False front, p.22
False Front, page 22
Finn looked up from his phone. “I need to head back to Philly in the morning.”
“How’s your mom?” Ren asked.
“On the mend, but the other driver fled the scene, so on top of her medical care, there’s a shit ton of paperwork dealing with the locals and insurance.”
“Go,” Nathan waved him off. “We’ll call you if we need you. Thanks for the backup.”
“Any time. You know that, North.”
Nathan nodded in agreement.
“Okay, let’s keep digging.”
It was after midnight in Savannah, but the heat and humidity were unrelenting. The container ship, Ariadne, now relieved of cargo, sat empty and silent. Hercules Reynolds picked nervously at the yellow paint chipping from the metal railing skirting a platform near the dock. As a Marine sniper, he routinely had to sit still as a puddle for hours, sometimes days, but civilian life had sapped his discipline. His best friend, Billy Grimes, was talking on the phone, actually fighting on the phone, with his on-again girlfriend, Melinda. Herc shushed him. Again. Nothing about this felt right.
In the Marines, Herc was a by-the-book guy. He’d served his country with honor. As dangerous and uncertain and bureaucratic as the military was, there was a certain comfort for Herc in knowing he was doing exactly what he was supposed to be doing, when and where he was supposed to be doing it. That had all changed when he became a civilian.
“Dammit, Mel, I’m not with a woman. I’m with Herc, and we picked up an extra job. Track my phone, for gosh sake!”
Hercules quieted his friend again. Billy had landed the job on the docks after his Less Than Honorable Discharge and quickly learned that there were ways to supplement his income. Billy knew the guy in town who took delivery of the counterfeit purses and watches that came hidden in containers loaded with furniture. So, helping get the stuff offloaded was a fairly easy and lucrative process. This time, though, . . . this was something else.
Forty-five thousand dollars each was enough to have them both damning the consequences. Herc could pay off his bills and help his beloved Mhamó, the granny who raised him. Billy could afford the ring Melinda wanted and help with the wedding. Now that the thrill of the payday had settled, Herc had some serious reservations. Everything about this smelled.
It’s a one-shot deal, Herc. We find the metal suitcase in the shipping container with this serial number and stow it. Then we meet this guy, hand off the case, and he pays us the rest. Could not be easier. Hell, I’m not a dope. I’m bringing my Sig.
Herc had his Sig too, but he also had something else, a rather unusual piece of equipment he was demoing for the owner of the shooting range where he had landed a job teaching part-time. Billy ended his call. Herc stopped picking the paint and stilled. Apparently, not all his military instinct had fled. He hadn’t heard the sedan approach. In the dense fog with its headlights off, it was nearly invisible. The distinct sound of footsteps, however, was clear. The man emerged from the shadows dressed in a tailor-made suit and Italian leather loafers, looking not the least bit shady. Billy relaxed a bit, but Herc kept frosty.
“You have the case?” the man inquired.
“Yep.” Billy dangled it from the handle.
“Open it. The combination is 72117.” When Billy started to fiddle with the dial, Herc stilled his arm.
“Come around here. There’s a table.” Herc led them to the side of a warehouse where a wide plank was set on two sawhorses. He moved Billy to the side nearest the warehouse wall, seemingly giving the suited man a better vantage point to watch his surroundings. Billy popped the case revealing the contents.
“Very good.”
“It’s yours as soon as you pay up.” Billy was sounding like a regular mobster. Billy wasn’t a mobster, though. Billy was just a not-so-bright guy, so distracted by the thought of giving his pregnant girlfriend everything she wanted and deserved that he didn’t even notice the gun as he reached for the envelope of cash. Just as the man fired the suppressed round into Billy’s chest with a quiet thwat, a much louder sound rent the air. Herc had pressed the button on the fob in his hand, and the Paradigm SRP Talon remote-controlled sniper rifle sent the round. Herc had positioned his target in the right spot—quite the reverse of a normal sniper assignment—and the suited man’s head exploded like a cantaloupe.
Herc stood there for a moment marveling at the luck of his aim—good or bad, he wasn’t sure. He certainly hadn’t intended this result; he simply thought a shot into the gravel from the remote-controlled weapon would make the suited man think they had backup. Herc scratched his stubbled jaw. Quite the snafu. In the military, at this point, his job was done. Someone else handled the logistics. Nevertheless, this was hardly the time to say not my job. Whatever was inside that case was very bad news. He didn’t touch anything, though he desperately wanted to close Billy’s lifeless eyes. He knew where he needed to go, and he knew what he needed to do. He pried the cash out of Billy’s clenched fist, put the envelope in the case, clicked it shut, and walked with a forced calm to retrieve the weapon from its hiding place. Rifle secured, case in hand, Hercules Reynolds hurried off into the sultry night and disappeared, leaving Billy and Rigo Mendaz lying dead on the ground.
“Holy Mother of Christ, North, some shit just went down.”
Jonah “Steady” Lockhart was normally unflappable. His olive complexion and tranquil nature allowed him to blend into almost any environment with ease. A former member of their SEAL team and Bishop Security operative, he had been monitoring the situation on the docks in Savannah. When Nathan heard his frantic voice, he knew to pay attention. Steady seemed to gather himself. His next words over the phone were a good deal more composed.
“One of the dockworkers is dead. The Armenian with the hand tattoo has donated his brain to the pavement. The other guy? Herc Reynolds? He had overwatch. Someone took out Rigo Mendaz and skedaddled. Reynolds retrieved the rifle and took it with him.”
“Where’s the package?”
“Reynolds has it. It’s a silver suitcase. Inside is a metal cylinder. I’m following at a distance. It’s the middle of the night, and the fucker’s making stops around town like he’s running Sunday afternoon errands. He went to the gun range, the all-night diner. He came out of a boarding house about forty minutes ago with a duffle. Now he’s on the move.”
“He went rogue? Found a buyer?”
“Here’s the thing.”
There was a pause over the line as Steady gathered his thoughts.
“What’s the thing, Steady?”
“Hold on. One more exit and I’ll know.” Steady was silent for a moment, then muttered.
“Oh, shit.”
“Steady, what the fuck is going on?”
“I think he’s coming to you.”
“What?”
“He’s heading for Royal Beach.”
“How could he know we’re here?” Nathan whistled quick and short, rousing the group, and circled his finger in the air. Without speaking, Ren, Tox, Chat, Finn, and Twitch prepared their weapons. Nathan switched the phone to speaker.
“Beats the hell out of me, boss, but Reynolds just made the last turn. He’s definitely headed your way. ETA twenty minutes.”
Nathan’s phone signaled another call. He checked the screen and replied to Steady, “I’ve got to take this. Text me in five with an update.” Nathan switched the phone off speaker and walked into the empty kitchen to take the call.
After speaking to the man Cerberus had inside the Sava organization, Nathan placed another call, this one to his doorman, Leonard.
“Mr. Bishop.”
“I hope I’m not calling too late?”
“Not at all. I’m knee-deep in Midsomer Murders. Makes me homesick.”
“I won’t be back when I had originally planned, so I’m hoping you can handle an errand for me.”
“Of course, sir.”
“I’ll have the details delivered to you at the desk tomorrow. Take Mira out for a nice meal after. On me.”
“She’d love that. Thank you.”
Nathan glanced at the text from Steady as he ended the call and walked back into the main room. How the hell had this kid figured out where they were? Much like Dario Sava, Nathan prided himself on being one step ahead, but this unexpected turn of events had him wondering if he had somehow been outmaneuvered.
“Tox, Chat, come from behind the hedge. Twitch upstairs on overwatch. Ren and I will approach. Finn, stay in the house with Emily. We don’t know what’s in that case, but if he even makes a move to open it, take him out.”
Murmured “copy thats” and nods. The group got into position as a mud-splattered late model Ford F250 turned into the gravel driveway.
Hercules Reynolds grabbed the silver suitcase and jumped out of the driver’s seat onto the grass as two, that he saw, Sig Sauers rose to eye level in the darkness. He cast a quick glance around, caught the slight twitch of the hedges. He lifted his arms away from his body, the case dangling from his fingers, and too many questions in his head to even form one. A brief thought flashed through his head. He was nine and Billy was goading him to jump off a forty-foot rock ledge into the quarry reservoir. Right before he’d jumped, he’d yelled to Billy, you’re gonna get me killed one day! Looked like today was that day.
Just then, the front door burst open. Three dogs came tearing out the door, Maggie Molloy-Bishop hot on their heels. Waving her arms about her head, she yelled, “Hold your fire!” Charlie, a good deal calmer, poked his head out and pointed with his thumb at his wife. “What she said.”
Nathan kept his gun out but pointed it to the ground. Maggie turned to Herc with her hands on her hips and used the only swear word that ever crossed her lips. “Hercules Hamish McManus Reynolds. What the hell is going on?”
Charlie ushered two of the dogs back to their kennels with a swift command. The third dog stayed at Herc’s side. Charlie stepped onto the lawn next to his wife. “Goddamn, that name is a mouthful.” The third dog was now circling Herc and wagging her tail as he bent to pet her.
“And get Crazy Daisy back to bed with the other two.”
A different soldier than the one who had delivered the news about Emily’s escape stood at Dario’s open office door. He lacked the air of relaxed confidence of the other man. He clasped his hands in front of him to hide the shaking.
“El Callado?”
Dario gestured to the man to enter. The man cleared his throat, but Dario cut him off before he could speak.
“Rigo is dead, yes?”
“Yes.”
“I suspected as much.”
“The case. It was taken.”
“By . . .?”
“One of the dockworkers. He took it and ran.”
“What an interesting turn of events.”
“Rigo’s driver said after the man took off, then a dark SUV pulled out of a warehouse and followed.”
“The NSA following a trail of breadcrumbs, I suspect. Always following.”
“Rigo put a tracker in the case.”
“Excellent. Tell Rigo’s driver to locate it and be sure to keep the tracker in range. When the dockworker stops, have him forward the location.”
“Yes, sir. Anything else?”
“Just tell the men to keep an eye on things. This was a contingency I had planned for. I’m flying to the States to resolve another matter.”
“You need to retrieve the case, no?”
“Shortly. For now, I have a hunch it’s moving in the right direction. I need the government agencies chasing their tails a bit longer. This unexpected twist could be a remarkable turn of luck. Tell the men to keep watch. I’ll instruct them if further action is needed.”
The man turned and quickly fled. Dario pushed back from his desk, crossed to the elegant bar, removed the bottle of Louis XIII Cognac from its case, and poured himself a small measure. He lifted the snifter in a small toast to the framed photo of his wife that sat behind the bar on a shelf of mementos.
His moment of peace was interrupted by the clanging ring of the secure satellite phone on his desk. He returned to his work and answered it.
“El Callado, you won’t believe it.” The man on the line was Pedro, Rigo’s driver. He was speaking quietly, and it was a bad connection. Dario didn’t, as a rule, anticipate bad news, but apprehension coated his words.
“What now?”
“I followed the tracker on the case. I arrived just a moment ago. The dockworker is talking to a group of men. They drew their guns at first, but they seem to have resolved the issue.”
“Don’t get too close. I don’t want you spotted.”
“I have moved around the block, but senõr, the girl you are looking for, Emily Webster, she’s there.”
“You’re sure.”
“Positive, El Callado. It’s dark, but I recognized her immediately. I was in the van . . . the last time,” Pedro rushed through, not eager to remind Dario of the failure. “She’s with the group of men in the house.”
“Stay out of sight, Pedro. Update me every hour. Your good fortune will be rewarded.”
“Of course. Thank you, senõr.”
Dario disconnected the call feeling a tremendous sense of rightness. He quickly sent a text to his pilot to inform him of the new flight plan and raised his glass once again to the photo behind the bar.
“My God, sweet Tala, you really do look after me.”
Twitch, Emily, and the guys were draped on the overstuffed chintz living room furniture while Maggie whipped up Herc’s favorite: a ham and cheddar sandwich with a pineapple slice, Ruffles potato chips, and homemade iced shortbread. Herc told them the story of the exchange at the dock, the remote-controlled rifle, Billy, and the unknown man. Elbows on his knees, head in his hands, he finished.
“I didn’t mean to kill him. I just wanted to fire a warning shot. Make the guy think I had backup.”
Nathan walked in from Charlie’s office where they had put the case. Emily extended her hand to him. He took it with a soft kiss to her palm and perched on the arm of her chair. “Trust me, Hercules, one of you wasn’t walking away from that meet. You did what you had to do.”
“Did you open it?” This from Tox, who was eyeing the kitchen door along with Daisy, both waiting for the treats they smelled to emerge.
“He did. The guy. The case, I mean. He didn’t open the cartridge inside. It looks like a spark plug with a latch near the top.”
Ren looked at Twitch. “Volatile chemical transport cartridge.”
“Sounds like it,” Nathan agreed.
Twitch popped up from behind her laptop. “We got a confirm. It’s Mendaz.”
Emily looked up. “He’s dead?”
Nathan kissed her forehead. “Dead and gone. Literally. My people will handle the cleanup.” He turned to Herc. “There will be no evidence either you or Rigo Mendaz were at the dock tonight.”
“What about Billy?”
“It’s going to look like exactly what it was. Billy got shot doing something shady after hours at the warehouse. Suspect at large.”
Hercules nodded in grim acceptance.
“Hercules.” Emily’s soft voice had him looking up. “That man, Rigo Mendaz. He abducted me when I was a child. Don’t let his death weigh on your conscience.”
“It doesn’t.” Hercules stared down at his feet. “Not anymore.” He seemed to be speaking of more than just this incident.
Chat turned from where he was standing at the large circular bay window that framed the darkness and the roiling surf. “What number?”
Hercules looked into Chat’s eyes, and seeing a kindred spirit, said without inflection, “Fifty-one.”
There was a silent understanding among the group. Hercules had been a sniper and he’d gotten out at fifty kills, a boatload for any elite shooter. With one push of a button, he had crossed a moral and emotional line. Chat walked over, squatted next to Herc, and spoke softly. Chat nodded along. No one but Hercules could hear what Chat said, but Herc’s whole posture changed. Emily scrambled off Nathan’s lap and gave Chat a hug that took him by surprise, but he returned the gesture.
“You’re something special. You know that, right?”
Chat smiled sadly at Emily. “It’s a gift.” He then turned back to the window and the night, leaving Emily feeling slightly puzzled.
Tox returned from the kitchen with half a sandwich in his hand and the other half in his mouth.
“What’s your call sign?”
Herc turned a shade of cherry red that had the whole group waiting for his answer.
“Shorty.”
“Why Shorty?” Emily asked. Herc was neither tall nor short at just shy of six feet.
At that moment, Maggie came out of the kitchen with a tray of goodies.
“Okay, Shortbread, I’ve got some snacks.”
With that, Herc popped out of his chair, grabbed the plate of cookies off the tray, took four for himself, and sent the treats around the room. When Emily took a bite, she couldn’t contain her groan.
“Oh my God, Maggie.”
Herc shook his head. “That very sound got me my nickname. Maggie used to send them to me at the base.”
Tox grabbed a handful. “That’s not so bad. Ren,” Tox snapped his fingers trying to recall, “that LT in Coronado . . . .”
Ren chuckled, “Rash.” Emily made a face. “Pretty sure it was because he was impulsive, but there may be more to the story.”
“I’m named for a cookie,” Herc shook his head, “but when they call you Shorty and you’re not short in height, people wonder.”
Tox wiped the crumbs from his hands. “Have fun proving them wrong. Nail the chattiest chick at the bar. That’ll clear things up real fast.”
From seemingly out of nowhere, a shortbread cookie smacked him in the side of the head. The icing causing it to stick for a moment before dropping into his extended hand. Tox looked sharply to the source, but Twitch was engrossed in something on her monitor. He gave her a narrow-eyed glance as he took a bite.
