Chasing the Son (24 page)

When her headset crackled with the incoming alert, she checked that she had a round in the chamber (she knew she did, her finger was her safety, but one
always
checked), as the pilots lifted the bird up out of the small clearing where they’d been waiting.

On their display, a blip indicated where the alert had come from.

“Six minutes ETA,” the pilot announced.

“Make it five,” the sniper advised.

* * *

Riley, Chase and Westland formed a front guard as the two Mongin’s stepped behind them. Dillon moved to flank Chase.

“You armed?” Chase asked him.

“Negative.”

“Then get behind us,” Chase suggested and Dillon ignored.

The incoming boat bumped against the dock and the four men jumped off, Preston and three hard-cases in long coats.

“We don’t want any trouble!” Riley called out.

“Hello!” Preston Gregory called out. He had a metal briefcase in hand. “You must be Dave Riley. And Horace Chase. I know Chad. And Chad senior. And Dillon. We meet again. You left so quickly from Mister Fabrou’s yacht we didn’t have a chance to say goodbye. The lady is an enigma. Your name?”

Chase took half a step forward. “You killed Merchant Fabrou and his son. Are you working with Sarah Briggs?”

Preston cocked his head as if puzzled. His three men spread out, obviously trained. They all had bulges in their coats indicating they had automatic weapons on slings underneath them.

“We’re outgunned,” Riley whispered.

“No shit,” Westland said in the same low voice. “Delay them for a couple of minutes.”

“And then what?” Riley asked.

“Something you want to share?” Preston said, noting them whispering.

The two groups were about fifteen meters apart. Outside amateur range, decent range for an expert with a pistol, and deadly for experts with automatic weapons.

When no one replied, Preston looked past the front line to the Mongin’s. “Gentlemen, can we come to an agreement on the access point? I believe you’ve been offered good money at a reasonable price.”

Chad answered. “Damn, Preston. What are you doing? Why’d you kill Jerrod? And Mister Fabrou?”

“I believe the evidence points to Dillon as Jerrod Fabrou’s killer,” Preston said. “And his father suffered an unfortunate heart attack upon hearing of his son’s death at Dillon’s hands. So both deaths can be laid at your feet,” he added, nodding toward Dillon.

“I don’t think Chad is on your side any more,” Dillon said.

Preston held up the metal case. “I think Chad is on the side of the money. Do we have a deal?” he asked the elder Mongin.

“Sarah Briggs is playing you,” Chase said.

“What Sarah does isn’t any of my concern,” Preston said. “Whatever is between you and her is your business.”

“Where does she have my son?” Chase asked. “Where?”

Preston shrugged. “Again, that’s between you and her.” He shifted his attention back to the Mongins. “I want the easement. Give me the signed documents you were provided with and my men and I, will be on our way. And you’ll get what we agreed upon.” He held up the briefcase. “You’ll be richer, the Mongins I mean,” he amended. “Not the rest of you. Unless they’re paying you to stand in front of them.”

“What happened at the Institute with my son?” Chase asked.

“Old history,” Preston said. “Terrible accident. So on and so forth, old fellow. I believe Mrs. Jenrette still holds a grudge. You’ll have to take that up with her.” He waved that aside. “Do we have a deal, Mister Mongin?”

When there was no reply, Preston gestured. “Shoot Chad,” he ordered. One of his men brought a rifle to bear, peering through the laser sight.

Riley, Chase and Westland pulled their pistols. The other two men whipped up their own automatic weapons.

“Easy, everyone,” Riley called out. “This is a negotiation. Let’s not make it the O.K. Corral.”

“That would make you the Clanton’s right?” Preston was grinning. “And I’m Wyatt Earp.”

“Your hand is empty,” Westland said.

“You must be Calamity Jane,” Preston said.

“You’re mixing your Westerns,” Westland said. “Right now, a sniper has you targeted.” She brought her other hand up, phone in it. “I give the word, you’re dead.”

“Oh, bullshit,” Preston said.

“Warning shot,” Westland said.

* * *

The sniper was on the skid, a kilometer and a half away. The MH-6 was stealth-enabled, with special rotors, engine, and other gear that kept its noise to around a kilometer radius, which meant it was silent at her kill range.

Which was the entire point.

The monkey harness held the sniper from falling as she leaned into it, rifle to her shoulder.

She hated warning shots. Waste of a bullet, but she also followed orders.

She shifted her aiming point from Preston’s forehead to the metal case. She picked her aiming point, exhaled, found the sweet spot of not breathing and between heartbeats and caressed the hair trigger.

* * *

“Fuck!” Preston yelled as a bullet punched the case out of his hand, sending it tumbling to the ground.

The three guards went to their knees, searching through their sights for the shooter, with no idea from which direction the shot had come.

Preston was frozen, for once facing something he hadn’t planned.

“Next bullet, you’re dead,” Westland said.

“We’ll make the deal!” the elder Mongin cried out. “No one else needs to get hurt.” He held up a leather satchel. “The paperwork is all set. Like we agreed.”

“Get it,” Preston ordered one of his men. “Give them the case.” The guy looked like he was going to protest, then picked up the punctured case and scuttled forward, past Chase, Riley and Westland and exchanged for the satchel.

Preston began backing up. “Until we meet again.”

“Kate, kill the son-of-a-bitch,” Riley suggested, in a voice loud enough for Preston to hear.

“Then old Horace won’t see his son,” Preston yelled. “Kill me and he’s dead.”

“You said you didn’t know where my son is?”

“I lied,” Preston said.

“Hold,” Westland said out loud.

* * *

The sniper had heard the conversation through the phone. She wasn’t pleased to stand down because in her experience appeasing a bad guy just put off the inevitable. Which was usually a 7.62 mm round through the skull.

But orders were orders.

And Preston wasn’t the target of this Sanction anyway.

* * *

“Where is he?” Chase demanded.

“No idea at the moment,” Preston said. “But I’ll know by morning. I’d love to stay and chat, but I’ve been shot at.”

As Preston and his three compatriots got in the boat and pulled away from Daufuskie, Riley turned to face Kate Westland as Chase looked to the south, the direction from which they knew the round had to have come, having extensive experience working with snipers.

“Little bird, shooter on the skid,” Chase said, spotting the small dot hovering just above the treeline.

“Cardena,” Riley said. “He sent you.”

“I told you that,” Westland said.

“No,” Riley said. “You said he told you about this and you decided to come. You didn’t tell us he ordered you
and
the cavalry to come here. Why?”

“What the hell is going on?” the elder Mongin demanded.

“You’ve got your money,” Riley said. “You and your son get going. You too,” he indicating Dillon.

“I think we have the same objective,” Dillon said. “I’m staying.”

“What’s your objective?” Chase asked.

“Finding your son.”

“For Mrs. Jenrette, right?” Chase said. “So she can kill him?”

“She hired me,” Dillon admitted, “but
my
priority is finding out the truth.” He nodded toward the boat racing away. “Given recent events, I have a feeling that the truth of what happened that night isn’t what was reported.”

“Hold on, hold on,” Riley said. “One thing at a time.” He pointed at Westland. “Why do you have chopper and sniper support?”

“Cardena and the Cellar,” Westland said. “Did Riley tell you about the Cellar?”

Chase nodded.

“Okay,” Westland said. “Here’s the deal.” She noticed the two Mongins edging away with the briefcase. “Hold on,” she yelled at them. “Chad needs to hang around because he has something he needs to tell us, first. So I think both of you just sit your butts down for now.”

The two Mongins obediently plopped down at the table.

Westland faced Riley and Chase. “Let’s deal with Chad and Dillon first, then I’ll let you know what’s going on with me. All right?”

Both men nodded. Chase went to the table. “Chad. What happened that night at the Institute?”

Chad glanced at his father.

“Tell the truth, son,” the old man said. “We’re in it too deep now. If Preston killed both Jerrod and Merchant Fabrou, we’ve got problems. Maybe these people can help.”

Chad swallowed. “Preston killed Jerrod. He was hanging there. Like you left him,” he said to Dillon. “Preston cut the harness.”

“All right,” Dillon said. “You know who you’re dealing with now, Chad. Preston will as soon as kill you too. There’s nothing left to protect. Tell us about the night Greer Jenrette died.”

Chad hung his head, and when he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper.

Back to August, over a year ago.

The bathroom was at the very end of the Sinks, underneath the Institute barracks. It had a name among the cadets: Dante’s Den. It was off-limits to rats, unless they were ordered to report there; a summons dreaded among the first-year cadets.

There were a select few, though, who anticipated that summons with something more than dread: with the anticipation of the first step of inclusion into the Ring. As legacies of the Ring, they’d been told about it by their father’s, as their father’s had been told about it by their own. It was tradition. It was a rite of passage.

The summons had come for Wing and Greer twenty minutes before Taps, via a note slid under each of their doors.

Dante’s Den

15 minutes before Taps

Uniform: As for PT, under Raincoat, under arms

Bring this note

It was an order, and rats obeyed orders. Both scurried to get into the proper, bizarre, uniform and hustle down the stairs.

Preston, Chad and Jerrod were waiting, dressed in civilian clothes, passing a bottle back and forth. At least Chad and Jerrod were. They’d never seen Preston drink, even though he’d bought the expensive whiskey as they drove back to the Institute after a day on the town.

“Hit the wall!” Chad screamed as Greer Jenrette showed up first. “Present arms!”

“Give me the note,” Jerrod demanded, taking it and stuffing the evidence in his pocket.

Greer obediently slammed back against the tile wall of the open-bay shower, chin tucked tight into his chest, his M-14 at present arms, his bayonet in its scabbard, dangling from a starched white belt over his shorts and underneath his raincoat. He wore the gray physical training T-shirt, his name stenciled about the Institute crest.

Chad and Jerrod giggled, passing the bottle once more, but Preston eyed Greer in a way that made the rat very nervous.

“How’s your grandmother, Jenrette?” Preston asked.

“Fine, sir!” Greer shouted.

“No. I mean really. How is she? Ready to kick the bucket any time soon?” Preston asked.

“No, sir.”

“You sure, old boy?” Preston’s assumed accent was kicking in.

“Yes, sir.”

“Too bad,” Preston said. “You know she didn’t invite Cadet Mongin’s parents to the Saint Cecilia Ball last year?”

“No, sir.”

Chad got in his face. “We not good enough for you?”

When Greer didn’t respond right away, Chad was screaming, spittle hitting the plebe’s face. “Answer, rat!”

“Yes, sir.”

“’Yes, sir’ what?” Chad said. “Yes, my family’s not good enough?”

“Sir, I do not understand.”

Preston laughed. “I’m sure he doesn’t.” And then Wing was there in Dante’s Den, pinging down the hallway and entering the showers.

“Give me the note,” Jerrod demanded.

“Against the wall!” Chad screamed. “Present arms.”

In a flash Wing was next to Greer, rifle held upright in front of him.

“Are you cold, Wing?” Jerrod demanded.

“No, sir.”

“I’m cold,” Jerrod said.

“Are you dirty, Wing?” Chad asked.

“No, sir.”

“I think you’re dirty,” Chad said. “I think you’re a scummy piece of shit. A fucking mongrel.”

A flash of anger passed across Wing’s face, exactly what sadistic upperclassmen dug for when hazing. It meant they’d gotten to the rat, touched him emotionally. It was usually the beginning of the end for the rat who displayed it.

Preston leaned close so only Wing could hear. “You’re worthless, Wing. You don’t belong here. Why don’t you go home to China? Or the ghetto? See, that’s your problem. Who are you, Wing? Where do you belong? Do you even know?”

A muscle in Wing’s jaw quivered in anger, but his lips were sealed.

“I can tell you where you don’t belong,” Preston said. “Here.”

Meanwhile, Chad had gone along the wall, turning on the hot water, leaving a small space for the two rats. As the scalding water poured, steam began to fill the showers.

Jerrod went over to a bench in front of a row of lockers then sat down, bottle in hand. “Whoa, guys.” He missed the look of disgust that passed over Preston’s face at his expression of weakness.

“Chad, old boy,” Preston said. “Welcome the rats to Dante’s Den.”

And Chad began to run the two rats through the manual of arms. Every time they made the slightest mistake, he harangued them. Even when they were correct, he screamed. It was a lose-lose situation.

Meanwhile, Preston sat down next to Jerrod. “You doing all right, old chap?”