by Tom Fowler
Lexi looked at her watch. “About six hours.”
“Shit. Don’t you need to get home? What about—”
“Dad. Chill. I’m fine. I’ve had food and coffee. What more do I need?”
“A security detail?”
“I don’t blame you,” Lexi said with a smile. “We talked about what might happen. Braxton kidnapped me. You’re the one who got me out.”
“And who didn’t insist hard enough you go home,” Tyler said.
“You’re still alive because I’m hard-headed.”
“You’re definitely my daughter,” Tyler said.
“Mom’s too,” Lexi said. “She could go toe-to-toe with you in a stubborn showdown.”
Tyler grinned. He always enjoyed the back-and-forth with his daughter. “I feel like I need to argue about it to show how hard-headed I am.”
“Don’t.” Lexi leaned back in the chair. “I don’t enjoy picking on the weak.”
“Laugh it up.”
“I will,” Lexi said.
“The cops been here?” Tyler asked.
Lexi bobbed her head. “They came by when you were still out cold. I told them to try again tomorrow.”
Tyler glanced at a clock hanging near the wall-mounted TV. “It’s almost oh-two-hundred. How are you still here?”
“I’m your daughter,” Lexi said. “Considering the circumstances you came here under, they let me stay past visiting hours.” She paused. “You look like hell, Dad. How do you feel?”
“Like I got shot in the arm and then bludgeoned with a board.” He frowned. “I guess my arm is broken?”
“The doctor told me a fractured radius,” Lexi said.
“He got technical with you?” Tyler said.
“I told him I was in nursing school.” Lexi batted her eyelashes. “He gave me the full rundown, and I just nodded at the interesting bits.”
Tyler laughed but cut it short when his ribs barked in protest. “Thanks for coming in. You should get home, though. It’s late, and you’ve had a rough go of it recently.”
“I do like driving that Tesla. Gotta figure out a way to keep it.” Tyler didn’t say anything. He wanted her to keep the Accord Coupe they’d worked on together, but a final thumb in Kent Maxwell’s dead eye held some appeal, too. “Anymore asshole former commanders who might want to kidnap me, Dad?”
“Can’t think of any.”
“That’s a relief.” She walked up to the bed, kissed Tyler on the cheek, and put her head on his chest. He gave her a one-armed hug.
“Be safe, kiddo. Love you.”
“Love you, too, Dad.”
Tyler watched her leave. He looked up at the ceiling and sighed. Braxton was dead. The whole mess was finally at an end. Soon, however, he’d have the cops crawling all over his hospital room and probably his house. Maybe they’d have the decency to wait until morning. At least the venue was in Baltimore. Whoever came to ask questions would probably owe some deference to Captain Leon Sharpe. Maybe the man himself would make an appearance.
Despite the time, he grabbed his cell and dialed Rollins. As always, he answered like he’d been awake and waiting to pounce on a ringing phone. Tyler wondered if the man ever slept. “I was starting to worry about you.”
“I’m alive,” Tyler said. “Braxton gave me his best, though.”
“You in the hospital?”
“Yeah. There’s a crucifix on the wall. Must be Saint Agnes.”
“Lexi all right?”
“She’s good. Just left.”
“Hang on a minute,” Rollins said. “I have orders to put you on the phone.” The line fell silent. It took more than a minute, but the next voice Tyler heard was Sara Morrison’s.
“I understand you’re in the hospital.”
“If not for my daughter,” Tyler said, “I’d probably be in the morgue.”
“Braxton is dead?”
“Very much so. You can go back to living your life now, Miss Morrison.”
“Sara, please. Thank you, Tyler. Do you know what kind of recovery you’re looking at?”
“I have a fractured arm,” he said. “A few other injuries, too, but nothing super serious. I’ll probably be on light duty for a while.”
“Glad to hear it,” Sara said. She paused and sighed. “Braxton cut quite a wide swath of destruction. Did you know my deputy was recently found dead in his house?”
“No. Wow. Though I think he played a role in all this.”
“Yes. I talked to Mister Smith. I was furious when I heard. Firing a government employee isn’t always easy, but I would have ordered Arthur marched out with a bayonet up his ass.”
“I’m sure it would have been worth seeing,” Tyler said.
“You don’t want a job, do you, Tyler?”
“I have one. I think.”
Sara chuckled. “I hope you do. I’m glad you’re all right. No offense, but I’m a little more glad Braxton is dead. Someone in his crew also murdered the man I’d been dating.”
“I’m sorry to hear,” Tyler said.
“Thanks,” Sara said. “I’ve also ordered any of Braxton’s men remaining in the Middle East rounded up. We think Victor White is there with them. Personally, I kind of hope they resist, but the official Pentagon line is we want them back alive.”
Tyler smiled. “Considering their employer, I doubt you’ll bat a thousand on your goal. You can get back to work, at least.”
“Thanks to you.”
“I’m glad I could get there when I did.”
“When you’re out of the hospital and recovered,” Sara said, “give me a call. Maybe we can catch up.”
“I will,” Tyler said.
Rich Ferguson approached the hospital with Captain Leon Sharpe. They walked in the front doors, received stick-on guest passes from the receptionist, and stepped into the elevator. Rich pushed the button for the fifth floor. “You ever meet Tyler?” Sharpe asked.
“In the service?”
“Anywhere?”
“You said he retired about eight years ago?” Sharpe bobbed his bald black head. “Our careers overlapped, but I never met him.”
“He’s something else.” Sharpe adjusted his tie. “He was a sergeant when I was a specialist. Smart guy. Good soldier. Probably could have gone far in the officer ranks if he wanted, but he elected for a technical warrant rating.”
The elevator dinged, and both men stepped out onto the fifth floor. “What was his expertise?”
“Wheeled vehicle mechanic,” Sharpe said. “He was especially good at it for the promotion.” They stopped near the nurses’ station. Everyone must have been out on their rounds. “He didn’t just instruct how to fix Jeeps and Hummers, though. Later in his career, he taught soldiers how to clear rooms and breach hostile compounds.”
“Sounds like he had quite an interesting career,” Rich said.
Sharpe nodded. “Ended before it should’ve, too.”
“Bad?”
“You ever have a commander you didn’t get along with?”
Rich smirked. “No . . . never.”
“Very funny,” Sharpe said. “His situation was bad, though. Shit got sideways. Real sideways.”
“How bad are we talking?” Rich leaned his elbow on the counter once it became apparent Sharpe wasn’t going to move anytime soon.
“The army investigated his colonel. Eventually, they charged him with a war crime, court martialed him, and threw him in Leavenworth. I couldn’t believe he got out.”
“What’s all this have to do with the man we’re going to talk to?” Rich asked.
“I’d just like you to take it easy.” Sharpe moved his massive hands up and down slowly. “You get intense sometimes. Dial it back a little.”
“Captain, it’s likely this man killed a roomful of people . . . many of whom were fellow veterans.”
“I know,” Sharpe said. “What I’m telling you is we might not have the whole story. So we’re going to listen to what he has to say. I’d appreciate it
if you didn’t give him the third degree.”
Rich frowned but offered a slight bob of his head. “Fine.”
“Good.” Sharpe scanned the hallway and headed to the left. Rich followed him.
42
Light fought through the blinds and blanketed half the room as Tyler awoke. He had a vague recollection of a nurse checking on him in the night. The clock mounted near the TV showed eight-fifteen. Tyler took in the room. The other bed remained empty. A cup of water sat on the small table beside him. Tyler drained it in one gulp.
The door opened a minute later. A pretty blonde nurse came in, smiled at Tyler, and checked his IV. “How are we feeling this morning?” she asked.
“Happy to be alive,” Tyler said.
“Good. We’ll get you some breakfast soon. The doctor will come by and check on you later. You might even be able to go home today.”
“It’d be nice.”
“Trying to get rid of me so soon?” the nurse inquired with a grin.
If Tyler were a younger man, he’d be keenly interested in her sticking around. Considering she looked like nursing school lay in her very recent past, however . . . Plus, after spending time with Sara Morrison, he liked her, despite the difficult circumstances of their meeting. “No offense,” he said.
“I know. Everything looks good. You’ll have some food soon.” She walked out the door. A few minutes later, an older woman in dark scrubs came in carrying a tray. She set it on the table, regarded Tyler with a neutral expression, and left without saying anything. Tyler’s ribs barked as he sat up. He grabbed the tray and set it on his lap.
“No points for presentation or delivery,” he said to no one. The plate held scrambled eggs colored an unnatural yellow, home fries which needed a couple more minutes on the stove, and boring white toast. And coffee. Tyler expected it to be weak, but he drank it anyway. It was a little better than he thought. A respectable medium roast. Pretty mild, not too strong. Brewed for the masses.
Despite the unappealing look of the food, Tyler scarfed it all down. He would’ve eaten two more plates if given them. Getting shot and beaten worked up an appetite. After he finished breakfast, the door opened again. Leon Sharpe strode in wearing his captain’s dress blues, and a plainclothes detective walked in behind him. The short hair, steady gaze, and posture marked the other man as former military. “Tyler,” Sharpe said as they stopped at the foot of the bed.
“Leon.”
“This is Rich Ferguson.” The two men exchanged nods.
“Your name is John Tyler, correct?” Ferguson asked. Tyler remained silent. “You know why we’re here?”
“You’re eager to try the coffee?”
“A gunfight in Baltimore. I’m not going to dance with you and ask if you know anything about it. So let’s cut to the part where you tell me what happened.”
Sharpe cleared his throat. Ferguson kept looking at Tyler. “All right. A man I served under in the army started his own company after he got out of Leavenworth well short of his original sentence for war crimes. We clashed because he went after another soldier who served in his unit. He escalated things by kidnapping my daughter . . . I presume you’ve already talked to her.” Neither policeman offered an acknowledgment. “I got her out. The guys trying to prevent her rescue didn’t make it.”
“That’s it?” Ferguson asked a few seconds after Tyler lapsed into silence.
“It’s the Readers Digest version.”
“Give it to me unabridged.”
“Detective, I—”
“Sergeant.”
Tyler offered a fractional nod. “All right. Sergeant, I’m sure I’m not the first person you talked to. It’s been, what . . . ten or eleven hours since this all went down? By now, you know how many bodies were there, and you probably know who they were.” Ferguson again offered nothing in response. Someone else who liked to hold things close. “I told you the circumstances of my going there. You can connect the dots without anything else from me.”
“We’re being polite questioning you here,” Ferguson said.
“What a good look for the department,” Tyler said. “Dragging a veteran who’d been shot and beaten out of his hospital bed to your precinct. I’m sure your public relations people will have a grand old time cleaning it up.” To Sharpe, he said, “You have good PR people on staff, Leon?”
“Sergeant Ferguson might be a little aggressive,” Sharpe said. “He does have a point, though. A pile of people are dead, and no one else can give us the whole story. We need to hear some things from you.”
“Fine. Fire away.”
Ferguson said, “Did you kill Leonardo Braxton?”
“Yes.”
“Ryan Anderson?”
“Yes.”
“Kent Maxwell?”
“I can save you some time here, Sergeant,” Tyler said. “My answer is yes to every body you found there.”
“Why shouldn’t we take you in for multiple murders?” Ferguson asked.
“Because I told you why I was there. By now, I presume you’ve spoken to my daughter. If you’re industrious, you’ve also talked to a woman named Sara Morrison.” Ferguson jotted a note. “If not, I recommend looking her up.” He’d keep Rollins out of it if he could. “Miss Morrison can tell you about the charm of Leo Braxton as well as anyone.”
“He kidnap her?” Ferguson said.
“Sent three assholes to kill her,” Tyler said, “among other offenses.”
“You stop them?”
“It happened well outside your jurisdiction. How much do you care?”
Sharpe frowned while Ferguson fell silent. “We’ll reach out to Miss Morrison. Anything else you can tell us about Braxton?”
“Yes,” Tyler said. “The world is no poorer for his absence. In fact, it’s better. The sun is fractionally brighter today without him darkening the planet by existing. I know you understand this at least a little, Leon.”
“Pretty harsh,” Ferguson said.
“Miss Morrison can fill you in on the finer points of his personnel file.”
“All right. I’m sure we’ll be in touch. Don’t leave the state.”
“I’ll do what I please unless a judge directs me otherwise, Sergeant. Have a good day.” Ferguson stared at Tyler a few seconds before Sharpe nudged him, and they both walked out.
Tyler found the remote to his articulating bed and eased himself from sitting to lying down again. The police wouldn’t find much. They could verify everything he said about Braxton and his group. Tyler couldn’t expect a medal to arrive in the mail—even though he deserved one—but he also didn’t think they’d recommend any charges against him.
He waited for the doctor and hoped to go home.
Jake eased the borrowed Sentra into the parking lot. He stopped at the side of the building. Smitty and Son Classic Car Repair. The sign looked like he remembered. The shop itself appeared a little worse for wear, however. Dents in the siding, a broken window or two . . . probably vandalism by Braxton and his men. They were dead, thanks to the man his father hired. The whole chapter of his life was behind him now.
He needed to repair the relationship with his father.
Jake got out of his car and walked in the front door. He noticed the third desk had been cleared off and some papers sat atop it. His father worked in the bay, an old GTO up on the lift. “Be right there,” he called without turning around. Jake moved behind the counter, past the desks, and into the shop.
His father turned and looked like he wanted to say something, no doubt about a customer being in the work area. His mouth hung open for a few seconds. Then, he walked to Jake and hugged him. Jake wrapped his arms around his father. They stood for a while until both men pulled back. “I missed you,” his father said. “You had me worried.”
“I know, Dad. I’m sorry. I . . . wanted to do the right thing, and it all fell to shit. Then, I just wanted to keep you safe and out of it.”
“I understand. It ended up shitty, but I’m proud of yo
u. Never doubt yourself when you do what you know is right.”
Jake bobbed his head. “It’s what you taught me. How’s Mister Tyler?”
“Recovering,” Smitty said. “You ready to get back to work?”
“I’d like to. I have to clear some things up with my reserve unit first. Then . . . sure. Only, not every day. This is your passion. I get it. You’re really good at it. I like working on these cars, but I don’t love it. I don’t want to do it all the time.”
“All right. We can work out a schedule for you.”
“What about Tyler?”
His dad shrugged. “I owe him a debt I can’t possibly repay. So do you. If he still wants to work here, I’ll be glad to keep him on the payroll.”
Jake inclined his head toward the GTO. “What are you doing here?”
“New rotors all around.”
“I can handle it, Dad. Talk to Tyler. Maybe he’s ready to come back to work, too.”
“All right,” his father said. “I will.” He clapped Jake on the shoulder. “Welcome back, son.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
Tyler ended up staying one more night for observation. The following morning, the same smiling blonde nurse checked on him, the same dour woman delivered an identical breakfast, and a doctor gave him a final check-up. He discharged Tyler with a prescription for mild painkillers and an order to take things easy.
Lexi picked him up at the hospital. She drove Maxwell’s Tesla SUV again. When she raised the wing door for Tyler to get in the more spacious back, he saw Zeke sitting on the other side. “Hi, Dad,” he said.
“Twenty-four years in the Army and you barely get hurt,” he said. “Now you’ve been shot and got your ass kicked.”
“I’m glad you’re doing well, too.”
“How’s being a mechanic treating you?”
Tyler smiled. He understood what his father told him when they met for dinner . . . back before everything went off the rails. A man’s gotta be who he is. Tyler insisted he was a mechanic. Zeke saw through it. He could work on cars and be good at it, but there was more to him. The soldier. The killer. He was all those things. One dinner conversation with his father did more than his time on the couch with every shrink he saw—save the one who told him to paint. “Better than being an auto shop raider,” Tyler said.