Contingencies, page 10
“He was fucking disturbed,” Reilly grumbled. “These documents are like a psychopath’s souvenirs. There’s one on the third drive that spewed an insane manifesto filled hatred and vitriol for this country and her keepers. I’d rather Dani not read any of it but maybe it’ll answer some of her questions and help her understand that she’s not to blame.”
“Deciphering O’Donnell’s code is going to be the bigger challenge,” Dmitri said. “Each subject, or victim as I see it, has been given an identifier with no pattern. A separate number is noted on what looks like each completed job but I can’t find any cross-reference.”
Reilly concentrated on mission plans, dates, and names. Many of the dead were his fellow soldiers and reading each entry tore through him like the jagged edge of his field knife. “This just gets worse. Brock Green and Matt Gallagher were seasoned Special Forces operators. They died under my command.”
“And your career with them.”
Reilly turned another page. Their deaths had been the Army’s reason for his dismissal and his for finally believing what Daniel Tyler had been trying to tell him. That mission was the first he had discussed with Dani’s father but the accident took him before they could forge an alliance to bring down O’Donnell. This fight had always been about them. He couldn’t dwell on those memories now. He pushed the papers to the side and picked up another stack.
“This is sick,” Reilly said. “Details are entered like statistics on a roster. Work habits, marital status, family members and travel itineraries are here along with official Agency missions.” He flipped through interspersed pictures, not just professional, but personal.
“Militarily, these are superb,” Dmitri commented. “The planning, the players, the execution, all recorded down to the smallest detail but none of it directly traceable back to O’Donnell. No wonder you couldn’t convince anyone at your hearing.”
Reilly carefully reviewed the information labeled year four, looking specifically for the mission that changed his life. Black Ops had no records until now. He found Daniel Tyler’s name buried within the pages along with his own and the members of his team. It drove a hot spear into his very being. Hank’s life had ended that night along with Trent Mariner’s, or so the world had been led to believe. He pushed down the scorching burn to get through the file. “If I had believed Tyler’s warning –”
Dmitri gave him a look that said not to go there.
Notes from Dani’s parent’s accident were included along with copies of the police report and pictures of two crushed and bloodied bodies. Only a man with a severely diseased mind would have added them. Knowing that Dani could have been with them, and how she had been destroyed by their death, tightened the knot in Reilly’s chest. The beautiful woman sitting across from him would have been no one’s memory. She would be his now.
He had honestly intended to do so, but Reilly couldn’t keep his promise. He prayed he wouldn’t need to break it again. He handed the entire output to Dmitri. “Put this in your desk.”
Dmitri quickly eyed the papers before doing so. In her distress, Dani would never miss the information.
Reilly resumed his review as if the pages were soldiers waiting to be addressed before battle. It was a battle of good and evil he supposed. It was his job to protect the good and fight the evil until he could fight no more and he was aptly fueled by relentless determination that simmered on a steady boil. He swapped another folder with Dmitri.
“I am amazed at how easy it had been for O’Donnell to hide it all,” Dmitri said.
“He was right about one thing,” Reilly admitted. “Under the guise of national security, questions weren’t asked, investigations were halted, and laws skirted making it so much easier for him to play his wicked game. We both know that for the right price, payments can be circumvented from one account to another or easily laundered through foreign exchanges where officers habitually look the other way. I’m sure threats were made so that if anyone decided to look too deep or file a report, it would be their last act.”
Dmitri grunted his agreement. “All in the interest of keeping America strong and safe.”
“If you were someone useful. If not, lies could be provided to your superiors, evidence withheld, or casually leaked to the press. I learned too late that evil doesn’t only come from outside the country’s borders.”
“Corruption has no moral or physical boundaries and no political affiliation,” Dmitri offered. “Greed is plain and simple.”
Reilly puffed his aggravation. “Yeah, the truth is what’s complicated and pliable enough to fit all the shades that fall between light and dark.”
“And no one was better than O’Donnell.”
Reilly nodded. Admittedly, he understood some of it. It was what he was trained for and why he was so good. Every country had clandestine groups working quietly with and against each other but O’Donnell crossed the line when his personal agenda became his only objective.
“According to Dani’s father,” Reilly stewed, “O’Donnell’s goal was the money and the endless power that comes with it but, after looking at all this, it’s more than that. I wanted him to answer for their deaths but he’s got something big in play that he said I can’t stop.”
“But how big could it be? Are there not checks and balances?”
“You would think. You’ve got to remember, Dmitri, with no oversight and no official budget, the CIA answers to no one. Plausible deniability is an open-ended check. With trillions of taxpayer dollars and a constantly replenished arsenal at Charlie’s disposal, he had free reign and the world strategically positioned at his fingertips.”
Dmitri rubbed his face. “He could contract agents and field operatives to work above or below board, in the interest of any national, or in this case personal, agenda.”
“And move them all around like a champion chess player,” Reilly added.
“But who would do business with him at that level? Most of the names I recognize are small players.”
“The cartels have the resources and are a dime a dozen. There’s always someone posturing, trying to be kingpin, in every corner of the world. O’Donnell would have his choice of dirt bags to play against each other. Whisper in the ear of one with what another was doing, thereby positioning himself to always come out on top.”
“Security works the same way,” Dmitri said. “Pay one group to attack and create a diversion, while you eliminate your road blocks. Or, pay another group not to attack only to discover that they have been made a more generous offer by someone else to attack the same group, or camp, or convoy. It is madness, even before you consider the real arms dealers.”
Reilly pressed his mouth. His jaw twitched when he clenched his teeth.
“There’s only one big enough who would work with O’Donnell,” Dmitri said.
Reilly hadn’t thought about Andrea Williams since being recalled by Director McNeal. It was her bed he left to start this journey. Embedded in Seamus Finnegan’s organization, she had her own job within the CIA to bring down the former IRA member and freelance arms dealer.
“Do you think she is still with him?” Dmitri asked.
“I don’t know,” Reilly replied without emotion. At the time, he thought they had something but the timing, like everything else in his life, had been off and he wasn’t part of her plans. It didn’t matter now. He hadn’t heard from her in four years. “It was her mission, not mine. I’m sure her handler knows but McNeal can’t ask without tipping his hand. As big as this is, we have to figure out what’s in play before we go poking around.”
They sat in silence for quite some time before Reilly poured himself a drink and walked to the window to decompress. He silently honored his friends, all heroes in his playbook. The squeeze of Dmitri’s hand on his shoulder brought him back from his thoughts and he softened his furrowed brow when Dmitri sympathetically glanced toward Dani who mindlessly stared at the papers before her.
“This will be hard for all of us,” Dmitri said.
“But worse for her,” Reilly said. “She should’ve stayed home.”
Chapter 13
Mariner put the key in the lock on the apartment’s thick metal door. He had lost count of the horrific places he had called home and although it was one room, it had a door with a deadbolt and hot water. Small amenities with enormous meaning. Best of all, it was in a building off the beaten path that had all but been forgotten by the civilized world. Still, he lapped the building each day before entering.
He placed a sack filled with a baguette, wedge of cheese and bottle of bourbon on the round wooden table before going over to the window. He was like a caged animal with it closed. The neighborhood made it so that it had to be locked every morning and each evening he hoped the glass wouldn’t break when he forced it back open. The layers of paint had to date back to the last World War.
He held a match to the end of a filterless Gauloises and with a long drag allowed the cigarette’s nicotine goodness to fill his lungs before blowing it out into the alley below. It was empty except for the half-dozen stray cats who called an overflowing dumpster their home. The pungent smell of rotting food, piss, and stale filth wafted up to his third floor flat. He flicked the butt into the alley when he was done.
From the small freezer, he pulled an ice cube from a warped plastic tray and dropped it in an orphaned glass he had found in the cabinet. He placed it on the table before moving toward the sofa and retrieving a brown folder from its lining. The old school tactic was not his first choice but it was effective. The worn linoleum floor meant no loose boards and the only other piece of furniture was a bed, limiting the choice of hiding places. His rifle found a home between the end cabinet and refrigerator; his Glock .45, behind the toilet. He carried a Springfield XD-S 9mm in his ankle holster all day. He placed the folder on the worn tabletop beside his dinner then sat and poured the bourbon. He ripped off a chunk of bread before opening the file.
Inside were pictures and biographies of all ten targets. Each night he studied two until memorized. Tonight belonged to targets nine and ten. He’d start the cycle again when he was finished.
He cut a wedge from the cheese with his knife and chuckled. The density of O’Donnell’s web was impressive. There was always another strand, connecting a new row to a previous layer, with no beginning or end in sight. He raised his glass in tribute before throwing back the bourbon in one gulp.
The plan was brilliant. O’Donnell was the king of kings at finding the weak spot. It didn’t matter if you were a man, a woman, or a country. There was always something to exploit no matter how minute. Target number nine was simply another bump in the road on the way to O’Donnell’s real destination to be the biggest arms dealer in the world.
Mariner savored the flavor of the strong white cheese then chased it with a bite of bread and another shot of bourbon before beginning his dissection. This last mission would be a new beginning. With open options, he just needed a place to start. A new home to perform and perfect his street art, like the Parisians he passed every day. Except his medium was not like theirs. His mode of expression was a rifle, not a brush, or costume, or makeup. He loved only one color, red, although the shiny color of brass was a close second. Both meant a successful showing.
He laughed again. He had no desire to starve for it either. This was much more lucrative and there were no critics. Even those who had come close to ruining everything, like Adrian Reilly, could never deter him. Mariner threw back another shot. He was dead now, like the other nonbeliever, O’Donnell. No need to dwell.
But dwelling immediately became fixation as his thoughts began to roam. He was going to be left behind again, that much was certain. He lit another cigarette and took a long, deep drag. Ash fell to the floor. He should have seen it earlier.
This mission had been unconventional from the start. The setup. The method. The mode of execution. O’Donnell had even gotten himself an invitation to the main event. It would have been the perfect cover. A front row seat if he had lived to see it. But even dead, the excuses, the delays and the last minute change in plans continued to matter. Coincidentally, they had all started as Adrian Reilly got closer.
He poured more bourbon. With the execution drawing near, Mariner’s fixation on the past came easier and with it, obsession. Over and over he considered the infinite alternate endings which all seemed to circle back to that phone call and O’Donnell’s plan to meet Reilly. Elimination wasn’t the only card on the table. O’Donnell could have easily pulled Reilly out of the shadows with the deaths of Anderson and Morgan and some twisted promise of the truth. Mariner had no doubt that if O’Donnell had given his ultimate performance, Reilly would have had no problem coming after his old sniper. Reilly’s loyalty to his country was his only weakness. Well, that and any gorgeous woman who happened to cross his path. Like the one who drowned with him.
Mariner snorted and poured another drink. He had been promised loyalty from the beginning, too. He had to own that mistake because he had forgotten the only truth he’d ever known: trust no one.
He crushed the butt and refocused on the job. With the deaths of these men and women, he could set himself up for life, if he could contract himself out to the right people.
He held up the photo and smiled. Target number nine might just be that person.
Chapter 14
Reilly lay on his back in bed stewing about the day. If he had not already been dead, Charlie O’Donnell would surely have been hung or maybe shot by firing squad. He wished they still did that. Being at the Homestead brought back memories of old westerns and World War I movies with the Russian Red Army engaged in full battle. He could picture providing the kill shot and Charlie’s brains splattering on the concrete wall behind him. He would personally secure the rope and happily pull the lever so O’Donnell could hang by his thick, fat neck.
He rubbed his face and growled. He knew not to fight when sleep wouldn’t come. He threw on a pair of sweats over his boxers and quietly padded to the kitchen shirtless and barefoot for a beer and something to eat. The large home was eerily quiet but Reilly grew wary as he approached the kitchen. The glow from the large stainless steel refrigerator against the far wall cast its bright light against the darkness of the hall.
Dani jumped as he crossed the threshold. “God, you scared me,” she said with her hand over her heart. The other shook slightly as she held the refrigerator’s door handle and came down from her tiptoes. “Can you be any quieter?”
“Sorry, it’s inbred,” he said, immediately regretting not putting on a shirt. “Hungry?”
Dani shrugged. Dressed in white denim shorts and black tank top, Reilly couldn’t help but notice her slight but shapely figure. He shook his head as she rose again on black painted toes to reach for something in the back of the industrial sized metal box. Her legs were lean and muscular from thigh to calf. She had mentioned she liked to run and her legs definitely showed it. She looked up at him with doe eyes and half smiled as he easily reached the container of yogurt on the top shelf.
“Show off,” she said. “Thanks.”
“Anytime,” he said ignoring the slight flip in his chest at the brush of her fingertips. He watched her every graceful move as she headed towards the long kitchen table. The gentle swing of her hips and the way she curled her leg beneath her thigh knotted his thoughts. He stood at the refrigerator unable to make a decision. What he wanted was not on the shelves. Maybe it was pity or guilt but either way it was undeniable. Hopelessly undecided about his feelings and food choices, he grabbed a beer.
Dani watched Reilly in the light. She couldn’t tell him about the misty remnants of her nightmare, the first since Charlie had died. She had been running through the woods faster than humanly possible. Branches whipped past with monstrous sounds and she couldn’t breathe. At least this time she woke up before the screaming started. He’d think she was crazy, then pitifully stare at her with those deep blue eyes.
She shoved a spoonful of yogurt in her mouth to cool off. She was a mess. Charlie had ruined her life. It didn’t even feel like one now. She had been like a puppet in some fantasy world he alone had created where his hidden hand had pulled all her strings and controlled her every movement. It was more nightmare than fantasy. As Reilly walked toward her, she thought with that body and those blue eyes, he was definitely a much better fantasy.
While the nickname Moose fit his size, he wasn’t massively muscular like those guys who spent endless hours in the gym. His arms and hairless chest were impressively cut and she always had a weakness for that v-shape from a man’s shoulders to his waist. Starting with the bold, rounded collarbone that sat atop his firm pectorals, she followed the outer edge of the muscles around his ribcage around to his flat abs and then further down to where his sweats hung low on that amazing groove of muscle that carved out his hipbones. He was definitely in top form and the dark tattoo wrapped around his left shoulder and bicep just added more heat to a fire she did not want flamed.
It’s been a while but come on girl. You are so not his type.
She dug out the last of the yogurt from a container that she couldn’t reach and sulked. She was ridiculously small and inferior just like Viktor said. Reilly saw it at the lake and again when Viktor effortlessly grabbed her on the path and on the porch. All that long forgotten self-doubt came rushing back to overwhelm her like the crashing tide. Pitiful wasn’t a strong enough word.
The day’s revelations and lies had created a black hole in her core and she asked herself again why she was here. She wished she had followed her instincts and stayed home, screw the consequences or any promises that she had made. Dmitri would have gotten over it. A soft voice inside her head said to suck it up. Your word is all you ever truly have.
