The Kasparov Agenda (Omega Ops Legion Book 1) (29 page)

Varick couldn’t believe they had managed to arrest Pike. He clenched his fist positively ecstatic—but... “What about the driver? And Frost?”

Laura narrowed her eyes. “There was only one other person in the garage besides you and Pike.”

Roy scratched his head. “An Asian dude, kinda floppy hair...”

“That’s Lee...he drove the truck the day of the First Bank incident,” Varick informed them. “There was no one else?”

“No, that was it.”

“Damn. How long have I been out for?”

Henry checked his watch. “About fifteen minutes, I’d say.”

“
Damn
.” Varick punched his open palm and immediately regretted it. He forgot his right hand had recently impacted metal. Varick ran through the situation in his head. He figured that Frost must have managed to get away on foot in the cover of darkness—the police would have noticed a vehicle leaving. Either way, Frost was long gone by now. It suddenly dawned on Varick how close he was to death. Frost would have likely been his executioner had Laura and the others not shown up when they did...

Varick looked at the three officers. “I appreciate you guys coming out here. Thank you.”

Laura smiled. “Don’t mention it.”

Varick took a moment’s pause when another thought crossed his mind. “But I’m curious... How did you all know where to find me?” Roy, Henry, and Laura exchanged glances.

Roy scrunched up his face. “Well, we sort of had a tip off...”

Varick stared. “...Who?”

***

“You had a tracker placed under my car?” Varick questioned.

“Yes,” Santos replied. He had no intention of trying to deny it. “I’m sorry.” The two of them stared each other down. Varick had arrived back home at Kasparov Manor. Dinner was over—Arthur Finch had left, and Alex had gone to sleep. But Santos was still up.

“Why? You didn’t trust me?”

Santos stared long and hard at Varick. “I trusted that you would get restless. Men like yourself, of such integrity, can rarely stand back and watch when there’s trouble brewing. But sometimes restlessness is followed up by recklessness. I didn’t want you to get too reckless without help. I had the tracker placed when I felt you were reaching that point. I didn’t mean to intrude on your privacy.”

Varick walked right up to Santos; there was only a few feet between them. For a moment, the two stared intensely at each other in silence. Finally, Varick extended his hand. “Thanks.”

Santos shook his hand and smiled. “So, it was a fruitful endeavor?”

“Yeah. Gregory Pike and the driver of the truck that tore through First Bank were both arrested tonight.”

Santos raised an eyebrow. “Wow. Pike, huh? He’s a formidable fellow. Good work.”

***

The next morning, Varick joined Santos and Alex at the breakfast table. He normally was one of the first ones up in the house, but last night, he took a much needed rest. His entire body was sore, and the only prescription for his injuries was rest and time. The television in the living room was switched on to the morning news and was providing them with background noise as they ate. It was visible from the breakfast table, but the only one really watching was Leonardo. He was parked on the floor, in front of the television.

“Who made this?” Varick mumbled, as he chewed his eggs, which were atop corn tortillas and smothered in tomato chili sauce.

“I thought I’d try out something different; it’s the weekend after all,” Santos responded. “It’s called Huevos Rancheros.”

“It’s good.
Very
good.” Varick tried the beans and avocado slices. “Nicely done, Santos.”

“Thanks.”

Alex glanced at Santos, then turned his attention to Varick. “What the hell, Varick; are you high on pain meds?”

“What? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You two would normally be at each other’s throats by now.”

Santos grinned. “What’s the old saying, Alex, ‘
don’t look a gift horse in the mouth
’?”

Varick laughed. Alex stared, then shrugged. “Alright,
don’t
tell me what’s going on. I’m not even going to ask why your arms are bandaged up, Varick. It’s practically common occurrences around here.”

With his fingers, Varick flashed Alex the gun, minus a wink. “Good man. You’re learning.”

“Oh, by the way, Varick, Bruce called this morning,” Santos informed. “He’s arriving back this evening.”

“That’s good news—much to be discussed.”

Leonardo suddenly let out a loud bark; he was on all fours, looking at the table. Alex raised an eyebrow. “Well, that’s rare. I can’t remember the last time I heard Leo bark...” Alex immediately went quiet when he noticed Santos. He was standing up, staring at the television and looking ghostly. Varick and Alex’s attention turned to the television as well. The news reporter was in Downtown Manhattan. Across the news ticker, the headline read: ‘Legion supporter found dead’.

“We have received confirmation that the identity of the man found dead is Uecker Clemens, a Legion supporter who recently took part in a controversial interview on Shocktalk Radio. The reports from eyewitnesses claim that a vehicle with no discernible plates was seen speeding and then briefly stopped in front of the Shocktalk Radio building, where the body of Uecker Clemens was dumped. The body was found with several gunshot wounds to the chest. What was most unsettling about the discovery was the message which was written across the man’s shirt. The message read: ‘This is what’s in store for all supporters of the Omega Ops Legion. The Legion is death’.”

Varick cracked his knuckles, scowling. “Like the message wasn’t clear enough already. Not a doubt in my mind that Scorcher’s behind this. Tony and his gang were probably the trigger men.” Varick glanced at Santos and stifled his talk when he saw that Santos was sitting back down at the table, with his face buried in his hands.

***

Sunday, November 7th, 1999
 

Manhattan, New York

Peter Santos was attending Sunday mass at his church like he did every weekend. He stood alongside the other parishioners while Father Christy spoke the concluding prayer and blessing. Despite staring at the altar, Santos’ thoughts were miles away. He wasn’t one to let his attention wander during church, like so many others putting in their one-hour-a-week obligation. He always paid attention to the sermon—but not today. Today was different. Everything being preached seemed to wash over him. “The Lord be with you.”

“And also with you,” Santos responded mechanically. Today, he waited in anticipation for mass to end.

“And may Almighty God bless you, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit...”

Santos made the sign on the cross. “Amen.”

Father Christy raised his hands: “Our mass has ended. Let us go in peace to love and serve the Lord.”

Santos exhaled heavily. “Thanks be to God.” The closing hymn started playing and parishioners slowly began to disperse. Santos watched both sides of his pew clear. Once he was the only one in his row, he sat down and waited. Eventually, the congregation cleared completely and only Father Christy and Santos were left in the church.

The priest made his way over to Santos and sat down beside him. “Sad, sad events of recent.”

“First Bank...and now this.” Santos continued to stare out in front of him. “Did you hear—what they wrote? Scrawled on his chest...”

Father Christy nodded. “Yes, I heard.”

“The Legion is death... Is that what we are?”

“Come now, Peter, I’m not going to sit here and pretend like I know all the ins and outs of how the Legion operates. But from what I’ve observed, they’re doing a good thing.
You’re
doing a good thing
. And you have taken it upon yourself to bear this cross: the pain—the struggle—the
fight...
so others
won’t have to.”

Santos shook his head, gritting his teeth. “He didn’t deserve this. He was trying to stand up for us—and he was killed in cold blood because of it.”

“He believed in what the Legion represents, even before meeting you, you know that. That’s why he was compelled to speak out.” Father Christy had a pretty good understanding of how Santos’ mind worked: He was always one to carry the world on his shoulders. “This isn’t your fault, Peter.”

Santos sighed. “I wish I could have gotten to know him better. What was it, a few visits—outings here and there?”

“Uecker was a mysterious one. He didn’t really give up too much of himself. But at the same time, he always made his presence known. Everyone knew Uecker at the retirement community.”

Santos smiled. “Yeah, he was rough around the edges.”

Father Christy nodded. “But he still managed to find his place. Have you had a chance to talk with Taz yet?”

“Yes, I actually spoke to him on the phone yesterday, soon after I found out. He’s taking it badly, but that’s to be expected, I suppose. I’m seeing him for a late supper tonight.”

Father Christy smiled. “You know...the retirement community—it may have been constructed by this church, but the funding...that was all made possible by the work you and the Legion do. People like Uecker and Taz—they lost something very valuable. They no longer had family, friends—a sense of community. You helped give that back to them. Don’t you ever doubt yourself, Peter. Uecker never doubted the Legion’s merit and for good reason.”

Santos nodded in appreciation, and his tension eased a little. “Have dates been set yet?”

“The funeral’s on Tuesday, viewing on Monday,” Father Christy replied. Santos leaned back in the pew and looked up aimlessly. The father observed Santos for a moment—he knew Peter still held a deep guilt. “Listen to me, Peter. I’m not going to talk to you as a priest right now. I’m going to talk to you as a friend. As someone who’s also hurting from losing a member of his community.”

“I’m all ears.”

Father Christy looked at Santos sternly. “If you want to sit here feeling sorry for yourself, no one can stop you from doing so. But that’s not going to help anyone, yourself included. If I were in your shoes and had the power and influence you wield...I’d be out there right now, trying to bring to justice the sons of bitches who did this.”

Santos stared at Father Christy, taken aback. But he knew he was right. Santos squeezed the seat of the pew. “You continue to preach the truth, Father.”

***

Queens, NYPD, 117th Precinct

Oswalt Fletcher was in the washroom, rinsing off his hands. Ever since his last, rather unpleasant, conversation with Jack Solly, he had taken to going about his daily business looking over his shoulder. On normal days, Oswalt was a cautious man, but knowing he could be sent six feet under at a moment’s notice made him redouble his efforts. A few times he had actually picked up on suspicious individuals following him on the streets, but that’s as far as they would go, and that was perfectly fine with Oswalt. Surprisingly, he wasn’t as bothered by impending doom as he expected to be. It was simply a matter of constant vigilance.

Oswalt hadn’t been in contact with Solly’s party since Monday, and it was safe to assume he was being cut out of the loop.
But he was working on it.
He looked in the mirror and ran the water over his hands one more time while he mentally prepared himself for what he was about to do. He nodded at his reflection, turned off the taps, and walked out of the washroom.

Sundays at the precinct were quiet, and there was no better day than today for what Oswalt had planned. No one was at the front d
esk at the moment. He moved quickly and swiped the evidence locker-room key from the drawer. He had to work fast—in and out in a minute or so.
 

“Yo, Oswalt, how’s it going, bud?”

Oswalt raised a hand casually. “Hey, Roy, not too bad...”
Oh my god, these two idiots.
It was Roy Cameron and Henry Schucker. It was like the two were joined at the hip.
 

“Gotta love the Sundays here. Feels like happy hour.” Roy raised a finger to his lips and opened his coat, revealing a small bottle in the pocket.

Oswalt gave a thumbs-up. “That’s really—great... Was wondering why you were wearing your coat in the office, ha-ha...”

“Why do you have that with you at work?” Henry questioned.

“Hey, I’m not on patrol today—just doing paperwork,” Roy replied. “A lot of paperwork...”

“Just make sure I’m not around when you’re caught with that.” Henry didn’t approve of such antics, but after all these years, he knew better than to try and correct Roy.

Roy sighed. “I would rather be sober and on patrol.”

Oswalt looked at Roy, baffled. “Why do you even go on patrol? You’re a damn detective.”

“Hey, it’s called keepin’ it
real
. I like to be in touch with the streets. You know what I’m talking about, Oswalt?”

“Yeah-yeah, I hear you.” Oswalt immediately regretted asking a question that further prolonged the conversation. “But anyway, I’ll leave you two to it.” Oswalt turned to walk away.

“But you get what I’m saying, right, Oswalt?”

Oswalt turned back. “Yeah...I
get you
, Roy.”

“When they see you out there in the squad car making the rounds, they know what’s up. When you show the streets love, the streets give you love back.”

Henry scratched his head. “Umm, Roy? How much of that bottle have you had already?”

“Sounds like he’s ready for that paperwork, eh, Henry? So you two have fun with
that.
” Oswalt began to walk.

“Hey, wait a sec., Oswalt!” Roy called.

Oswalt gritted his teeth.
I swear to god, I’m going to knock this fucker out
. Oswalt glanced over his shoulder.
“Yeah?”
 

“Want some? If you got paperwork to do as well, this is the fast-forward button right here.”

“No, thank you. Keep it for yourselves. I’m sure you two will need all of it.” Oswalt quickly made
a break for it before Roy could stop him again. He walked down the hall and made his way to the evidence locker-room—there was no one around. Oswalt unlocked the door and slipped inside. His eyes scanned the shelves until he found the bin he was looking for. He pulled out a clear polyethylene evidence
baggie and examined its contents.
Hmm, this might be useful...