Operation: Lancer

By Robert P. Fregault

Brian Cahill was a wanted man. He had volunteered for the top secret mission out of a sense patriotism. But now, those who had recruited him wanted him dead. He was not supposed to survive the mission. The mission had been both high profile and high risk. And, for the powers that had planned it, there could be no loose ends. The risks were too great. Brian Cahill carried a secret that could shake the government to its very core. For four years they had searched for him and for four years he had avoided capture. But now, through a chance encounter, they had found him. He was a liability that had to be eliminated. He would not see them coming and they would offer him no shelter, no quarters. They would tighten the noose and the terrible secret that he possessed would die with him. At least that was the plan.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 12, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504959094

Robert P. Fregault

Operation:Lancer is the third novel from author Robert P. Fregault following the release of his novels ‘Fatal Curiosity’ and ‘Spirits in the Wind’. Bob is a retired CPA and writes as an avocation. Bob and his wife, Denise, make their home in Amherst, NH.

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Contents

Chapter 1    McLean, VA - June 1967

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

For Janet ……

Besides the five senses, there is a sixth of equal importance … the sense of duty.

Christian Bovee

CHAPTER 1

McLean, VA - June 1967

Deputy Assistant Jonathan Banks sat at his desk in his glass enclosed office at CIA headquarters in Langley, VA, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth and a coffee cup in his right hand. His New Year’s resolution was that he would quit cigarettes, a promise that he had made to himself several times in the past but so far without success. His current resolution, however, had lasted longer than his others – three days.

He was leaning forward, his forearms resting on his large double-pedestal red oak desk as he planned the day’s work. Jonathan Banks was a powerfully built man, a six-footer with broad shoulders, muscular arms, and the chiseled facial features of an ex-marine. He was clean shaven and sported a full head of salt-and-pepper hair that he wore in a military style brush cut. Though nearing forty-five years of age, he looked years younger and his very presence put others on edge. Glancing down at his wristwatch, he still had twenty minutes before his regular ten o’clock briefing with the Director of Field Operations, Allen Hughes, a thirty year veteran of the service with an impersonal, no nonsense personality and a disagreeable temperament. Director Hughes had outlived his usefulness to the Agency and was scheduled to retire in four months and, like many government employees of any status, he had been allowed to retain his position until then. Deputy Banks neither enjoyed these weekly one-on-one meetings with the Director of Field Operations nor did he respect the man who ran them. Years earlier, as Lieutenant Jonathan Banks, the Assistant Director had served in armed combat in Korea at the battles of Imijin River and Teajon. He knew firsthand what it meant to serve his country, to lead men into battle, to see them die on his orders to advance. Alan Hughes, the Director of Field Operations, by contrast, was a person of privilege. His family was politically connected in the Washington establishment and he had moved from political appointment to political appointment as a result of those political connections. Director Allan Hughes had no loyalties to those who served under him; his loyalties were to those who could further his political career. Deputy Assistant Jonathan Banks, on the other hand, had earned his promotions and his political recognition. His advancement was the direct result of his service and dedication to those that he served, and he had no use for people who could not contribute, least of all, Allen Hughes. Jonathan Banks had a real job to do and he resented the deadwoods that merely took up space and were allowed to remain on staff to just pass the time away while they padded their retirement accounts.

As Deputy Banks re-read his notes for the meeting, the phone on his desk, his private line, began to ring. Without moving his head, Jonathan Banks looked at the phone out of the corner of his eye as one might watch a bug walking across the ground. Calls on this line were seldom good news. Taking the cigarette from his mouth, he reluctantly stubbed out the half spent smoke in the brass ashtray that sat on the corner of his desk and reached for the phone. Yes? he asked in a stony voice as he placed the phone to his ear and rocked back in his chair.

I think we may have found him, came a familiar voice over the phone.

Who? Jonathan Banks asked.

"Him!" the voice replied with urgency.

Are you certain? Deputy Banks asked as he quickly sat upright in his chair, an edge of excitement in his voice.

As sure as we can be after four years of looking.

Where?

Covington, Kentucky just across the Ohio River from Cincinnati.

Yeah, I know where Cincinnati is, Deputy Assistant Banks replied sarcastically. Right under our fucking noses and we missed him! Where is he now?

Not sure. If it’s our guy, he was spotted in a bar about a week ago. We’re guessing that he’s still in Covington.

What the fuck do you mean, we’re guessing? Is he there or isn’t he? There was more than just a twinge of frustration in the Deputy Assistant’s voice.

Can’t be sure, Sir. I didn’t find out about it until an hour ago. I’ve got guys on their way there now.

Shit! That little bastard has been on the run for four years. I don’t have to tell you what kind of a liability he is. You need to find him!

We’re on it, Boss, but we’re not a hundred percent sure that it’s him.

What the hell are you talking about? Is it him or isn’t it? Deputy Banks was becoming annoyed. He dealt in facts, not speculation, and he detested uncertainty, especially in matters of importance.

All we know is that a guy of his general height and weight was spotted in a local bar with a skull and dagger tattoo on the underside of his right forearm. We know that our boy had one just like it.

That’s all you’ve got to go on? Deputy Banks asked, disappointed that there wasn’t more certainty in the identification.

"Look, it’s been four years. The guy in the bar was in workman’s clothes, pony-tailed hair tucked under a baseball cap, a full beard and dark glasses. He’s changed his appearance but we’re guessing that there aren’t many guys with that tattoo on their forearm. It’s a thin lead, I know, but it’s all we’ve got at the moment," replied the voice on the phone.

Who found him? Is the sighting reliable? Jonathan Banks asked, his voice calmer and more matter of fact.

He was spotted by a retired guy from the 167th, a friend of one of my team members. He noticed the tattoo and asked the guy if he had been in the service. The guy with the tattoo just stared back at him but didn’t answer. A few minutes later the guy with the tattoo downed his beer, left the bar, hopped on a motorcycle and rode off. The guy from the 167th happened to casually mention the incident last night during a weekly poker game that one of my guys sits in on and my guy called me this morning with the information. He felt that the information was a bit sketchy but that ‘Skull & Dagger’ is a fairly unique tattoo. The guy from the 167th had only seen it in the service on a few specially trained individuals. I think you know what I’m talking about.

Alright. Have your guys check out the bar and the bartender. See if the guy with the tattoo was a regular. Maybe the bartender knows him or something about him. That son-of-a-bitch has been out there for four years and we need to find the little bastard. I want his balls on my desk in a glass jar! Do you read me?! Deputy Banks said, almost shouting into the phone. Through his office glass walls, Deputy Banks could see people in the outer office turn their heads and look in his direction, then quickly look away when he made eye contact with them. Somebody was getting an ass chewing and the people in the outer office didn’t want any part of it.

I’m on it, Boss. I’ll get back to you as soon as I know more, said the voice on the phone.

Jonathan Banks replaced the phone in its cradle and stared blankly out the glass wall of his office. For four years Brian Cahill had evaded capture. He was supposed to die on the mission with the rest of the team. There were not supposed to be any loose ends. Nobody could be left to tell the truth about the mission. If the truth were ever to get out, there would be no way to control the catastrophic shit storm that would follow. All of the other members of the mission team had been quietly disposed except for Brian Cahill. Cahill was a no-show at the rendezvous point after the mission and then fell completely off the grid. It was as if he knew, as if he had been warned. Everyone in the small circle of highly placed men behind the mission was at great risk as long as Brian Cahill was still alive. He had to be stopped. He had to be found and eliminated like the others. His was a cancer that would be the fall of many if he were allowed to live.

* * * * * * * *

The city of Covington, Kentucky, just three miles south of Cincinnati, Ohio held to the dubious distinction of claiming Ron Ziegler, Richard Nixon’s Press Director, the actor Durward Kirby, and Haven Gillespie, the songwriter who penned the lyrics to Santa Clause is Coming to Town, as native sons. The city was incorporated in 1815 and grew over time to be the fifth largest city in Kentucky with more than fifty thousand inhabitants. Large as it was, it still had a small town feel and a person could earn a modest living in its quiet surroundings.

The two men from the Field Operations arrived in Covington about mid-afternoon and found a quiet motel on the south side of town on Route 17 that would serve as their base of operations. After registering under false names and changing into blue jeans, boots, and plaid working shirts, the agents drove north on Madison Avenue to East 5th Street in search of Scully’s Tavern, the local watering hole where the man thought to be Brian Cahill was last seen.

Scully’s Tavern, a single story building with a wood and stucco façade, sported a large green and white striped awning and was located midway down the block on East 5th Street wedged between two taller red brick buildings. The green and white awning made the tavern easily recognizable. The tavern’s two large plate-glass windows, separated by the tavern’s main entrance door, were decorated at their corners with green shamrocks tilted at various angles, proudly proclaiming the establishment’s Irish roots. Written boldly across one of the plate windows in large gold, Old-English-style script letters was the name Scully’s; written across the other window in similar fashion was the word Tavern.

Pulling into a vacant parking spot just two doors down from the tavern, the agents parked their car and looked about the neighborhood before exiting the vehicle and making their way to the tavern. It was late afternoon and traffic along East 5th Street was light. A few shoppers walked on the sidewalks on either side of the street casually looking into store windows or looking forward as they made their way along the street.

Entering the bar, the agents instinctively scanned the room for anyone that might match the last reported description of Brian Cahill. Finding no one of that description, the agents casually walked across the room and took seats at the far end of the bar facing the door so that they would have a clear view of anyone entering or leaving the bar. It was just past 4:30 and the bar was mostly deserted, as most of the regular patrons were still at work. On seeing the men take a seat at the bar, the bartender flipped his drying towel over his left shoulder, dried his hands on his apron, and approached the agents.

Good afternoon, gentlemen. What can I get for you? asked the bartender, a slightly portly man in his early fifties with a round face, graying hair and a warm, friendly smile.

Two beers if you don’t mind, the more senior agent said.

Well, we have several …

Whatever’s on draft is fine, the agent said, cutting the bartender off in mid sentence.

Sure thing, gentlemen, the bartender said with a smile as he placed two coasters on the bar top in front of the agents and turned back to draw the beers. Returning with the drinks, the bartender asked, Anything else that I can get for you gentlemen?

Maybe a little information, the agent said. We’re looking for a guy that we used to work with. There’s an opening at the plant and we thought he might be interested in the opportunity. A mutual friend of ours thought that he might have seen him in here last week.

Gee, a lot of folks come in here. Do you have a name? the bartender asked.

Well, that’s the thing, the agent said. He had a little run in with the law a few years back and he may have changed his name. He’s not a bad guy, but you know how those things go. You make a little mistake and it follows you where ever you go.

The bartender nodded as if he understood but he quickly got the feeling that the two men at the bar were not quite leveling with him.

What did he do? asked the bartender as he studied the two men.

He kinda got into it with his ex-wife. One thing led to another and he went out and got drunk one night, held up a liquor store, and roughed up the clerk a little. Like I said, he’s really not a bad guy; he just did something really stupid. After he came to his senses he returned the money. But it didn’t matter how much he apologized. The store owner pressed charges and he got convicted for robbery and assault and served two years in the county jail. Now he has to disclose that on every job application that he fills out. That’s why we think he may have changed his name.

The bartender looked at the two men and only half believed the story that they told.

What does he look like? the bartender asked.

Young guy, mid-to-late thirties, probably has long hair, a beard, and a tattoo on his right forearm.

The bartender paused for a moment and studied the two men. They were both physically fit and looked like they could take care of themselves in a fight. Their demeanor, however, didn’t match the clothes that they were wearing. They carried themselves more like cops, or worse, like the mob thugs that were known to control the greater Cincinnati area just across the river. Their clothes, although appropriate for a working town like Covington, also seemed just a little too clean for men who worked for a living and their hands bore none of the telltale roughness or dirty nails that a workman’s hands would have. The bartender was getting an uneasy feeling. Not wanting to provoke the two men, decided that there was no advantage in not telling them what they wanted to know.

Well, there is this one guy that comes in every now and then. About five-ten, maybe one-seventy. Has a beard and a tattoo of a skull on his right arm.

Do you have a name or an address?

Again the bartender studied the two men before answering. The revolver that he kept under the bar for protection was not within easy reach and he doubted that even if it were, reaching for it would not be a wise decision.

I think his name is Dave, the bartender replied as he took the towel off his left shoulder and began nervously wiping the bar top in front of him. Don’t have a last name. Don’t know where he lives. But he rides a bike and I think he works for Peterson Construction but, again, I’m not a hundred percent sure. He’s kind of quiet and keeps to himself when he’s in here. I’ve served him a few times but never got into much of a conversation with him.

Why do you think that he works for this Peterson Construction company? the agent asked.

Well, this one night he was talking to another guy at the bar and he made a comment about some guys that got hurt on the job. The next day there was a write up on the local newspaper about three guys that were hurt on a downtown construction site when a cable snapped on the crane that was stacking some I-beams. The paper mentioned that Peterson Construction was the contractor on the site so I just assumed that he might work there.

The bartender was growing more uneasy about the conversation and was hoping that the two men at the bar would quickly finish their beers and leave.

Sorry that I can’t tell you more, gentlemen, but that’s about all I know, the bartender stated as he stopped wiping the bar top and placed the towel back on his left shoulder.

When was he in here last? Do remember seeing him lately? asked the agent.

Oh, I don’t know … sometime last week, maybe Wednesday evening or so. Now if there’s nothing else that I can get for you two gentlemen, I need to restock the bar before the evening crowd starts rolling in.

One last question if you don’t mind, the agent asked as he raised his right hand with his index finger extended and pointing towards the ceiling. Can you tell us where we can find this Peterson Construction Company? Maybe they can help us find Dave.

The agent looked intently at the bartender as he lowered his hand and grabbed his glass of beer. Placing his elbow on the bar top, he raised the glass to his lips, looked directly at the bartender, and waited for the bartender to answer.

If you take a left out of here and head uptown, the bartender said nervously, Peterson’s main office is on Court Street just before the river.

The bartender looked at one agent and then the other, hoping that they had no more questions for him.

The senior agent nudged his partner with his elbow and together they downed the last of their beers. Pulling a roll of bills from his pants pocket, the agent peeled off a ten dollar bill and tossed it onto the bar top.

Thanks for your help, Mister. Keep the change.

The agent brought his right hand to his forehead and saluted the bartender with his index finger as he motioned to his partner that it was time to go. The bartender nodded in response and watched the two men leave the bar, exhaling deeply as they went out the door, hoping that he would not see them again.

Walking out of the bar, the agents chatted briefly and decided that a different story and a more professional appearance would be needed for their visit to Peterson Construction Company. As it was now nearly 5 p.m., the visit to the construction company would have to wait until the morning.

Spotting a pay phone across the street, the senior agent checked the traffic on East 5th Street and then proceeded to cross the street to the phone booth to call his supervisor at Langley. When the call went through he explained what they had learned from the bartender and that they would mostly likely have a fix on the elusive Brian Cahill within the next twenty four hours. After getting agreement from Langley on the course of action, the two agents decided to return to their motel, change clothes, and look for a place to eat before calling it a day.

* * * * * * * *

The private line on Deputy Assistant Jonathan Banks’ desk rang shortly after 5 p.m. Deputy Assistant Banks answered the call on the second ring.

Yes? he said as he leaned forward, placing his elbows on his desk, his left arm folded in front of him and his right hand holding the phone. He had been eager all afternoon to hear from the field about the whereabouts of the elusive Brian Cahill, the object of his almost four-year search.

Confidence is high that Cahill is in Covington, the familiar voice on the phone said with an air of excitement.

No names, you asshole! Jonathan Banks said sternly as he bolted upright in his chair, his facial features contorting in anger. How many times do I have to tell you?! He doesn’t exist. Do you understand?!

Sorry … I thought that I was bringing you some good news for a change. It won’t happen again, the voice on the phone said contritely.

If this thing ever got out … if someone ever started to connect the dots …. you, me, and a shitload of other people… will have no place to hide. There were fewer than fifteen people who knew about the mission. Half of them are now dead. Even my own boss, the Director of Field Operations, was kept out of the loop. We need to clamp a lid on this thing. If this ever got out, the whole agency would be called to answer. The innocent as well as the guilty would all be hung out to dry. I can’t emphasize to you enough how sensitive and how extremely explosive this thing is.

I know, Boss. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.

There was an uneasy pause in the conversation as the voice on the phone waited uncomfortably for Deputy Assistant Banks to say something.

O.K., tell me what you know, Deputy Assistant Banks said in a more calm and controlled manner.

"Looks like our ‘person of interest’, the voice on the phone said with emphasis, is laying low, working a construction job in Covington. From what my guys say about the town, he could easily slip right in and blend into the background. We have the name of the contractor and my guys will pay them a visit in the morning. As long as he, the voice said with inflection, doesn’t know that we are on to him, we should have no problem isolating him."

When your guys have him, I personally want to confirm the ID, Jonathan Banks said with authority. I don’t care what time of day or night … you call me and hold him till I get there. Understood?

And if he gives us any trouble? the voice on the phone asked.

I don’t care if you put two in his ass. I want positive confirmation! You hold him any way you have to … dead ... alive … I don’t give a shit. This is one loose end that is going to be tied off!

Understood. I should have some news for you by lunchtime tomorrow.

Good. Call me as soon as you have something.

Jonathan Banks hung up the phone and then leaned forward placing his elbows on his desk and burying his face in his hands. The stress of keeping the secret … of controlling the people who knew … of babysitting their fears … it had all taken a toll on him. At the moment he felt exhausted. He wanted the ordeal to be over. Of the remaining eight people of the inner circle to the mission, at least four of them would also have to be eliminated along with the voice on the phone and some of his operatives. The need to keep the mission at the highest level of secrecy was paramount. The past four years had taken its toll on the men of the inner circle and Jonathan no longer knew if he could continue to trust them. He had wrestled with the thought of taking them out but he could not conceive of a plausible explanation that would satisfy peoples’ curiosity about their passing, especially if they were to all die within a close period of time to each other. And they would have to. Eliminating one or two would almost certainly cause the others to either disappear on their own or to tell the public what they knew in hopes of preserving their lives. Neither option would benefit the mission.

Jonathan Banks sat up in his chair and then leaned over to open the right hand, bottom drawer of his desk. Retrieving a bottle of Jameson Irish Whiskey and a single glass, he pored himself a drink and took a big swallow. Leaning back in his chair he closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead with his left hand. All he could do now was wait until tomorrow.

CHAPTER 2

Agents Marcotte and Ronnetti had already showered and dressed by the time the motel operator phoned at seven a.m. with their morning wake-up call. The two men had shared a single room at the Route 17 Motor Inn and were eager to follow up on the search for Brian Cahill, the man that the bartender at Scully’s Tavern had referred to as ‘Dave’.

The Route 17 Motor Inn, just outside the city of Covington, KY, had seen better years and was fairly Spartan by most tastes. It was not the kind of place that most travelers would have selected for a night’s stay but that was exactly why Agents Marcotte and Ronnetti had selected it. There was nothing fancy about the place, just a low one story rectangular building with twelve identical rooms connected together, numbered one through twelve with big brass numbers on identical looking red doors. To the right of each room’s door was the room’s only window with a clumsy looking air conditioner protruding from the wall just below it. There was space for only one vehicle in front of each room, the faded white lines of the parking lanes barely discernible on the cracked and crumbling asphalt of the parking lot. The motel sign, positioned over the roof of the small detached motel office, was badly in need of a paint job and the few working bulbs on the sign’s large yellow arrow that beckoned motorists to the motel were greatly outnumbered by the bulbs that no longer worked. Although no one would have had any reason to know of the two agents’ presence in Covington, the Route 17 Motor Inn was probably the last place that anyone would look for them. But, compared to nights spent on stakeouts in uncomfortable cars, on roof tops, or other unpleasant and cramped hiding spaces, the room, with its aged bedding that sagged noticeably in the center, had all the amenities that the two special agents needed: a hot shower and clean sheets.

Agent Marcotte, the more senior of the two men, had risen first. He was ex-army and accustomed to rising early, particularly when the object of his pursuit was close at hand. If not for the adrenalin rush that accompanied the hunt for a wanted suspect, stakeouts were about as much fun as polishing one’s shoes. They were necessary tasks but seldom exciting. This hunt, however, was a special case and Agents Marcotte and Ronnetti were eager to see it to its conclusion. The Agency, or more correctly, a secret and select few in the Agency, had been on the hunt for Brian Cahill for nearly four years. He had slipped through their fingers after the mission and had gone into hiding. He had left no trail when he vanished; he just seemed to melt into thin air. The Agency received its first tip on Brian Cahill’s whereabouts several months after the mission but, by the time the agency had encircled his hiding place, he was already gone. Some suspected that he had been tipped off by someone either associated with the mission or someone who had learned of Brian Cahill’s involvement in the mission. Everyone who had any knowledge of the mission was placed under a microscope after Cahill had vanished, but no leaks were ever detected or strongly suspected. Perhaps Mr. Cahill had a sixth sense about such things or perhaps he was just lucky to have moved on when he did. Either way, that was thirty six months ago and no one had seen or heard of Brian Cahill until the chance encounter with the man at Scully’s Tavern who bore a distinctive skull and dagger tattoo on the inside of his right forearm. It was not a positive confirmation that the man with the tattoo was Cahill, but it was the best lead that the Agency had had in almost three years.

You about ready? Andrew Marcotte asked as he flipped open the cylinder of his .38 special revolver and verified that the gun was fully loaded.

Right behind you, Steve Ronnetti answered as he slipped his left arm into his suit coat, adjusted the garment across his shoulders, and then tugged at his shirt sleeves to adjust the fit of the coat. Steve Ronnetti, like Agent Marcotte, was ex-military and, whether in sport clothes, uniform, or the dark blue suit that he had on, he cut an impressive figure of a powerful and self-assured man. His face, scarred from a bad case of acne as a youth, was yet still appealing, the ruddy complexion only adding to his imposing appearance. Steve Ronnetti was the kind of man that most people would notice and then consciously choose to avoid conversation with. He had cold grey-blue eyes and his very demeanor suggested that people should not venture far into his world uninvited.

My guess is, Agent Marcotte said as he looked directly at Agent Ronnetti, if Cahill is in fact working for Peterson Construction, he should have started his day shift by now. He doesn’t know that we are here and he shouldn’t suspect anything. We’ll grab a quick bite to eat, let him get busy at his job, and then we’ll head over to talk with Peterson’s head office people. I don’t want Cahill to see us around the construction site. If he is employed by Peterson, I want to take him in quietly without a fight. I think our best play is to tell Peterson’s head office people that we are from Sullivan County, PA, and are here to exercise a warrant for Cahill’s arrest on a domestic violence charge. I suspect that they should be very cooperative in that regard.

Works for me, Ronnetti replied. But we’re still not a hundred percent sure what Cahill looks like today, and we don’t know what name he is using, except maybe a first name of ‘Dave’ that the bartender gave us. How do you plan to confirm the ID? Steve Ronnetti asked, a little puzzled as to how successful their plan might be.

Well, our other option is to stake out the job site and see if we can spot the guy the bartender identified as Dave. The only confirming evidence might be the skull and dagger tattoo on the guy’s forearm … if we can get close enough to see it.

Yeah, but my guess is that most all of the guys on the job will have some kind of beard, long hair and be wearing construction hats and sun glasses. How the hell are we supposed to pick Cahill out from all the others?

That’s why we need to talk to the head office people. I think if we give them a general description of Cahill and mention the tattoo, maybe they can confirm that someone like that works for them. Otherwise, we could chase the wrong guy, Cahill could get wind of it, and we’d lose him again. I don’t even want to think about the ration of shit that we’d get from Langley if we had to tell them that we let Cahill slip away again, Andrew Marcotte said as he looked Agent Ronnetti in the eye. Somebody in D.C. has a serious weed up their ass about this guy.

Both men understood the seriousness of the task ahead of them. If the man currently known only as ‘Dave’ was not Brian Cahill, then agents Marcotte and Ronnetti could report back to McLean, VA that they had followed a false lead. No harm, no foul. But if the man currently known as ‘Dave’ was in fact Brian Cahill and they let him slip away, they could quite possibly kiss their jobs, their seniority, and their pensions goodbye.

OK, let’s check out and head uptown, Agent Marcotte said as he took one more look around the room to confirm that they had left nothing behind. Agent Ronnetti likewise scanned the room and then followed Marcotte out of the door.

* * * * * * * *

Yo! Dave! shouted the man on the steel frame of the third floor of the building under construction to the man on the ground below. The man on the ground was dressed in work boots, blue jeans, and a faded olive work shirt with the name Peterson Construction embroidered on the left breast panel of the shirt. We need some more welding rods up here! the man shouted from above.

Dave looked up and gave an acknowledging wave to the man above before turning and heading to the supply trailer parked in the corner of the construction lot. The men on the job knew very little about the man that they knew as Dave Lamont. He had joined the construction company about eight months ago and, though friendly enough, he seemed to keep his distance from everyone. He was easy to work with, never argued with anyone, and would do whatever was asked of him, unlike some of the old timers who somehow felt entitled to shirk off those tasks that they felt were beneath them. Dave in contrast just did his job and kept his mouth shut. The guys seemed to like Dave although they did not know much about him.

As Dave walked across the construction yard towards the supply trailer, he began to get a nervous twinge in his stomach, a sixth sense telling him that something was not quite right. As he walked, he looked about the yard, left, then right, and