by Tom Fowler
Yet here he was walking around. According to Sara Morrison, Braxton’s freedom came because he still retained a couple friends in high places. Considering her position, she would know. Tyler drank some more beer. His father’s words from lunch echoed in his head. Killer isn’t an MOS. They knew you’d be better at shooting terrorists. It’s who you are. So far, Tyler encountered four men he now knew worked for Braxton, and he’d killed none of them.
It would need to change.
“Dad!” Lexi waved her hand in front of Tyler’s face. “What the hell? You were zoned out there. You almost spilled your beer.”
Tyler looked down. He held the bottle cock-eyed, and the amber liquid threatened to tumble from the opening. He held it upright and set it on the end table. “Sorry.”
“You all right?”
It was such an easy question. Tyler wished he could provide an easy answer. “Sit down, Lexi.” He patted the cushion beside him.
“Oh, god.” She dropped onto the sofa. “Is something wrong with Grandpa?”
Tyler scoffed. “Not at all. Hell, he’ll probably outlive us both.” He paused, unsure of how to proceed. Lexi never heard the full story of Leo Braxton, and Tyler wasn’t too keen to provide it now. Still, she deserved to know something was amiss. The Braxton playbook could include Lexi at some point, and while Tyler would do everything he could to prevent it, his daughter deserved to know she could soon be in a maniac’s sights.
“Dad, you’re worrying me.”
“All right,” Tyler said. “Do you remember me telling you about a man I served under named Leo Braxton?”
Lexi frowned and closed her eyes. A few seconds later, she said, “Is he the war crimes guy?”
The attribution made Tyler smile. Considering she would’ve been about eight when the whole mess went down, it served as quite a fitting moniker. “The same.”
“Isn’t he rotting in jail?”
“He was in Leavenworth. Somehow, he got released.”
“What the hell?” Lexi shook her head. “I don’t know a lot about what he did, but it sounded serious at the time. You and mom didn’t tell me much, though.”
“In our defense,” Tyler said, “you were pretty young. Besides, I didn’t exactly give your mother all the details. She wouldn’t have been able to provide a lot.”
“I’m not young anymore.” Lexi stared at Tyler defiantly to emphasize her point.
“I know. What he did a decade ago isn’t important right now, though. I wanted you to know he’s out.”
Lexi crossed her arms under her chest. “Dad, is he going to come after us?”
Tyler turned up his hands. “I don’t know. I’m pretty sure Smitty’s son Jake is on the run from Braxton and whoever he pulled into his organization.” Tyler paused and thought about the timing. His former commander sat behind bars until recently, according to Sara Morrison. It meant someone like Kent Maxwell must’ve started the company. It would allow them to dodge an obvious association with a war criminal. “Anyway, I’ve run into a few of his men. It . . . hasn’t gone well for them, but they’re still alive.”
“You might need to start killing them, though.”
“Yeah.” Tyler nodded. He heard his father’s words again but ignored them this time. “It’s possible Braxton doesn’t know I’m involved. It’s not like any of these assholes saw my ID. They could describe me, though, and anyone I served with could put two and two together.”
Lexi took a deep breath and sat on her hands. “Am I in danger?”
“We both might be. I won’t lie to you. Coming after you to get to me is something Braxton might try. I don’t think he’ll go for it first, though. He’ll probably keep coming after me . . . if he knows I’m involved.”
“Let’s assume he does,” Lexi said. “Does he hate you?”
“Of course,” Tyler said. “He blamed me for the end of his military career. Never mind he brought it all on himself. The truly guilty and deluded never think they’re to blame for their own misfortune.”
Lexi’s head bobbed slowly as she took it all in. Tyler felt bad for dropping it all on her. She probably should’ve learned all this in stages over the years. “What should I do?”
“Go to the range and practice with your Walther. If anyone but me comes through the door, aim for center mass. When in doubt, empty the magazine.”
Despite the dire tone of the conversation, Lexi grinned. “I’d pretty much decided the same thing.”
“That’s my girl,” Tyler said.
The large black phone on Maxwell’s desk rang. The secure line. He’d paid extra to get it installed over Victor White’s objections. Bean counters often stood in the way of what needed to be done in Maxwell’s experience. Having the options for private communication already helped the company in its legitimate contracting work. Maxwell picked up the receiver. “It’s Bell,” the man on the other end said.
A direct call from Arthur Bell was unusual. Maxwell wondered what was wrong but kept his voice composed like an officer should. “What can I do for you?”
“I think it’s what I might be doing for you . . . again.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific,” Maxwell said.
Bell’s voice dropped even though the line prevented eavesdropping. “Sara just signed off for the day. Finally. Earlier, she asked me to look into your company.”
“And?”
“She’s going to expect something,” Bell said. “She was looking over stuff recently, came across Hexagon, and asked me if I’d vetted you. I—”
“You said yes, of course.”
“Sure. The thing is Sara usually does it herself. She doesn’t like delegating certain tasks. It makes working for her a little boring, honestly.”
“If only I’d learned to play the violin,” Maxwell said.
Bell sighed into the phone. “Look . . . I can probably stall her a little and say I’m working on gathering some info. She knows things move at government speed. I can’t keep her in the dark forever, though.”
Maxwell leaned back in his chair and stared at the drop ceiling. “What are you suggesting we do, Mister Bell?”
“I’m not suggesting anything. You handle your own shit. I just tell you what I hear. I let you know about Jake reaching out to me, and now I’m telling you Sara Morrison is interested in your company. You decide what to do about it.”
“I presume we’ll work something out in this instance,” Maxwell said, “like we did in the first?”
“A new company has a lot of expenses,” Bell said, “especially in such a competitive industry.”
“Thanks for the heads-up, Mister Bell.” Maxwell broke the call. Sara Morrison poking around was inevitable. Her reputation preceded her. Arthur Bell was starting to get expensive, however. The information about Jake was worth paying for. He knew too much to walk around freely. This bit about Morrison didn’t constitute a revelation.
Still, Maxwell would tell Braxton. Sara Morrison would need to be dealt with just like Jake Smith.
15
Columbia was close enough to DC for Kent Maxwell to dislike it. Despite being a couple Maryland counties away, it was an auxiliary to the swamp and equally as fetid. If Braxton hadn’t requested him personally on this job, he would have gladly stayed far away. They sat outside a house, which Maxwell would admit was a nice one. He would even live in it if it weren’t in hoity-toity Columbia.
All the houses featured garages, plus all the bells and whistles a rich suburbanite could want. It was a community made for defense contractors, consultants, and government executives. Tonight, he and Braxton surveilled the latter. They were spying on Sara Morrison, the Assistant Secretary of Defense for Special Operations and Low-Intensity Conflict. A fancy title . . . especially for a woman.
“You were right to come to me, Maxwell,” Braxton said from the passenger’s seat.
“I hope so, sir.”
Braxton shifted so he could stare Maxwell down. “You doubt me?”
Maxwell understood the woman’s position at the Pentagon and what it meant for Braxton’s nascent company. She potentially stood in the way of them all becoming wealthy. Still, she was a DoD civilian. Maxwell didn’t harbor a lot of love for them—especially the ones who’d been in their jobs too long—but ultimately, they were on the same side. He didn’t want to hurt her, either. “I know how you favor resolving things. A dead body here doesn’t help our cause even if her deputy would be easier to deal with.”
“I’m sure she’s a reasonable woman,” Braxton said. “Maybe she just needs the proper motivation to drop her little investigation.”
Maxwell frowned. “We’re here to get dirt on her?”
“You call it dirt,” Braxton said. “I prefer to think of it as motivational material.”
“What makes you think tonight is the time for your blackmail plan?” Maxwell heard the frustration in his own tone.
Braxton must have, too, but if he did, he never showed it. “She’s been on a date.”
“How do you know?” Maxwell asked.
“You really need to work with our cyber guys sometimes. They did similar work on the red team.” He shrugged. “Social media, mostly. We figured out who she’s seeing. He checked in from a place called Clyde’s not far from here.”
“What if they go back to his place?”
Braxton grinned. It always made him look like a predator, and his graying hair accentuated the look. “He lives much farther away. Their nightcap will be here.”
“Just because she’s on a date doesn’t mean we’re going to get anything good.” Maxwell fidgeted in the driver’s seat. As usual, they parked their butts in a gray SUV. Braxton favored the look, and he liked the horsepower and American-made factor of the GMC Yukon. In many areas, SUVs blended in. Even the larger ones in darker colors looked like many other vehicles on the road or in a lot. In this neighborhood, however, they stood out. Most of the cars parked on the street belonged to luxury brands like Lexus or Audi. Their domestic beast could get them noticed.
“I understand it’s at least their sixth,” Braxton said. “We should expect . . . fireworks. It’s why we brought the camera, Kent.”
Maxwell blinked hard. “Wait . . . we’re going to take pictures of her fucking some dude?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s a professional woman.”
“So?” Maxwell said. “It’s the twenty-first century.”
“By the calendar,” Braxton said, “yes. But by attitude . . . well, I don’t think we’re quite there yet. ‘Me too’ or not. She’s a woman in a position of power in a male-dominated arena. And a bunch of old white men will be horrified if compromising pictures of her turn up.”
“Unbelievable,” Maxwell muttered, shaking his head.
“You’re only looking at the prurient angle,” said Braxton. “Photos like these are an old spy tactic. People will wonder if she’s under surveillance by a foreign intelligence service. They might even think she’s been compromised.”
A car drove down the road. Both Maxwell and Braxton shifted lower in their seats. Headlights washed over them and moved on as the car kept going. “Are we really going to need this?” Maxwell said, straightening back up.
“I hope not. But we must be prepared for all outcomes and have a plan for each.”
It was among Braxton’s favorite things to say. Maxwell found it perfectly sensible in general, but he didn’t like applying it here. It fell somewhat lightly under the category of hurting Sara Morrison. It wouldn’t wound her physically, but it could damage her career and her psyche. Maxwell hoped they didn’t wind up with anything to photograph. “What’s the endgame for the company?” he wanted to know after a moment of silence.
“We do the work we’re good at,” Braxton said. “There are always terrorists to kill.”
“I mean, why focus on working in the Middle East once we get what we’re after? There are plenty of opportunities in other parts of the world. Domestically, even.”
“The Middle East is a wasteland. I don’t just mean the desert. It’s largely ungoverned. Many of the governments there are openly hostile to the west and western values. Terror thrives because no one over there will put it down, and our politicians have the same problem. They don’t have the spine or the balls or whatever you want to call it. They won’t do what needs to be done. Companies like ours fill the gap. We can solve the problem other governments, including our own, refuse to.”
Maxwell stewed on Braxton’s words. On a basic level, he agreed. Most of the rulers in the Middle East were worthless. The people, however, were solid. Maxwell met many of them during his time there. A few turned out to be terrorists or sympathizers, but by and large, they were simply people who didn’t want to die. There was definitely a gap to be filled, but he and Braxton would disagree on how wide it was.
Another vehicle approached from behind. It slowed as it neared Sara Morrison’s house and turned into her driveway. The garage door went up, revealing a tidy interior and late-model Infiniti sedan. The BMW pulling in would look right at home beside it. The German car’s engine cut off, and the garage door descended.
“Ready the camera and directional microphone,” Braxton said.
Maxwell tried not to feel insulted. He prepared them ninety seconds after arrival. The only remaining step was recording. They wouldn’t get any useful video unless Sara Morrison and her date approached an open window, but the mic had enough power to pick up a conversation from inside the house. Maxwell wondered if a round of dirty talk would mean as much for Braxton’s agenda as a high-res image of Morrison’s tits.
They engaged in post-date small talk for a few minutes. It was a lovely dinner, the wine was exquisite, yada yada. “Make sure we’re getting video,” Braxton said. “We can always get stills from it.”
“I’m rolling, sir. So far, we have a lovely shot of the exterior of her house.”
“Just keep shooting. She has a first-floor master suite. I’m sure you were wondering about climbing a tree.”
The thought crossed Maxwell’s mind, but he didn’t mention it. A few minutes later, Sara Morrison and her date walked farther into the house. It seemed the gentleman was spending the night. He mentioned it in passing, and she didn’t object. They both expected it. Maxwell noticed a window with the blinds up. If it were Morrison’s bedroom, they had a chance to get some usable footage.
“You have anything early in the morning?” the man said.
“My calendar is clear until nine-thirty,” Sara Morrison said. Maxwell could hear them well enough. The recording wouldn’t be perfect because they sat across the street and captured sound through the walls, but he could clean it up.
“Good. You’re mine until at least two, then.”
“Well, we’d better get started.”
Maxwell heard them kissing, then the rustling of clothes. A minute later, they appeared in the window. He centered it in the camera. Sara Morrison faced out, the man behind her. She wore a black bra and matching panties; he was naked above the waist. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her neck. She angled her head, her dark hair spilled to the side, and her sigh came through clearly on the audio. A few seconds later, her date’s hands moved, and her bra fell away. Maxwell realized they now had the dirty talk and a shot of Morrison’s tits. He found them quite nice for whatever it was worth.
As soon as the bra tumbled away, the man behind Maxwell cupped her breasts. He trailed kisses up and down her neck. Then he took a step back, and she pivoted and followed him. Another couple feet and they were out of sight again. The audio continued recording, however. Maxwell frowned and fidgeted as he listened to the sounds of Morrison and her date having sex. Braxton stared ahead. He didn’t mention getting out of the car for a better shot. It would’ve been a bridge too far for Maxwell.
When the lovebirds finished, Braxton told Maxwell to keep recording. “They agreed they’d be at this for a while,” he said.
�
�They’re both over forty,” Maxwell pointed out.
“Aren’t you over forty, Kent?”
“By a year, sir.”
“Are you telling me you couldn’t plow your girlfriend until at least two, like the man inside promised?”
“I don’t like to boast.”
Braxton smirked. “Bullshit. You see my point, though. They could very well be at it again. The more we have to use against Miss Morrison should it come to it, the better.”
They remained in the SUV. Sure enough, Morrison and her lover took a brief respite and then went back for round two. Maxwell made sure they recorded pictures and sound.
He still didn’t like it, and he hoped they wouldn’t need any of this.
But he would follow orders.
16
Maxwell extracted some choice still images from the video and provided them to Braxton. He scrutinized them. As he rose through the ranks, some of his compatriots loved offloading work onto the enlisted men. Braxton never minded reviewing his subordinates’ work, however. It was necessary to make sure they did things right, of course, but they also needed to know their commander was involved and invested. Leaders always were, and soldiers recognized leadership.
Braxton had to admit Sara Morrison was attractive. For a woman in her mid-forties who prioritized rising through the ranks of the DoD, she turned out more than OK. The photos of her bra coming off before her boyfriend cupped her breasts were terrific. Back in the day, he would have shared them with his fellow colonels.
Now, he was going to send them to Sara Morrison.
Getting her personal email was easy. Even people who do good jobs protecting their privacy share their information with companies who don’t care. Braxton setup a temporary email account, untraceable to him. A former soldier under his command helped him with computer security, and all the traffic his laptop generated was anonymized. Even if Sara Morrison sicced her DoD IT security people on the problem—and she wouldn’t—they’d all die of old age before they unraveled everything.