Too Dangerous

By Geoff Geauterre

Captain Easton's last assignment, as an assessment specialist in Her Majesty’s British Intelligence Service, was a bloody nightmare. Along with the embarrassing body count, and just short of a national scandal in bringing down a military ring of deadly smugglers, his nervous superiors sent him home and only wished he didn’t make any more trouble.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Write Words Inc.
• Release date: Jun 19, 2014
• ISBN: 9781594319013

Book preview

1

Too Dangerous

by Geoff Geauterre

Published at Smashwords by Write Words, Inc.

© 2010 Geoff Geauterre. All Rights Reserved

First Electronic Edition, October, 2010

ISBN 978-1-59431-901-3

Chapter 1

If he could have applied a tourniquet, he would have. Instead, he shoved a handkerchief down inside his waistband, and hoped it would do for now. Following that, he admonished himself about no good deed goes unpunished. The sudden sharp stab of pain rippled through him with a shock, but he set it aside, glanced down, and then grimaced.

The cleaning bill, he thought sadly would be outrageous. A wave of dizziness forced his eyes closed, and he took that moment to lean against a crate and catch his breath. Medium sized from his father’s line, lean and compact, if he could have turned himself into a mouse, though, and found a hidey-hole to burrow in he would gladly have done it.

The pain arced up his back, and then across the shoulders, and finally, as if everything was connected by some nerve-laden rail line, down into his groin.

If that’s all you’re going to do, he blew shallowly, then I should be all right.

As if in answer, a warped sense of agony made itself up into a hook, and thrust into his butt. Hey, no fair. Never kick a man when he’s down…

The shotgun felt comfortable in his hands. True, he hadn’t fired one in years, but now, after killing several people with it, it had proved to be a trusted companion.

Just then, an image of Admiral Hilbert’s congenial, reassuring face swam before his eyes and he shuddered. The man had been so like his grandfather, at times it was difficult to tell them apart. Of course, in consideration of all the other events that led to this hunt for his life, the Admiral’s suicide seemed almost irrelevant.

He gazed round and had to admit that crates and steel drums wasn’t exactly a homecoming. Still, as walls to keep out bullets, they did come in handy. He knew, though, the respite would not last for long.

Of course, his first inclination had been to take cover in the warehouse, but an inner voice warned of too many entrances, too many ways to uncover his whereabouts. So instead, he chose the plant next door. Here, he could scurry about like a rat in a granary. The description of himself as a rodent was apt. He felt like a rat.

Glancing across the floor, he had a fine view of the meat locker, where he had gone looking for Lieutenant Dreeling and found him. The plant was a transfer point for most perishable items, and the meat locker held everything that needed constant refrigeration.

The warehouse dealt more with dry goods. He chuckled. Some of which was highly illegal, and quite dangerous when placed in the wrong hands. Still, it was the perfect setup for smugglers. An ocean of money came in; heavy-duty shipments under legal license went out. The steady pace must have racked in millions.

Those who endangered that pace, as in the case of Lieutenant Dreeling, became liabilities. Liabilities for this gang meant removal. A jolt of electricity stabbed into his left elbow and recalled him from his musings. He scolded his wounds and told them they would have to wait. Their clamoring for attention turned into a dizzying battle for control.

Pointedly ignoring their demands, he chose instead to focus…where he could go over the past, and see what had gone so wrong, and at what promised to be his immediate future. Now usually he liked to think his operations were dry settings. In one column was the collection of data: reporting trivialities; producing assessments; offering suggestions.

However, when matters turned serious, and he had to take a more active role, the collection of data became bloody enactments, and he was sorry for them whenever they happened. After Lieutenant Dreeling went missing, and the report he wrote; at least the one that slipped through all the attempts to stop it, raised warning flags…

He could have turned the mission down. Could have insisted some newbie handle it, but there was something in that report…something almost pleading for help… Of course, his grandfather would never approve openly, and his mother would have thought him mad, but down deep, where he always needed to prove himself to himself, that imagined plea was enough.

His head dropped back, and his wondrous ability to recall events went into play.

* * *

The first moment he knew his plans had gone awry, was when he heard about Admiral Hilbert’s suicide. The second note of disaster was in the reflection of Colonel Denton, sneaking up behind him in the dresser mirror.

Once credited as being a hand-to-hand combat instructor, his intent was clear. The taut garrote in his hands was a definite clue.

Richard threw up a hand, turned, the wire snapped taut, and then he did nothing the other would have expected. The hidden towel rod thrust up into the other’s Adam’s apple, and then a knee smashed into his groin.

The double blow was a shock. The wire dropped, the mouth opened to scream, and then Denton tried reaching for something in his jacket. It was the wrong move. Richard struck him again, and again, until the body slipped nerveless to the floor.

Hustling to the door, Richard listened a moment for sounds in the corridor. When he satisfied himself there was none, he returned to Denton and opened the other’s jacket. He found an underarm sheath with an ice pick in it. The picture of the wound behind Lieutenant Dreeling’s neck flashed before his eyes.

His search progressed to the other’s wallet. Military identification. Credit cards. Theater ticket. Pound notes. He paused to count…and gave a silent whistle. Another pocket yielded a bag of cocaine. He glanced at Colonel Denton’s body and continued with the examination. A small notebook, scribbled in code. A penknife and some change. Irritated at how little it was, he glanced at his watch. He was running out of time. He went over to the dresser, lifted it and tore away the taped package beneath. Ripping it open, he checked the Browning and the extra clip.

Then he felt a slight trickle at the back of the neck, touched it and discovered he was bleeding. Cursing, he went back to the bathroom, and then found the wire had sliced into his hand, as well.

When he emerged, his mind was racing. How much time had he left? Could he make it to the street? Could he get help? His eyes slid over to the phone, and then past it. If he even lifted the phone to call out, wherever they tapped into the line, they would know something had happened to Denton. Dressing as hurriedly as he could, he checked the room, did not think he had left anything he needed behind, and slid out the door. Moving as unhurried as he could, he made for the stairwell.

In the garage, something in the corner of his eye moved, and just as he shifted round, a silent bullet grazed him.

* * *

That, he told himself, was how everything proved that the best laid plans of rats and men were apt to go awry. He peeked around a crate, scanning for movement, and then pulled back. He still had time yet and breathed deeply, garnering his strength for what he knew would come.

* * *

He dropped and sought cover. At the next movement, he didn’t hesitate. With the sound of the 9mm firing twice, someone cried out. It was the first sign anyone had that Captain Easton was a good shot. Slugs pounded the vehicle he had taken cover behind, and that convinced him he needed more elbow room. Giving an excellent example of slithering, creeping, ducking and crawling he tried to distance himself from the hunters as much as he could.

However, it was not until the farthest car down forced him to stop and weigh alternatives. A classic, low-slung Alpha Romeo Spider offered no cover at all. He measured the gap to the drive’s outer wall and shook his head. It could not have been more than ten feet. He peeked round. It could have been a hundred for all the good it did him. Still, it was the way out to the street.

He looked over his shoulder, and then did the only thing he could do. The unexpected. He threw himself over the hood of the car, darted behind a concrete pillar, and then assumed a firing stance. One of his pursuers jumped around a car and gave chase, and then he realized his mistake, but it was too late. Richard caught him in the open and shot him at point blank range.

Then he hugged back, and shouted: I’ve got him!

As if on cue, the one stationed around the corner of the exit loped down, a wide smile over his face, but then that was all that was left of him. A bullet sheared through the belt on Richard’s right side, sending him sprawling onto a patch of oil. He clutched himself, and then lay still.

A moment more, and then a man with a shotgun in his hands appeared, a look of anticipation on his face. Never, Richard thought, underestimate a possum. A bullet through the lungs, along with the addition of a shotgun and he was racing for the exit when he was winged. Just barely making it, he dropped over the shrub lining the drive, cursed his loss of the pistol, and behind him he heard shouts as the screech of tires neared.

Expecting to catch him running for his life, they were utterly surprised when their car flew up, and Richard caught them from the side with booming reports and shotgun slugs. The windshield tore away, half the driver’s head disappeared, and the man in the passenger side, frantically firing back never had a chance.

The car crashed into a lamppost and came to an abrupt stop. Just then, a cab drove up, the driver’s eyes wide, and Richard waved for him to stop. Instead, the other stamped down on the pedal and veered past at high speed. People stared out their windows, and mindful this was a residential area; he put the shotgun down his side and hurried away.

Once he reached the corner, his intention to hail a cab changed as an army truck wheeled past, and not taking a moment more, he leaped for the tailgate and pulled himself in and out of sight.

Catching his breath, he tried to think this through. There were not just one or two people after him, but teams. He pulled out a handkerchief and tried to apply pressure where it would do the most good. He was lucky there were only flesh wounds. Still, they hurt like hell. The bandage on his hand had slid off, and then there was the shoulder blade to contend with—had that happened when he lost his pistol?—No, his head wagged. That was before.

Is there, he asked bitterly, any place I’m not shot?

No one answered him as the truck bounced and picked up speed. He was just relieved to get out of the line of fire. He was tired and he could have used some rest. He took whatever time he had, and was about to pull himself forward to bang on the back of the cab, when his eyes closed.

It could not have been more than five minutes, though, when he opened them, and then the truck slowed and Richard called out, but it picked up speed. Did the driver hear him? Should he shout louder? Then the flap at the back parted and he caught a glimpse of the guard waving them through the checkpoint at the rear of the base. This was when he realized what happened. Teams had come after him. Teams, not individuals. This truck…he looked blearily around…was their transport.

Son of a bitch.

Abruptly the truck stopped, Richard heard the driver getting out, and then there was nothing. Fearing the worst, he peeked out and could have groaned. Right back where he had started. The dock, the warehouse, the plant, and the boats.

He clambered out, limped to the cab, and found the driver had gone. The keys had gone, as well.

His options were few. It was late afternoon on a Saturday, and the docks looked deserted. There was also no alternative means of escape in sight. He was on his own, as he ever was.

Just when you think you’re clear… Shrugging, he staggered towards the warehouse, and then reconsidering, changed direction.

* * *

He checked the police issue shotgun and found only four rounds left. Certainly not enough to hold off an army. Glancing up at the skylight, he judged how long he had before sunset. An hour, maybe an hour and a half. Then he recalled the fuse box and galvanized himself into action. A quarter of an hour later, he heard people outside. Then he heard the side door forced. Glass broke and he could imagine them clambering inside like a bunch of ravenous caterpillars. He smiled grimly. Only other way in were the garage doors, and he had sabotaged the locks. They’d need explosives or heavy tools to cut their way in there. More voices joined.

His leg ached, and he remembered the moment it started to buckle under him. Another flesh wound. More cleaning bills. Aside of that, of course, he was also leaving a trail of blood a blind man could have followed. The sound of a footstep behind him was the only warning he had. He pivoted just as the point of a knife rammed into the shotgun, and the man opened his mouth to shout. The butt of the gun reversed and drove into the base of the nose, sending shards of bone into the other’s brain.

Richard stared down at the twitching body, and then he realized it was Sergeant McBride. He tore off the other’s leather jacket and put it on. He took the other’s .45 along with a spare clip. Then he came across a cell phone and could have wept with relief. Five minutes of scurrying, and in a more secure hiding place, he made his call. It didn’t get through. He tried again, and again he couldn’t get through. He glanced down at it and cursed. Low on power.

Determinedly, he tried again, and when he least expected it his call got through to an answering machine. Keeping his temper down and his voice steady, he gave particulars, repeated them, and then the phone gave up the ghost. In the distance, he could hear his pursuers closing in. He could tell they hadn’t found McBride yet. He wished it would get dark soon. Then they did find the sergeant’s body and grinned. It must have been infuriating, he told himself sympathetically, how Easton kept getting out of it, but there it was. The man just didn’t know when to throw in the towel—!

A bullet plowed across his chest and he fell back.

Got you!

From his upside down position he fired back, and the crouching form over the crate folded; the look on the other’s face one of shock.

Happy now?

He tore open his shirt, twisted the cloth into a rough compress, and zipped up the jacket, hoping it would hold together. Then he had a conversation with his pain, told it what it had to do, and jumped to his feet firing at the two who were sneaking up on him. One clutched his throat, the other his leg, and Richard forced his body into scuttling across the floor, and then standing and walking naturally, as if he belonged there. When he made it to a section that was a wall of crates, he merged into shadows and waited for darkness.

For two hours he played this grim game of hide and seek, and made it bloody for those who took him for granted. He used every trick he knew, and some that were not in the manual, but his course was limited. Keep moving, keep picking up weapons wherever he could, keep out of sight, keep outmaneuvering the enemy…

Then he realized the light was getting dimmer, and he chuckled evilly. Now the games would become a little bloodier. . . .

I can’t believe it. The son of a bitch is like a ghost.

Give it time. He’ll show himself. Every area is covered now.

Are you sure?

Yeah.

Hey, who said that?

Richard shot them both in the head, and as shouts came closer, he slipped back out of sight, and looked for more opportunities. Then he found himself trapped between two search parties, and shrugging at his options, he slipped beneath a tarp, wrapped the end snug underneath him and lay still.

Eventually, he knew, they would catch on at the way he was suckering them, and begin untying everything. A voice shouted that he had had enough of this and was going to turn on the lights.

Don’t do that, you fool! We’ll attract too much attention!

Almost picturing Admiral Hilbert’s assistant, with eyes the color of cobalt blue, Richard nodded with thought and appreciation. It was nice to know his instincts were working. Something about that woman always made him uneasy. Now finding her directing those who hunted him was almost pleasing.

Then again, he wondered at Hilbert’s suicide. Was it suicide, or the closing of someone’s mouth? Did others think he was becoming a liability?

Her voice came again. Get some flashlights from the office or the truck. They’ll be either in file cabinets or glove compartments. Move!

Richard could have laughed. Here he’d gone to the trouble of pulling the fuses, and now they thought it would be a bad move to turn on the lights.

Then his amusement evaporated as someone called out they found some.

I want everyone to start from the front again. He may have double-backed…

Voices muttered, and then retreated. Richard needed to stretch. He couldn’t maintain his position any longer. Slowly, he unbent and rolled out from under the tarp, as each sinew and tendon vowed revenge.

Feeling sorry for himself, he silently asked how long had it been since someone—anyone—had a kind word for him. How long had it been since he got a wave of welcome? Was it only yesterday? No, yesterday he saw doubt in other’s eyes. Doubt and suspicion. Was it the result of all his questions? He shook his head. No, they were used to that.

Did someone derive a conclusion from the tangled weave he’d crafted? Was the wrong question asked of the right person at the wrong time and place? No matter how well you planned an operation, there was always that chance of happening. Sweat ran down the middle of his back, and he lifted his head and peered round.

Did someone break? Sometimes, if you kept punching the right button, a shaken conscience can fall apart. He recalled such a moment, when the look in Admiral Hilbert’s eyes faltered. Did the old man hear a certain whisper? He had looked in Richard’s direction at the club, and as he pored over his laptop full of reports and surveys…out of the corner of his eye, did he imagine a touch of sadness stealing over the other’s face?

What did the Admiral learn? He didn’t know. He wished he had. He might have been able to head it off. Still, the way he had set things in motion made it very difficult just to stop.

What did people do in their off time? Where did people go? What sort of recreation did they seek? How could they pay for it, and then there was the kicker. What were their private vices? He embarrassingly admitted to watching Nova on the learning channel, which elicited the expectant snickers.

He entertained them, he annoyed them, and even though at times he put them on edge, they understood he was just doing his job. However, the day before that something was different. He could sense it, and just on the off chance, he reported to the Admiral that his conclusions revealed low morale.

As usual, the Admiral heard him out, but this time his smile seemed fixed. He said he’d speak to the morale officer about lowering workloads…but as he spoke, Richard noted the other’s reluctance to make eye contact. This brought to mind his conversation a week before, when he spoke of the ever-dependable Sergeant Anschultz.

The Admiral had looked up sharply. Ah, Anschultz, good man.

Of course he is, said Richard. A good man, of course. Now what does he do in his off hours? He’s a hard one to track.

Why are you interested in him?

He’s considered to be very important in the supply corps.

Of course he is. He does practically everything anyone wants of him.

That’s the problem. He seems to do everything that at times I don’t know what the man does. How can I gauge his measure unless I know what his specific job is?

The other’s sharp look dampened. Yes, yes, that’s always the way of it. A man becomes so important he takes on the tasks of others.

But I can’t pin any one of those tasks down.

You spoke to him?

At the club, and that’s something else. I found he’s often at the officer’s club, and he should be with the enlisted.

Hmm. Well we’re all on agreeable terms here. I wouldn’t be hard on anyone for that. What did he say?

Nothing. Everything. I found him to be obtuse.

He does what is expected of him.

He has an office he never seems to occupy.

Busy man. Lots of responsibilities go with his obligations.

I think he’s only motivated by money.

Why do you say that?

I’ve heard others mention it.

Well, we are taking cutbacks. It’s understandable, after all.

I find it suspicious.

Hilbert looked at him curiously. That’s odd. Why would you think someone to be suspicious when they’re concerned about their pay packet?

Normally I wouldn’t be, but there have been whispers that he earned more than was in his pay packet.

Who did you hear this from?

Just rumors.

Hilbert’s look hardened. Leave Anschultz alone, Captain. He does his job, and no one could expect more.

I told him he was never where I thought I could find him, and he said he was at the gym, or the playing field, or helping load up materiel at the docks.

Well?

He’s never at any of those places.

He’s Colonel Denton’s man, after all. Perhaps you should speak to him about it.

That’s another thing. Colonel Denton…

In one part of his mind, Easton cautioned himself not to push it too far, but in another, he was fascinated with the inroads he was making.

The picture he painted was that too many people seemed to be doing things outside their job descriptions. In addition, he wondered how that sort of thing could be allowed? It was then he thought he saw a nerve struck.

In Dreeling’s last report, he had read where the Lieutenant made the same argument, only he tied in Wickham, Denton and Anschultz together.

The effort to redirect his attention away from the airfield, the docks, the hangars, the plants, the warehouses or the storage units failed. He proved to be stubborn in his never-ending tasks to underscore waste and make every area more efficient. In short, he was a bulldog worrying at a bone.

Richard knew that applying this sort of technique was putting people to a slow torture, but contrarily he wanted to see someone break. Thus, in an almost supercilious manner, he put people under a microscope and examined them as if they were specimens.

As Captain Easton, the Admiralty Staff’s efficiency expert, he drew correlations between time spent and effort applied. He openly pursued the notion that everything and everyone could be more efficient if they tried hard enough. He tried so hard proving his point; he was slowly driving people nuts, which was his intention.

Dreeling was a product of Supply, with not much say in authority, but Easton was Admiralty. Easton couldn’t just disappear like the other. They had to be more careful with Easton.

Therefore, Richard was just as careful not to change his pattern of behavior, and continued to employ the image of a man who found the job more fascinating than the facts he derived from it. Still, somewhere a fatal mistake had been made, and someone drew a deadly conclusion.

* * *

He could see beams of light crisscrossing one another. His hunters were being thorough this time. A beam of light speared over his position, and he caught sight of a partially opened crate full of toilets. It shouldn’t have been here in the plant, he told himself, the efficiency expert dutifully identifying a problem; it should have been in the warehouse.

A ball of twine atop another crate drew his attention to a possibility, and it took him just a few minutes to arrange it. When done, he crawled about a hundred feet, heard something brushing by, and automatically changed direction. Then he slipped on a pipe and froze. That was it. He could feel them closing in. He put his back to a drum, crossed his legs, and prepared for the worst.

The sudden crash from where he’d come sounded like a box of fireworks going off. In the shocked silence, he felt like a mischievous gremlin. Then there were shouts followed by running footsteps and searching flashlights.

They went by him and honed straight to the crate of toilets and, and another trip wire was snagged, only this one was rigged to one of his guns.

In the ensuing battle with a ghost, shots went off in every direction, and then he heard someone shout and another scream.

Richard slipped away into a different pool of inky darkness, turned into a monkey, and hoped everyone would kill each other off. When the commotion stopped, he realized his good fortune. The way they moved now told him he was trapped, or rather would have been trapped, had he not climbed atop a dozen crates of canned goods.

It was easy to make out Alice Farber’s screams, as she scolded that if they weren’t more careful the ‘bastard’ could get everyone running around in circles. This time she ordered teams of three, and they would keep abreast of one another as they checked each area. This way each section would be cleared before they moved on…

Richard saw that his spot in the make-do balcony wouldn’t be safe for long.

Further, she declared, they would stay in sight of one another, and if there was a slipup this time, she would personally shoot whoever caused it.

Easton was under no illusions. He had climbed because he was bleeding too badly now, and with everyone congregating the way they were, even in the dark, they could stumble across his blood trail.

* * *

Off base, the search for Lieutenant Dreeling became a white-hot issue. MI5, unaware of a covert operative in the field, blundered around in their questioning, and gave the ridiculous notion that they considered Dreeling to be a mastermind in control of a large smuggling ring. Had Easton known of this earlier on he would have intervened through channels, but as he didn’t, he just went on doing what he was doing, unaware that his painstaking plans were being undone.

His careful manipulations to create just the right psychological climate to give it all up started to come apart.

* * *

Someone shouted that they’d found fresh blood. From behind a crate of horseradish, he moved as quickly as possible, which was no faster than a stagger. The Indians were circling the wagons. Then in a corner, where all the tools and scrap metal was, he banged his hip against the edge of a worktable and almost passed out.

Richard knew this was the end. He couldn’t go on any longer. There was no other place to run to or hide in. Still, he reasoned dully, if he couldn’t run, or hide…what if he remained in the open. He dipped his hands in a bucket of grease, applied it to any visible portion of skin, and then crept atop a pile of rubbish and froze.

* * *

The problem with Lieutenant Dreeling was that he loved his job more than his wife. This caused her to suspect everything he did, especially when he was out of her sight. It wasn’t more than several hours after he disappeared that Mrs. Dreeling rang alarm bells. It took the group completely by surprise. They reasoned they had several days. They didn’t know Mrs. Dreeling as well as they should have.

Military police arrived at Dreeling’s workstation. They asked questions. They received unsatisfactory answers. They spoke to Dreeling’s co-workers, and it was even more puzzling. Finally, they showed up at Hilbert’s office, but found no help there either.

The frustrating moment forced them to start from square one again. They questioned Mrs. Dreeling, and at its conclusion, they advised her to seek out a solicitor. It appeared that Lieutenant Dreeling might have abandoned her for another woman. In a fury, she followed the suggestion up, contacted an attorney and began proceedings for a divorce.

Still, even as that was transpiring, every place that Dreeling frequented was searched, and that was why Lieutenant Dreeling couldn’t be disposed of properly and had to be hidden in a meat locker dressed up as a side of beef.

Soon after that, Captain Easton arrived to make his copious notes, work on his charts, and insinuate himself into the folds of the base’s military cliques.

* * *

All his wounds seemed to congress and greeted one another in total commiseration. The fact they weren’t attended to was due to sheer callousness. The combined attitude disregarded the fact he was lying atop a heap of pointy, stabbing, irritating scrap metal—some of which had punctured the skin!

At that moment, he had to take a piss and held it. If he moved now he’d give himself away. Then blood seeped into his right shoe, and he wished he’d never heard of Lieutenant Dreeling.

* * *

At his meticulous approach to facts and compiled data, he was able to piece together everyone’s movement for the past three weeks. That’s how he located the whereabouts of Lieutenant Dreeling. He was last seen speaking to a cargo pilot on the wharf, right in front of the plant. From that moment on…the Lieutenant was nowhere to be found.

Something the other had said, or did, triggered his death. Where, though, would they have put the body? Where would he have been safe until disposed of properly? Where, where someone who was not part of the business wouldn’t stumble over him? The police were looking for a man who disappeared absent without leave. They were not searching for a corpse. Captain Easton knew otherwise. It was timing, it was convenience and it was necessity. That’s how he found Lieutenant Dreeling.

Of course, he couldn’t figure out who did it, at least not until he found the ice pick on Denton. He had thought it was Lieutenant Sorrel, a hated martinet, or the ever-dependable Sergeant Anschultz. Sergeant Anschultz, a borderline psychotic who took pleasure in throttling Argentine prisoners.

Yet out of the entire bunch, Alice Farber was the puzzle. Alice Farber who fit no pattern. Every time he had looked in her direction, he saw an uninspired character with no appealing sides to her at all. The personnel files rated her as a doe-eyed slug. Now he knew the sluggard housed a sharp, defining mind.

So who was the real puppeteer? Hilbert, who made too many wrong turns in his career? He wished he could have seen Farber’s face when she got word Denton was dead, and the attempt to kill him in the garage failed, as well.

They had to kill him; there was no other way around it. His mouth had to be shut, and everything he put on paper had to be interpreted as the ravings of an incompetent lunatic. The bag of cocaine they would have planted on his body would have been a big help.

It would have given the impression that he’d been shot by disgruntled drug partners. Of course, he thought the whole business of covering up like this would have been silly, but in a pinch it would have offered—as unlikely as it was—a questioning depiction of just who Captain Easton really was.

Then, perhaps, had they been given enough time, he too might have disappeared like the good Lieutenant Dreeling.

Whatever alternatives were there now? Burning the plant and the warehouse came to mind. Doing that would rid them of so much. He hoped that idea might be allayed awhile.

Then McBride’s face swam into view. The amiable McBride, whose access to the east and the continent could explain much about the procurement of narcotics.

A wave of dizziness coursed through Richard. What had Hilbert thought when he took his own life? Then again, did he take his own life…or was it taken from him? Still, what were his last impressions? Defeat? Wonder? Resignation? The old man looked so much like his grandfather…

He asked himself what all those people out there thought. He thought he knew, but he couldn’t put himself in their shoes no matter how hard he tried. He could tell one thing, though. They were desperate.

A piece of metal dug into his wounded shoulder blade and he stilled himself from making any movement.

Who were these people, who so wanted to murder him? He went down a mental list. Dock workers? Truck drivers? A jolly tugboat captain who smoked a black knurled pipe with a Meerschaum bowl. He had met many of them. Pleasant, cordial people, who had families, bills to pay, children. In other words, half the people on the base?

Had it not been for Dreeling none of this would have happened. He cursed Dreeling. The man was too perfect. He deserved to die. How did he stumble across them, though? Well, first off, there were the crates, and the goods in them. Weights were never what they should have been. Sometimes by hundreds of pounds. That was what alerted him to the possibility of promotion. In his perfection-oriented mind, it wasn’t criminal activity he’d come across. It was slothfulness, and neglect and stupidity. He sent in his report, hoped for a reply, and when none was forthcoming, he sent more. In the name of efficiency, he had assigned himself the role of a spy.

However, in the service there were a number of like-minded idiots, who felt they were doing what was necessary…

He licked dry lips. Of course, there was waste. When had there never been waste? Dreeling, though, thought it a crime. Dreeling reported it, never realizing that the way he reported it could have been interpreted so differently.

Then Dreeling disappeared, and the window of opportunity closed, and Captain Easton showed up, playing the role Dreeling had in mind for himself.

* * *

A beam of light passed over him as he caught the shadow of someone atop a crate, moving the flashlight around. Is he trying to get me to shoot him? Come back tomorrow. Then he heard someone call out that the fuses had been removed and they couldn’t turn on the lights. Richard silently chuckled.

* * *

From what he understood of it, their plan was simple enough. Ship what was bought, or stored, and if an audit revealed any discrepancies, who was to say what mishandling there might have been? An excellent example of that would be the Americans who lost over eight billion dollars in Iraq. That was what he had come to realize almost too late. The operation was bigger than he imagined. He’d hoped to turn Hilbert. Hoped the entire operation could be handled adroitly. Painlessly. Bloodlessly. Without a mind-numbing British scandal, but it wasn’t meant to be.

Denton was security. Sergeants Wickham and McBride were transport. Wickham had been killed in an accident in Italy. That left McBride to run the section. Of course, Richard wasn’t certain what that meant, but eventually he came to understand just how smooth-running the operation was.

Then there was Anschultz. Anschultz who was everywhere. He figured out Anschultz was the fixer.

* * *

He closed his eyes, his body demanding rest, but there was no rest now. There was only discipline and survival. He thought of