The Mercenary (30 page)

“There was. And Mr. Tyler of Dallas was surprised
to learn that he'd rented a car in San Antonio since he's permanently paraplegic
and living in an assisted living facility.”

Chairs creaked as they all thought about that.

“So, it's our guy,” Axe said at last.

“Just to be sure I sent the agent to the regional
Air Traffic Control Center and they could find no flight plan or communications
record on a SkyMaster leaving anywhere around San Antonio within the past
forty-eight hours.”

“A pilot can take off VFR—visually—then file a
flight plan once airborne. Were there any in flight pickups for the same
period?” Axe was awake now and thinking.

Abbot shook his head. “I asked for anything
pertaining to a SkyMaster and there was nothing.”

“So he's gone again.” Karen didn't see what the
excitement was about.

The agent shook his head and so did Doug Truax.
“True. But we've got his new N number. N9818M.”

Axe thought a moment, scribbled on the desktop and
nodded. “I suspect when we find the plane we'll see that the original three and
S were made into eights, probably in Arkansas.” He pointed at his handiwork.

Jolly Lee walked in looking stern and sat down.

“We've also got something else we didn't have.”
Abbot smiled. “A picture off the Tyler license. It's being sent from Texas right
now. “

“But he's still two or three steps ahead of us,”
Karen Shipman persisted. “Each time we have a lead it's a dead end. We still
have no idea where this guy is or who he'll kill next.”

“Wrong.” Jolly Lee sighed and they all turned to
look at him. “Wrong on both counts. He's in South Carolina . . . and
he's just killed the commander of the 20th Fighter Wing.”

T
he
Sandman came out of the cyber café and walked directly to the car, thinking
hard. Several things had happened that gave him pause. First was Rama Buradi—or
whoever was using Buradi's email accounts to entice him into a meeting. The
Sandman was fairly certain the Chinese were behind it and he had no intention of
playing along. There'd be time enough to resolve that when he was done here.

He got in the car and started it. Did the Chinese
know he was in the United States? It was possible, of course, and he would
remain on guard, but he doubted it. The Chinese still hadn't overtly moved—no
further bank deposits had posted—so he was convinced they would move
covertly.

The second concern was Everett Womack. Despite the
forger's precautions, the mercenary was well aware of his true identity and
location. Womack was the weak link in the chain—he'd undoubtedly kept records
and copies of each legend transaction he'd finished and if those fell into
Federal hands . . . the Sandman's eyes narrowed at the thought. There
was no reason to believe anyone in the U.S. government had made a connection
between the mercenary they sought for the Taiwan raid and whoever was killing
Air Force officers.

Still.

He'd have to think about that. Womack wasn't
answering email either, but there could be many reasons. In any event, the
Sandman was well aware that Womack would eventually have to be permanently
retired.

The other email was equally troubling.

Sam is chasing your shadow. Payback. Thanks
again . . .

That was it. The sender was 27moago.

27moago. It had to mean 27 months ago. The Sandman
had been in involved in Africa at the time and had saved another American
mercenary from evisceration. Morgan . . . that had been his name. This
had to be from him and it was a warning.
Sam
meant
“Uncle Sam”—some branch of the U.S. federal government.
Chasing your shadow
probably meant they knew about a mercenary but
did not have a name. He smiled. Nor would they.

The federal angle was, he admitted, of some concern
since Everett Womack had prepared the identities he was using now. He didn't
doubt for a moment that they knew a killer was among them. Still, there was no
real record beyond corporate visas and the Texas driver's license to tie him to
any of the killings, and he'd left enough dead ends to frustrate anyone trying
to track him. The Tobin identity he was now using hadn't been activated until he
left the SkyMaster in Missouri and the Latham Consulting credit card was a
virgin, as they called it. As far as the world was concerned, Matt Tobin and
Latham Consulting had originated in Atlanta, and there were no connections to
Virginia, Texas, the aircraft, or his first rental car.

Eventually they would probably be uncovered—they
almost always were—but by then he'd be out of the country and beyond reach.
Besides, he had two sets of escape documents: the Irish identity locked in the
Virginia bank box and the Lebanese passport safely hidden on his boat.

Pulling out, he threaded back slowly through the
parking lot and stopped, facing the intersection. Facing him across the road was
an enormous pink storefront with six-foot ice-cream cones built onto the façade.
Traffic meandered past, people slowing to look at the sights, and the Sandman
looked to the left. He knew he could stay off the Interstate by following
Highway 301 back south. It was an easy drive to Wilmington, North Carolina, and
the coast. Anywhere from there up to Cape Lookout, he could buy a boat and be in
Bermuda in four days, leaving the American authorities pounding their cluttered
desks in frustration.

For ten long seconds he stared at the southbound
road and the way out. Then, smiling a little, the mercenary pulled out and
joined the traffic back onto I-95 heading north.

Chapter 23

“S
o one of these guys could be the mercenary.” General Kenneth Allen Sturgis peered at the four expanded photographs on his desk.

“Could be, sir.” Colonel John Lee and Major Shipman were standing behind the general, looking over his shoulder. There would be another meeting to discuss the manhunt progress as soon as Sturgis was brought up to date on the Taiwan situation. Though both officers could plainly see the investigation of an international mercenary was rapidly taking second place to a person who deliberately killed military officers.

“Womack's additional files were a gold mine as far as the FBI is concerned. But these are the most likely in my opinion.”

“Why?” Sturgis tried to focus but the news from South Carolina had unnerved him. Another dead officer . . .

“If we continue assuming this guy was a U.S. military officer, then it's reasonable that he might use American places and names—maybe even locations he was familiar with,” Karen said.

“I think that's a stretch.” Jolly Lee was staring at the pictures.

She nodded. “Probably, but not something to be discounted. Also”—she pointed at one of the pictures—“this is the oldest so it's likely the first one he used.”

“From the Caribbean . . . Nevis and St. Kitts,” Sturgis muttered.

“Right. And the DIA has information that this guy was an American. And these other pics”—she tapped one of them—“all appear to be the same man.”

The general leaned forward, frowning, and Jolly Lee did the same. The chin, he thought. Something about the chin tugged at his memory.

“See, several have glasses and the hair is parted differently. This one's head is turned at a slight angle and this one's head is lowered a bit.” She looked up. “All simple techniques to subtly change an appearance.”

Sturgis nodded somewhat absently. “I think I see that.” He leaned back and the other two moved to the sides of the desk. “So where does that leave us?”

Major Shipman started to reply, when there was a knock at the door.

“Come.” Sturgis raised his head and Doug Truax walked into the room, shutting the door behind him. “We were just discussing this mercenary,” Sturgis continued. “Major Shipman has some pictures, courtesy of the FBI, and they all seem to think this person is American. I seem to recall a possible Dutch suspect you had mentioned.”

Sturgis nodded as Truax gestured toward the coffee. “That's true, General. Timo van Oste was a very likely candidate. Problem is, The Hague says he went missing in Syria during the uprising. He'd been employed by Assad's government as a sort of advisor. Several MiGs have been shot down so it's possible he was in one of them. In any event, if he was there he could hardly be responsible for the Taiwan raid.” He walked toward the desk. “Pictures?”

“Later, later.” Sturgis waved an arm. “Get the others in here and let's talk about South Carolina.”

“Any idea how this maniac got inside the headquarters building and all the way into the commander's office?” General Sturgis was rubbing his forehead, eyes closed.

Colonel Lee looked up from his notebook. “They don't know for certain, but there was a fire alarm about an hour before Colonel Halleck was killed. It's possible—no, probable—that he got inside then. Colonel Truax was just on the phone with the Shaw vice wing commander.”

“What caused the fire?” Karen Shipman asked.

“Uh . . . coffeemaker, they think. Just a short.”

“Any idea how he got from Texas to South Carolina?” Sturgis still hadn't opened his eyes. What a fucking mess. He expected a call at any moment from the Chief of Staff of the Air Force. A call he was certain would end his career.

“Had to be by plane,” Lee replied. “No other way to do it.”

“And why can't we find the fucking thing?”

“Doesn't really matter, sir.” Colonel Lee shrugged. “He had to use the plane to get back east. No other way to do it fast enough.”

Abbot had walked in and was leaning against the bookshelf. “Oh, it matters. Could be lots of forensic evidence in that thing. Fingerprints, DNA . . . could all be used to finally ID this guy.”

“You're right.” Sturgis nodded at Jolly. “It doesn't matter at the moment. We may never find the plane or discover how this animal got from Texas to South Carolina. But we do know he was there.”

“Assuming it's the same man.” Axe spoke up. “Even wing commanders make enemies . . . jealous husbands, a double life someplace. It happens.”

“Correct. And we'll be looking into all of that,” Abbot agreed. “But for now, it's too coincidental that another officer has been killed. It is almost certainly the same man.”

“How was he killed?” Karen Shipman quietly asked.

“Crushed larynx,” Doug Truax answered. “I just got off the phone with Scott Richards, the vice down there. He said Halleck was surprised in his office by the killer.”

“Hence the throat strike.”

“Yeah,” Axe nodded. “Can't cry out or even fight back when you can't breathe.”

“And it's consistent with the other killings,” Karen added. “He always gets in close and uses his hands or something readily available like a knife.”

“Not needing a gun makes travel easier and less complicated.”

“It's not that.” Abbot shook his head and the others looked at him. “He
wants
his victims to see him, to know who is killing them.”

“Sick bastard,” muttered Major Dwyer, Sturgis's twerpy little aid,

Axe's eyes narrowed. “No, not sick.” He looked at Jolly Lee. “He obviously knows them if he wants their last sight to be his face. We must've missed something. There has to be a connection between all these people. Someone who has a grudge against them all.”

“Are there any surveillance videos from Shaw?” Abbot asked Colonel Lawson, who nodded.

“Yes—the SP commander down there is emailing four hours plus or minus from the time they think Halleck was killed.”

“Where's the camera?”

“There's one in an overhead light at the entrance to Wing Headquarters and one at each gate that may be of use. But”—he paused and looked at the agent—“it seems pointless, since we don't what he looks like.”

By way of an answer, David Abbot removed a picture from one of the folders he carried. “This is a still shot taken from one of the BX security cameras the morning of the killings at Randolph.” Everyone crowded around. It was a grainy black-and-white image of a man standing next to a car in what appeared to be a parking lot. Abbot placed the enlargement next to it showing a man standing next to a dark car. Given the height of the camera and the angle of the man's head, it wasn't much of a picture.

“That's it?” Sturgis sounded incredulous. “That could be Truax here. Why do you think this is our man?”

Smiling a little, the agent placed a third enlargement on the table. It was the back quarter of the car and showed a partial license plate ending in 265. “Texas switched to a seven-digit mixed-case plate format some years ago. But this”—he tapped on the picture—“is a plain black-and-white plate with no graphic behind it. They didn't do this until 2012, and it makes the number much easier to read.”

“Okay . . . great. You can read the plate.” The general was plainly irritable. “This could be anyone.”

“I remembered the statement made by the agent who went to Huber Airport about a rental car being left. He said it was a Camry, so, on a hunch, I checked with Hertz in Seguin with this partial plate and—”

“And it's a match.” Axe was impressed. “Okay. So how did this guy get to Shaw Air Force Base in South Carolina? Did he fly himself in that damned SkyMaster, or did he fly commercial?”

“If he flew himself we could spend another week trying to find the plane. And for what?” Lee asked. “As I see it, it doesn't make much difference. I mean, we're working under the assumption that it's the same guy anyway.”

“Why does that even matter? He got to Shaw and killed Colonel Halleck, so why thrash around finding out how he got there?” Sturgis moved back to his desk and sat down. “I'm more interested in where he'll go next. “

“That's exactly the point,” Abbot answered. “If we find out how he got to South Carolina, then we'll know what identity he's using now. Unless he's paying cash for everything, then the electronic money trail will lead to him.”

“What makes you think he's using a name other than Dan Tyler?” Major Dwyer asked.

“Because the leads we did have, Blue River Literary and Trendco Logistics, haven't been used in twenty-four hours. Because we still don't know who he is and because everything we do know indicates superb planning and execution. These are all marks of a very experienced and dangerous professional who has remained on the loose in our backyard. This is not a man who makes many mistakes.”

“So he's moved on to be someone else.” Karen nodded. “It's what I would do. So what's the best way to fly commercial into that part of the country?”

“Well, Atlanta for one,” Jolly suggested.

Axe sipped his coffee and thought about that. “There's also Charlotte in North Carolina. And Columbia and Charleston in South Carolina.”

“That's a lot of surveillance video,” Lawson, the cop, said skeptically. “Using this?” He pointed at the picture.

Abbot nodded. “To start with. But we might also get something from Shaw. Until then”—he looked at Sturgis—“we'll put out alerts concerning Dan Tyler and the two companies we do know about. Also, I think increasing the official Threat Condition on all military bases would be prudent.”

“I can do that for ACC bases. I'll need Chief of Staff concurrence for the others.” Sturgis glanced at Dwyer and jerked his head toward the door. “So let's get on it . . . goes without saying to inform me instantly of any new developments.”

Doug Truax and Karen Shipman waited for the FBI agent to gather his papers then they left together. Down the stairs and out the door they stepped into the breezy Virginia afternoon.

Axe took a deep breath, happy to see the sun and be out of offices smelling of coffee. “Can't be that simple. Upping the base security conditions.”

Karen Shipman said nothing and stretched, just a bit longer than necessary, Axe thought.

David Abbot turned and looked at him. “You're right. Whatever this man's up to, I'm sure he's thought of that. We're not gonna catch a guy like this that way.”

“Then why bother?”

“We've got to do something, and,” Abbot added, “maybe we'll get a break.”

A
s the three of them entered Axe's office just after three
P.M.
, the phone was ringing and he went to answer it. Plopping down in a chair, David Abbot spread out his material again, and he and Karen were poring over the material when John Lee came in.

“Where's Axe?” he sounded excited.

Karen pointed toward the closed door and Abbot looked up. “What's that?” He jerked his head at the folder in Jolly's hand.

“From Shaw.” He sat down, grinning like the cat with the canary. “Take a look.” He spread out several pictures. “These are still shots from the camera over the headquarters' main entrance.”

The best one revealed an officer in a flight suit coming around the building's corner and he was looking up. Though in a shadow, the image had been lightened enough to provide a decent picture of the man's face.

“The hat and big sunglasses don't help.” Abbot frowned. “Still . . .”

He pulled out the other picture from Randolph, laid it alongside and the three of them compared the two.

“Same build. Can't see much of his hair or features in either one,” said Karen Shipman. “He generally keeps his head down a bit. Like he's expecting cameras to be around. It could be the same man.”

“Maybe.” David Abbot was still staring intently and John Lee's forehead crinkled as he leaned closer. That chin again. Something . . .

“So who is he?” Karen asked.

“That's the kicker. No one seems to know. Nothing was thought of it initially because”—he slid an enlargement on top that showed the pilot's torso from the neck down as he entered the building—“he's wearing Stan Eval patches.” Abbot looked up. “ACC Stan Eval patches. Everyone assumed he was part of the exercise evaluation team.”

The back office door opened and Doug Truax strode out. He also looked excited. “From Shaw! That was Scott Richards again. He'd just gotten off the phone with a major named Toogood in, uh . . . the 77th Fighter Squadron. Three of his pilots gave a lift on base to a lieutenant colonel this morning. A guy they never saw before.”

“But they figured he was there for the ORI.” Karen sighed.

Axe looked surprised but Abbot interrupted. “So if these idiots gave him a ride would he have to show ID at the gate?”

“Probably not. Just the driver. How did you know about the ORI?”

Shaking his head slightly, the FBI agent pushed the enlarged picture over so Axe could see it.

“Sonofabitch.”

“Exactly. Did these pilots happen to remember his name?”

Axe was still staring at the picture. “Only his call sign . . . which was all he was wearing on his name tag.”

“What was it?” Karen asked.

“Blaze,” he tapped the picture. “Just like this.”

They all leaned forward again and, though at an angle and hard to read, the name under the command pilot wings said ‘BLAZE'.

“Why would they do that?” Abbot wanted to know. “Bring a stranger onto a base? How fucking stupid is that?”

Jolly chuckled. “This isn't the FBI, you know. A pilot wearing oak leaves and ACC patches on the very morning a surprise ORI kicks off asks for a ride from three junior captains. What do you think they're gonna do?”