Perfect Killer (23 page)

The phone rang again. Brown clicked the pause button on the DVD software control panel and picked up the phone. He waited for the fifth ring, then pressed the green button. "Black granite."

"Quarry master."
"How can I help?"
"Intel."

Still focusing on the paused video of a black sheriff's deputy named Myers, Brown sat on the end of the bed and listened to the woman.
When she finished, Brown said, "I can help you. Call this number back at precisely noon tomorrow." He severed the connection before she could reply.
"Fuck you!" Jael St. Clair wrestled again with the unrequited anger burning inside her. "Noon! You fucking asshole!"
She struggled to keep the car on the road and her mind locked on reality. She tried controlled breathing. She tried visualizing the last hit, the last release, but that only made the pain worse. She had to kill Stone before the anger got her first.
The anger threatened to tip her over, so she pulled onto the shoulder and fumbled about in her shoulder bag. Finally, she pulled out the amber plastic drug bottle and shook out a capsule and washed it down with a swallow from a plastic bottle of water.
Then she waited. Finally, the heat cooled, and as it did, a plan formed in her head.
There would be someone, she thought as the traffic rocked by on her left. There is always a connection, someone who can always find the quarry. Someone to watch, to follow. It would be in the dossier she had downloaded from them.
She took another sip of water and with calm steady hands pulled back into traffic.

Had this been an ordinary night, the ragged visions that haunted me would have jolted me awake. But even visions of Camilla, Vanessa, Lashonna, and the nightmare of the past days could not break through my desperate need for sleep.

I have no idea how long I had been asleep when I dreamed that Jasmine came in and gave me a gentle kiss. In the dream, she undressed me, threw a quilt over me, then snuggled in beside me and we went to sleep.

Pacific breezes kept Dan Gabriel and Clark Braxton cool as they followed the security detail out to Constellation Boulevard, where armed motorcycle outriders idled near the General's armored limo.

"Project Enduring Valor still concerns me," Gabriel said.
"Go on," Braxton said evenly.
"Xantaeus robs a soldier of free will without their knowledge, overrides their sense

of compassion… neutralizes the fear of injury."
"Battle can do that all by itself," Braxton said without hesitation. "Natural two
percenters do it all the time. Compassion and fear can kill all the wrong people." "Maybe I'm not expressing myself very well. One very big issue here deals with
free will. Without it, without the ability for soldiers to make moral decisions, we turn them
into inhuman, meat-based robots."
"Don't talk to me about free will," Braxton snapped. "Every man who freezes, who
doesn't pull the trigger, has had his free will robbed by the irrationality of fear. That, sir, is
robbing men of their free will and thwarting the very moral decision to protect themselves,
their comrades, and their country. Your argument doesn't hold water."
"I see your point," Gabriel persisted. "But what about the practical issues? You
know as well as I do that battles are won when one side breaks the other's spirit. One side
surrenders or runs before it's completely destroyed. This preserves lives, talent,
knowledge—resources which can be harnessed for reconstruction once a war is over. "But if both sides have the drug," Gabriel continued, "then neither side breaks, and
battles end only when every member of the losing side is killed or wounded so gravely
they can no longer pull a trigger. It alters warfare like never before."
Braxton merely nodded as they reached Avenue of the Stars and crossed with the
light. Loud traffic moved the two men shoulder to shoulder so they could hear each other. "It's the reason America needs to keep it for ourselves."
"That didn't last very long with nuclear weapons," Gabriel said.
"That's a good analogy." Braxton said. "Because Project Enduring Valor will turn
every soldier into the perfect killer, the ultimate weapon more fearsome than nukes. And
don't forget: the Cold War's nuclear mutually assured destruction gave the world a longer
period of peace than ever before. Now look at all the bloodshed since the fall of the Soviet
Union. Controlled Xantaeus proliferation should bring back an era of mutually assured
destruction and a return to an enforced global peace.
"Dan, the Russians and the Chinese'll have their own nondepleting neurotrops
soon. So too the Indians, Pakistanis, Israelis, and Saudis. Without deploying Xantaeus
first, we'll be at their mercy."
"Just like with nukes," Gabriel said. "Get' em or die. Damn."
"Damned if we do, damned if we don't," Braxton agreed, "We're either out front or
we're toast."
Gabriel shook his head slowly. They approached Century Park East. "You're right
yet again, sir. Absolutely correct. We either have to ride the tiger or get eaten." "War really is hell. Always has been. Your agony over Xantaeus has been repeated
every time a new generation of weapons has come on the scene from bows and arrows to
guns and nukes. There is always a new tiger to ride. But the only thing worse than fighting
a war—"
"—is losing one," Gabriel finished the General's oft-repeated motto. "You're right
again, sir."
Braxton clapped Gabriel across the shoulders. "That's why you'll make a good
secretary of defense. You've got the mind of a soldier and the conscience of a philosopher.
Don't stop raising the questions."
They stopped for a traffic light as northbound traffic spilled past them, splashing
up ahead into a left-turn jam at Santa Monica Boulevard, The signal changed and they
followed security across. Around them, the motorcycles and the limo kept pace. Half a
dozen paces later Braxton turned to his long-time adjutant. "Dan, as it happens, I need to
chat with you about Enduring Valor as well."
Gabriel gave him a go-head look.
"Mistakes have been made," Braxton said. "Serious mistakes I have learned about
just today. Mistakes endangering the program, my presidential campaign, our plans to
reshape the military, and quite frankly my entire career.
"I don't have to remind you that without Project Enduring Valor there is no
possible way we can build the fighting force the country needs with the shit-pitiful
appropriations those clowns on the Hill see fit to give us."
"Yes, sir. The budget and use of proceeds focused my thoughts there. Everything's
predicated on Enduring Valor's successful implementation."
"Good. Hold that thought in mind, use it to filter everything I am about to tell
you."
They got to Santa Monica Boulevard and turned right.
"By now you know the complete
official
history of Enduring Valor," Braxton said.
"Today I learned Frank Harper committed some very serious mistakes in the early days,
some of them prosecutable crimes."
Braxton let that sink in for several steps. Seeing no signs of weakness on Gabriel's
face, he continued, "Harper conducted unauthorized surgeries, tampered with his
experimental data to make things look more promising, lied to congressional committees,
and delivered outright fabrications to his superiors in the Pentagon."
"And this is coming to light now, after all these years?"
Braxton nodded and concentrated on the muscles in his face, working toward a
mask of dismay and the shock of betrayal. "I owe my life to his skill, but he's turned out to
have a side that threatens everything."
The lights at the intersection of Wilshire and Santa Monica Boulevard came into
view.
"How could that be?" Gabriel asked. "His involvement was half a century ago. Isn't
there a fire wall of some sort? Isn't Enduring Valor a new program that pays homage to
Harper's program but is not a continuation of it?"
"It's not that simple. We have enemies in Congress and elsewhere. They don't give
a damn about facts or rational debate. They want to win at all costs, which means finding a
'Gotcha!' for their side of things."
Gabriel made a face. "Right. Make a mistake and it's not an honest error, but
evidence of conspiracy and evil intent."
Braxton smiled as Gabriel connected this emotional attachment on his own. He
still owned Gabriel's heart.
"Remember that," Braxton said. "Because Frank's mistakes have killed people and
more need to die."
Then Braxton told Gabriel about Darryl Talmadge, two black attorneys named
Thompson, and a highly decorated veteran and world-renowned neurophysiologist. Then the General connected them all to a string of murders with the dots of a reality he wanted
Gabriel to adopt as his own.
"One of the four is dead. We will not be safe until they all are."
Braxton's words landed on Gabriel like a sandbag. He stopped. Braxton took
another step, then stopped and turned to face him. Around them, security people,
motorcycles, and the gleaming limo came to a slower halt.
"Sir. Please let me get this straight: you're saying we not only have to kill at least
three more people, one of them a brilliant and very brave soldier, but we have to keep it all
secret?"
Braxton moved close to the man he had handpicked for secretary of defense.
"Filter it, Dan. Filter the reality through what we talked about."
"But, sir, we are talking about killing innocent people."
"Innocent people get killed in every war, Dan. Ugly. Evil. Reality." Braxton stood close and studied Gabriel's face and the movements in his eyes,
which reflected the emotions shifting behind them. The General waited for the right
moment, the psychological inflection point. When it came, he spoke again, softly. "Do you remember studying the cases where a ship has taken a torpedo, or a
submarine is damaged so seriously, that only sealing off the damaged areas can save the
ship? Even if there were sailors still alive in them?"
Gabriel nodded.
"And you realize—you accept—the tragic reality that those lives had to be
sacrificed in order to save hundreds of other lives?"
"Sir."
"We must make that decision. If anything derails Project Enduring Valor, millions
will eventually die. Perhaps not tomorrow or next year, but when we face an enemy wired
on their nondepleting neurotrop and they slaughter our unprotected soldiers. Misguided
compassion now for three people will cost us immeasurably more if we wait. If Enduring
Valor is sidetracked, we will never get it back on course in time."
"Jesus!" Gabriel exhaled. "Jesus Christ!" He wiped at his face with a cold hand.
"There must be another way."
"No. We must act now, just like a ship's captain must make his hard decision
immediately."
Braxton followed the despair in Gabriel's eyes, watched his shoulders slump under
the weight of the revelations. The time for the kill had come.
"Dan, if I could have handled this by myself, I would never have told you about it
all. You understand, don't you?"
"Of course."
"I need your help. I've pushed my own resources to the limits." Braxton paused.
"That will change after the election, but for now we have to make the best of what we can
cobble together, people we can trust, favors we can call in."
Gabriel felt the dread gathering in his gut.
"I need you to make some calls. Calls to people who are as committed to you as
you are to me. People who will take some discreet, out-of-channel action to help us clear
this mess up before it destroys us both."
Braxton waited as Gabriel shut his eyes and grimaced.
"This is not right," Gabriel said.
Braxton ignored those qualms. "How about the fellow who took over command of
Task Force 86M from you?"
"Maybe," Gabriel said hoarsely as he opened his eyes. "But—"
"But nothing!" Braxton bore down to close the sale. "Think first of America's
future. Then think about your future. You've resigned from the Army. You can't go back."
He paused. "If you won't do this for America or yourself, do it for me. I will be personally
ruined without your help. You've followed me through hell, and together we've come out
stronger every time. I've come through for you and I've never once asked you for a thing." Traffic sounds washed through the long pause that followed. Braxton watched as
Gabriel's gaze finally met his own and fixed it with a steely earnestness. A horn sounded;
engines accelerated.
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Thank you," Braxton said. "Make some calls tomorrow morning. I'm sure
you have more than a couple of people who owe you."
"Yes, sir."
"Good man."

Jael St. Clair sucked at the last potent half inch of her Marlboro, then exhaled and watched the smoke join the dense haze surrounding her. Finally, she allowed herself the first smile of the new day. It had taken hours to filter through the names and follow the hidden trails. Now, as she pushed back from her laptop, she knew she had her answer in the minute details of online land records and an archival issue of the
New York Times.
No need to call the arrogant "black granite" asshole back at noon, because by then Stone and the lawyer would be long dead.

The last of the police cars left shortly before dawn. From his reclining position in the back of his pickup, parked at the rear of the cancer clinic, Rex listened to the police scanner through an earbud and waited for signs it was all clear.

He had followed Brad and Jasmine to the Sonic drive-in from the hospital, but decided not to linger in the neighborhood when they went to her law office. Instead, he set up shop where he could watch the EZSleep, figuring Stone would make his way there eventually.

The storm that followed had pounded the camper shell like incoming artillery, and he thought at least once he was surely going to be killed by a tornado.
The storm had really screwed up his surveillance. At times the EZSleep disappeared entirely in the downpour, especially when the power went out. The rest came in spasmodic jerks of time, like an old fuzzy surveillance video with gaps containing the most important parts. He did see Brad Stone, Jasmine, and the red Mercedes, the cable truck, and a white SUV. Then came thunder that sounded like gunshots, a tall blonde with big tits who came running past, and not a whole lot later the police. The police scanner told him cops had an all-points out on Brad and Jasmine.
"Buddy, you are in a heap a trouble," Rex said quietly under his breath. "Y'mama wouldn't like it at all." He crawled over to the tailgate and waited again, looking for any sign of law enforcement. Some people put down his talk of warrants and an unsavory past as bravado. But he knew from experience that once the cops got wind of his warrants and the crimes behind them, they'd shoot first and not bother with questions.
Rex lifted the shell's window and climbed out, unlocked the driver's door, and got in.
"Now where the hell would you two go?" he asked himself as he started the engine and put it in gear. They couldn't go to anybody they knew, nobody they were related to, any place they had ever been before. They had to have a new vehicle and a safe place to hide. And the police knew that as well as he did. Rex hoped he knew Stone better than they did.
He pulled out onto Highway 82 and headed into town. Maybe, he thought, retracing Brad's steps might produce some answers.
"Now, God," he said, looking up through the windshield at the brightening sky, "I know you and I don't have the best of relationships. But I certainly would appreciate any pointers you can spare." It was about as close as Rex ever got to praying. That it was his best bet right now bothered him mightily.