Conrad's Honor: Bruce Highland, #11

By Alex Ryan

A tragic shooting occurs in Alexandria, Virginia, yielding three fatalities, including a United States Senator. A senior intelligence officer fears the worst - that the crime may have been organized by his own subordinate agent. Bruce Highland is quietly and discreetly pulled in to track down the rogue agent, James Malone, and sort out a tangled web of lies and deception, which traces back to a private military contractor in Afghanistan.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alex Ryan
• Release date: Dec 3, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393207320

Alex Ryan

Alex Ryan is an American author based in Northern California that has authored a series of action adventure novels in the Bruce Highland series, and the Rex Muse series. Bruce is a former US Army Infantryman, post-graduate degreed engineer, pilot, gym rat, bicyclist, and barbecue extrodinaire. He draws on personal experience in his creation of characters and plots.

Book preview

Prologue

Helmund Province, Afghanistan, 2007

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The young Special Forces staff sergeant tugged at his sparse, curling beard as the rotors of the Blackhawk churned a loud staccato overhead. It was a face clearly never intended to host a beard. The point of it was elusive. They weren’t fooling anyone; they still looked like soldiers. Maybe it was to present a more friendly appearance to the locals. Growing up a clean cut farm kid in the Midwest, smack in the corn belt, staff sergeant Elwin Yates never imagined he would trade driving a combine through rows of crops for riding in a Hawk above rows of sparsely vegetated waddies and dry river banks. Naïve in appearance, Yates was not naïve in perception and understanding. Which is why today’s mission was particularly perplexing. It was a softball exercise in contrast to his unit’s normal duty, which was to patrol their charge of townships and settlements, in an effort to show presence, and gain the trust of the locals.

This was a nation of people that, in its recorded history, had never been ruled by a governmental entity. Prior to the arrival of ISAF forces, and the formation of the ANA, security rested with family and alliance, be it the Taliban, Al Qaeda, or the various tribal warlords, which controlled their respected turfs through force, and a tense environment of conditional cooperation. The various Infantry units of the multinational ISAF forces training and equipping the Afghan National Army were hopeful for a successful exit strategy, but to Yates himself, as well as the rest of his team in the remote forward operational outpost, the verdict will not be out for some time, and frankly didn’t look that promising.

Today’s mission was not to patrol routine settlements in ground vehicle and foot transport subject to IED and ambush threats, but rather to escort their very special guest, CIA officer Malone, to a remote, classified outpost. Which was exactly why it was so perplexing. The fact of the matter is that it was Special Forces that lead point in obtaining vital information from the locals. It was they that collected the intelligence that was routinely gathered from locals, and captured Taliban, and forwarded it to the CIA for analysis and processing. Malone didn’t belong out here. Malone was an administrator. Malone only wore a set of unadorned military fatigues because it was dress protocol for anyone operating in a forward combat environment. Back in Kandahar he probably wore a suit. Or at least a designer polo shirt and dress slacks.

Exactly what kind of trap were they walking into? Or, more accurately, flying into? It was just Yates and Malone, not a complete fire team. Granted, a Special Forces operator is about as badass as they get, but, in the famous words of the movie character Harry Callahan, a man has to know his limitations. He had to assume Malone knew what he was doing. No, stop. He had to assume Malone did not know what he was doing. Malone was probably great at what he does, which was funneling top secret classified information on the enemies plans and whereabouts to the appropriate agencies and involved units, but Malone was an administrator, not a trained field operative, much less a soldier.

Objective ETA in five minutes, a voice sounded through Yates’ headset. Prepare for insertion.

Negative on a rappel insertion. You’re going to have to do a low hover if you can’t land. Yates replied.

A few minutes later the pilot replied. I see some hard ground on the north side of the compound. I think I can set down there. A short while later, the helicopter was on the ground, rotors at neutral pitch, sandstorm neutralized.

Pick me up in three hours. Malone said as he jumped off the helicopter.

Sorry sir, strict orders, Yates said. I’m coming with you.

Sorry sergeant, but my orders supersede your unit’s orders.

Yates inaudibly relayed some instruction to the helicopter pilot, stowed his headset, grabbed his M4 carbine, and hopped off the helicopter as it lifted off the ground. "No, they don’t. Sir." Yates said with a menacing voice, and a glare.

Malone shook his head. You really shouldn’t have done that. Malone fished for a packet of cigarettes, and lit one. Because, you’re spending the next three hours out here. Want to make yourself valuable? Take a position up in those rocks and watch for approaching Taliban.

In retrospect, an outside position probably was the best tactical decision, should something go south. Even if he wasn’t in a position to protect Malone, at least one could potentially make it out alive.

As Malone walked towards the compound surrounded by thick mud walls, once home to a settlement of villagers eking out an existence farming millet and raising goats, who had long since been driven out by the Taliban, he was secretly relieved that the staff sergeant was adamant about his presence. A door opened, and he walked in, past an Afghani dressed in traditional garb, bearing an AK pattern assault rifle. Come, he said, in heavily accented English. He led Malone through a maze of mud and wood buildings, to a large room. Much like the famed adobe structures of the southern southwest United States and Mexico, these mud structures had a function. Despite the blazing heat outside, the large, damp room was almost tolerable.

He approached a familiar face. A thickly bearded westerner from the United Kingdom known solely by the name ‘Aycock.’ He had thick, dark hair, dark, ruddy complexion, and he too was dressed in traditional regional garb. He could almost pass as one of them.  Almost. On the floor were a group of Afghani militants eating a meal and drinking tea, and babbling pointed insults in Pashto as they played a card game.

You seem to be at home here, Malone observed, himself a heavyset man with thick, full, dark hair but a pale complexion.

Aycock pulled out a cigarette of his own and lit it. You’re early, he said with a distinctive UK accent.

Early?

Yes, early. Aycock looked carefully at his watch. He hasn’t cracked yet.

The English speaking Afghani interrupted the conversation. The truck is here.

Very well, Aycock smiled widely. Escort them in to the room. Aycock walked into another slightly smaller room, and closed the door. At the far end of the wall was a man, bound to a chair with duct tape. He was bruised. Bleeding. Sweating. Disheveled. But, his injuries were mild. He won’t crack on his own. No, we would have to kill him before he cracks. But... we have a secret weapon. The reality of the situation was that if the Taliban leader didn’t crack, he was dead. And he knew that.

The door of the room opened, and Afghani militants escorted two boys, a girl, and a woman into the room, hands bound behind their backs with duct tape, cloth hoods over their heads. The man bound to the chair turned ashen. His mouth fell open. The two boys were sat next to their father, and their hoods were removed.

So, Aycock began. Do we start with the mother, or the daughter? The interpreter relayed the question in Pashto, adding a little bit more detail.

The man sat in silence. The boys were terrified.

It was a calculated gamble. Having your wife, and/or daughter defiled by an infidel as your sons watch was a fate far worse than death or the most severe torture they could inflict on the father. Which, by definition, made it the worst torture they could inflict on him.

Aycock held a set of keys in his hand. It was the keys to an old, run down Toyota Hi Lux pickup sitting outside. "You tell us what we want, you and your family leave. You are free to go. That’s it. And... by the way, we know if you’re lying."

The interpreter relayed the offer. The interpreter responded. He says that you are not serious.

Aycock responded by walking over to the woman, who was now bound in a chair, beside her daughter, and ripped off her cloth hood and her headdress. He started to cut the woman’s clothes open with a knife.

The man in the chair started yelling furiously in Pashto, pleading for him to stop. Finally, as the impending assault was about to begin, he uttered the magic words.

He will talk! The interpreter said.

Aycock let go of the woman and put away his knife. For the remaining thirty minutes, Aycock and the translator grilled him for details on his Taliban unit’s numbers, locations, and planned missions. He gave enough information to enable ISAF forces to snuff the unit in their entirety.

You satisfied? Aycock asked Malone, who was furiously scribbling notes.

Yeah. Makes sense. Cross-checks with what little we do know about them. Malone looked at the terrorist leader and his family. Now what?"

Untie them, Aycock directed. They untied the man in the chair first. Aycock tossed the keys to him. A short while later, they were all untied, and ushered out of the room. The sound of the Hi Lux starting up and driving away could be heard.

Ten minutes passed in awkward silence. That was stupid, Malone said. All that, and you just let them go? My god, if they get word out...

Aycock held his hand up to signal silence. He held up his watch. Malone started to speak. Aycock shushed him, staring at his watch. ... six, five, four, three, two... one... and... a faint shock of a powerful, distant explosion could be heard. I don’t think word will get out. As far as they are concerned, as far as anyone is concerned, they just hit an IED.

Malone paled but remained silent. He just wanted the whole thing to be over.

Well, mate, it looks like our company is going to have to part. We are done here. Ta ta, see you back in Kandahar.

Yeah, Malone replied heavily. He started to leave, but turned back. What would have happened if he still didn’t talk?

Oh, there would have been a very active party scene on film. Aycock grinned. And a couple of my cadre have a preference for little boys. You must let folks know that you’re serious.

Malone cringed and slowly walked away.

You know, Aycock said as he lit another cigarette, if you don’t have the stomach to do what needs to be done, then you bloody well better let us do the work, alright? You didn’t need to be here, and your man on the ground outside probably would have told you the same thing.

You don’t look too good, Yates observed, as the pair awaited the helicopter. Everything go okay?

Malone looked down at the ground. Yeah.

Is this place gonna be a regular stop of yours?

No. Malone said, without hesitation.

Chapter 1 – The rampage

Alexandria, Virginia – Modern Day

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The bustle of the morning crowd intensified as Sharon Koch alternated between tending to the espresso machine and serving freshly baked pastries from behind a glass enclosure. She welcomed the rapid pace, and she loved the small, boutique coffee house. It made her feel safe. Actually, it was the only place where she felt safe. It had been a couple days since she saw him. The man. Her stalker. Usually, the victim knows the stalker. But honestly, she didn’t have a clue. She thought it might have been Jason, but police pretty much eliminated him as a possibility, given that he had a solid, iron clad alibi in at least two of the occurrences. Plus, the dark figure didn’t really look like him. She never really got a good look at him.

But that was neither here nor there. Sam had offered to hang out at the apartment – with some strings attached. No Sam, thanks but no thanks. As fortune would have it, however, Marti decided to move her own relationship to a new level, allowing Brad to move in. Sharon wouldn’t have ordinarily been on board with having a third peg in the already crowded flat, but Brad was a physical guy, and an ex-Marine. She felt safer with Brad around.

The prior evening was a pleasant departure from the routine. The three of them had a cookout at Waterfront Park. In addition to his protective presence, Brad also offered charcoal grilling skills in the form of a portable steel hibachi, and he could cook a mean burger or steak in a pinch. It was too bad they couldn’t have been on the other side of the river – the sun setting over the Potomac is a spectacular sight. The old man with a cane hobbled up to the register. It was always the same every day. House coffee, small, and a strawberry filled croissant. It was always a strawberry filled croissant. If they didn’t have strawberry filled croissants, he would get angry. Angry customers are not pleasant. Actually, most of the customers get the same thing, to the point where you might as well start making the order once the regular sets foot in the shop.

Ah yes, the heavyset man with coarse gray hair and round, wrinkled face. He never talked much, outside of ordering his mocha. Sometimes, he’d come in on a weekday, dressed in a rather fancy looking suit. In fact, he looked as if he should be wearing a monocle, sporting a watch chain hanging from the pocket. But on weekends he had time to hang out and read the paper, and he actually wore a pair of denim overalls. Staff knew most of the regulars by name. Not him. He always paid in cash, and never stopped for idle chitchat, despite an otherwise friendly appearance.

Sharon took her turn at the register, brushing her shoulder length, pageboy style brown hair to the side as Farmer John/Monopoly Man approached the counter. She felt an uneasy gaze from a vaguely familiar presence several feet behind him. Then she turned white, and her jaw dropped.

Is everything okay, young lady? The heavyset man in overalls asked, detecting the look of fear in her eyes.

It’s you! Sharon shrieked, pointing at the dark figure with thick, jet-black hair dressed in black clothes. The man in overalls turned around.

I’ll teach you to avoid me, bitch, the man snarled, in a thick, unrecognizable accent. He pulled out an automatic pistol, and opened fire, spraying a hail of bullets at the girl behind the register. She crumpled and fell to the ground in a twisted heap. The total body count was three dead. Sharon took most of the bullets. One bullet struck and killed the man in overalls, who lay bleeding on the ground with a gunshot wound to the head. Two bullets struck and killed a thin male barista, who was working the espresso machine on the other side of the counter. A third, middle-aged Korean woman, the owner of the shop, was badly injured with a gunshot wound to the upper torso. Methodically, the gunman casually walked around the counter, aimed the pistol at Sharon Koch’s forehead, pulled the trigger, and disappeared through the rear of the shop. It was frankly unnecessary to finish her off. She was already quite dead. It was severe overkill.

It was a brazen act. There were literally a dozen witnesses. Any time such a bold, senseless act of violence occurs, it’s a big deal. It just is. SWAT teams combed the area. Helicopters circled overhead. A mobile command center unit was on site. The City crime scene unit and police detectives converged on the site.

As big of a deal as the shooting was, however, it became a bigger deal once the identity of the random customer lying in front of the register in a pool of blood became known. The City cops and crime scene unit gave way to FBI investigators. The man in overalls was a United States Senator.

It was a fairly open and shut case. There was a pattern of harassment and threats going back for nearly a month and a half. Police were called to the apartment nearly every day for a two week period. They even placed the apartment under surveillance for a couple days, but the perp was elusive. He seemed to be able to tell when the cops were out and about. And when they weren’t. Motive? Without the identity of the suspect, it was impossible to tell if the shooter had some connection to Sharon Koch. She had a history of on and off relationships, but she wasn’t really able to tie the man to anyone she knew, let alone dated. Police psychologists surmised that perhaps it was some random fatal attraction, or perhaps he was an unknown figure from her past. Based on witnesses’ descriptions, the man was in his late thirties or early forties, possibly of eastern European decent, and spoke English with an odd unrecognizable accent. He acted in a cool, methodical method, despite his apparent inability to fire a gun accurately. He also had the mental wherewithal to remove the DVR recorder, which stored the shop’s video camera streams on his way out.

What about the Senator? Terry Turk Conrad, democrat, seemingly had no personal enemies and was well liked by his cohorts. He was described as the kind of guy you could work things out with. No political enemies stood out. Sometimes, the famous and affluent get caught up as victims in random crimes out of fate and circumstance. It’s not the first time this kind of thing had occurred, and probably wouldn’t be the last.

The chief of police stepped up to the podium, as a myriad of news reporters and cameramen focused intently on his pending statement. He cleared his throat, and straightened his black clip on tie. Our investigation continues, as does our search for the killer in this senseless act of violence, which left three innocent people dead, including a prominent US senator, and a fourth person critically wounded. It just goes to show that nobody is immune from cowardly, violent acts committed with a firearm.

Excuse me chief, a reporter began. Is there any indication that the senator could have been the target?

Well, certainly, it is a question that we, and our Federal counterparts are asking, but that does not appear to be the case, so far as we can tell.

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The cell phone jolted Bruce Highland into consciousness. He sat bolt upright. Marcia Schatz. Now there is a blast from the past. Marcia Schatz was a local Sacramento attorney, whose midtown office was a mere three blocks away from Bruce’s home/office where he ran his private investigation business. Bruce answered the phone. Marcia, it’s been a while. Bruce had been her contract investigator in a homicide defense case four years earlier.

Hi Bruce, I’ll cut right to the chase. I have some work for you. Can you come by my office?

High profile case? Bruce asked.

I wish, but hardly. Actually it’s a DUI. But, the client wants to beat it and is willing to pay.

Bruce chuckled. Well, if I wasn’t bored silly between real cases right now, I’d decline. But, I’m willing to come down and talk. When do you need me?

Right now. The client is here with me.

All right. Bruce terminated the call.

Who you talk to? Svetlana Petroya asked, as she turned over in the bed.

Another woman. I have to go see her. She wants my services, Bruce replied.

Okay go. I sleep now.

Bruce Highland isn’t the kind of guy you hire for run of the mill gumshoe detective work. He specializes in high profile, high stakes cases and governmental work. He was a former Army military intelligence agent, turned private detective. With his tall, lean, sculpted appearance, and close-cropped haircut, he still retained a military appearance, and bore a type resemblance to Superman. While he left MI, he never did leave his contacts in the intelligence community. He is the guy they call when they need discreet, top level help. Svetlana Petroya is Bruce’s wife. They met on a case. Svetlana is a former Russian GRU cryptologic officer, who fled the GRU for the United States.

The Victorian style house that serves as Schatz’ office is quaint, in a peaceful wooded neighborhood. Bruce walked in the doorway and was greeted by Schatz and her client in the lobby. Hey Marcia, Bruce said as he hugged the thin, frail woman with whitish hair and thick glasses. Schatz may be meek and frail in appearance, but she is a fierce tiger in court.

Bruce, meet Victoria Lycoff. Let’s sit in my office. Bruce shook Victoria’s hand, and they went into Schatz’ massive mahogany clad office. Schatz sat down. This is basically a case that should have never ended up in court. I ended up taking over Victoria’s case after her own counsel proved incompetent, in the best case. In the worst case, she was about to sell out her client in exchange for a more favorable outcome on another case.

Okay Victoria, Bruce said. Tell me what happened.

Basically, I had lunch by myself, and decided to have a beer with my lunch. That beer turned into another, and then I stopped off at a bar, had a glass of wine, which turned in to a few more glasses, then I drove to my house in the Pocket area. As I approached my house, there was some crazy guy in some kind of construction truck, yelling I almost hit him, Victoria coughed slightly.

"But you didn’t hit him...."

"No, I didn’t hit anything. I remember that perfectly fine. Now here’s what I don’t remember: I woke up in my car. It was parked in my driveway. The cops were there. They woke me up and pulled me out of