by Tom Fowler
“No need for such theatrics,” Braxton said. On some level, Tyler knew he cared about his ex-wife and daughter. It was buried beneath a lot of layers, however, most of them involving the desires to slaughter, pillage, and profit. Everyone had their priorities. “I want something from you.”
“I know. You want me to ignore you and your men while you kill Jake Smith.”
“Two things, then.”
“What’s the other?”
“I want you to kill Sara Morrison,” Braxton said.
Tyler didn’t know what to say. He should have anticipated this. Braxton came gunning for Morrison with a trio of armed men, and Tyler taunted him from one of their phones after killing all three. Sara was safe with Rollins, which Braxton couldn’t know. When Tyler didn’t say anything, Braxton took advantage of his silence. “Don’t pretend you don’t know who I’m talking about. You killed three of my men saving the bitch.”
“What makes you think I have any idea where she is now?” Tyler said.
“You’d better find her, then.”
“You’re serious.”
“Of course I am. She’s standing in the way of my company not only making millions but doing work this country desperately needs going forward.”
“But mostly making millions.”
“The money is nice,” Braxton admitted.
“You’re not interested in helping the country,” Tyler said. “There are plenty of ways to do it, even for a serial piece of shit like you. You just want to make money and kill a bunch of brown people.”
“What’s wrong with either of those?”
“You’re insane.”
“On the contrary,” Braxton said, “I see clearly what needs to be done. And it starts with Sara Morrison’s death.”
“So I kill her, and Lexi goes free?”
“I’ll need proof, Tyler. I’m not just going to take your word for it. You were always a good liar. Bring me what I need, and your daughter is free to leave.”
“What kind of proof are we talking about?” Tyler said.
“How about her head on a silver platter?”
“Who is she, John the Baptist? This isn’t the first century.”
“Fine,” Braxton said. “I’ll settle for a photo or video. My people will need to authenticate it, of course. Once they do, Lexi can go. You have my word.”
Tyler trusted Braxton about as far as he could dropkick him. Notions like honor mattered to him, though. It was all tied up in his identity as a colonel. However maniacal he was, Braxton had a core of old-school values he wouldn’t betray. If he offered his word, he would keep it. “Your word?”
“Yes.”
“All right,” Tyler said. “I’ll do it.”
Some things needed to be discussed in person.
Tyler stopped his drive toward the city and got back on the road. He dialed Rollins. "I'm headed your way."
"Why? What's going on?"
"An interesting development. Not unexpected, just . . . interesting."
"All right," Rollins said. "You know where I live."
He resided on the other side of Baltimore in Rosedale. Tyler drove around the city rather than through it and approached Rollins' area about fifteen minutes later. Rollins owned a house on Chivalry Court, which Tyler always found appropriate for him. The street featured a mix of architectural styles, but the plurality of homes were ranchers. Rollins' was at the end of the cul-de-sac, a brick-fronted single-story model with dark shutters and three thin white columns on the outside. Tyler wondered why Rollins never took advantage of his good taste to knock them down.
He pulled the 442 to the curb. Rollins' large black pickup sat in the driveway pointing toward the street. Always park like you need to make an escape. Tyler remembered learning it in the Army and passing it onto young Rollins at some point. As he got out of the car, the front door of the house swung open, and Rollins walked out. He waited on the small front stoop while Tyler approached. "What's going on?"
"How's Sara?" asked Tyler.
Rollins shrugged. "As well as she can be, I guess."
“She know you’re out here talking to me?”
“No . . . she’s in the shower.”
Tyler nodded. “Something came up with Braxton.”
“I figured. What’s going on?”
“He took Lexi.”
Rollins blew out a long breath through. “Damn. She OK?”
“He tells me she is for now.”
“For now?”
“If I want to guarantee her safe return,” Tyler said, “I need to kill Sara Morrison.” Rollins stiffened, like he expected Tyler to try and charge past him into the house. His hands clenched. “At ease.”
“You ask me to look after a woman, and now you tell me you need to kill her? How the hell is this supposed to put me at ease?”
“Braxton wants proof of death,” Tyler said, avoiding the question. “I need to show him she’s dead before he’ll let Lexi go.”
Rollins stared at Tyler for a few seconds before he said anything. “You’d do anything to get Lexi back, right?”
“I would.”
“And you intend to provide proof you killed Sara Morrison?”
“I do.”
“How do you plan on killing her?”
“With your help,” Tyler said.
“What?”
“You spent some time in the theater, right?”
“I’m confused,” Rollins said. He frowned at Tyler. “What does this have to do with killing a woman?”
“Answer the question,” Tyler insisted.
“Fine. Sure, I did some stage work.” He let out a dry chuckle. “You probably think all the gays spend time doing theater.”
“I’ve heard you sing,” Tyler said. “They weren’t putting you on stage for your vocals.”
Rollins grinned in spite of himself. “Fair enough.”
“What did you do in the productions you worked on?”
“Little acting here and there. But I also did some behind-the-scenes work. Set building, a little makeup . . .” Rollins paused and smirked. “Now, I get it.”
“Still have any of the stuff you used?” Tyler said.
“Sure. I did a community play a few weeks ago.”
“I figured you’d keep it up.”
“Why?”
Tyler smiled. “Because all the gays spend time doing theater.”
“We do love it,” Rollins said.
“How long would you need to get something ready?”
Rollins shrugged. “Depends on what I have. If I’ve got it all on hand, maybe an hour. If I need to borrow some supplies, make it two.”
“All right,” Tyler said. “Let’s talk to Sara. It’s only fair she knows what’s going on.”
They walked inside. Soft footsteps padded around down the hall. “Miss Morrison,” Rollins called, “can we talk to you when you’re decent?”
“Sure.” She came out a couple minutes later in a T-shirt and sweats. Her wet hair hung loose and unkempt around her shoulders. With no makeup or time getting ready, she still looked stunning. Sara smiled at Tyler. It took him a few seconds to find the power of speech.
“Uh . . . Braxton took my daughter.”
“That son of a bitch.” They all sat in Rollins’ spartan living room. The TV was mounted in the exact center of the wall. The furniture arrangement, while basic, fit the room well and allowed people to converse. No dust bunnies hopped around the laminate floor. Tyler sat in a recliner while Sara and Rollins took opposite ends of a couch.
“He offered me a way to get her back,” Tyler said.
“Why are you telling me?”
“It involves you.”
“It’s your daughter,” Sara said. “I’m sure you’d do anything to get her back. What do I need to do?”
“You need to die, Miss Morrison,” Tyler said.
34
After lying low in Philly for a while, Jake needed to go back for the Sentra. He’d been vigilant but ha
dn’t seen any of Braxton’s men. A few SUVs gave him pause, but the damn things were all too common nowadays. He stuck to sidewalks, used alleys when he found them, and doubled back on himself a couple times. No tail.
A half-mile from the garage, he turned down an alley. A homeless man slept against the back wall of an unidentified building. A box held most of the man’s worldly possessions. He left a cell phone lying beside him on the concrete. Jake looked both ways but didn’t see anyone. He grabbed the phone and tucked three twenties under the man’s arm.
On his walk, Jake texted his father. Borrowing a phone for a few minutes. Can you give me the number of the guy you said could help? He cut across the street, walked a block out of the way, and then got back on the path. A moment later, a reply came in. Sure. He goes by Tyler. 410-555-4791.
Jake stopped, ducked into a small coffee shop, and ordered an iced tea. Only one other table was occupied, so sitting far apart from other customers proved to be the easiest thing he’d done in a while. While he sipped his drink, he thought about his dad’s message. Jake recalled meeting someone in special forces . . . Tyler. A warrant officer who encouraged him to go for the gold. He wondered if it was the same man. He fired off an encrypted message. This is Jake. My dad gave me your #. Hope you can help us both.
After a few more sips of tea, Jake’s phone buzzed. He looked at the reply. Working on it. Stay where you are. Simple and direct. Here was a man who took army communication to heart. Jake composed a reply. Do you know anyone I can talk to about what I know? Has to be trustworthy.
It took a minute again, but Tyler sent a response. Sara. Defense official. 240-555-6077. You can trust her.
Could he trust her? Jake thought he could trust Arthur Bell, but the genesis of his problems traced back to his conversation with the Pentagon worker. Was this Sara any different? Jake didn’t want to sign into any of his own accounts and create a trail for Braxton to follow. Reaching out to his father was far enough. He used Protonmail to send a secure message. In it, Jake laid out what he knew about Braxton, Hexagon, and what they were after in Afghanistan. It felt good to tell someone, even if he tapped the email with his thumbs using a phone lifted from a homeless guy.
Once the message sent, Jake finished his tea. He dropped the phone in the trash along with the cup. The garage lay about a third of a mile from his location, but it took him fifteen minutes to complete the circuitous route. No one followed.
For a man who often touted patience to those serving under him, Braxton possessed it in short supply. After an hour, Tyler’s phone rang. He ignored it. Ten minutes later, Braxton called back, and Tyler answered.
“Sitrep.” Tyler fought the urge to throw his phone out the window.
“I don’t work for you anymore, Leo. I’m done giving you sitreps.”
“It’s a simple request. You used to be good at answering simple requests, John.”
Tyler let the comment pass. “What do you want?”
“Is it done?”
“Not yet,” Tyler said.
“Why not?”
“Because these things take time, especially if it’s something you don’t want turning up later.”
“Fine,” Braxton said. “You have a half-hour.” He hung up before Tyler could say anything else.
“Prick,” Tyler muttered to the empty line.
By now, Rollins should be almost finished. He said he would need to borrow some makeup from someone else he knew in the theater circle and to give him a little over an hour. Tyler passed the time driving back to Columbia. He surveilled Hexagon’s main location. They rented the first floor of a brick two-story building in a complex not far from Fort Meade, nestled amid a bunch of defense and NSA contractors. Most of the structures sat empty, which Tyler would expect on a weekend. A few cars were parked outside one of the businesses, however. No signage indicated its name or what it did, which told people in the know all they needed.
The cars didn’t move. The front door was mostly glass, and what Tyler could see inside past it remained dark. If anyone stirred inside, they were past the entry area. If they held his daughter captive in there, she must be somewhere toward the back. It made more sense, anyway. Fewer people gathered at the loading area. A lack of prying eyes made getting a kidnapping victim out of an SUV a lot easier.
Tyler knew this from his time in Special Forces. He figured most of the men working for Braxton did, too.
The 442’s engine would give him away at some point. Tyler drove around to the rear of the row of buildings. He stopped short of the nameless enterprise’s back entrance. A conventional metal door along with a loading dock and sliding receiving door comprised the entirety of the place’s features. No windows. No lights. The best Tyler could hope for right now was some guy in a buzz cut to wander out for a smoke.
Before it could happen, Rollins sent a message via an encrypted app. It carried a photo attachment. Tyler looked at the picture. If he didn’t know better, he would’ve assumed Sara Morrison was dead. She lay in the grass, a realistic bullet hole at her temple, and what looked an awful lot like blood spread on and around her. Rollins did a hell of a job, which Tyler told him via the app.
He waited until twenty-nine minutes went by before calling Braxton. Let the asshole twist in the wind. “It’s done,” Tyler said when his former CO answered and asked for another sitrep.
“Send proof.” Tyler recommended the app he and Rollins used. Braxton said he’d never heard of it, but he would download and use it. He told Tyler to wait ten minutes, then send his evidence.
So he did. Tyler attached the photo to a basic message. Taken care of. Lexi?
A couple minutes later, Braxton replied.
Well done. Meet me tomorrow morning, 0600, new housing development. In lieu of an address, Braxton sent coordinates. Tyler punched them into Google Maps. The new development sat in the middle of a forest bordering Odenton—again not far from the Fort. Another community full of cookie-cutter homes. Tyler replied with his concurrence.
Six AM. Braxton used to make a point to tell his men to scout locations three hours early.
Tyler would need to be earlier.
Maxwell entered Braxton’s office without knocking. His boss noticed the breach of protocol, of course, but an arched eyebrow served as his only reply. “You’re really going to give Tyler his daughter back?” Maxwell asked as he sat uninvited in a guest chair.
“I’m not the monster he thinks I am.” Braxton frowned as he regarded Maxwell. “Why?”
“Just wondering if you’d consider another idea.”
“I’m not killing the girl.”
Maxwell put his hands up. “Wasn’t going to suggest you should. You should absolutely kill Tyler tomorrow, though.”
“He’s upheld his end of the bargain,” Braxton said. “Sara Morrison is dead. We can deal with Arthur Bell from now on.” When Braxton paused, Maxwell didn’t fill in the gap with news of Bell’s untimely demise. “I hate Tyler, but he’s a man of his word. He’ll leave us alone.”
“I want to kill him,” Maxwell said.
“You want to kill everyone.”
Maxwell couldn’t deny the charge. He grinned and shrugged. “I’m usually right about it, too. I know I am in this case. Tyler will keep being a thorn in our side.”
Braxton leaned back in his chair. He narrowed his eyes at his longtime lieutenant. Maxwell met his gaze. Eventually, the former colonel said, “Tell me what you have in mind.”
“I’ll go tomorrow morning. One man with me in an SUV, and two more in houses at the far end of the street. The girl stays here. We catch Tyler in a crossfire, and the problem’s solved. Do what you want with the girl afterward. I’d like to see her cry when we put her dad’s corpse in front of her.”
“Damn, you’re bloodthirsty.”
“You used to appreciate it.”
“I still do,” Braxton said. “The differences in our approaches have always led to our success.” He paused and took a deep breath. “Fine. Do it your
way. Take some of the new guys, though. If Tyler gets a few good shots off, I don’t want to lose anyone important.”
“He won’t,” Maxwell said.
“Don’t underestimate him, Kent. For a blunt instrument, he’s pretty smart. Make sure you get there early.”
“We’ll be there by four. Tyler will be dead by six.”
“He’d better be,” Braxton said.
Maxwell stood. “He will.”
35
Tyler prepared for the early morning meeting. He expected Braxton would betray him somehow—if he even showed. Ensuring Lexi’s safety was the priority. Braxton and his men were expendable. In his basement, Tyler pushed a heavy bookcase to the side, exposing a four-foot door. The secret room was his first project when he bought the house. Tyler entered the combination and dragged the cumbersome panel open.
He walked into a room ten feet wide, fifteen feet long, and with six-foot ceilings. Metal racks lined the walls. Many held rifles, shotguns, and other weapons, but Tyler also kept most of his memorabilia from his time in the army here. His final dress uniform hung near two sets of BDUs, a shelf full of medals and commendations, all above two foot lockers.
Tyler ejected the magazine from a Vietnam-era Colt .45. He turned it upside down, and a key slid into his waiting hand. He unlatched one of the foot lockers and scrutinized the contents. Braxton wouldn’t come alone. It wouldn’t be a simple meeting because nothing was ever simple when Leo Braxton stuck his nose into it. Before coming downstairs, Tyler used Google Earth to look at the site. Two houses under construction represented great spots for snipers. Tyler didn’t want to pull Rollins away from Sara Morrison. He was on his own.
Plastique was a great equalizer.
Tyler grabbed two bricks plus two wireless blasting caps and a detonator. Hiding the explosives in a work zone would be easy. Their coloring would allow them to blend in with wood. He put everything into a rucksack, secured his hidden room, and dragged the bookcase back into place. A few hours remained before he needed to leave. Tyler caught a nap on the first-floor couch and woke up a few ticks past midnight.