The Copycat: A Michael Thomas Thriller, page 1
The Copycat
Gavin Reese
Liquid Mind Publishing
Copyright © 2021 by Gavin Reese
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced in any format, by any means, electronic or otherwise, without prior consent from the copyright owner and publisher of this book.
Liquid Mind Publishing
This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and events are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
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Although based on some portions of true events, this is a work of creative fiction. The characters and their names, along with the events, plots, and motives are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Gavin Reese donates a portion of all his sales to non-profit organizations that benefit law enforcement professionals and veterans, their families, and the heirs, survivors, and memories of our Fallen Heroes. A portion of The Debt Collectors proceeds helps fund law enforcement organizations that counter narcoterrorism. A portion The Misery Merchant proceeds benefits organizations that improve the rescue, rehab, and recovery of sex trafficking victims. A portion of proceeds from The Kizazi Murders goes to help cold case homicide investigations in the Baltimore, Maryland, area.
More information is at gavinreese.com
Contents
Michael Thomas Series
Foreword
Prologue
1. May 14, 05:39 a.m. local / 1:39 p.m. GMT-London
2. May 14, 4:42 p.m. local / 3:42 p.m. GMT-London
3. May 14, 4:52 p.m. local / 3:52 p.m. GMT-London
4. May 14th, 09:42 a.m. local / 5:42 p.m. GMT-London
5. May 14th, 11:58 a.m. local / 7:58 p.m. GMT-London
6. May 14th, 10:32 p.m
7. May 14th, 11:51 a.m
8. May 15th, 12:09 a.m
9. May 15th, 02:23 a.m
10. May 15th, 02:44 a.m
11. May 15th, 02:49 a.m
12. May 15th, 02:58 a.m
13. May 15th, 07:12 a.m
14. May 15th, 08:36 a.m
15. May 15th, 09:58 a.m
16. May 15th, 10:08 a.m
17. May 15th, 8:32 p.m
18. May 15th, 9:41 p.m. / 8:41 p.m. GMT-London
19. May 15th, 10:08 p.m
20. May 15th, 11:01 p.m
21. May 15th, 11:17 p.m
22. May 15th, 3:27 p.m. / 11:27 p.m. GMT-London
23. May 16th, 12:33 a.m
24. May 16th, 05:03 a.m
25. May 16th, 2:47 p.m
26. May 16th, 9:02 p.m
27. May 16th, 9:57 p.m
28. May 16th, 10:58 p.m
29. May 16th, 11:03 p.m. local / May 17th, 07:03 a.m. GMT-London
30. May 17th, 07:47 a.m
31. May 17th, 08:39 a.m
32. May 17th, 09:10 a.m
33. May 17th, 09:40 a.m
34. May 17th, 09:58 a.m
35. May 17th, 10:35 a.m
36. May 17th, 10:52 a.m
37. May 17th, 10:53 a.m
38. May 17th, 11:00 a.m
39. May 17th, 11:06 a.m
40. May 17th, 11:12 a.m
41. May 17th, 1:01 p.m
42. May 18th, 04:30 a.m
43. May 18th, 04:39 a.m
44. May 18th, 05:15 a.m
45. May 18th, 06:04 a.m
46. May 18th, 08:19 a.m
47. May 18th, 08:29 a.m
48. May 18th, 09:24 a.m
49. May 18th, 6:02a.m. local / 2:03 p.m. GMT-London
50. May 18th, 01:33 a.m. local / 09:33 a.m. GMT-London
51. May 18th, 10:43 p.m
52. May 18th, 11:02 p.m
53. May 18th, 11:36 p.m
54. May 19th, 12:36 a.m. local / May 18th, 11:36 p.m. GMT-London
55. May 18th, 11:37 p.m
56. May 19th, 12:58 a.m
57. May 19th, 01:01 a.m
58. May 19th, 01:02 a.m
59. May 19th, 01:05 a.m
60. May 19th, 01:08 a.m
61. May 19th, 01:37 a.m
62. May 19th, 03:51 a.m
63. May 19th, 04:01 a.m
64. May 19th, 04:14 a.m
65. May 19th, 04:17 a.m
66. May 19th, 04:23 a.m
67. May 19th, 04:28 a.m
68. May 19th, 07:58 a.m
69. May 19th, 10:57 a.m
Epilogue One
Epilogue Two
Epilogue Three
Epilogue Four
Epilogue Five
Michael Thomas Series
Relevant Realities
Oath of the Absolvers
Absolvers
Church Officials
The Rest of God’s Children
Author's Note
Gavin Reese
Michael Thomas Series
The Absolver
The Trafficker
The Bombmaker
The Copycat
The Exporter (coming soon)
Stay up to date with Gavin Reese’s work! Receive a free digital copy of The Confession by visiting https://links.liquidmindpublishing.com/The-ConfessionWL.
Foreword
The Copycat is the fourth book in my Absolver Series. Set in the same universe and timeline as the Alex Landon Crime Series, readers will eventually find some common ground between them. Common themes. Common struggles. Common characters.
As with all my published works, I intend this book to be read and understood as a standalone fiction. While series readers will pick up on details shared between my publications, it is not absolutely necessary to start reading from Book One. This series uses fictional characters and events to explore questions that have plagued mankind since Cain and Abel: Does moral violence exist? To what limits? Who is entitled to vengeance, and when does God use man as an instrument to exact His own? When is it moral to take a human life, and when is our entitlement to dignity eclipsed by our detraction to the dignity of others?
More simply asked, what constitutes a murder, and what's a just and deserved killing?
Although this is a work of fiction, I used extensive research and real-life facts to make this story seem real. I hope the following chapters effectively blur the lines between the fictional, the plausible, and the probable.
Prologue
May 14, 05:32 a.m.
San Miguel Chapel. Santa Fe, New Mexico.
“Lord, deliver my soul from the gates of Hell.” Father Michael Andrew Thomas knelt next to his bed in the private living quarters of the chapel where he’d worshiped as a child and now served as a part-time parish priest. Dense foam kneepads dulled the sacrificial ache that emanated from the cold stone floor as Michael recited his daily morning prayer, but they did little to alleviate the pain throughout his body. Having returned from a covert assignment in Paris less than two days ago, he hoped to stay in the parish long enough to recover and heal from his injuries.
brrtbrrtbrrt brrtbrrtbrrt
Although he normally ignored his personal cell phone during his five daily prayers, the early morning hour compelled him to retrieve it. Unknown caller. Michael silenced the ringer, returned it to the top of the nightstand, and knelt back on the floor. He closed his eyes, filled his lungs to capacity, and—
brrtbrrtbrrt brrtbrrtbrrt
The skittering phone demanded his attention, so Michael rose and answered the call. “Hello?”
“What the hell did you get me into, Mikey?”
He recognized Brandon’s voice, but he hadn’t heard simmering rage in the man for years. “What do you mean?”
“Those fingerprints, dipshit. The ones you sent over and had me run through the national databases.” Brandon paused and sighed. “What are you doing?”
Michael stood and considered how to protect his friend from the unintended consequences of having involved him. “I’m sorry, man, but you have to give me more context than that.”
His former shift partner and current Patrol Sergeant for the Silver City Police Department scoffed. “Alright. I’ll play your stupid little game for a minute, but I will run out of patience real soon.” Fear and apprehension were plain in his voice. “I ran the prints through the normal cop databases, and they didn’t match anything. It turns out they matched two records in some other database that lowly street cops can’t access.”
Michael’s chest and throat tightened, and he fought against the stress reaction and continued to play dumb. “So, who do they belong to?”
“I have no idea. They didn’t tell me. All I know is how I found out,” Brandon shot back. “I’m working nights right now, so I just got off-shif
I should have seen this coming, Michael thought. “Did you get the suit’s name?”
“Yeah, ‘Special Agent Black,’ but that was a blatant lie. He said, ‘State Department,’ but what he meant was ‘O-G-A,’ which is just spook-speak for—”
“CIA.” Michael held his breath and waited for his friend’s response.
“Yeah, Mikey, the goddamned CIA. So, part of what I’m struggling with is how you know that. I ran into a bunch of those guys over in the Sandbox and the ‘Stan. I know exactly who and what ‘Special Agent Black’ is, but you were a small-town cop from New Mexico. Now I think you’re a parish priest. I mean, that’s the only thing you’ve told me about what you’re doing, but what do I know? Clearly, nothing.” Brandon’s silence again chewed on Michael, but he didn’t take the tacit invitation to explain himself. “So, after I finish my story, I need to know how you know what you know, Mikey.”
Michael ignored the challenge for the moment. “What did you tell the agent about the prints?”
“The same as what I wrote in the report. I pulled ’em off a stolen high-end mountain bike because I wanted to nab the thief for a solid felony. He didn’t buy it, but no one can prove any different. I answered your questions, so it’s your turn to answer mine.” The fear and anger intensified in Brandon’s voice and slapped Michael through the phone. “What is a Catholic priest doing with fingerprints from a spy?”
Michael shook his head. I never should have put Brandon in this position. John’s contacts in the Agency will call him about this... if they haven't already. “What do you want to hear, B?”
His friend scoffed. “Give me something, even if it's a lie so I can pretend we don’t have targets on our backs right now.” Brandon’s normal sarcasm returned. “I already miss my life from last week, you know? Back when all my phone calls, and emails, and Internet search history were all getting scraped and saved by the N-S-A, but nobody was really looking through them? You remember that, right, the good times that I didn’t realize ended a couple days ago? After that fun little meeting this morning, every federal intelligence agency is busy assigning about a dozen digital proctologists to work me over, and that’s the kind of news you can use.”
Brandon paused and exuded anxiety. “The federal government publicly acknowledges the existence of sixteen intelligence agencies. Sixteen, Mikey, and I’m now known to every one of ’em, even the ones that aren’t supposed to look at Americans. That’s why I had to get this burner phone. If I dump my cell phone, they’ll know something’s up, so I have to leave it in the truck to make sure nobody’s listening in. Probably doesn’t matter anyway, because they would have already found your phone number in my call records, and they can prove I lied to them now... Goddammit.”
Michael risked giving away intel to his friend. “They might get this cell number shut down, but they can't record it. The number you’ve had for me since I got back from Columbia is an Internet number, and the phone never connects to cell towers. It only works through Wi-Fi, and no one can ever really find the phone. They can only record it if they start with the other side of the conversation, assuming they know to target that phone and it’s using cell towers.”
“Who the hell are you, Mikey?!”
Michael chose his words carefully. “I’m still one of the good guys, Brandon, and I hope you always know that. If you don’t change your behavior and they don’t dig up anything else, you’ll be okay. Those digital proctologists will get bored in a couple weeks and move on to something new and shiny. If it’s any consolation, they’ve been reading your shit all along. Someone at N-S-A just upgraded you to a real file, and they’re hitting ‘forward-all’ to Langley.”
Michael couldn’t read his friend’s silence across the phone.
“Alright,” Brandon conceded. “We can’t undo any of this, so what the hell’s on my shoes? What am I steppin’ in?”
“It’s best I don’t tell you. I didn’t expect it would go this far, or I never would have involved you.” Michael’s shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry this happened.”
“Yeah, well, you don’t sound surprised. Don’t call me for any more favors, and don’t forget about this one. If CIA operatives are leaving fingerprints on your whiskey glasses, I can’t tell if that’s real trouble for me or a massive ‘Get Out of Jail Free’ card. I guess that depends on who you’re working for these days and what you’re really up to, eh?”
Michael’s work cell rang, and he picked it up from the top of his desk. Speak of the devil and he appears.
“Listen, I gotta go. The guy with those fingerprints might be calling.”
“If you need help, Mikey, call me, or just show up on my doorstep but please don’t need my help anymore.”
“Be safe out there, B. I’m sorry.” He ended the call on his personal phone and accepted the one from his boss. “John, what can I do for you?”
The aging spymaster scoffed, and anger filled his gruff baritone voice. “You can start by explaining yourself, shithead, and we’ll see what happens from there.”
May 14, 05:39 a.m. local / 1:39 p.m. GMT-London
Rural Training Compound, Esmeralda County, Nevada.
John held his cellphone to his ear and looked out his bedroom window. His current recruits ran disciplinary wind sprints up a steep and rugged hill just west of their clandestine training facility in the dusty Nevada desert. Two candidates crawled up a steep, rocky incline and fought to complete another hill rep. John shook his head. He hoped they would endure greater suffering in his training program than they would ever confront in the real world. Too little gas and too little quit. They hafta pick one or the other. I can push ’em to succeed or ease ’em into failure, and the shithead on the phone’s positive proof of that.
“Where do you want me to start?” his agent asked over the phone.
Even in private conversations over allegedly secure and encrypted channels, John only addressed his clandestine colleagues by their pseudonyms. All his male agents were named after the apostles, such as “Andrew” with whom he now spoke. John stepped away from the window to focus on his phone call. “How’s the aches and pains? You gonna live?”
“I’ve been worse, and I’ll get better.”
