The Good Soldier (17 page)

"Wouldn't being attacked so close to the house be something that might have resulted in retaliation by you?" he asked.

"Why's that?"

"They were ready to kill you."

"No," I said. "They were defending their turf."

He shrugged and I continued telling him the events in order, as best as I remembered them. Occasionally he stopped me to ask a question or two, but for the most part he nodded as he listened to me rattle off the events of the last few days.

The waiter returned to the table with my cup of coffee while I was telling Conners about Abbot's murder. I had to stop mid-sentence. I dropped my voice to a scratch above a whisper after the waiter left.

He exhaled loudly after I gave him my version of Abbot's murder.

"Quite a story, Jack."

"It's more than a story."

"I know."

"Your turn. Spill."

He looked around the restaurant.

"I don't know how much I can tell. In here." He shrugged. "Now."

I said nothing and gave him a look that said he had better talk.

"Hey, aren't you worried about being spotted? Your damn picture was all over the TV and papers here."

"Stock photo of me in uniform." I ran my hand through my hair. "Doesn't look like me with this hair and beard."

Conners shrugged.

I waited for him to talk while he took a few bites of steak and washed it down with the amber beer in front of him.

I lit a cigarette.

"This is a non-smoking restaurant," he said through a mouthful of steak as he leaned forward and scanned the restaurant to make sure no one saw me light it, like a lookout in the boy's room in a high school.

"Don't care."

"OK," he put his fork and knife down on the edge of his plate, "I'll talk."

I waited.

"Delaney," he said. "He gave you something, right?"

I nodded, didn't say anything.

"Did he tell you where to go next?"

"A bullet stopped him."

"Not yours, right?"

I cocked my head and didn't answer.

"Right, I know. OK, so…Delaney, he gave you a, uh, something that leads to something else." He lifted an eyebrow, waiting for a response.

I nodded.

"Only you don't know where to take what he gave you?"

I waited for him to continue. When he didn't, I responded, "That's right. That's what I told you a few minutes ago."

"OK, OK, Jack. I'm just making sure-"

"Cut the crap, Conners. For all we know someone is twenty minutes behind me and is going to open fire in here in a few minutes."

A couple of diners stopped mid-conversation and looked at me.

I smiled and waved.

"We're actors. Just rehearsing lines."

They shook their heads and returned to their conversations.

"Dammit, Jack. Calm down. Let me be thorough."

I'd grown tired of thorough. I wanted names. I wanted reasons. None of this 'confirm you did this and that' crap he kept feeding me.

"Greyhound," he said.

"The bus line?"

"Yes, the key goes to a locker at the Greyhound station."

"What's there?"

Conners clenched his jaw. Thick muscles worked in back and he pursed his lips together. "I don't know for sure."

"Who's there?"

"Don't know that either."

"Did you work with Delaney?"

"Yes."

"Who do you work for?"

"Can't tell you that."

I took a sip of coffee. "Why can't you tell me?"

"Because, officially, we don't exist." He waved his hands in the air, partly to be demonstrative and partly to waft the smoke away. "Officially, I don't exist."

I nodded while keeping my eyes focused on his. It wasn't out of the realm of possibility. Even within the known agencies there were departments that didn't exist. I was attached to one of them. There were also men who didn't exist, men who were worse than Martinez. Men who did things that people refused to acknowledge could be done in the name of freedom. The things that had to be done to defend that freedom. Nobody wants to think of what actions must be performed to keep them safe.

"Sounds like a cushy position."

"Jack, you get those documents and call me. I need to take a look at them and then we can figure this out."

"What's the locker number?"

He shook his head and looked to the side.

"B915."

I reached into my pocket, pulled out the key and tossed it at him.

"Here, you go get it yourself then."

He pushed the keys back to me.

"Don't be stupid. One call and you're locked up for life."

I narrowed my eyes and stared him down for fifteen seconds.

"That's what this comes down to?"

He slumped over and placed his elbows on the table.

"I'm sorry, Jack. That was uncalled for."

I said nothing.

"I know where this goes. Most of it at least. And if I go get those documents, and someone is waiting, I'm a dead man. Look at me." He waved his hands in front of his body. "If I die, then all knowledge of this dies. And you'll most likely die. As a traitor, too."

"And if I go there and someone is waiting?"

"You got more than a fifty-fifty chance to take them out."

I sat back and crossed my arms. There weren't many possible scenarios, but each one that existed played through my mind. The best option was for me to go to the Greyhound station and retrieve whatever sat inside the locker. I reached across the table and grabbed the key. Slid across the bench and stood next to the table.

"I'll call you in a few hours."

"I'll be waiting."

I turned and started to walk away.

"Jack," he said.

I looked over my shoulder.

"Like I said, I know where this goes. If you decide to open those documents, you need to prepare yourself for what's in there."

I walked back to the table.

"Where is that?"

Conners shook his head. "I can't tell you. Not until I know you are one hundred percent on my side."

"You haven't figured out that I am?"

"No. Once you return, I'll know, though."

The D.C. Greyhound station was located on 1st Street, about two and a half miles from the restaurant. I decided to walk. I went a block north to K Street then headed east until I reached 1st Street. I figured the later I arrived at the station the better. Chances were the schedule thinned out at night, resulting in fewer people around.

A cold wind blew down the street, numbing my face and carrying a combination of wood smoke and exhaust fumes. The sky clouded over. It looked as if a spring snow storm was brewing.

My watch read 11:30 when I reached the Greyhound station. I walked up 1st Street and turned on L Street. Continued past the bus station and stopped. A tree in bloom provided cover from the evenly spaced black wrought iron lamp posts that lined the sidewalk. I leaned against the tree and scanned the area. The activity across the street was virtually nil, with only a few people here and there. A red four door sedan pulled up and dropped off a young woman, late teens or early twenties, probably heading back to college after her spring break.

I scanned the parking lot behind me and didn't see anything out of the ordinary. There were only a dozen or so cars, all parked close to the lights. They belonged to employees, I figured. There was nothing that resembled a government official's car.

I pushed off the tree and walked across the street. The area behind the glass double door entrance was empty. I pulled the door open and stepped into the yellow tinted bus station. Directly in front of me was a large board displaying a digital schedule. To the left was a bank of windows. Ropes stretched out and across, creating a maze for passengers to wait in before buying their tickets. No one was in line. Only one window was occupied by an overweight lady reading a book. She looked up and then quickly back down when I made eye contact with her.

To my right were several rows of seats in a blue and white checkerboard pattern. I turned and headed that way. The outside facing wall was blank, painted a drab brown. The back wall was lined with lockers, as was the area to the left of the seats. The place was filled with row upon row of gray and blue and green painted lockers.

Only six seats were occupied, consisting of two couples and two individual travelers. None took note of me. I walked down the aisle in the middle of the seating area and took a seat at the last row. Then I watched and waited.

I let an hour pass. I did nothing. I talked to no one. I let my eyes wander to the row of lockers and focused on row B. No one entered. No one exited. Nice and quiet. Part of me felt it was too quiet. Could I trust Conners? If he wanted me to go down, this was the perfect set up. I was trapped here. A tactical team would have no trouble extracting me, dead or alive. I brushed the thought aside. He could have had me taken care of outside the restaurant. The way I saw it, he wanted to get his hands on these documents as much as I did. If he planned on taking me down, he'd do it after I handed them over to him. The simple solution was to not hand them over.

I got up and went outside, stopped near the glass doors and watched the sparse traffic as it passed. A car drove through the loop that ran in front of the building. It slowed near the entrance, but never stopped. Tinted windows blocked any view inside of the car.

I took a deep breath before walking back inside. The cold air cleansed my lungs. I headed toward the rows of lockers and turned at the row labeled B and walked past locker B915. I stopped ten feet away and looked over my shoulder. No one followed me. I cut down a cross aisle and turned at row L where I grabbed the key out of a random locker. If I needed to stash anything, I'd do it in that locker. Probably the last place they would look.

I went back to row B, peeking around the corner to make sure no one was waiting by locker B915. Satisfied that the row was empty, I walked up to the locker. I stood there for a few minutes, key in hand, debating whether or not to open it. I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being set up. I didn't know Conners well enough to put double crossing me past him. Hell, it didn't even have to be him. It could be any number of people I'd apparently pissed off recently.

I took a deep breath, exhaled and stuck the key in the locker. Turned it and opened the rectangular metal door. It squeaked against its hinges. Inside sat a black bag with a zipper on top and a mesh back. I grabbed the bag and turned away from the front of the bus station. I walked down the aisle until it opened up into an empty seating area.

This time I sat in the first row of seats. I pulled my jacket open, clearing a path to my Beretta. My heart beat fast and my breath quickened. The training I had been put through taught me how to control panic. I followed the steps and relaxed myself to the point where I could focus.

I unzipped the bag and looked up.

Two men stood fifteen feet away from me. Two men, that upon second glance, I knew.

"Jack Noble."

I nodded while zipping the bag shut.

"Gallo, Bealle."

Gallo stepped forward. A towel hung over his hand, a weak attempt at hiding his weapon. He smiled when my gaze lifted from the gun to meet his eyes. "Let's go, Jack."

* * *

Bealle walked in front of me. Gallo behind, his gun pressed into my back. I held the bag tight to my chest. For some reason they didn't try to take it, at least not yet.

We stepped through the front door and the wind hit like a wall of ice. The sweat on my forehead evaporated and gave me a slight chill.

They led me down L Street to an empty parking lot. We moved to the middle of the dirt and gravel lot, stopping outside the range of the street lights.

"We're not here to hurt you," Gallo said.

"What's the gun for then?"

"Our protection."

I said nothing and kept the bag secure in my arms.

"We aren't too keen on taking you on again, especially after what you've been through."

"How'd you know I'd be here?"

"We have sources," Bealle said.

"Conners?"

"No. I don't know any Conners."

"Me either," Gallo said. "Let's go someplace we can sit down and talk."

I wondered if that was for their protection as well.

We walked through the streets of Washington, D.C. until we found a twenty-four hour diner. Gallo asked for the booth in the corner by the window. He sat against the wall. I sat with my back to the restaurant and Bealle squeezed in next to me. I placed the bag between my left leg and the window.

A brown haired waitress came to our table. I ordered coffee. Gallo and Bealle ordered water.

"What do you know, Jack?" Gallo asked.

I shrugged. "Not much. I know that you guys framed me for the murder of that Iraqi family-"

"That wasn't us, Jack." Gallo placed his elbows on the table. He leaned forward. "Martinez was pissed. He probably still is. You made him look bad and then kicked his ass. He's a hothead. But it's not like him to go back, murder a family and then frame you."

"What were we doing there that night?" I asked. "Were we there to kill the man?"

Gallo glanced at Bealle and nodded.

"Yes," Bealle said. "If he didn't give up the information he was to be terminated."

"What about the woman?"

"No, that wasn't part of it."

"Martinez took that too far," Gallo said. "That's something we agree on. But, you know, there are no rules, man. We're hunting out there and we need to get the information and neutralize the threat before it gets too far."

"And that's where you screwed up, Jack," Bealle said. "Repeatedly you've gotten in our way. Not just us, but other teams."

"It's because I can't work like that. I'm not some security detail. For eight years I've worked on these teams and always been involved. Now we go to Iraq after the attacks and I'm standing in doorways and providing the muscle. Hell with that."

I leaned back in my seat and crossed my arms over my chest and looked out the window at drunken people pouring out of a bar. I checked my watch and saw that it was now two a.m.

Gallo took a moment and responded. "It's not just you. Other teams in the co-op are having this issue as well."