Ambush

by Barbara Nickless

  No one should die the way they had.

  But maybe someone thought it was my turn.

  Whoever had broken into Cohen’s place had found my laptop. The cartoon clip was only for shock value. But it meant he’d no doubt copied everything on the hard drive and placed a Trojan horse inside to monitor key clicks and take screen captures. Since he’d chosen to advertise his invasion, I figured this was part of his ongoing campaign to remind me who was calling the shots.

  I opened my eyes and looked over at Clyde, still enjoying his bone.

  “They don’t get to win, Clyde. Not this time.”

  If the Alpha had hoped to intimidate with that clip, he’d failed. All he’d done was piss me off. Reinvigorated by rage, I shut down the computer. Reluctant to take Clyde away from his bone, I told him to wait, then went back out to the truck for my work laptop.

  Outside the door to the tavern, I paused to take in the parking lot.

  The sun had just set, and dusk bathed the world in lavender. Moths flapped at the light over the tavern door, and a few mosquitoes buzzed. Nothing else stirred.

  Moving quickly, I unlocked the driver-side door and reached under the seat for my work laptop.

  A whisper of movement, and something hard jabbed my ribs.

  “We have to talk,” a man said.

  Only four words, but I knew that voice. I should have shot Sarge last winter when I had the chance, then chopped his body into pieces and fed the parts into a wood chipper.

  It worked in the movies.

  I raced down my list of options. They were distressingly few. Scream. Give in. Fight back.

  “Didn’t expect you to be this careless, Parnell.”

  I knew I should be afraid. Sarge was dangerous. Even deadly. But I was too far into my anger to back off the cliff.

  “I’m in the mood to hurt something, Udell,” I said. “And you just pissed me off.”

  Sarge snorted. “Not asking to be your friend. Just need a few minutes of your time. I figure coming at you this way means we can have a conversation without your dog trying to take off my face.”

  Vowing to never leave Clyde behind again, I pushed aside the laptop and groped for the backup pistol I’d taken from the Land Cruiser. “You want to talk, then get away from me.”

  “Fucker killed Kane,” Sarge said. “Now he’s chasing Crowe halfway across the country. This shit ends now.”

  My fingers scrabbled against carpet. Where was the damn gun? “Give me a name. I’ll pass it to the police.”

  “I don’t have a name. That’s why I’m here.”

  My fingers brushed cool steel. I worked my hand around the grip.

  Another dig in my ribs from Sarge.

  “I figure you’ve got a gun under that seat,” Sarge said. “But you shoot me, and every answer I have dies with me. Think about that. I’m going to step away now.”

  I slid the gun free. Sarge’s feet kicked against gravel as he moved back. I swung around with the weapon up.

  He had his own gun raised.

  We stared at each other over the barrels.

  “Now what?” I asked.

  “Truce?”

  “Fuck that.”

  “Fuck all.” Sarge lowered his weapon.

  “Toss it,” I said.

  He did. I let it hit the ground.

  “Hands on the truck,” I said. “Spread-eagle.”

  When he complied, I patted him down, but found nothing.

  I bent and scooped up his weapon.

  Around us, the parking lot remained quiet save for a dove cooing its satisfaction with the warm evening. No one came or went.

  “Where’s Malik’s video?” I asked, curious to see if he knew.

  “Ah, fuck.” Sarge closed his eyes. “You don’t have it? Word was you ended up with it.”

  An image of Dougie’s compass flashed in my mind. The key was safe in the duffel in Paul’s office, guarded by Clyde.

  “Malik gave that video to you,” I said.

  “And I passed it straight up the chain of command. Way too hot for me to hold on to.”

  “What’s on that video, Sarge? What’s the Alpha so damned determined to hide?”

  Sarge opened his eyes. Or rather, his one good eye. The other, I now saw, was swollen shut. The rest of his face didn’t look great, either.

  “The Alpha,” he said. “I forgot that’s what you call him.”

  “The video, Sarge. Tell me.”

  “American weapons.” He let loose a long, melancholy sigh that sounded like it came from somewhere deep. “Sold illegally to Iran by an American company, smuggled into Iraq, and used to kill American troops. All with the blessing of a goddamn prick the devil has kept alive for his own mean purpose.”

  A breeze gusted up, licking the sweat from my skin. My tongue clicked against the roof of my suddenly too-dry mouth.

  I said, “He killed everyone who knew about it. Malik’s mother. PFC Resenko. Murdered them in cold blood.”

  “And he killed your man, Doug Ayers. He killed them all. He’s still killing people.” Sarge’s jaw went tight like he was working through something he couldn’t swallow. “And now, Corporal, it’s us. Your number and mine are about up. Only chance we got is to put our heads together and figure out who this asshole is. Then we send a three-hundred-pound mortar straight up his ass.”

  “My number was up six months ago. Remember that, Sarge? You were the one who was going to call in my ticket, until I got the upper hand.”

  Sarge nodded. Then he tilted back his head and stared at the sky for a moment. When his eyes once again met mine, the storm of anger had quieted into a pensive calm.

  “I was fed a lot of bad information about you, Parnell,” he said. “Some seriously fucked-up shit. Told you were a threat to national security because you were endangering the mission. That you had intel you’d use to bring down the good and protect the evil. I swallowed their lies like I was swallowing good scotch. Thought I was some hot-shit superhero.” The calm sputtered out, and his voice came like a growl. “Took me a long time to realize I was on the wrong team.”

  The image of Sarge beating me in my own kitchen broke free from the compartment I’d stowed it in. “Do you even remember how much you hurt me?”

  “I remember. As I recall, you got in a few licks of your own.”

  “There’s more where that came from.”

  “Well, then.” He chuckled. “Damn good thing we’re on the same side now.”

  CHAPTER 16

  When the dog has a chance to bite, he will.

  —Effie “Grams” Parnell. Private conversation.

  “Explosively formed penetrators,” Sarge said. “EFPs.”

  He sat in a chair in Paul’s office in the back of Joe’s Tavern, his body pitched forward as if ready to run, his eyes on Clyde.

  For his part, Clyde looked intently interested in chewing off Sarge’s feet and then moving up to more sensitive areas. Max Udell was a lot more entertaining than a dental bone.

  “Dog’s making me nervous,” Sarge said. “Doesn’t he know we’re on the same team?”

  “Clyde’s not really a team player.”

  “Shit.”

  “Plus, I need a little time to decide if we are on the same side.”

  “I gave you my gun! Put myself at your mercy.”

  “You could be a mole.”

  “Ah, fuck me, I’m not a spy.”

  “Because you’d tell me if you were.”

  But in truth, I believed him. The vibes Sarge gave off felt right. And sometimes you have to trust your gut.

  That didn’t mean I was going to kiss his ass.

  “Clyde knows we’ve called a truce,” I said. “He won’t take off your face unless you do something stupid.”

  “Define stupid.”

  “Anything that pisses him off.” I opened my work laptop and hit the power button. “Now go on with what you were saying.”

  Sarge leaned back in his chair. Clyde adjusted his haunc
hes. They rolled eyes at each other.

  “These EFPs were nasty motherfuckers,” Sarge said. “They could be launched from a distance, rather than buried in roadside trash. Easier to use. More flexible. And way more lethal. The only thing the bad guys had that could blow up an M1 Abrams tank. The penetrators started showing up a week before Haifa and Resenko were killed.”

  “We were getting some bad shit in Mortuary Affairs then,” I said. “The bodies—it wasn’t good.”

  “Like I said. E-fucking-Ps.”

  “How do you know so much about them?”

  “Rick Dalton.”

  “Your favorite spy.”

  “Rick was a good guy. He got involved with the EFPs because he was monitoring reports from Special Operations Command—SOCOM. The SOCOM guys noticed an uptick in American casualties near the border with Iran. It looked like the weapons were coming in across the border. But Rick knew these ordnances were way too sophisticated for the insurgents or even the Iranians. He went to SOCOM and started asking questions.”

  “What did he learn?”

  “Nothing. After a few weeks, the bad guys stopped using the EFPs. All traces of them disappeared. No unexploded ordnance, no fragments. Nothing. Like they’d never been there.”

  I heard Angelo’s voice in my mind. Dalton. They wanted to know . . . about him.

  “Where is Rick Dalton, Sarge? Are you sure he isn’t the Alpha?”

  Sarge shook his head, then dropped his elbows to his knees. “Remember when you told me he was dead?”

  A shiver hitched a ride up my spine. I’d seen Rick’s ghost—or a chemical response to stress, per my therapist—months ago, back when everyone else thought he was still alive and well in Iraq.

  Sarge rubbed a hand over his mouth. “You had that one pegged. He’s dead. He’s been dead. Turns out he went down during the same mission that nailed your pal, Ayers.”

  A layer of goose bumps rose on my over-hot skin.

  Maybe I actually had seen Rick’s ghost. Which would be an argument in support of my sanity.

  I’d share with my therapist: I really do see dead people.

  I startled when the computer pinged, signaling it had finished with diagnostics and was ready to do my bidding.

  I handed Kane’s brochures over to Sarge. “Before he was killed, Kane was looking into two companies—Valor and Vigilant.”

  Sarge glanced through them. “You think one of these companies sold the EFPs to Iran?”

  “Valor specializes in large precision weapons.”

  “These brochures all you got on them?”

  “So far. Let’s see what I can find online.”

  I logged into the router, then opened up a browser and entered VALOR INDUSTRIES in the search field.

  Sarge scooted his chair close to mine.

  “Clyde’s still watching,” I said.

  “Don’t I know it.”

  We tracked my search together.

  I found a metalworks company and a packaging business. Not so much as a whisper of a weapons industry.

  “Try another browser,” Sarge said.

  I tried three more. Same result.

  Sarge rubbed his chin. “If they were responsible for the fuckup in Iraq, maybe they decided to get out of the business.”

  “I’m guessing companies like Valor don’t close their doors when things get a little hot. More likely they get their customers through word of mouth.” I opened another browser. “Let’s try Vigilant Resources.”

  Clyde swiveled toward the door just then, and Paul called out, “Dinner is served.”

  I pushed back my chair and opened the door. Paul stood in the hallway holding a tray with a bowl of green chili and tortillas wrapped in foil along with a glass and a bottle of dark beer.

  His eyes landed on Sarge, taking in Udell’s battered face. “Didn’t know you had company.”

  “Brought him in through the back. You mind doubling up on the food and drink?”

  “Sure. Clear some space, and I’ll set this on the desk.”

  Bless Paul and his easy nature. I moved my computer to one side, and he set down the tray with a flourish.

  I forced a smile. “The food smells wonderful.”

  “Best green chili in Denver. Hell, in Colorado.” He offered Sarge his hand, and they swapped names. “You look like you could use a drink. What’s your poison?”

  “Whatever she’s having. Thanks, man.”

  “No problem.”

  Paul departed. A minute later he was back with another bowl of chili and several more bottles of beer.

  A glance at me. “Get you anything else?”

  “You’re too good to me.”

  “Remember that when you finally dump the cop.”

  Or when the cop finally dumps me.

  “Holler when the beer runs out,” Paul said on his way out.

  I closed the door behind him, spooned some chili into my mouth, then returned to the computer.

  Vigilant Resources’s website came up at the top of the search. We read silently while I clicked around the site.

  Vigilant offered intelligence, security, and consulting services in both the physical and cyber arenas, their services geared more toward corporations and government entities than private citizens. I zoomed in on a photo of a man in Arab dress standing next to an unsmiling man in black with the caption SAUDI ROYALS VISIT NORWAY. Maybe a few private citizens, if you counted Arab princes with billions at their disposal. Services listed included bodyguards, discreet investigations, K9 training, software solutions and cyber countermeasures, and access to a worldwide network of professionals.

  “Holy shit,” Sarge said. “These guys got it all.”

  A line buried under a Managed Support menu option caught my eye. I pointed with my spoon.

  Sarge read aloud. “‘We work with government and intelligence services, here and abroad.’”

  “Services like the CIA?”

  Sarge nodded. “I’d figure. And NSA, DHS, NIC, NCS, DNI. Etc., etc. Abroad, you got everyone from the Saudis to the Slovenians. Want me to go on?”

  “You know how much I hate alphabet soup?”

  Vigilant’s main office was in Washington, DC, which made sense for a company with US government contracts. Their lone satellite office listed an address on the south side of Denver, in the Tech Center. That office had opened six months ago.

  Sarge and I looked at each other.

  “Why Denver?” Sarge asked. “Why not bigger places like, I don’t know, New York or Chicago?”

  “Maybe those government contracts include military work. Colorado is second only to Washington in the number of military personnel.”

  “No shit?”

  “No shit.”

  I ran through the list in my head. In metro Denver we had Buckley Air Force Base. Colorado Springs boasted Fort Carson, Peterson, and Schriever military bases along with the Air Force Academy and the North American Aerospace Defense Command—NORAD. Farther south was the US Army Pueblo Chemical Depot. The number of personnel rose even higher if you added nearby Wyoming, with its F.E. Warren Air Force Base, nuclear missile silos, and training areas.

  I knew from a recent training session on Colorado’s terror risk that we also had four hundred contractor companies that were part of the military-industrial complex and cleared by the Department of Defense. Even more mom-and-pop subcontractors serviced the big guys.

  The Disaster Management Institute, which provided intensive training for military and law-enforcement personnel from all over the country, was also based in Denver.

  “I can buy that they’d have an office here,” I said finally.

  “That’s why you’re so sweet,” Sarge said. “Cause you’re fucking naive. If these are our guys, they ain’t in Denver to play patty-cake with soldiers.”

  I ignored that and returned to scrolling the website.

  As Kane had told his wife, the president and CEO of Vigilant was a man named James Osborne. Given his last name, James w
as presumably a member of the family who had founded Vigilant’s parent company, Valor. He looked barely north of fifty, and handsome in a spy-novel sort of way with a craggy face, cropped salt-and-pepper hair, a measured half smile, and a confident tilt to his chin.

  I say, old chap. I suspect you’ve got a mole in your outfit. I can fix that for you.

  Osborne listed his admittedly impressive credentials on a secondary page, along with that of his top staff. His CV included time spent working for the State Department in the Foreign Service, with postings in Ethiopia and Iraq. He boasted an impeccable education at Georgetown University’s School of Foreign Service, graduating summa cum laude with a master’s in international affairs. He was a career army officer who’d done a stint during Desert Storm before ultimately retiring as a full bird colonel.

  There were no personal details at all. No mention of a family or hobbies or his golf handicap. Osborne wasn’t running the kind of business where you shared that sort of thing.

  If Kane had learned something about either Valor or Vigilant that cost him his life, he hadn’t gotten it on the internet.

  Sarge finished off his first beer and moved on to the second. “If this Osborne asshole worked in State, like it says here, he could have been either a diplomat or a spy. A secret squirrel, as we grunts like to say. Rick worked with a lot of secret squirrels.”

  “The Alpha tortured a man to death in Mexico City. He wanted to know about Rick Dalton.”

  Sarge stopped with the bottle halfway to his mouth. “That makes no damn sense.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t know Dalton can’t hurt him.”

  “Which means he doesn’t know he’s dead.”

  “We never processed his body.” Once again, the memory surfaced of the ghost I’d seen in Sarge’s apartment. “How do you know he’s not still walking around, doing whatever it is secret squirrels do?”

  “I got the word.”

  “From who?”

  “That’s as much as I can say.”

  I glared at him, but he didn’t relent. I looked back at Osborne’s picture. Why would the Alpha care about Dalton? Unless this particular secret squirrel could expose the Alpha’s nuts.

  And no man wants his nuts exposed.