Closure (Jack Randall) (35 page)

“Jack? Are you sure you’re okay?” Sydney asked. She approached and saw the look on his face. She looked in the direction he was looking, but saw only police cars and dark streets. She turned back to ask.

“What did you see?”

“I’m not sure, a ghost maybe.”

•      •      •

Sam forced himself to slow down and take another turn. He had made it to the car and past the arriving cops and was now speeding through side streets away from the hospital. He had been calculating his chances of just bluffing his way out, or running for it when the shot rang out behind him. He had instinctively hit the concrete till his brain processed the noise and determined it wasn’t aimed at him. He’d watched as the guards left the cars at the exit and sprinted into the garage. It was the opening he needed. He got up and walked toward the exit. Once clear he broke into a run. He had to make it to the car before the police arrived. Now he was clear of the area.

Finding a dark parking lot behind a closed business, he changed into jeans and a casual shirt. The scrubs went into the dumpster, and he was soon on his way again. First, he needed new wheels. He punched the radio presets, looking for a news channel and ignored the burning in his gut.

•      •      •

“I don’t understand, sir. I don’t have it.”

“Well, I have it, Jack. Have for a few days, and I assumed you had it. They sent me proof of the fax. It was sent out to everyone on the list. You’re telling me you never got it? I just got a call this afternoon. I don’t know who this reporter buddy of yours is, but his story pissed off quite a few people.”

Jack tried to sound confused. “What story?”

“The Orlando paper, the one getting copies of the letters from the shooter. This reporter ran a story saying that the FBI had yet to receive the requested list of sniper trained personnel from the DOD. I just got my ass reamed by the chairman, and he sent me the proof that it was faxed to you days ago. Why are you giving this guy information, and where the hell is your copy of the list? I want some answers, Jack!”

Jack looked out the windows of the hangar to the jet waiting for him. He had to think fast. Satisfy his boss and still protect Danny. “As far as I know, sir, none of my people have a copy of the list. Can you tell me exactly when and where it was faxed?”

“Hold on,” Deacon replied. Jack heard some papers shuffling. “Looks like about 2 a.m. on Tuesday, sent to the number on the plane. It was encrypted and verified received. It’s fourteen pages, Jack, not like somebody missed it lying on the machine.”

“Okay. I can’t talk for much longer. I need some things when we land.” He went on to explain.

•      •      •

Jack sat in the Director’s office. He looked at the papers in his hand for the tenth time. Looking up at Deacon and the two agents across the room, he asked a question. “You’re sure you have the right bags?”

“Name tags on the bag and the contents all match,” was the gruff reply.

Jack leaned forward and rubbed his eyes with both hands. The past 24 hrs had been difficult enough, and now this. He couldn’t believe it.

“On the way here now?” Jack asked his boss.

“Yeah. I can do this for you if . . .”

“No . . . No, I can do it,” Jack interrupted.

They waited in silence till there was a knock on the door.

“Come,” the Director called.

The door opened and Dave entered the room. He looked at the two agents against the wall before coming forward.

“You wanted to see me, sir?”

“Have a seat, Dave. I have some questions for you.”

Dave calmly took a seat next to Jack. He looked a little nervous, and that was all Jack needed to know the truth. From an envelope on his lap, he pulled a stack of papers and tossed it in Dave’s lap.

“Have you ever seen this document before, Dave?” Jack asked.

Dave looked at the papers and then up at Jack. He said nothing.

“They arrived by fax while we were on the plane coming back from California. According to the time stamp, it came in at 2 a.m. I know I was sleeping, and I’m sure the rest of the team was, too. You, however, don’t sleep on planes, ever.” Jack let the statement hang.

When Dave offered no reply, Jack went on. “So I thought, hoped actually, that it just got misplaced. So when we got back today I pulled you all off the plane quickly and had it searched. Nothing, so I had all the documents we have so far inventoried, again nothing. So then I had internal affairs go through everybody’s bags from the plane.”

At that Dave lifted his head to see Jack looking him dead in the eye. He couldn’t meet his gaze.

“Why, Dave, why would you hold on to that list when you knew it could be key to the investigation?”

Dave’s face took on a hard look. When he spoke it was to the room. “My father was killed by a drunk driver when I was seventeen. It was the man’s sixth offense. Sixth! He was rich and he had friends. They kept letting him out over and over.” Dave looked up and met Jack’s face. “I thought if I could slow the investigation down, just a little, this man would have some more time to do some good.”

Jack sat back in his chair with a sigh. He was exhausted and unsure as to what to do now. That question was answered for him. With a nod from the Director, the two agents approached Dave. His badge and gun were placed on the Director’s desk, and he was led away.

•      •      •

“Okay, we have the photos from the hospital cameras. Our man is white, approximately six foot in height, 180 to 200 pounds. So . . .”

Eric had dumped the Department of Defense list into his laptop and was now using a program he had “modified,” as he described it, to sort the names.

“Midwest accent,” Larry added.

“Concentrate on southwest Michigan,” Jack added.

“Why?” Sydney asked. Jack dismissed the question with a wave.

Eric continued typing and hit the enter key with a flourish. They all waited, and when nothing happened, he got several stares.

“It takes a minute,” he explained.

After a short but tense wait, the computer started printing. Larry fetched the pages as they came out and passed them down.

“You can rule out this guy, he’s black,” Larry said.

“Mine, too. He’s in a wheelchair,” Sydney added.

“My guy’s in Korea,” Eric finished.

They looked at Jack only to see him reading intently. He sank into the nearest chair and ignored them all as he read.

The state of North Dakota holds 1,239 inmates in its prisons.
Approximately 830 are repeat offenders.

—THIRTY-FOUR—

15 years ago. Panama, Central America.

T
he helicopter flared sharply before descending into the thick jungle. All six men in the back leaned out and stared into the black hole that was the landing zone. It was the third time in the last hour they had done such a maneuver, but this time they would go all the way to the ground, and an unseen tree stump or rock could end the mission before it even got started.

The green glow of the tall grass in their night vision goggles showed the rotor wash pushing it flat. One by one, a thumb was extended in the up position until the crew chief reported the site was clear of hazards. Gear was moved closer to the door, and safety straps were released as they neared the ground. The crew chief and gunner swept the tree line for any movement over the sights of their M60 machine guns. As the three-foot mark approached, the first two soldiers dropped from the doorways, pulling rucksacks of gear behind them. The Huey hovered with the sudden loss of weight, and the pilot let it happen, lest there be a landmine under the bird. The two remaining soldiers left the bird as well, joining the first two belly-down on the ground with weapons trained on the jungle. The pilot was already pulling the collective toward his armpit with an accompanying twist of the throttle. The team was blasted by the down-wash of the rotors as the helicopter lifted clear of the clearing and on to the next one. They would perform the same false landing a few more times before heading back to base. Anyone trying to follow their progress on radar would not know where the team had been dropped.

As soon as the man-made storm ceased, the four men rose as one and sprinted for the tree line. Entering the jungle was like stepping into a dark room. Fortunately, the night-vision goggles, with the help of the star filled sky, helped to bring day to night. After penetrating a few meters into the wall of vegetation, they stopped and formed a small circle facing out. They listened intently for one minute, mouths hanging open, before the leader spoke.

“Equipment check,” he whispered.

Each team member quickly felt for every piece of equipment with one hand while the other kept a tight hold on the grip of his weapon. When they were done with themselves, they turned to check on the man next to them.

“All okay,” they hissed back to the team leader, one by one.

“Good.” His teeth glowed brightly in the goggles. “Welcome to Panama.”

The leader checked his watch and compass. He paused as he oriented himself with the map in his head.

“Jack, you lead off. We have eight hours to be in position. Stay twenty meters in front till it thins out a little, then push it out and get some slack.”

“Twenty meters, got it,” he answered.

“Let’s move.”

With that they rose and moved into and through the jungle. Using the walk-dance they had developed, they avoided the vegetation and moved silently. The clearing was once again a dark and silent hole in the jungle.

•      •      •

Eight hours later found them on the military crest of a ridge overlooking a small valley. The journey to their current location had been anything but easy. Stopping only twice for water, they had covered several kilometers of jungle. The constant up and down of the terrain, as well as the heat and other dangers, were exhausting. The compass had refused to work at one point due to iron deposits in the area, and two of their party had slight injuries. One was the result of a misplaced boot that caused a stumble. The injury was not to the foot, but to the hand that had reflexively grabbed for the closest tree only to be filled with quills from a black palm. With some quiet cursing, the quills were yanked out or broken off at the skin surface. In a couple of days they would fester up enough to be dug out by a doctor, but for now, the hand was covered in a smear of camouflage makeup to make up for the loss of the cut off leather glove. The other injury was to the eye of one of the security team. A branch had found its way around the goggles and the eye was red and puffy, an inconvenience only at this time. Now, two of the team lay wet, dirty and tired as they surveyed the valley before them.

“What do you see?” Sam asked.

“An airstrip, small hangar with fuel tanks, couple of Jeeps, small house. I’ve got a headcount of twelve so far,” Jack replied.

“Weapons?”

“A-Ks all around. Few grenades. A 60 on the red Jeep.”

“Any sign of our boy?”

“Negative.” Jack panned the spotting scope left and right. “When’s he supposed to show?”

“Sometime in the next few days was all they could give me.”

“Well that’s just great. Makes you wonder how they call it intelligence.”

“Yeah, well. You volunteered.”

“Don’t remind me.”

Sam smiled at his protégée. Jack was fifteen years younger but showed great promise. A skilled soldier and natural leader. Sam had recognized it early and taken Jack under his wing.

“Soon as they get back from scouting our way out of here, I’ll double check the routes. You keep up your scan and start a log. Make up a schedule, too. Two men on—two men off. Six hour shifts. Find a good position for the Barrett. By the way, your ghillie suit, it really stinks.”

“Thanks. I left it hanging in the jungle for a week like you said. Had to comb the bugs out when I retrieved it,” Jack replied.

“Did I forget to tell you about the flea collar trick? Sorry about that.” Sam nudged him with his shoulder before crawling backward up the ridge.

Jack wiped the sweat from his eyes with the bandanna wrapped around his wrist before returning to the scope.

Flea collar trick? He’d ask later.

•      •      •

Two days later found Jack in the same spot. He noted the position of the men around the airfield. Twice planes had landed and taken off in the last two days. Always unloading or loading a nearby truck. Mostly small bags, not too heavy. That meant cocaine, cash, or maybe both. One flight carried a man of some importance, but the face was not what they were looking for. He stood by while the bags were off-loaded into the truck, calmly smoking a cigarette. Jack had zoomed in on the face and was surprised to see it was white. The clothes were American made, stylish. The scope was connected to a camera, and a few shots were taken for the DEA guys. Otherwise the mission had been uneventful.

A light tap on the foot was all the warning Jack got of Sam’s approach. It startled Jack. Something Sam enjoyed doing.

“How are the boys?” he asked as he lay parallel to Jack.

“Alpha, Echo and Hotel are working in the hangar, otherwise nothing,” Jack replied.