Authors: Dan Hampton
“No,” a low voice answered. “But it's about to be.”
Neville's brow furrowedâthat didn't make sense. But the voice. He knew that voice. He was half turning to see better when something hard struck the back of his neck. The colonel's mouth dropped open as his head slammed into the wall and bright lights burst under his eyelids. Shocked and confused, Neville felt himself spun around and shoved against a stall. He managed one quick gasp of air before his groin exploded. Eyes bulging from their sockets, his mouth opened and closed in agony as the knee came away from his crotch. The colonel collapsed against rock-hard arms and barely felt the man lean into him.
“Now, you worthless fuck,” the voice penetrated the misty fog of his brain. “Your life is
over
.”
“What . . .” Neville tried to raise his head but couldn't. “No . . . why . . .” he croaked.
A hand grabbed him under the chin and tilted his face back. The arms tightened to straighten him out. He blinked but could only see a muddled blue outline. Neville felt the slap, and cheeks stinging, his vision cleared slightly, he focused on the face. He
knew
that face. But it was impossible.
“You . . .” He blinked at the dark, expressionless features a foot away. “But . . .”
The mercenary saw the comprehension dawn and was satisfied.
“Payback,” he whispered, his left hand locked onto the man's jaw, and he grabbed a handful of Neville's hair in his right. “You steaming little sack of shit.”
“No,” Neville whimpered in disbelief. “You can't . . . you . . .”
As the colonel tried to straighten, the Sandman simultaneously yanked down with his right hand and wrenched violently up with his left. Neville's head twisted back at an impossible angle, his eyes wide with shock and denial. As his neck snapped with an audible pop, the last thing Jimmy Neville saw was the sagging ceiling trim on the wall behind the stalls.
The mercenary let the colonel's head flop onto his chest and braced the body with his knee. He then snapped the neck again in the other direction just to make sure. Dropping the body on the floor, he smiled a bit as the head landed in a nasty stain of old urine and pubic hair. The whole encounter had lasted less than thirty seconds. Staring at Neville's glazed, lifeless eyes, the Sandman regretted killing him so quickly. Neville should've suffered more.
Nudging the corpse with his toe, the Sandman suddenly froze as the hollow sound of feet on wood echoed in the outside hallway. Ducking into the stall, the Sandman grabbed the body under its armpits and hauled it upright. Sitting quickly on the toilet, he slipped an arm under Neville's legs, cradled the body on his lap and waited.
Paul Mathis opened the door to the bathroom and walked to the urinal. Thirty minutes of bullshit had filled his bladder and he seriously considered just skipping the rest. Who would notice anyway?
Then he saw the blue trouser legs under the stall divider. The feet were tapping slightly like a man does who's waiting on a toilet.
Shit.
It had to be Neville, he'd seen him leave the podium and duck out. The feet kept tapping. Finishing quickly, the major washed his hands and left.
The mercenary heard the door shut and listened to the footsteps retreating on the wood floor. Sliding off the seat, he dumped the body on the toilet, legs askew, and stood up quickly. Neville's bowels had relaxed and the stink was filling the small room. Perfect. The Sandman stared at the corpse and smiled. Dead on a commode in a puddle of your own shit . . .
You got off easy, you worthless fuck.
Stepping to the door, he cracked it slightly and glanced down the empty hallway. Coming out slowly, he walked to a small exit door at the back of the bar and stepped into the sunlight. Calmly striding down the walkway, he crossed the small street like any other officer leaving the club.
Easing behind the wheel of a rented SUV, he slipped on a pair of dark glasses and briefly considered his way out. All the gates had cameras that recorded traffic on and off the base so his vehicle would be seen. But it didn't matter. It was a rental using a false license and credit card and both would be discarded within the hour.
The closest and fastest way out was the King Street Gate. It was 300 yards across a causeway from the Officer's Club and he could see it from where he sat. But not much traffic passed that way and once Neville's body was found it would probably be assumed that the killer left that way.
The LaSalle Gate was much bigger. More than a thousand vehicles a day passed that way and, once clear of the base, it was a direct shot to Interstate 64. But it was also a mile and half away through two traffic lights and would take about seven minutes. It would take at least five minutes before someone went looking for Colonel Neville and another five to get over it, confirm it, and call EMS and the Security Police. They would immediately lock the base down and close the gates. He pulled out and headed toward the LaSalle Gate.
He decided he had ten minutes.
D
oug Truax walked out the double doors and frowned at the empty hallway. General Sturgis wanted to leave and needed a quick PR photo with Neville before he left. No one had seen the colonel since he stepped off the stage and Axe figured he'd gone to the can.
A figure emerged from the shadows but it was too tall and athletic to be Neville. It was Jonny Mathis.
“Any idea where Neville went?”
Mathis jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “In the crapper . . . past the bar. Why?”
“They need pictures.” He walked down the hall and the younger pilot followed.
T
he Sandman came around the traffic circle and headed toward the center of the base. Straight ahead was the fighting side of the base with the flight line, operations, and squadron buildings far away from the staff and headquarters. At the intersection just before the fire department there was a light. Going straight would lead past the flight line and out the West Gate. A right turn would parallel the flight line in the opposite direction and eventually end up in the golf course. The mercenary moved to the left-turn lane behind an old Lincoln. Left at the light here would take him past the hospital and out the La Salle Gate. His eyes flickered constantly between the rearview mirror and the other cars. But with twenty yards to go, the light suddenly changed from green to yellow and the old Lincoln slowed to stop. He could make out the gray heads of two elderly retirees and sighed.
He had time.
A
xe pushed open the door to the lavatory and stuck his head in. He could make out blue uniformed legs and shiny black shoes under the stall door.
“Colonel Neville?” he spoke to the feet. “Colonel . . . the general would like to get a picture with you as soon as it's convenient.”
Nothing.
He stepped inside and Mathis held the door open behind him.
“Colonel Neville?”
The feet hadn't even moved. He frowned and tapped on the door. “Hello? Who's in there, please?”
Mathis cleared his throat impatiently. But even if it wasn't Neville, whoever it was should've answered. Truax felt a knot of uneasiness swell in his gut.
“Colonel, are you all right?” He thumped the door harder and it swung open. A wave of shit-filled air hit him and he involuntarily stepped back.
“Sorry.” His first impulse was to apologize for breaking in on a man doing his business.
But as he backed up a step he realized the man behind the divider still hadn't moved. Leaning forward again, he peered into the stall at the grotesquely twisted neck and dead face staring back at him.
T
he light changed.
The Sandman started forward behind the creeping Lincoln. He could see the old man pointing to the aviation monument to the left. Rather than just pull into the park and take a picture the elderly couple decided it was easier to just slow down to use the camera. With the blissful ignorance of a retiree, the driver ignored the line of cars behind him and slowed to fifteen miles per hour. The old woman raised her camera.
There was still another light to get through and a mile to the gate. But speeding on a military base was a sure way to meet the Security Police and that wouldn't do at all. Besidesâhe glanced in the rearview mirrorâthere was a cop two cars behind him.
A
xe sprinted through the bar and down the dark hallway. He came to the administration office, but the door was locked.
Slapping the glass in frustration, the pilot ran past the reception area and looked for another office.
“Colonel Truax?”
He slowed to a fast walk and looked over his shoulder.
Shit.
Mrs. Neville.
“Have you seen Jimmy? He's wanted inside . . . honestly, that man . . .”
Ignoring her, he trotted on down the hall.
“Colonel . . .”
Her voice faded as he came around the corner.
There!
An open office.
A chubby receptionist sat at the desk chattering mindlessly into a phone. Dressed in an unbelievable red dress with a matching bow he had the irrelevant thought that he was speaking to a huge strawberry.
“I need the phone, please. Emergency.”
She barely glanced at him and went right on talking with the casual disregard of all secretaries everywhere.
Reaching across the desk, Axe yanked the phone from her hand and punched a LINE OUT button.
“Wha . . . how dare you . . . I . . .”
“Shut up,” he snapped. “And keep quiet.” Her mouth made a perfect O.
He hit 0 and waited for the operator.
“Get me the Security Police. Emergency.”
The secretary was still irate. “You can't just barge in here and takeâ”
“Sir”âMajor Mathis had followed him inâ“what do you want me to do?”
“Quietly get one of the captains from the reception and tell him to secure the building. No one leaves. Then you get back to the john and let no one in till I get back.”
“Security Police. Can I help you?” a gravelly voice answered.
Axe waved the major to the door. “This is Lieutenant Colonel Truax and this is an emergency. Get me the watch officer
now
.”
T
he last light changed to green and the Lincoln turned right, toward the base exchange and commissary. The Sandman smoothly accelerated to the 35 mph limit and looked in the rearview mirror. The car behind him also turned right and now the blue police pickup slid to within two car lengths. It had been almost eight minutes since he'd left the O'Club, but the gate was still a hundred yards ahead. A series of concrete blocks forced outgoing traffic to one left lane so he eased over, slowing down to exit the base. The police truck followed.
“H
e's dead, Lieutenant, do you get that?” Axe snapped into the phone. The secretary, now silent, listened wide-eyed. “It happened within the last ten minutes and the killer is probably still on the base. Seal the gates!”
“Sir, I'm sorry but I don't know you . . . and I need more than a voice on the phone to seal off Air Combat Command Headquarters.” The younger officer sounded shaky.
Doug Truax took a deep breath. “You listen to me, Lieutenant, and you listen real fucking good. If you don't seal the base this very minute I will personally see that the ACC Commander sends you to Maxwell to grade papers for the rest of your sorry career. Use my name, use his name . . . use any damn name you want, but seal the gates!”
“All right sir.” The Security Police officer caved in. “But you'll need to stay on the line . . . I'll need more information.”
“I'll give you my wife's cup size if you want it. Just close up the fucking base!”
P
assing the first of two barricades, the mercenary weaved right, then left. As he did, he saw the police lights flash in his rearview mirror.
How had it happened so quickly? Swallowing once, he suppressed the overwhelming desire to stomp on the gas. He'd at least exit the base, then pull over and deal with the policeman. Past the last barricade now, he slowed, then watched as the police truck abruptly turned off and slid to a stop next to the gate, blocking the road to outbound traffic.
Accelerating smoothly down La Salle Avenue, he exhaled and thought about it. It had to be the guy who came into the bathroom while he was there. He must've seen something that made him suspicious and he came back.
Rounding the corner, the only light between him and Mercury Boulevard was green, so he sped up to make it. Stealing one final glance in the rearview mirror, the mercenary saw both of the big iron gates slide shut.
Langley was closed.
F
or twenty minutes the Sandman drove smoothly and quickly straight down Mercury Boulevard through the city of Newport News. He watched for telltale flashing lights but saw none. Mercury Boulevard became Highway 17, and he followed the gentle incline up onto the James River Bridge. Watching the electronic billboard, he saw both lanes were open and the drawbridge was closed. Passing beyond the huge riverside complex of the Newport News Shipyard, the mercenary crossed the river into Isle of Wight County at 11:50.
Exhaling slightly, he remembered the shocked expression on Neville's dying face. The colonel thought he lived in a civilized country. He thought his pretty uniform and little silver eagles were protection against everything. The flash of realization and recognition on his face the instant before he died was worth the risk.
Following the markers toward Smithfield, he came to a T intersection known as Benn's Church. Turning left at the light, the mercenary headed south on Highway 10 toward the larger city of Suffolk. It was rolling farm and horse country; scarcely a mile went by without a sign advertising horses or riding. He saw one brown-and-white sheriff's cruiser, but it was unhurriedly going the opposite way.
Suffolk had been a charming town about ten years earlier but, like most communities in the Tidewater area of Virginia, that had long passed. Too many people moving down from Washington or away from the Peninsula had spread the overcrowding and inflated prices that plagued the country. He drove slowly down Main Street, a wide, pleasant avenue lined with cafés, bookshops, and antique shops. Hunter-green flags hung horizontally from black wrought-iron lampposts every twenty feet. Turning left on Constance Street, he made an immediate right and pulled into a shady corner of the Cedar Hills Cemetery parking lot. It was empty.
Sliding over to the passenger side, the mercenary reached into the backseat and retrieved a soft sided black leather bag. Quickly slipping out of the blue uniform, he pulled on a pair of jeans, green docksides with no socks. A plain black T-shirt with a tan
ORVIS
bill cap completed the outfit. His uniform went into a garment bag that he laid over the seat and he removed the small key he'd retrieved in the BVI from the bag's zippered pocket. The mercenary also pulled out one of the Nokia TracPhones he'd purchased and stuck it in his pocket. The dark glasses remained on.
Moments later he was back on Main Street and after a hundred yards pulled over to park. Locking the car, he thumbed two quarters into the meter, took the key and walked into the post office. Numbered boxes lined the anteroom and, finding the correct number on a little brass tag, he opened it. Withdrawing three yellow claim tickets, the mercenary walked into the service area. Taking a local information newsletter from the stand he kept his head down slightly, like any casual reader, while waiting his turn. After making an illegible scrawl on the receipt, he exchanged the tickets for three sealed envelopes: one legal sized and two smaller ones.
Pausing outside, he leaned against the brick wall and looked up and down the street. It was a fine day. Clear and warm. Schools were still in session so there weren't any children. The people window-shopping were mostly women, alone or with a few friends. Housewives, out spending money and meeting lovers while their husbands worked The green canvas pendants hanging on one side proclaimed Suffolk to be “Everyone's Neighborhood.”
Satisfied that all was well, he got back in the car and continued down Main Street, pulling over in front of the Java149 café. It was a pleasant Bohemian sort of place; none of the tables matched, but they were nearly full. Like distorted white butterfly wings, newspapers were spread out before steaming cups of coffee while people read, talked, and cautiously sipped.
Opening the biggest envelope, he dumped the contents on the seat beside him. There were two passports, one blue with the United States Eagle on the front and the other with the burgundy cover of Canada. He opened them both and noted with satisfaction that both had several entry and exit stamps for European countries. Both also had seemingly authentic U.S. entry stamps, Chicago and Boston respectively, dated from last week. Each passport had a valid International Driving License in the same name clipped to the back cover. The licenses appeared slightly worn and had been issued the previous year. The other plastic cards he put aside for the moment.
One of the smaller envelopes yielded four credit cards for business bank accounts he'd set up from the boat while cruising the Bahamas; two VISAs and two MasterCards issued against corporate accounts that were completely legitimate. Green Mountain Transport and Trendco Logistics from Delaware with Blue River Literary and Latham Consulting issued from Wyoming. Using a disposable cell phone, the mercenary activated the cards, then slipped them into a flat travel wallet that fit against the small of his back. He'd reorganize later.
The other plastic he picked up and examined closely.
The Texas driver's license and retired U.S. military identification card were both in the name of Daniel P. Tyler. The Texas card was real, issued via online renewal for an existing license. If a policeman scanned the barcode he'd find out everything he wanted to know about a Dan Tyler of Dallas, Texas. There was a also a Maryland driver's license and a current, active duty CACâCommon Access Cardâissued to Matthew Tobin.
Both military IDs were real cards; however, the barcodes on the backs were gibberish. There was no way to access the DEERs system used by the government that encoded the identification, so they were a calculated risk.
The smaller envelope held a single piece of paper with typical Google Map directions. There was a little key taped to the bottom of the page.
Satisfied, he reached into the smaller of his two bags, withdrew the Irish passport, International Driving License and credit card that he'd used to fly into the Caribbean. These went into the empty legal envelope and he carefully peeled off the mailing label. Locking up again and feeding the meter, he strolled back down Main Street, across Market Street, and into the Wells Fargo Bank carrying the envelope inside his newspaper. There were two lines open and only one other customer. A plump, middle-aged female teller was leaning against her counter and she smiled brightly as he walked in.
“Good morning, sir, how may I provide with you excellent service?”
Returning her smile, the mercenary stepped up. “Withdrawal, please.” He passed her the Green Mountain Visa and his new U.S. passport. She typed in the credit card number.
“Certainly. How much would you like that for?
“Fifteen thousand. In hundreds please. And that should leave a balance of five thousand, right?”
Glancing at the screen she nodded. “Ah . . . five thousand twenty-six dollars and twenty-two cents, to be exact. If you'll wait a moment, sir, I'll make the withdrawal.”
“Take your time.” The Sandman returned to reading his newspaper, head lowered but not obviously so. A few minutes ticked by, several customers came and went, and he stifled a yawn.
“Here you are, sir,” a voice behind him said. Turning, he smiled again as the chubby teller passed him a full envelope.
“Thanks very much.”
“Of course. Is there anything else?”
“Not at the moment. I'll come back next week to get a company safety-deposit box.”
She smiled again. “Anytime, sir. You can actually apply for it online and just bring in the papers when you a have a moment.”
The Sandman already knew that but nodded. “That's good to know, and thanks again.”
Outside, he walked back down the street, past the café and into the Bank of Virginia. It was more crowded but had a commercial teller. The man ahead of him had scuffed work boots, a faded blue bandanna tucked in his back pocket, and a dirty bill cap on his sweaty head. His hands were massive and also dirty. Some kind of farmer, the Sandman thought, and suppressed a sigh.
Still, he was ahead of schedule and wasn't worried about interference from Langley. They'd spend two hours locking down the base, blundering around the O'Club and convening a Tiger Team to study the problem. The FBI would get involved since a military base is a federal installation, but the Sandman knew their methods as well. They'd screen airports, train stations, bus terminals, and car-rental agencies. However, to do any of this they needed a face and a nameâand they had neither. In the meantime, he was simply another anonymous American citizen going about his business.
“May I help you, sir?”
The farmer had ambled off and the teller, a petite brunette with a very pretty face, was smiling at him.
“Good morning.” He drew out a folded piece of paper and put it on the counter. “I received this email confirmation for a company safety-deposit box. I'll sign for it and I'd like to see it, pleaseâI need to make a withdrawal also.”
The teller unfolded the paper and compared it to the computer screen. “Green Mountain Transport?”
“Right.” the Sandman grinned disarmingly and filled out a slip for his withdrawal. “Not very glamorous, but folks always need cardboard shipping boxes, don't they? We supply smaller food markets and a few moving companies.”
She laughed. “I think anything that makes money is glamorous. But don't spread that around,” she added, and nodded toward the row of offices against the far wall.
“Your secret's safe with me,” the mercenary replied,
sotto voce
.
“I'll need some identification, please.”
He withdrew the corporate card and Texas license he'd just retrieved from the post office. “Certainly.”
Like the other teller, she checked the license against the authorized signatory on the box. She then verified that the box belonged to the company on file and that the company credit card matched the account. She noted that the box had been paid for a year in advance. After signing for it, the Sandman received a key in a little red envelope and they both walked to a room at the rear of the bank. Rows of keyed, bronze-faced boxes lined three of the walls and a full desk, complete with office supplies, occupied the other wall.
“Here it is, sir. Box 1906. Just press the button by the door when you wish to leave and I'll have your withdrawal for you up front.” He thanked her and she left.
The box was one of the medium-sized types, about six inches high and twenty inches deep. Placing it on a console table, he removed the envelope of cash from his waistband and the larger mailer from inside the rolled-up newspaper.
The Irish passport, International Driving License, and his European-issued Visa card went into the box. He also counted out $10,000 in cash and placed it beside the documents. The remaining cash, Texas license, credit cards and military IDs went into the travel wallet. Locking the box, he put the key in the wallet and fastened it around his waist beneath the shirt. Pulling scissors from the desk, the Sandman cut up the Virginia license and credit card he'd picked up in Tortola. Dropping the pieces in his pocket he then pressed the buzzer, opening the door, and went back into the lobby. The pretty brunette gave him a parting smile and another envelope containing his withdrawal. He strolled out of the bank at 12:30.
He now had two complete identities, called legends, that would enable him to travel anywhere in the United States. Rapid, secure funds were available from the business credit cards and with the $25,000 dollars in cash he now carried. His return passport, credit card and cash were safely buried behind corporate anonymity and banking secrecy. Any faint trail that his Virginia persona had left would end with a nearly empty bank account at Wells Fargo. He was now Matt Tobin of Dallas, Texas, and he could prove it. Easing out into Main Street traffic, the mercenary slowly drove off.
Crossing the bridge on the south side of town, he tossed a handful of the plastic cuttings from the window and noted the change of scenery immediately. Little houses with peeling paint were clustered together like warts. Yards of weeds and rusting appliances were filled with old black men on torn sofas, preferring the outdoor heat to the indoor heat. Groups of sullen teenagers with their underwear showing and silly “do-rags” on their heads stared hatefully at the passing cars.
A few miles south of town, the squalor ended in an industrial park. Long lines of chain-link fences, broken only by gated guardhouses, stretched back from the road. Slowing, he flicked the remaining plastic pieces out and turned left at a small white sign that read
SUFFOLK AIRPORT/GENERAL AVIATION
.
Straight ahead lay the terminal, a long one-story white building with a large parking lot. Left of the terminal were several tan hangars with unpainted metal roofs, and beyond lay the runway.
Several people came and went from the terminal and one maintenance cart rolled toward the hangars but no one paid the slightest attention to the silver SUV. Why should they? People came and went from here all the time.
Parking as close to the terminal as possible among the other vehicles, the Sandman took a last look around the car, propped a sunshade up on the dashboard and got out. Still using the big vehicle to shield him from the terminal, he pulled the case and valise out and left the garment bag hanging in the backâthe car was rented for two weeks and by the time it was discovered he'd be long gone. Locking the doors, the mercenary picked up his bags and walked calmly toward the terminal.
“G
ood Gawd almighty,” General Sturgis smacked the polished cherrywood desktop. His southern accent always got thicker when he was angry. And he was angry. Anyone who got in his way made him angry. Anything that might cast even a glimmer of shadow over his carefully arranged and polished career made him angry.
A full colonel being murdered during his own farewell ceremony was bad enough, but it had happened while he, K. A. Sturgis II, was down the hall in the same building. How in the hell was
that
going to look?