ROGUESTATE, page 30
* * * *
Bridger crawled along the floor on his belly, recognizing that for the first time in over fifty years he had messed himself. In the scattered moonlight two faint smoke tendrils lifted away from his overturned chair. Conner had sent two more rounds through his plate glass window.
A light shined in his eyes and snapped, “Turn that thing off.” No need to advertise their position.
The Mag-Lite clicked off and Russell, one of his bodyguards, asked, “What happened to Pete?”
Bridger glanced over his shoulder at his dead butler and muttered, “Conner Fadden!”
“We didn’t hear anything,” offered Russell.
Bridger squeezed past Russell into the corridor and snarled, “Of course not! He’s three, four hundred yards away, blowing holes in people’s heads. He’s a sniper.” Bridger leaned against the wall panting. He reached up and grabbed Russell by his necktie. “You find Martin and get the others. I want Fadden dead. I want to see his body.” He yanked Russell closer and demanded, “Dead! Do you hear me?”
Russell nodded dumbly and got to his feet. “We’ll go get him right now.”
Bridger had sent them to hunt the wrong man.
* * * *
Harvey drove the van to the edge of the long driveway leading towards Bridger’s estate. “Do you see anything?” he called back.
Jonas ran his fingers over the keyboard and clicked the mouse to check different alerts. “Nothing.”
Harvey cursed as he gunned the motor and started down the road. “We have to stop them before Bridger gets killed.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” answered Jonas distractedly. Jonas had bothPredators running infrared scans, hoping he would catch Conner moving to his next hide. He needed a heat signature to lock onto. What to do about it was another matter.
Movement caught his eye and he swiveled the joystick. The lenses on both birds ten thousand feet above their heads swiveled to examine the new activity. Five reddish-orange blobs were moving away from the house.
“They can’t be that stupid,” he whispered.
Harvey brought the van to a halt beyond the sightlines for the house. “What are you talking about?”
Jonas watched one blob spasm violently followed by a sudden scattering of the other blobs. “I think Conner just took someone out.”
Harvey climbed over the seats into the control area. “Where’s Harper?”
Jonas shook his head. “I thought the Sako was still at your beach house.”
“It is,” confirmed Harvey. “He’s found a new toy.”
“They’re going up against a trained sniper,” observed Jonas shaking his head.
* * * *
Bridger turned to find the black apparition framed in the darkened corridor. He squinted, wondering if he was imagining things when the ghost moved towards him. He scrambled to his feet as the space between them vanished and a gloved hand caught his throat. Peripherally he could see the half-moon tip of the combat knife floating a few inches from his eye.
“Martin, Kurt Martin—where is he?” demanded the white teeth and darting eyes that appeared bodiless in the blacked out house.
Bridger trembled and his bowels let loose again. The stench rose between them.
The chokehold tightened around his neck. “Martin!” demanded the black demon.
“He’s outside. They went after Fadden.”
The knife touched his cheek, tearing at Bridger’s skin. “Fadden—is he still alive?” hissed Harper anxiously.
Bridger managed to move his head up and down. “Who are you?” he whispered.
The iron grip loosened only to be followed by a knee to the groin.
Bridger groaned and slumped forward. The black face leaned forward and answered, “I am death.”
* * * *
Conner slid away from his spot beneath the trees. He had lost sight of the men coming for him after his last shot. He had no night vision capabilities and the clouds were getting heavier. He slung the rifle over one shoulder and scooted down the mound he had used as his firing point.
He ran crouched over twenty yards to another tree grove. He dropped to his knees suddenly short of breath. He realized he had not eaten anything for more than a day. It all began to catch up to him as he thought about what he had done in the last several days. He had killed six people without mercy or thought. He had behaved like a machine without a soul or conscience. Any moral direction he had learned from his Catholic upbringing had been lost in a foolhardy desire to right the wrongs committed in Panama.
Men were hunting him again. He could sense them spreading out like a net across the property. Conner shook his head, attempting to clear his thinking. He wondered if he should kill these men stalking him or let them kill him. He felt incredibly tired and the thought of just laying down to wait for the end came to him more than once.
He returned to the alley in theEl Cangrejo District of Panama City. After the explosion, the shock wave, and the fires, he confronted another man emerging from his home. Conner killed the man as efficiently as he had ignited the bomb. Everything came to rest on the shoulders of the Columbian terrorist organization known as M19. Damon Layne’s admonition to keep the United States government absolved of any connection should have been a warning signal. It was a tidy package and Conner was little more than an obnoxious loose end.
The first bullet caught him on the shoulder blade and caromed sideways. The second was close behind and spun through the bone fragments into his lung. It felt like a sledgehammer had just smashed through the backside of his chest. Conner pitched forward in a reddish-gray haze.
Kurt Martin emerged from his crouch and said in a loud voice, “I got him!” He stepped across the knee-deep grass, holding the Ruger P90 carelessly.
Harvey peered from a slight dip in the ground about forty yards away from Conner’s prone body. He clutched his 10mm Smith & Wesson in one hand and whispered into his wrist microphone. “Conner’s down.”
Three more men joined Martin above Conner’s prostrate body. Their breath came out in white clouds as the night’s chill descended over the wooded fields.
Jonas monitored the scene from inside the van. ThePredator birds ran in a figure eight racetrack seven thousand feet above them and below the gathering cloud deck. Conner appeared to be losing a great deal of blood, because Conner’s heat signature registering on the infrared cameras was fading away.
He flipped to the other monitor and found Harvey. He carried a locator beacon. It was the last heat signature that caused Jonas to jump. If Jonas had not focused bothPredators on the area, he would have missed the ghostly signature. The neoprene wetsuit masked Harper’s body heat. Jonas realized what was going to happen an instant before the first shots sounded.
Bullet holes opened in the heads of two of Martin’s companions before anyone realized shots were being fired. Harper managed to get five shots off in less than two seconds.
Kurt Martin dropped to the ground. However, Bridger’s last remaining bodyguard was not as quick-witted—he caught three more rounds through the chest. He bounced once on the ground.
Jonas stared at the still bodies clustered next to Conner and picked up a secured digital phone. He punched in a phone number followed by an access code. The watch commander for the CIA’s domestic operations answered.
“I have a situation requiring cleanup,” explained Jonas.
“How many?”
Jonas ticked off the numbers in his head and said, “Six or seven—it’s still a bit fluid.”
Langley’s computers locked on to the ID chip embedded in Jonas’ phone. The watch commander had a map of the area displayed on his screen. It did not matter that the map came from a public website specializing in driving instructions. There were additional features filled in by a government address system and he asked, “What about the house?”
“Uncertain. It would be best if we did not have to do anything there,” suggested Jonas.
“Clean up is on its way.”
Jonas disconnected the line and touched the radio for Harvey. “We’ve got an hour to get out of here.”
Harvey tapped his microphone and kept watching.
Kurt Martin slunk away from the dead men clustered around Conner’s bleeding body. He considered dropping another round in Conner’s head, but decided to conserve his ammunition. His eyes swung left and right searching for the source of the bullets.
The knife flashed, seemingly unconnected to a hand, and smashed through the back of Martin’s gun hand, pinning Martin’s hand into the ground like a butterfly on a display board. The Ruger flew across the field. Harper’s knee smacked into Martin’s back and they both landed heavily on the ground. A gloved hand held Martin’s neck and mashed his nose into the ground. A hushed whisper informed Martin, “The man you just shot saved my life a couple months ago, and the man you shot in the subway was my Sergeant.”
Martin waved his free hand and tried to hit Harper. Harper grabbed Martin’s undamaged arm by the wrist and delivered an elbow-breaking palm-heal strike. Martin gasped at the pain as his arm dropped uselessly to the cold ground.
“A bullet is too easy for you. My Sergeant was a soldier who fought and bled for his country. You’re nothing more than a hired gun.”
Harvey got to his feet and locked his 10mm Smith & Wesson in a two-handed grip. He made his way over the tall grass and took up a position to Harper’s left side. The Trijicon night sights gave him a clear target picture. “Jim, you don’t want to do this.”
Harper recognized Harvey’s voice and explained, “He killed my Sergeant.”
“I know Jim,” replied the ex-FBI agent standing in his cowboy boots and sporting a Stetson. “We need him alive.”
“No,” hissed Harper.
“I’ve got a gun trained on your back,” continued Harvey. “I will shoot.”
Harper pushed Martin’s face further into the dirt. “He deserves to die. Darby was with me in Iraq and Panama.”
Harvey nodded, although no one could see him. “I know—I know, but you don’t want to kill a man like this. There’s no honor.”
“Honor,” breathed Harper. It could have been a far-off land.
“Jim, you’ve beaten him. You’re a soldier, not a murderer. Let me take over—there’s been enough killing tonight.” Harvey looked at three dead men lying around Conner. Conner’s breaths were coming short and fast—not a good sign.
“Conner’s not going to make it,” observed Harper.
“We’ll get him medical attention,” Harvey said desperately.
Harper shook his head and pulled Martin’s face out of the dirt. He pulled his head back by his hair and pointed his pain-blurred eyes at Conner’s heaving form. “The next time I find you—we’ll finish this.” Disgusted, he shoved Martin’s face back into the dirt.
He pulled the combat knife out of Martin’s damaged hand and turned to Harvey. “Don’t you understand? Conner doesn’t want to survive. That’s why he did all of this—to try and make things right after Panama.” He glanced at the fading life and said quietly, “He got his wish.”
Martin stared at his mangled hand and groaned.
Harvey holstered his weapon and stepped towards Martin. “Jonas ordered up a cleanup crew from Langley.”
Harper nodded absently. “I’ll stay with Conner until the end.”
“You have to get out of here,” explained Harvey quickly.
Harper let his blue-gray eyes play over the battlefield. “They won’t find us, Harvey. I’ll make sure of that.”
Harvey pocketed the Martin’s Ruger and yanked him to his feet. The contract killer yelped, and Harvey smacked him behind the ear. Harvey locked eyes with Harper and nodded.
* * * *
Two men remained amidst the night’s carnage. Midnight was quickly approaching and the night’s chill was their only company. Conner had lapsed into an uncertain sleep, but they had few minutes to talk.
Harper cradled the dieing man’s head in his lap and wrapped him in the thermal sleeping bag Conner had used earlier. Whenever Conner spoke, glassy blood bubbles formed on his lips. Harper wiped the sweat away from his eyes. His eyes were wet and he knew it would not be long. Three rounds in the chest were very final.
“It wasn’t enough,” whispered Conner.
“You tried to make it right, didn’t you?” rasped Harper—his throat was tight.
Conner coughed. “Yes, but it wasn’t enough. I never got Layne.”
Harper nodded silently. “Do you think killing Layne would have made up for Panama City?” In the bitter aftertaste of beating Kurt Martin, Harper’s saner self understood vengeance would not change what had happened. It had not brought Jerry back in Iraq, or Darby back tonight.
“No,” he coughed and sighed. “I know I’m going to hell. I just wanted to be the one to send him there first.”
“You don’t have to go to hell,” whispered Harper. Why did he survive? Why did another man die in his arms? Why did he have to watch the life force slip away again? Why!
“I’m guilty,” protested Conner.
“We all are,” agreed Harper. Vengeance, guilt, remorse all clamored for an audience. His sins paraded before him, and all he had were the bloody wounds of another man. Their roles could have been reversed. Conner thought him to be honorable and pure, but he was a dark knight locked in a deadly struggle with his demons.
Conner twisted his head back and forth. “You’re a soldier—a man of honor. I dishonored everything I ever knew.”
“It’s not what you do in this life,” continued Harper. “It’swho you know—heaven is a gift. You just have to accept it.”
Conner choked on his blood and wheezed, “God doesn’t want someone like me.”
“God wants everyone,” whispered Harper. “It’s called forgiveness and redemption.” He could tell Conner about forgiveness, but he never permitted himself the same cooling salve. “He did it for all of us,” murmured Harper. What had he told Jerry that dark, lonely night in the desert? What had he done to comfort his friend after his sight failed and the cold gripped his limbs? It was all a blur. He could not even picture Jerry’s features anymore! He had forgotten the face of a man who was closer than a brother. He was such a terrible failure!
“Who?” asked Conner.
Harper looked into the watery eyes. The pupils were dilated, but already the death clouds were closing in. He shuddered. He dare not mess this up! He needed to do something right tonight. He needed to tell Conner the truth. “Jesus,” he said softly. It was the only answer he had. It was the only answer any of them had.
“Why would he care,” gasped Conner. The eyes blazed open, but saw nothing.
“Forgiveness—he died so we could be forgiven. He died so you could be forgiven for the little girl in Panama, and everything else,” soothed Harper. If he believed what he was saying, why did he continue to hang onto his guilt? Because it was a terribly familiar rag he would not leave.
“And how would someone like me get that?” croaked Conner. His breathing was getting shallow and Harper doubted he could see anything anymore.
“Just ask Jesus,” he answered. “You saved my life in Panama, let me save your soul now,” pleaded Harper. Sweat dribbled down his face and mixed with the blood and tears.
Conner lay silent for a few moments. The last words Harper thought he heard were: “I see.” They came out in ragged breath.
“Do you?” asked Harper, but there was no response.
Sometime after midnight, Conner quit struggling and quietly died.
The warrior leaned down and hugged the dead man close to his chest. His back shook and he cried silently. Had a merciful God answered? Harper did not know and not knowing drove another deep wound into his already lacerated soul. Jerry, Darby, Conner—where would it end? It would have been easier to have died a long time ago. But he had promised Lynn he would come back, and he always kept his promises.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Tallahassee, Florida,CNN,November 13, 2000 –The Florida recount is moving from the ballot box to the witness box as legal teams for both the Gore and Bush campaigns prepare arguments to present to Leon County Circuit Court Judge Terry Lewis. The Gore campaign wants the deadline issued by Secretary of State Katherine Harris to be extended beyond the 5:00 P.M. Tuesday deadline. They cite the impractical nature of the order and Ms. Harris’ affiliation with the Bush campaign.
Virginia Beach, Virginia
Monday, November 13, 2000
11:00 A.M. EST
Ellen Grafft stared at Carl Elsing’s nude, bluish-purple corpse. The knife wound between his second and third rib had blackened over the last week. Five days floating in salt water with the occasional attention of a bored Amberjack did not make the wound appear surgical. His face was gray and bloated, and the crinkled, sightless eyes showed nothing more than a surprised cry.
The sheriff department’s water patrol had fished him out of a swimming area Sunday afternoon. They went through his pockets and came up with a couple of credit card receipts. A routine fingerprint scan identified the floater as Carl Elsing, Ensign US Navy ten years ago. The blood work came back HIV positive, and a search of his apartment came away with a box full of homosexual pornography and paraphernalia.
Ellen would never have been summoned to Virginia to examine the dead man except for one intriguing piece of evidence found stuffed in Carl’s hip pocket—a credit card drawn on the Bank of Scotland in the name of Parvez Hyder. The sheriff ran the card number through the NCIC system and bells started ringing in Washington.
Carl Elsing’s life was reduced to three sheets of laser-printed pages. The State of Virginia and the Federal government were quite good about tracking items that had to be registered or insured. Carl owned one house, a beach condominium in South Carolina, two cars, and a boat.
Local FBI agents crawled over the South Carolina beach house with a forensic unit and found little more than accumulated dust, more magazines and rat droppings. A caretaker indicated the house had been closed for the winter two months earlier. Most people gave Carl a good report—quiet, unobtrusive, and gentle.
