonely. If so, it took him long enough.
Tyler arrived at the retirement community a few minutes early. Zeke would be pleased. Being on time equaled being late in his world, something Tyler never understood. Evergreen Acres comprised five identical apartment buildings, a sixth for administration and medical facilities, and a few smaller places for activities, including a dining hall. Judging by signage, only the eatery remained open. Every time Tyler heard something called a dining hall, it conjured images of an army mess. He hoped this one would be better. Being worse would prove difficult.
Tyler’s father lived in the outermost building, farthest away from the dining hall and the auxiliary structures. It suited him. The old man was still active. Leave the closer residences for people who couldn’t walk as far or as well. Why his dad decided such a facility was the way to go when he needed—or wanted—very little assistance remained a mystery.
The plain brown door to apartment 417 boasted of only a plain brass knocker. No other decorations. Other residents had flowers on the door, or trinkets on little tables nearby. Not Zeke Tyler. Spartan all the way. If Tyler’s dad could get away with stringing only a handful of lights and hang one ball on the Christmas tree, he’d be happy. A Santa in the lawn was a bridge too far.
Tyler rapped the knocker onto the door four times. Never five. Zeke answered quickly. No doubt he’d been waiting in the small foyer, watching the second hand advance on his watch. “Dad,” Tyler said.
“You’re early,” he said.
“I figured you’d appreciate the change.” Zeke shrank a little over the years, now standing an inch shorter than Tyler at five-nine. He never gained weight in his life. Tyler would be surprised if he’d added five pounds since retiring from the navy some eighteen years prior. Other than silver hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and a slight stoop in his posture, no one would guess Zeke for seventy-five. For his part, he tried not to act his age.
They walked across the campus. Zeke had an anecdote ready for every building. One had ants in the spring. A bunch of pretty women lived in another one. A third saw more residents die than any other, and Zeke’s voice went from chipper to somber as he talked about it. They passed a few people along the way, all of whom greeted Zeke as Mister Tyler.
The quarter-full dining hall saw more of the same. Tyler’s father may as well have been a celebrity. People older and younger knew who he was and called out to him by name. He was like Norm on Cheers. Even the staff treated him like a visiting monarch, exchanging greetings and fully extended fist bumps. Now, Tyler understood why his dad came here. Living by himself, he lacked an audience. Here, he could still be Chief Tyler, but the old, beloved version rather than the naval taskmaster. How many men reinvented themselves in their seventies? Hell, Tyler couldn’t even do it at fifty.
They sat at a table for two. Tyler noticed all the seating options were about six feet apart, which reduced the usable capacity of the hall below half. Evergreen Acres decorated the place like a generic American restaurant. Maroon tablecloths. White plates. Square chandeliers overhead. If the hall hadn’t been the eatery in a retirement community, it could have occupied a spot in a strip mall.
“You pay to eat here?” Tyler said.
Zeke shook his head. “Part of the monthly dues. You get to bring a few guests.”
A waiter who could have been dressed for a shift at Chili’s dropped off two menus. Tyler looked it over. Simple and classic American fare with a few staples borrowed from other countries. The waiter returned a minute later. Zeke ordered prime rib with mashed potatoes. Tyler opted for a burger and fries. It was hard to go wrong with the classics.
“What are you up to?” Zeke asked when the server left.
“I just took a job as a classic car mechanic.”
>
“Really? You turning over a new leaf or something?”
Tyler said, “I’m trying to. Or I was at least.”
“What do you mean?” his father said.
He relayed the story about Jake being gone and the two goons coming in to rough Smitty up. “I tried to be a mechanic. Even got a few days out of it, but I couldn’t stand there while they beat up Smitty. A couple of assholes like those could’ve killed him.”
“Listen to me,” Zeke said. “I know I always gave you shit for choosing the army over the navy.” This marked the first time he’d acknowledged it. “Truth is, I admire anyone who serves their country, and you did it better than most.”
“Thanks, Dad, but what’s your point?”
“My point is you’re no goddamn mechanic.”
“Sure I am,” Tyler said. “It was my original MOS.”
“Only because killer isn’t an MOS. The army knew what you were. Sure, you were good at fixing Jeeps, Hummers, and all those. They knew you’d be better at shooting terrorists, though. It’s who you are.”
“And a man’s gotta be who he is,” said Tyler, repeating a maxim he heard his father use many times over the years.
Zeke smiled. He didn’t do it often. “You remembered.”
“You said it often enough.”
“Had to, as stubborn as you were.”
Tyler chuckled. He didn’t doubt he was stubborn, and he knew he inherited it from the man across the table. “So I should give up being a mechanic?”
The waiter dropped off their food before his father could respond. After the server walked away, they ate in silence for a few minutes. Then Zeke said, “Do what you want. You’re going to, anyway. I just don’t want you to get your head wrapped up in being something you’re not.”
“There aren’t many job openings for killer, Dad.”
“I know. Look, fix cars all you want. Don’t forget the other things you’re good at. Act decisively when you feel you need to, like when those two shitheads started cuffing your boss around. You know they’ll probably come back, right?”
Tyler nodded. “I gave one of their guns to Smitty.”
Zeke waved his hand. “Smitty ain’t gonna shoot anybody. If you’re there when they come back, what are you gonna do?”
After a bite of his burger, Tyler said, “Act decisively.”
Zeke spread his hands. “There you go.”
They went back to eating. Tyler watched his father cut his prime rib. He trimmed the fat like a surgeon making an incision near an artery. Then, he cut the meat in precise rows, slicing each piece to be as close to the same size as possible. Other people just took a knife and fork to their meat. Zeke Tyler made it into an operating room theater.
“I’m working on finding Jake,” Tyler said when they had eaten most of their food.
“Any leads?”
“Found a couple of his friends. They’re on my agenda after I leave here.”
“You packing?” Zeke said.
Tyler rolled his eyes. “Really, Dad? If guns resisted water better, I’d carry in the shower.”
“That’s my boy,” his dad said.
In her office at the Pentagon, Sara Morrison performed a periodic review of active contracts. Her predecessor always delegated such tasks to his deputy—her at the time—but Sara preferred doing it herself. Her title as the Assistant Secretary of Defense for Special Operations and Low-Intensity Conflict meant she didn’t need to spend time reviewing line items. Sara felt too many people punted routine matters to their seconds-in-command. She didn’t mind working long hours. Once you broke into the boys’ club, you needed to stay there.
As she usually did, Sara worked alphabetically. Specifically, she focused on the country of conflict. Afghanistan topped the list and featured several active operations outside the normal military channels. The United States’ interest in curbing terrorism and neutering the influence of the Taliban took many forms. Sara and her team supported most of the ones the American public heard little or nothing about.
A bit over an hour into her review, she came across the name of a new organization: Hexagon Security. Businesses came into the space with some regularity. The story was usually the same: a few retired military guys missed the life and formed an LLC. Sara couldn’t complain—these private military companies helped the country with important and sometimes unsavory work. Considering what they did and where they did it, however, someone needed to vet them well.
It was another area in which Sara rarely delegated.
She realized Hexagon must have been one of the rare times she did. The company’s file showed it to be a nascent business still in its first year of operation. Despite being new, Hexagon earned an important—and potentially lucrative—contract in Afghanistan. They went there to subvert and dismantle the Taliban’s intelligence network. Sara’s deputy Arthur Bell signed off on the organization’s background work and approved them getting the job. She kept reading the file and came to the people in charge: co-founders Victor White and Kent Maxwell.
Neither hailed from an intelligence background, which made their selection for the contract unusual. Something else nagged at her. Maxwell’s name was familiar. She’d heard it before, and she didn’t think it came up in a good context. Sara hit the intercom button on her phone, and her assistant Ellen answered a moment later. “Yes, Miss Morrison?”
“I need a service file on someone . . . Kent Maxwell. I think he was army.”
“I’ll get right on it.”
“Thanks, Ellen.” Sara stared at the screen. Hexagon Security. Kent Maxwell. She couldn’t help feeling he and his company were the wrong choices for the work. The file would tell her for certain. If her suspicions were correct, she’d need to have a long talk with Arthur Bell and then rescind the contract he approved.
10
Tyler left about a half-hour later. It was a good visit with the old man. They didn’t always get along over the years, and Tyler being deployed halfway around the world only added strain to the relationship. Maybe they could interact now like most elderly fathers and middle-aged sons. Tyler chuckled to himself at thinking of Zeke as elderly. By age, he was, but by fitness, mental sharpness, and skills like shooting a gun, he could pass as Tyler’s older brother.
While still in the parking lot, Tyler checked his notes. He wanted to look into two contacts his laptop identified as Jake’s close friends. First, he tried Mike Watson. No answer on his home number or cell. Next, Tyler called Sam Fisher, who answered his landline. Tyler hung up right away. The info he jotted down told him Fisher found himself in legal trouble several times. If Jake went to him, he probably received bad advice, which could have compounded his situation and led to him being on the run. Tyler plotted a course to the house on his GPS and drove off.
The navigation system guided him to a neighborhood in Perry Hall. It was in the county and only a couple miles from Smitty’s shop. Close enough for Jake to pop over there before or after work and get his head filled with a bunch of bullshit. Tyler parked in a vistor’s spot. Fisher owned an end unit. All the houses looked more or less the same. A couple had ugly dormer windows on their top floors, and a smattering of brick fronts broke up the white siding monotony, but these homes obviously got punched out of the same cookie cutter. Even though townhouses were a more modern take on Baltimore rowhouses, Tyler preferred the original. They held much more character.
Lights were on upstairs and downstairs in Fisher’s house. From the information Tyler reviewed, he lived alone. Fisher’s car, a late-model BMW 3-series coupe, sat in its assigned spot. Tyler was about to get out of the car when his phone rang. He glanced at the number. What the hell did Danny want? “I don’t work for you anymore.”
“You have my property.” Danny’s voice hadn’t changed. Still too much of a whiny undertone to command respect. Tyler wondered if it contributed to his former boss being terminal at Specialist E-4.
“What are you talking about?”
“The laptop, Ty
ler. I know you turned it on.”
“I did,” Tyler said. “There was a competition for biggest asshole boss. I wanted to make sure someone nominated you.”
Danny sighed into the phone. He did it often even when Tyler worked there. Pushing the man’s buttons was one of the few things Tyler liked about interacting with Danny. “You should return it.”
“Talk to Cliff. He said I could keep it.”
“He didn’t tell me.”
“Sorry,” Tyler said. “You needed to at least make corporal to attend the meeting.”
“I don’t need to listen to your cheap shots anymore.” If Danny weren’t so sensitive about his rank, Tyler wouldn’t needle him so much about it. The reality was he’d never been a good soldier, and the army recognized the fact before he moved up too far. They didn’t always get it right, but they did in his case. Seeing the writing on the wall, Danny didn’t re-enlist. Everyone who worked for him at Patriot outranked him in their active duty days, and it always bothered him.
“Yet you still are.” Tyler watched a light wink out on the second level of Fisher’s house. “You want the laptop back?”
“I do,” Danny said. “I don’t care what Cliff told you.”
“You know where I live. Come and take it.” Tyler broke the connection. He pictured Danny cursing and slamming his phone down. He wouldn’t show up. His type never did.
Despite the pleasant thought of Danny fuming in his office, the conversation left Tyler on edge. He wanted to cool off before confronting Sam Fisher. Tyler shifted in the 442’s seat and kept an eye on the house.
Jake verified his setup at the new hotel. The two cameras were charged and rolling. The footage—which consisted of an empty parking lot at the moment—displayed in the app. No new calls or texts to his burner. For now at least, things were good.
His time lying low wore on Jake. The face in the mirror looked a little more thin and drawn, and the unkempt beard made him appear homeless. If his appearance gave his pursuers pause, he would accept the reproachful stares of people he encountered on the streets. Jake checked his M11 pistol, found everything to be in order, and set it beside himself on the bed. He stretched out and tried to relax.