The Devil's Kiss: A Novel

By Jack Wilson

Cortland Jamison, a member of CIAs elite ZODIAC strike team, is charged with highest priority missions in Afghanistan, Zaire, post-Perestroika Russia, Colombia and the US. In addition to fighting against the Soviets, Jamison rescues a deep cover CIA agent and his family from renegade soldiers in Zaire; confronts a brutal Russian mafioso outside Moscow; and finally matches wits with a powerful Colombian drug lord and his murderous bodyguard. The story includes at its core the US Presidents wife and his closest advisor. A significant role is also played by four Missouri brothers who use blackmail and muscle to become major political power brokers and partners with the Colombian cartel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 7, 2008
• ISBN: 9781465328663

Jack Wilson

My name is Jack Wilson, and I am a crime novel author who is semi-retired and writing fiction full time. I have lived in Portland, Oregon since 2005. I am hoping to connect with people who enjoy reading crime and thriller novels. I am currently launching this Four-E-Book series on Smashwords. All four books highlight a strong male protagonist named Brett Murphy. He is the ultimate rogue cop, and he will do anything to solve a crime. Murphy is the head of The Fusion Group, a top-secret private police force. They are small but lethal, with only nine members. They face daunting odds whenever they track down crime syndicates. They break more laws than the criminals they pursue, but even that may not be enough to destroy the gangs.My books in order are Hidden Avengers, Tempest, Gang Wars and Emerald Empire. These books take place in Portland, San Jose, Las Vegas, Sacramento, and Seattle. Hidden Avengers will be available for free during the book launch. I invite you to download the book, and if you like it, I would appreciate your review. And be sure to share this with your friends. If you desire more information about my books, please feel free to contact me. In addition to being an author, I am a very prolific reader. Over a two-year period, I read one hundred books. I have styled my books after my favorite authors. My author list includes Lee Child, David Baldacci, Michael Connelly, James Patterson, Vince Flynn, and Dick Francis. Although my books can be dark and dangerous, they have a happy conclusion. Thank you for checking out my author bio. I look forward to hearing from all my e-book readers!

Book preview

1     

Afghanistan, 1986

Hemorrhaging oil and his ammunition expended, Cortland Jamison was returning to base from a firefight in the Shamali Valley north of Kabul. Flying low to avoid patrolling Soviet MIGs he had just pushed his struggling AH-1 Cobra upward to clear a hogback when he found himself looking down onto a desolate rock-strewn plateau where a single tough old Acacia tree was providing shade for a half dozen Mujahidin.

Among those Warriors of God, he could make out the blood red scarf against the dark skin of his diminutive colleague, Owen Armstrong. Armstrong, a longtime friend and former classmate in CIA’s Special Operations Program, was the Company’s point man for training the Mujahidin in the use of advanced weapons such as the shoulder-mounted Stinger missile.

At the base of the plateau, a Soviet sweeper patrol’s low-slung BMP-2 light tanks had fallen in behind a company of camel-mounted Afghan irregulars passing through a narrow draw toward the plain beyond. The deliberate pace of the camels and the heavy sand were already bringing the tanks to a slow crawl.

His helicopter was at about two hundred feet when the ground exploded under the lead tank and enveloped it instantly in a sheet of flames; its fuel tank apparently ruptured. With the sound of the land mine’s explosion still echoing through the draw, a huge boulder, loosened by a blast of dynamite, slid over the edge of the plateau and hurtled downward into the side of the second tank, crushing its tracks and burying it in the dirt and rocks following in its wake. Another of the tanks and the six heavily armed soldiers it carried were torn apart by the RPG-7 antitank grenades fired by Armstrong and his tiny band.

The two remaining tanks responded by launching a steady stream of shells from their 30 mm cannons and 7.62 mm machine guns toward the unseen attackers. At the same time a squad of Soviet soldiers started the climb upward on the right flank of the Mujahidin. The Afghan irregulars moved up the hill on their left.

When he saw the encirclement developing Cortland began easing his Cobra downward. By the time the Soviets appeared at the top of the hill, Armstrong had mounted his horse and was racing toward a gully that would take him off the plateau. Suddenly, his horse pitched forward, a foreleg shattered by a rifle shot. Landing on his hands and knees, he struggled to his feet and ran toward the helicopter hovering some thirty yards away.

Touching down in a cloud of sand and dust, Cortland opened the hatch and was reaching for Armstrong’s hand when he felt the impact of slugs tearing into the tail boom. The Cobra shuddered, then began to shake violently, one of its rotor blades splintered. ‘A hell of a good Samaritan I am,’ he thought grimly and killed the engine. Grabbing his automatic Heckler & Koch pistol, he jumped to the ground just as Armstrong grasped his chest and collapsed near the helicopter’s skids.

Get out of here! Armstrong cried out, blood already seeping between his fingers and spreading across the front of his shirt.

Not without you, he responded, and pushed his friend to the ground behind a pile of rocks. Then, he drew the charging Soviets into his sights. Two of them fell. He was turning to check on Armstrong when a searing pain flashed through his brain. Only darkness remained.

Unable to regain their horses, three of the Mujahidin were killed there on the plateau, and three were taken prisoner by the Soviets and dragged down the hill to confront a seething Russian colonel who was slapping his swagger stick angrily against his leg. Where’s the stupid raghead who led us into that ambush? he growled to a lieutenant walking by his side as he picked his way among the destroyed tanks and burned and broken bodies. He should have his damned head handed to him on a platter.

Are you looking for me colonel? a slender Afghan asked from behind him.

You damn right captain, the colonel said, turning to confront the Afghan. I’m looking for you. No one in his right mind would’ve put us in that position. We didn’t have a chance. If you were a Russian officer, you’d be shot.

The Afghan captain, his back straightening, his coal black eyes unblinking, looked down at his stocky Soviet counterpart, brusquely pushed back his turban, and said, "Colonel, I warned you an ambush was possible and suggested you go around the draw, but I suspect you’ve forgotten that.

As for the prisoners, we’re taking them, all of them, he continued. "The Americans are as good as dead already, and the so-called Mujahidin know their fate. Two of my men were killed today and we’ll have our revenge."

Turning abruptly on his heel he mounted his camel, signaled his men and moved off into an evening almost spent. Behind him, half hidden by a thin cover of high riding cirrus clouds the sun would soon splash muted reds and golds across the sky before retiring, according to timeless old wives’ tales, to its nightly resting place in the recesses of the vast, snow shrouded Hindu Kush.

Hours later, when he regained consciousness Cortland was lying on the sand-covered floor in a tiny room with one small barred window in what would prove to be a mud-walled hut. The back of his scalp was matted with blood where the bullet had creased his skull.

Shortly after sunrise the following morning, weakened from the loss of blood, his head still hurting like hell, he was watching through the window when several members of the Afghan unit began to break camp, loading and mounting their camels. As they rode off, a hulking Pashtun emerged from the remaining tent and turned toward the makeshift prison. Cortland recognized him immediately. He was notorious across Afghanistan for his zeal in torturing prisoners. So it begins, he muttered to himself.

Within moments, his door opened, and the big Pashtun, bending sharply at the waist, pushed his way in, his long knife poised to strike. You pussy, stand up like a man, he snapped in broken English when he found Cortland—pretending to be only half conscious, lying on the sand, moaning, with his eyes closed. Reaching down, the Pashtun grabbed him by the hair and pulled him to his knees. You CIA, you tell where Masoud Khan is, I let you live one more day. Spitting in his face, he said, No, I no wait, I kill you now, and raised the knife above his head.

Slowly, he brought the knife down, stopping at the last moment to slide it across Cortland’s forehead, drawing blood. Then, he slapped him hard and hit him viciously in the stomach until he was fighting against losing consciousness. Finally, the Pashtun threw him to the ground, reached down and grabbed his testicles in his enormous hand, squeezed, and said with a grim smile, We get these too, and you eat ‘em before you die.

Aware his remaining time was to be counted in hours rather than days, he struggled to his feet even as the big Pashtun was closing the door behind him. One by one, he tested the mud bricks that formed the walls and pulled at each of the bars in the window. They were all sound. Turning to the jerry-built door, barely five feet high and perhaps two and a half feet wide, he tugged at the boards but found them impossible to move. Pushing aside the sand that had drifted against the bottom of the door he was surprised to find an iron bar that had apparently been nailed crosswise to add support. One end of the bar had pulled loose and with some effort he was able to free it entirely.

That evening, the Pashtun came again, barked out orders, and dragged out one of the Mujahidin captured on the plateau. One of the guards smirked as he told Cortland the man would be skinned alive and that he would be next. The Mujahid’s screams and pleas for mercy filled the camp for what must have been hours. The guards taunted and laughed, enjoying every moment.

On the morning of the second day, his strength returning, he learned by listening to a conversation among the guards outside his window that Armstrong was barely conscious. It’s time for the Americans to die, he heard one say. They haven’t told us a damned thing. Captain said to get rid of ‘em all and catch up with him tomorrow in Talib. Then, with excitement in his voice, he said, The black one’s about gone already, so we’ll take him first. The big one’s a woman, and he’ll look like one when we cut off his dick and balls.

Near noon, the scuffing of sandals in the passageway, hushed exchanges in Pashtu, and agonized cries of pain meant only one thing: Armstrong was being taken, and he would be next. He dug the iron bar out of the drifted sand where he had hidden it, and, holding it behind his back waited until the latch moved and his door swung open.

You mine now, the big Pashtun said with obvious pleasure as he squeezed through the door thrusting his knife in front of him. Swung with all his strength, the iron bar caught the Pashtun across the bridge of his nose, breaking and shattering his cheekbones. Blood spurted into his long, unkempt beard and against the door as he fell to the ground. Standing over him, Cortland struck him again on the back of his neck. Everything was suddenly quiet. The Pashtun was dead.

He bent over, picked up the blood-spattered knife, and stepped into the passageway. The door to Armstrong’s cell was open. Only a large black blotch on the sand testified that he had been there. Enraged, Cortland turned to face a guard who had just entered the hut. Unable to see in the darkened space, the guard was slow to react and died there.

Now armed with the guard’s Kalashnikov, he circled around the makeshift prison and came up behind the last two of the Afghan unit, long knives still in their hands; Armstrong was at their feet bleeding profusely. Cortland’s need for vengeance was only partially served when the Afghans lay dead before they could turn around.

Kneeling, he took Armstrong’s head in his arms. Dark holes were where his eyes had been, and his trousers had been cut open at the crotch. Blood was everywhere. Gently, Cortland felt for a pulse, loosened the red scarf and wiped his cheek. When he started to stand, determined to find a way to get them both back to their base, he felt a tug at his sleeve and heard a weak, hoarse whisper.

Shoot me, Cort, here, now; I’ll never make it, tell Barbara and the kids I love them. The short burst from the Kalashnikov was met with a shudder and then stillness. Tears streaming down his face, he lifted Armstrong’s body and placed it on the carpet the Afghans had used for their prayers.

His return to the CIA base near the Pakistan border three days later, riding a sour-faced camel of enormous size, was greeted with amazement and relief. That he should turn up alive was one thing; it was quite another that he had returned leading a string of four camels—one carrying Armstrong’s body, two ridden by men from Masoud Khan’s ragtag Northern Alliance who had been awaiting execution, and the last bearing the sole survivor of Armstrong’s band of Mujahidin.

A helluva show, Cort, one helluva show, Pug Short, the CIA base chief, exclaimed when details of his escape unfolded.

Cortland determined that his memories of Armstrong would focus not on his death, but on his off-beat sense of humor; the old guitar he always pulled out when he had too much to drink and the unending boasts and bets made about their college teams. He had been a true friend and died a superb intelligence agent.

United Airline’s Flight 157 had just lifted off from Islamabad when Cortland stretched himself across four seats of the Boeing 747. His hair had grown long on the sides; a two-day stubble somehow enhanced his deeply tanned face. Only a half inch of the fierce scar that ran from his wrist to his right elbow was visible below the cuff of his shirt. Little more than two-thirds full, the plane was scheduled to stop in Paris and then deliver him to Dulles airport near Washington DC. After an eternity composed of twenty-two months, two weeks, and two days, he was leaving a world that had stood still for half a millennium, forever immersed in violence, a world with its own rules, its own clock frozen in time.

With the towering peaks of the Hindu Kush fading in the distance, he closed his eyes and began peeling back the protective layers he had carefully wrapped around all thoughts of the real world, of home, and of her. It had been nearly eighteen months since Elaine had last written. His letters had been returned unclaimed and unopened, and here she was again in his mind’s eye—tall and slender, her cool blue eyes providing none of the answers he was seeking.

Elaine had been in Europe throughout his senior year and was there when he had gone to Columbia University to work on a master’s degree. Following his graduation, they had been in the midst of a single, idyllic week shared equally with Barcelona and Paris among memories of his childhood when he received word of his selection by CIA and instructions to report within forty-eight hours.

Five days later, he had disappeared into CIA’s Farm near Williamsburg, Virginia, for six months. That was followed by extensive paramilitary exercises with the Army Rangers at Fort Benning and in Panama. And finally, there were three months in Kyoto with the modern equivalent of the Japanese ninjas where he became a master of the tang soo do, a Korean form of karate.

Before being assigned to Afghanistan, he had earned a place on the Company’s elite twelve-man ZODIAC Strike Team that had been created to undertake high-risk, clandestine operations worldwide. The identities of those twelve were known to only a half-dozen CIA officials and members of the Special Intelligence Activities Committee which reviewed and approved their operations; operations usually well outside the boundaries that limit the activities of the diplomatic and intelligence agencies.

During his months of training, the one thing that provided perspective in the midst of the new world he inhabited was Elaine’s letters. In time, those letters had become more fervent and filled with promises and plans. Conflicting schedules, the intensity of his training and her new career in advertising in Memphis had permitted only fleeting moments together, but there were the promises. Then had come his assignment to Afghanistan. Within weeks, her letters had stopped coming and his were returned unopened. Had it been the distance, the time, another man?

With sleep creeping over him, he found himself walking again with Armstrong there in that godforsaken place. He would not awaken until the engines changed their pitch over Paris in preparation for landing. His arrival at the surrealistic Charles de Gaulle International Airport, the bright lights, the orderly movement of passengers coming and going reminded him that he wouldn’t have to sleep with his gun under his pillow this night nor eye every passing individual with suspicion. By the time he landed at Dulles airport outside Washington DC, he had begun to relax and breathe easily for the first time in what seemed forever.

2     

Turkey Run Park, Langley, Virginia—1988

Caught in the headlights of the two-year-old slow-moving Buick Regal, a dozen leaves carried by a chill breeze swirled upward and around a solitary light pole and into the woods beyond. It was 10:28 p.m. when the car pulled onto the grass alongside the picnic area in Turkey Run Park just across the district line in Virginia.

The left front door opened, and the troubled countenance of the driver was illuminated when the car’s interior lights flashed on. Bareheaded, his black overcoat was open at the collar. Stepping out into the night, his scarf, loose on both ends, caught remnants of the breeze and brushed across his face. Even in the fleeting light, his clean, strong features were evident.

Closing the door, he stood for a moment, looked around, and then turned on his flashlight, shining it first back down the road and then across a clearing where three neatly aligned tables came into view. He walked toward the tables, his breath condensing in the cold air. He could feel he wasn’t alone, yet his light found no one.

You had about one more minute, and we would’ve been gone, a harsh voice called to him out of the darkness. Turning toward the voice, he extended his flashlight. Without warning, a powerful hand gripped his forearm, twisted, and the flashlight fell to the ground.

Why . . . What the . . . ? I . . . , he said, holding his arm with his left hand against his chest, uncertain what his reaction should be. Jesus, that hurt.

Just listen and keep your mouth shut. We’re not here to negotiate. We’re here to tell you what you have to do.

His mind raced for some response. He could feel the cold fingers of terror closing around his heart. But I—" he started to respond when the blow fell across his shoulders; he staggered forward, nearly falling to his knees.

The man said don’t say nothing! Are you deaf or something? This was a different voice, heavily accented, deep, malicious. When he had righted himself—angry, frightened, and started toward his assailant—a powerful light made him close his eyes.

Don’t be stupid. You’re a smart man. You know what it means when you’re told to keep your mouth shut. This voice was easier but evil, malevolent. Now, let me tell you why you’re here. We know you’re planning to close down the free-trade zone in Missouri and—

He had just uttered, Why would I want to . . . ? when the second blow landed.

Simple, very simple, you want to make us find another channel into the States for our, you know, our stuff.

I don’t know what you’re—

Of course, you do. You’re trying to protect your brother, Freddie, so don’t play dumb. You know the score, the real score. And I’m telling you that unless you do what I tell you to do, you, your brother, and a lot of other people, right up to the president, are going to end up in prison or . . . and with a dreadful sense of finality, the sentence concluded with, dead.

His voice uncertain, he said, Even if I knew what you were talking about, what am I supposed to do about all that?

Oh, your part is easy. All you have to do is nothing. You don’t have to do anything, move anything or anybody. Just keep things like they are.

He couldn’t tell if there were others with the two men he could make out vaguely behind the glaring light.

I can’t talk with that light in my face, he said, groping, reaching to bring order from the nightmare closing in on him. Thoughts of Mary and his children ran through his mind.

Whispers greeted his overture, and the beam was lowered, forming a large elongated circle at his feet.

You must be Pablo Cordoba, he blurted, fighting for time, now certain there were only two of them. You’re the one I talked to last night.

That’s right, came the terse response, and—

Suddenly, he bolted between them, managing to push them both off balance, and ran toward the picnic area and the woods. He might have gotten away had he not stumbled over a tree root after fifteen or twenty steps, staggered, and caught himself on one of the picnic tables. Breathless, he turned to find himself being pushed by vice-like hands face-first against a large oak tree.

There was no more emotion in the smooth voice than might be used in asking you to share an apple or if you would like a cup of coffee when Cordoba said in Spanish, "Kiss him, Armandito! He’s just given us his answer."

The sound of the .22 was muffled against the base of the skull, just an inch or so below and behind the left ear. When the soft pointed slug exited, it took with it much of the brain and a gusher of blood. As life left the body, the only sound was a brief cry of pain. When it fell to the ground, it was on its back, arms at the sides and legs together, extended straight out.

Moving quickly, Cordoba’s bodyguard, whose squat, square frame, heavy dark features, permanent scowl and ruthlessness had earned him the title of El Diablo among those who knew him best and liked him least, placed the gun in the corpse’s left hand near the open wound. Then, he pulled the trigger one more time, the shell disappearing in the darkness.

That should take care of the powder burns, he said, removing the second cartridge and sliding a new one into its place. Now, where do you want me to put him? he asked.

Right where he is. Suicides seldom move around after they’ve shot themselves.

Yeah, I know. El Diablo replied, not amused.

Before we go, run his car over the hill there into the woods. It’ll be one more thing they’ll have to figure out.

When El Diablo emerged from the trees five minutes later, he removed his rubber gloves and tucked them in his coat pocket.

That was simple enough, Cordoba said, a look of immense satisfaction on his face as he and El Diablo exited the park, turned onto George Washington Parkway, and headed west. The powerful Camaro they had used to come from New York City was still gaining speed when it dipped down toward I-495, which Washingtonians believe forms the frontier between them and the barbarians scattered across the rest of the continent. The temperature was continuing to fall. A wispy fog was beginning to form in the low spots along the road.

Take it easy, the last thing we need is to get stopped by the police. Juan said the quickest way to Leesburg is out Georgetown Pike, which is right up here. We’re supposed to follow that to route, route? . . . He paused, looked at his directions on the back of a small card, then continued. Route seven. Right here, go on up the hill, and turn right at the light.

Traffic was sparse along the pike as it twisted and turned through the Virginia countryside, the bright yellow double-center lines vivid in the car’s lights. A large white panel truck entered from a side road and paced them for fifteen minutes until it turned into the fire station in the village of Great Falls. Thirty minutes later at 11:45 p.m., they pulled into the circular drive of the Holiday Inn just east of Leesburg and drove slowly to the last unit in a long line.

As they entered suite 16, Cordoba said, Go put the car down at the end of the main lot. Juan will get rid of it in the morning. Keys to a blue Taurus are there on the desk if we need it for any reason. He says it’s the last car on the right-hand side of section B.

When the door closed behind El Diablo, Cordoba took off his black-framed glasses, cleaned them with his handkerchief, and laid them on the table beside him. Then, he smoothed the ends of his trim black mustache with his thumb and forefinger, ran his left hand over his receding hairline, and yawned. His eyes, set wide, usually bright and alert, looked tired and puffy. He looked every day, and more, of his forty-seven years.

El Diablo returned within twenty minutes to find Cordoba in his gold-colored pajamas with his feet up, drink in hand, watching a late-night soccer game being broadcast on a Spanish station. A packet of papers lay on the coffee table in front of him. The bedspread had been turned down. Framed photographs of the Virginia countryside hung evenly on three of the walls. The floor was covered with a kind of mottled brown carpet.

St. Louis still our next stop? he asked, wary of interrupting Cordoba when he was watching soccer. Fortunately, Brazil’s team was crushing tiny El Salvador, which diminished his concern.

Yeah, came the reply as the TV was switched off. "The driver will pick us up Monday morning at seven thirty. The Leesburg airport is only about five miles from here. That’ll put us in St. Louis about ten thirty, or so, after we circle around a little so St. Louis ground control can track us in from the west. By that time, our people there should be able to give us whatever else they’ve got on Jason Comstock. They’ll meet us at the airport.

There, Cordoba said, pointing to the small pile of papers, is a bunch of stuff that’s supposed to show that the Comstocks stole their computer company and the land under the free-trade zone from their fellow investors. I don’t doubt they did it, but I doubt anyone could prove it. No one gets where they have by leaving tracks everywhere they go.

I thought you said they were a bunch of hillbillies. You change your mind?

A little, but what they’ve done is pretty slick, getting the president’s office involved and all.

Cordoba unfolded his thinking about how they would proceed and instructed El Diablo that killing Jason Comstock—if the need arose—would be his responsibility. He knew Cordoba usually wanted to pull the trigger himself on those who double-crossed, dishonored, or simply displeased him; but it was clear that he suspected this Comstock wouldn’t go so easily.

With a grim smile, El Diablo pulled from its holster the Beretta he had used in New York City to kill Jason’s brother, Abner, caressed the smooth barrel, counted out six soft pointed shells, and slid them into the clip. In anticipation, a rush of excitement swept over him beginning in his groin and moving upward.

With that guy, Rich, and Abner Comstock out of the way, Jason Comstock is the only one we still have to worry about, Cordoba mused. He’s supposed to be the brains of the family, and according to these reports, he’s a pretty shrewd operator. But, a smirk lining his face, he added, this time he may get operated on. Even the smartest hillbilly can’t be all that smart.

What about that CIA guy, Jamison, or whatever his real name is? El Diablo asked with great trepidation, knowing Cordoba never liked being corrected or even questioned. You don’t seem to be too worried about him. He could’ve killed you and Arturo if he’d wanted to, and we know he spotted the stuff at Salaras and brought in the F-Sixteens, or whatever the hell they were. He paused then and looked closely at Cordoba anticipating a backlash but couldn’t resist saying, "Caramba, if those planes had made their bombing runs twenty-four hours earlier, we would’ve been out of business and back cutting cane and picking coffee beans."

Cordoba’s response was volcanic. Don’t lecture me you simple minded turd, he shouted, his face turning beet red. "The bastardo threatened me and my family and made me a laughingstock in front of my own son. And he and that damned SEAL team cost me some of my best men. Do you think I’ll ever forget that? Once he got back up here, I wanted him to relax a little and let his guard down.

"I told you I’ve had two of our best people tracking him for the past couple of weeks, and I told ‘em to present him with a corte de corbata as soon as they can get him alone. My personal preference would be aflorero, but I suspect his tongue hanging through a hole in his throat will send enough of a message to the next guy they send after me. I told him he’d better kill me when he had the chance. He’ll be sorry he didn’t do it."

You think those two’ll get it done? El Diablo mumbled, his hatred for Jamison clouding his reason. One is gutless, and the other one’s a moron. I wouldn’t trust ‘em to wring a chicken’s neck. Why didn’t you let me do it?

Reaching over, Cordoba pulled his gun from its holster lying on the table beside him. Deliberately, his eyes narrowing, he turned and pointed it at El Diablo’s head and cocked it. Then, without raising his voice, he simply said, You don’t know when to keep your damned mouth shut anymore, do you? I wanted you with me. That’s all you needed to know. Subdued, El Diablo sat heavily on a small bench along the wall by the door to the suite, his countenance heavy, and his head down, his eyes worried, his fingers interlocked.

Cordoba, his anger subsiding, still fingering his gun, finally asked, Okay, something’s eating at you, spit it out!

Comstock is going to hear about this guy Rich, and he already knows about his brother. Do you think he’s going to make the connection and be waiting for us when we get there? He waited for a moment for an answer and then asked, Or don’t you think so?

"Hell no, he’ll think his brother’s killing was just one of those bad things that can happen in New York City. There were probably a dozen others that same night and almost that many in Washington. And, yeah, if he gets any news at all, he’ll know about Rich.

Okay, okay, we’ll be extra careful. But—his dark eyes lighting up—if it’s necessary to get rid of this Comstock guy, we’ll see about gaining control over his whole operation. He’s made a lot of people mighty unhappy, and I understand some of ‘em would be delighted to see him go, feet first or otherwise. With the two remaining brothers, we’ll have enough on them—smuggling, drug running, and whatever else comes to mind. They may be pleased to just get out without going to jail. By the way, drop that cell phone in the trash on the way out. We’re not gonna need it anymore.

I already did. I wrapped it in an old paper bag and stuck it down toward the bottom of the trash can.

Standing then, Cordoba drank the last of his beer, made a face at the taste, stretched to his full five feet six inches and yawned again, then said, We’ll sorta hang around tomorrow, watch a little TV, read a little, and be ready for St. Louis. I patched through to Panama City and notified Comstock that we’ll be arriving from there Monday morning. That should answer any questions regarding our whereabouts when his brother and Rich were killed.

Brilliante! El Diablo exclaimed, hoping to get back on the right side of his boss.

3     

It had been a slow, uneventful night for the two Capital Parks policemen, and conversation in car 43 had long since ceased in favor of brief catnaps and personal reverie as the thick woods alongside the parkway rushed by. Behind them, the Washington Monument rose majestically, awash in floodlights that brightened the night sky. To their right, the gently flowing Potomac River was gathering itself for its two-hundred-mile run to the sea.

Let’s take a turn through Turkey Run. I gotta take a leak, Sergeant Dean Givens said, pushing up higher in his seat. Quiet night, he continued. I’ll be glad when I can get back on the day shift. This night patrol is really shitty.

I’m surprised you can tell the difference, Sarge. You’ve spent most of the time keeping me awake with your snoring. What do you do when you’re on days, long for night time? Chuckling at his own cleverness, Private Warren Keifauver pulled off the parkway onto the sweeping approach to Turkey Run Park, headlights slicing through darkness. Skeletons of closely packed sugar maples and aspens closed around them, creating a long tunnel with a single dim light at the far end.

I’ve never liked this place at night, Keifauver said, leaning his lanky frame forward over the steering wheel. Ever since I was a kid, I’ve been kinda afraid of the dark. Wooded areas like this with all the shadows and hiding places for the bad guys give me the creeps. Funny how I ended up in a job like this, huh? How about you, Sarge, does the dark bother you?

Sure, Givens responded after a brief pause. But I guess I’m not scared, just cautious. Then, with some urgency, he said, You’d better hurry, or we’re going to be swimming in piss.

The big Crown Victoria slowed, and Givens said, Let me out here. I’ll just be a few minutes. You go on up and turn around.

Stepping out of the car, he switched his flashlight on and moved to the nearest tree where he unzipped his pants and began to relieve himself. Aware that his Irish setter, Shamus, would have gone to the same place had he been there, he smiled to himself and wondered why he was peeing against a tree when, unlike Shamus, he could have just stood in the middle of the road. After a couple of minutes, he zipped up and stood letting his light wander, entranced by the shadows and night things it was creating. As he looked around waiting for the car to return, he leaned against the tree with his left hand.

What the . . . , he said aloud, jerking his hand back and focusing his flashlight on the place where his hand had been and then on his hand. When he wiped his hand against the bark of the tree and looked closer, he was certain it was blood. Then, feeling resistance to his right foot when he moved around the tree, he turned his light downward. There, against his foot, framed by the light was the face of a man, sightless eyes staring upward. A shudder ran down his spine, and without thinking, his gun was in his hand. Sweeping the trees nearby with his light, he saw no movement, no evidence of anyone else.

Heart pounding, a cold sweat breaking across his forehead, he knelt and felt for a pulse. There was none, but there remained some residual warmth despite the near-freezing temperature. Only then did he see where the bullet had entered below the left ear, and the pistol in the left hand. Blood, from the gaping hole in the top of the head, had puddled under the man’s left shoulder and formed itself into an almost-perfect circle.

Hey, Sarge, let’s get outta here, it’s getting late, Keifauver called from the car.

You’d better get over here, Givens replied, his voice rising. I’ve just found a body, and it looks like he shot himself. Bring the big light. We’ll need to check out the area. But first, call Homicide and notify the coroner’s office, he snapped, calmer now. And bring that towel out of the backseat. I put my hand into some blood and some other shit.

Once the towel had been retrieved, Keifauver hurried to the sergeant’s side, handed it to him, and looked down on the inert body. What makes you think he did it hisself? he asked in an anxious voice.

Well, he’s got a gun in his hand and . . . the sergeant hesitated, not quite sure how to answer. Then, he said, In any case, the Crime Scene guys’ll go over the area with a fine-tooth comb before they’re through, but we oughta see anything obvious. If he did it himself, there’s nothin’ to be concerned about, and if not, let’s hope the perps are long gone. I wonder who this guy is, he looks familiar, but then who doesn’t these days.

Looking over the sergeant’s shoulder, Keifauver shuddered and then swallowed hard several times. The body seemed to be adapting itself to death while they watched.

You okay? Givens asked.

Sure, I think so, but it seems kinda funny.

What’s funny?

Oh, I don’t mean funny-funny, I mean it’s, like, strange. I never thought about it much before, but . . . It’s like . . . one second this guy was breathing. He’s got a wife, kids maybe, all the normal things, then, . . . well, now he’s, well, he’s nothin’.

I try never to think about it that way. It makes it a lot easier. Then, straightening up and turning to his partner, Givens said, C’mon, let’s get at it. You start the other side of the barbecue pit over there and take a look down the hill. See if there’s anything we oughta be aware of. I’ll work from the tables back toward the road. If anyone else was involved, he would’ve come and gone through there.

Emerging from the woods after about fifteen minutes, Keifauver called out, This light ain’t worth a damn. It keeps going on and off. I tripped over a tree stump down there and almost broke my leg.

Anything suspicious? Givens asked, his flashlight probing under the long picnic tables.

No, nothin’ I could find.

Just then, the eerie wail of a siren cut through the early-morning air. Circling white and blue lights worked their way into the park. The car pulled onto the grass and stopped with its headlights focused toward the picnic tables. Three detectives stepped out. Two of them walked toward the body. Their lieutenant—short, middle aged, balding, his scarf pulled up close around his neck—stopped in front of Sergeant Givens. Speaking deliberately, his West Virginia origins evident, he asked, Do we know who the guy is, any identification, and do we know the cause of death?

None we found. There’s no billfold and no business cards or anything like that. He looks familiar though, like I may have seen his picture in the paper yesterday or the day before. We thought it was strange that he wouldn’t have any ID on him. As for the COD, I’d guess he did himself in. At first glance, it looks like he was standing by that tree there, shot himself, and fell right where he’s lyin’.

After a few more questions followed by still-incomplete answers, the two park policemen walked toward their car, their day completed. Pulling his collar up around his neck and rubbing his arms, Givens muttered, Boy, that was a hell of a way to end the day.

When the coroner arrived, he moved heavily toward the lieutenant. Homicide’s stumpy black cameraman was moving around the body snapping pictures, and a light splashing against trees deep in the woods marked the movement of the third detective.

What happened here? the coroner asked and stopped four or five feet from the body, still trying to button the top three buttons on his overcoat.

At first glance, the lieutenant responded, looks like some guy committed suicide, although everything looks a little too neat when a body’s laid out like it’s being prepared for a casket. We’ve been looking around but haven’t found nothin’ unusual beyond the fact that it looks like he was standing by that oak tree right there when he fired the shot that killed him. Then he fell across those roots right there. He focused his light on the gun held tightly in the body’s left hand. Looks like a twenty-two Beretta Eighty from here. I’d guess—

Hey, Lieutenant, came a voice from the woods, interrupting their exchange. Looks like our stiff or somebody tried to hide his car. It’s down the hill here behind these two big pines.

You guys haven’t moved the body, have you? the coroner asked. I have to see it lyin’ where it fell, so don’t foul things up. The wagon’ll be here in the next half hour. We’ll take it in after the CSI boys have had a go at it. That goes for the car too.

No, we haven’t moved the body. We just know it’s dead, the lieutenant responded, an edge in his voice. We’re searching the area out to a hundred feet. Haven’t seen anything of particular interest besides the car, and we’re running a trace on that right now. We’ll rope it off and get ready for our friends from CSI. They should be here in ten, fifteen minutes.

Let me take a look while we’re waiting, the coroner said, leaning closer to the body and focusing his flashlight. Damn! he exclaimed, that’s, that’s, what’s’isname. Straightening up, his arms waving, he said, You know the guy you always see with the president? He’s some kind of a big shot! His name’s Richards or somethin’ like that.

4     

The phone at