Apex Predator (22 page)

After seeing his wife and children off to the airport, Steven headed over to the office. Everyone was gone for the day, except for the odd office where the lights were still on, lights that Steven could see in various floors. He greeted the guard and headed for the elevator. He headed to the only elevator that went to the top floor, Art Goodman’s office. Loomis knew he would still be there; he was always the last one to leave. Steven walked from the elevator to his office. All the hallways were dark and the only light illuminating his way was coming from underneath the General’s door.

Steven knocked on the door and Goodman responded from his desk, “Come in.”

Steven walked in and directly to the front of his desk, “Listen, sir, I just wanted to say thank you for everything you and the company have done for us. I just don’t know how I could ever say thank you enough.”

The General looked at Steven for a second, opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a humidor with Cuban cigars.

He turned the box toward Steven, “Montecristo? They’re the real thing, you know, not that Dominican crap.”

Steven smiled and said, “Sounds tempting, but no, thank you.”

Goodman bit off the tip of the cigar and lit it. Being the CEO had its perks, but being the General was the ultimate perk.

After a couple of initial puffs, he looked at Steven and said, “You know, Steven, a long time ago I made an oath, an oath to honor and defend my country and our way of life, and it’s an oath I have carried with me my entire life. Part of that oath also included taking care of all the people that were a part of my team. That held true in war and it holds true here.

“You are a good man, Steven, a good executive and a great father and husband. I wasn’t helping you out, neither were any of the others, not really, they were just being true to themselves, just as you would have been.”

Steven stood, just listening. The General was coming to a point and Steven knew it, but as always he was coming to the point at his own pace.

Goodman once again reached under his desk and brought out a bottle, “Single malt Scotch, 21 years old. It’s the only thing I drink, this and my damn cigars are my only vices, but I suppose a man could do worse.”

He didn’t bother to offer Steven a glass this time, he just poured himself a drink, neat.

Steven said, “Yes, sir, I guess you are right, a man could do much worse than a couple of cigars and some Scotch.”

Now the General, looking intently at Steven, took a sip of his drink and finally said what he really wanted to say, “Now what do you say we dispense with the bullshit and get to the real reason you are here.”

Steven went to answer, but Goodman stopped him, “Remember it’s me, Steven. I don’t care how awful you might think whatever you have to tell me is, what I won’t abide by is bullshit. So, once again, what do you say we get down to what it is you have to say?”

Steven hung his head and looked back up with a wry grin on his face. The old man hadn’t lost a step, “Sir, I’m going to be talking to Brian Case at Tactical Assets about something sensitive and I just wanted you to hear it from me before you heard it from anybody else. With everything that’s happened, I just…”

The General interrupted him again, “Listen, son, every man, and I mean every man, has a moment in their lives when they need to look deep into their heart to make a decision, they might not want to make it, but they know they have to. People like us needed to make those kinds of decisions more than others. Our work, our life, demanded it. Leading men into war is a big responsibility and one that stays with you for the rest of your life.”

He paused and took a couple of puffs from his cigar in contemplation and Steven remained standing, not knowing exactly what the General was getting at. “Sir, I don’t think I get what…”

Goodman put up his hand, “You had a decision to make, one that you know you would need to live with forever. I’ve told you that from the beginning. Now I don’t need to know what that decision is, how or why you made it, but I told you before I am behind you and this company is, too, and that’s always going to be the case.

“Now if you need to go to Tactical Assets and talk to Brian Case about our inventory so you can catch up after being gone for some time, I understand.”

Steven and the General locked eyes for what seemed an eternity.

Steven simply nodded slightly, “Yes, sir.” He turned around to leave the General’s office. The old man knew that whatever else Steven had done or thought about, he had developed a plan. Maybe he hadn’t worked it out all the way to the end, but the General knew that as a SEAL Steven had been trained to assess and address tactical objectives first, and that’s exactly what he was sure he had done.

Right before he walked through the door, Goodman said one last thing, “By the way, Steven, talk to Case about some of the new hardware we just got in.”

Steven stopped, didn’t look back and went on his way. As usual, the General said almost everything he needed to say to Steven without actually saying anything. Steven went to the elevators and went from the top of the building to the very bottom of the building, the reinforced basement that had been converted to store all of the hardware the company used. Access was granted through a fingerprint scan and putting in a code on a keypad.

Brian Case was sitting at his desk behind the bulletproof glass partition that kept the weapons, surveillance equipment and electronics, anything that might be needed for any operation around the world.

Steven approached the gate to grant access to the actual warehouse and without saying anything Brian Case pressed a button to let him in. The General had made a call. Steven walked in knowing exactly where he needed to go.

He stopped by Brian’s desk. “Hey, Brian, did we ever get the CheyTac M200s we were waiting for?”

Without looking up, Brian pushed a thin, paper manual toward Steven, “The General said you might be coming by to bone up for some upcoming deal or something. Here’s the manual for it, the ammo is in the rack above it, as well as all the attachments, suppressor, scope, you know, just so you know everything you need to know for your presentation.”

Steven took the manual and said, “Thanks, Brian.”

He went to walk away and before he could round the first corner down the aisle to find what he was looking for, he heard Brian call out to him, “Hey, Steve, I’m really sorry about Tracy, I really am, we all are. At least they caught the animal that did this, right?”

Steven stopped for a brief moment, “Yes, they did and thank you, Brian, I really appreciate it, thank everyone else for me too, will you?”

He rounded the corner and went to the locker with the CheyTac M200 in it. Above it were all the modifications available for it, a custom-made suppressor, telescopic sight and the ammo. He opened the locker with a master key, picked up the weapon, the scope and the box of ammunition along with a carrying case.

There was much debate as to what the best sniper rifle in the world was, but for Steven’s money there was no better rifle for his purposes than the CheyTac, light, accurate up to 2100 yards. The Canadian Timberwolf C14 was a close second, but it was only accurate up to 1500 yards. Steven could always tell someone had never actually used a sniper rifle in the field when the first thing out of their mouth was about the Barrett A107 .50 caliber. The thing was a cannon, bulky and not designed for human targets but to penetrate hardware, it was overkill if what you needed was something easy to carry and accurate. The ballistics and kinetic impact from the Barrett literally flipped human targets through the air when it hit. Perhaps appropriate for the shock and awe element needed in the Middle East, but overkill for New York City.

Steven packed all the gear in the carrying bag and walked out of the basement. As he was waiting for the elevator, Brian finally looked up from his newspaper and called out to Steven before the elevator arrived, “Hey, Loomis!” Steven turned around. “Good luck.” Steven nodded and gave Brian a brief, sad smile just as the elevator was opening.

The Manhattan criminal court building was a large and regal structure. So many infamous trials had gone on there, so many criminals from so many high-profile cases, that it almost gave the old building a personality of its own. Once one walked inside, there was a cacophony of sounds, lawyers explaining things to their clients, defendants professing their innocence, lawyers negotiating. There were shoe shiners, one of the last places they could be found, offering their services at the entrance.

That’s what the courthouse was like on any given day. Today, however, the place was complete pandemonium. Today was the day that Donald Riche would be arraigned.

Drew Willis had been in the courthouse when other high-profile cases had invaded the courthouse, but he had never seen anything like this. There were cameras everywhere, in the courtroom where Riche would be arraigned and around almost every corner of the hallways in the courthouse and stationed at every exit door.

Drew was sitting on a bench on the third floor going over his files when he heard a commotion over by the elevators. The elevator door opened and out walked Donald Riche, flanked on four sides by armed guards, wearing an orange jumpsuit and shackled at his wrists and ankles. A throng of reporters was following the procession and shouting questions that were for the most part unintelligible. They headed into the courtroom while most of the reporters remained outside.

Willis was sure the courtroom was packed. Inside along with the other defendants were reporters from every major network, the families of the victims, with the exception of the Loomis family, and the attorneys handling the various cases. David Neill, the DA, was there to represent the people of New York along with Michael Gordon, a senior ADA, and to his surprise, Bart Logan was also a part of the prosecution team. The defense team, Harvey Lynch along with another attorney Drew didn’t know and what was probably a legal assistant, was flanking Donald Riche.

Drew was surprised at what Riche looked like because he looked just like the guy next door. Medium height, medium weight, stylish glasses, nicely cut hair, as far from a monster as you could get.

Wanting to get the cameras out of the courtroom as soon as possible, Donald Riche’s case was the first on the docket. Drew came into the courtroom to find it was standing room only and he was only allowed in because he himself had a case on the docket. When he walked in he was surprised by the level of noise in the courtroom, cameras whirring and people chattering, that is until the bailiff announced the judge’s arrival on the bench.

Even after the announcement, the noise level went down only gradually. Finally, once the courtroom was quiet, the court clerk called the first case, “Your honor, the first case is the People vs. Donald Riche, case number NY-1593245.”

Judge Harlan Robinson, a seasoned superior court judge with a booming voice and a cold, all-business manner, called the court to order, “Very well. Who represents the people?”

Neill stood up, “David Neill, District Attorney, representing the people, your honor.”

Judge Robinson grinned and looked up from the file, “Well, Mr. Neill. It is always good to see you in the courtroom, even if it’s once every six months or so.”

A low chuckle rippled through the crowd, Neill blushed but said nothing.

Robinson turned his attention to the defense table, “And for the defense?”

Lynch stood up, “Harvey Lynch, your honor. I will be representing Mr. Riche throughout these proceedings.”

Robinson flipped through the pages of the file in front of him and addressed the defendant, “Mr. Riche, are you aware of the charges being brought against you?”

Donald Riche, in a most serene voice, said, “Yes, I am.”

Robinson continued, “And are you aware that you need to enter a plea at this time?”

Before Riche could answer, Lynch jumped in, “Your honor, we would request a continuance in order to allow the defense to have Mr. Riche examined by a psychiatrist in order to determine whether a plea of not guilty by reason of insanity is warranted.”

Lynch knew that in order to pursue an insanity defense, it had to be established at the arraignment. He knew very well Riche would never be found insane, but still needed to establish the possibility of pursuing a ‘not guilty by reason of insanity’ plea.

David Neill immediately stood, “Your honor, the people would object to a continuance. Mr. Lynch has not engaged in any conversation with our office advising us that he was planning on pursuing an insanity defense. Mr. Lynch knows the standard for an insanity defense, and as we know, Mr. Riche clearly took measures to cover his crimes.”

Lynch responded, “Your honor, there has been no legal finding that Mr. Riche committed any crime, and we object to the district attorney coming to a conclusion without a single issue litigated yet.”

Willis was impressed that old Harvey wasn’t intimidated by the cameras or by Neill. He was actually making a good argument for a continuance.

Judge Robinson considered both sides’ arguments and finally turned to Lynch, “Mr. Lynch, as far as you can tell, do you feel your client at this point is capable of assisting in his own defense?”

Lynch was caught off guard, but he couldn’t lie, “Yes, your honor, at this time I believe Mr. Riche can assist in his own defense.”

Robinson continued, “Then I am going to deny the continuance. Mr. Riche will enter a plea today. You are of course entitled to have him examined by your experts and psychiatrists. The court is perfectly willing to allow Mr. Riche to withdraw his plea and enter an insanity plea if there is enough credible evidence that it is warranted.”

Neill interjected, “Your honor, the people would also like to have Mr. Riche examined by our own psychiatrists. We will coordinate with Mr. Lynch in order to not cause any further delays.”

Judge Robinson now addressed Riche, “Having understood all the charges against you, Mr. Riche, what is your plea, guilty or not guilty?”

Once again, almost casually, Riche responded, “Not guilty, your honor.”