The Mercenary (21 page)

“Of course you did.” He snorted. “And no doubt much
faster.”

“True. But only because I knew about it before you
did.”

Axe chuckled. She was quick and didn't take any
shit. She managed to do it without the chip that most military females seemed to
carry permanently on the their shoulders. Risking a sidelong glance, he admired
her chest and decided there were worse people to spend the weekend with.

“Bad news about Colonel Neville.” She sipped her
tomato juice and reached for the in-flight magazine. “Were you working on that
too?”

“I was, but this is a higher priority.”

“That's hardly a ringing endorsement of the
guy.”

He shrugged. “Hey—what goes around comes
around.”

“Meaning . . .”

Axe looked at her. “You know the score. In many
ways the military is no different than any other really big organization. A tiny
fraction of guys get ahead by sheer competence and the rest . . .” He
let it hang.

“Okay, so he was hardly a warrior. Did he, or
anybody, deserve to die like that?”

“Oh, I don't know. There are worse ways to go than
having your necked snapped.”

“You know what I mean. Killed in the toilet and
left with his head in pee stains.”

“Piss stains. Men don't say ‘pee.' ”

“I'm not a man.”

Certainly not, he thought again. She was watching
him and half smiling. Like most divorced men, Axe was cautious with women. That
is, women he expected to see on a regular basis. He knew this was not a woman to
make a casual pass to. Not in the usual sense anyway. And her type would smell
bullshit an ocean away.
Don't even think about it,
dumbass,
he told himself. He hated rattling around his big, empty
house and he missed the little things most women did. But not enough to want
another one around.

Clearing his throat he said, “So . . .
Dan Morgan. Why did he make your short list?”

“Same reason he made yours.”

“Maybe. Any harm in comparing notes?”

Karen Shipman pursed her lips. “Princeton, class of
eighty-six. Son of commercial developer who made a fortune buying up old marinas
along the Chesapeake Bay, renovating them, and reselling at a
five-hundred-percent profit. Officer's Candidate School and straight into flight
training.”

“Well, after the platoon leader's course and all
that other grunt stuff.”

“Right.” She nodded. “He was a Marine.”

“
Is
a Marine. Retired
or not, the Corps gets into these guys and never really leaves. Worth
remembering when talking to one.”

“He has a grudge.”

Axe nodded. “And that is exactly why he made my
short list. And the fact that at one time he was probably the best Hornet driver
in the world.”

Karen nodded, thoughtful. “And he was part of the
merc world and may know something helpful.”

“Maybe.”

“You don't think he'd help us?”

“That's not what concerns me.”

She looked puzzled. “What then?”

“Why did he agree to see us at all?”

T
he
Sandman handed his boarding pass to the gate agent, smiled, and got one in
return.

“Welcome aboard, Mr. Tobin. Seat 3A.”

With just two small bags, he eased quickly into his
seat and watched the boarding ritual without amusement. Unfortunate couples
struggling with baggage and kids; the inevitable idiots who still hadn't grasped
the spatial relationship between the size of their bag and the capacity of the
overhead bins. He leaned back to avoid several bulging buttocks that were wider
than the aisle. A few minutes later as the door closed, the Sandman shut his
eyes and sank back into the seat. He was tired—and hungry. First Class got
breakfast, so he'd wait to sleep.

It had taken nearly an hour to get up the road into
Branson and he'd pulled into the long-term parking garage at 7:55. This was not
the type of airport that took pictures of car license plates and he could see no
other external cameras. Again, not that it mattered. If his luck held, neither
the missing SUV or the bodies in Texas would be discovered for at least four
more hours and by that time he'd be long gone.

If it didn't, no one could find him anyway. Any
string leading to Missouri was cut, and a new one, totally unconnected to the
plane or hangar, had started. He'd switched identities and Dan Tyler, the
retired colonel from Texas, had gone in pieces into a small river halfway to
Branson along with the Green Mountain Transport and Trendco Logistics credit
cards. The AirTran reservation to Atlanta had been made in the name of Matthew
Tobin and paid for by Latham Consulting.

Breakfast was an omelet, hash browns, and two
glasses of orange juice. After it was cleared, the mercenary lowered the window
shade, leaned back, and was thinking about the final part of his mission when he
fell asleep.

“F
light's on time and we should be in Valparaiso by sixteen hundred.”
Karen Shipman sat on the stool next to him and produced two cups of coffee. They
were in the café next to T.G.I. Friday's in Atlanta Hartsfield's B Terminal.

“You mean four
P.M.
” He didn't see the point of using the twenty-four-hour clock
outside of a military context. It annoyed him.

“Right. Sixteen-hundred hours.”

Hopeless. “Good. Should give us plenty of time to
catch up with Dan Morgan at Benny's.”

“Favorite hangout? Cheap drinks and teenage
bimbos?”

“I don't go for that.”

“Which one?”

“Cheap drinks. Grey Goose martinis for me.”

“But the bimbos are okay?” She flashed him another
of those half smiles that always seemed to make him look twice.

“Well, yeah. I am a man after all.”

She switched gears. “So we assume that this
mercenary is real. I mean, it could have been done by a Chinese pilot but
. . .”

“Or a Taiwanese one.”

“Right. But we both think this was an outsider,
hired by either of those two governments.”

“Or our own.”

She shot him a strange look, then shook her head.
“That's the problem with the spook world, you begin to suspect everyone and
everything.”

“All right—it's a thin possibility but still a
possibility.”

“The point is, we agree he exists. Men like this
don't train themselves and there is nothing beyond a military—and a top-tier
military at that—that could produce one.”

Axe hated circular discussions and preferred to
come straight to the point. “Exactly why we're on this plane together on a
Saturday to see the ex-Major Morgan.”

She ignored the testiness. “My point is this: these
men don't advertise, nor are they readily available. They all use other types of
folks called fixers, who arrange these contracts.”

“A middleman.”

“A very trusted middleman. One who is sufficiently
well connected in global business and foreign governments to put such contracts
together.”

Axe stared at his coffee thoughtfully, then took a
sip. “So you want to ask Morgan about these fixers first . . . before
we start talking about other mercenaries?”

“I think we might learn more than we already know
by beginning there.”

“That's encouraging, since we don't know squat
yet.” He braced his arms on the table and leaned back. “For all we know, this
guy may be friends with our mercenary and would clam up rather than speak.”

“Maybe, but I don't think so. The few we have
dossiers on are very reticent. Very low key. There's not much at all,” Karen
admitted. She looked very serious and not optimistic.

Axe finished his drink and picked up his carry-on.
“C'mon, let's head to the gate. Cheer up—if it was easy, then he wouldn't be our
man. I mean, if there were a truckload of known details, how good could he
be?”

“I don't need a truckload of details—just a few
would do.”

Truax chuckled and slung his bag over his shoulder.
“Yep. A location would be nice too.”

T
hirty
yards away, the Sandman came from the other end of the B Terminal. With his
sports jacket, dark slacks, and leather bag, he looked like any other weekend
passenger on his way someplace. Crossing in front of the Candy Kitchen, he
disappeared down the escalator to the train platform.

Two stops later he stepped out and was funneled up
the escalator with the rest of the crowd. Passing through the big, sunny atrium,
he slung his jacket over one shoulder, kept his head slightly lowered, and
strolled over to a café on the south side. Buying a paper and a coffee, he
leaned against the narrow bar and quietly surveyed the crowd and the television
monitor displaying CNN
Headline News
.

Nothing.

All around, people were bustling about their
business, most with the weary determination and slightly angry expression common
with travelers these days. Families pushing strollers annoyed a stream of men of
men in suits. Others waited behind the security ropes for friends and blocked
everything with their enthusiastic hugs. People with their faces glued to
iPhones walked into one another and the furniture. It was a never-ending stream
of interesting humanity; where else but an airport could you see Caribbean
dreadlocks mingle with robed Buddhist monks?

Glancing at his watch, the Sandman stood and took a
last look around. His train was due in eleven minutes and it was just past 11:30
in Texas. Nothing was being reported yet and he managed a small smile. Finishing
his coffee, he picked up the bags, and walked behind the Information desk to the
escalators leading down to the trains.

As he disappeared into the crowd the TV monitor
changed to display the Breaking News banner—

MURDER IN TEXAS

Chapter 15

“I
want another one.” Axe drained his margarita and stood up.”

“You've got salt on your lips.”

He wiped his mouth and paused. Benny's was hopping on a Saturday night. Shorts and tight, brightly colored skirts were everywhere as the girls circulated. Axe noticed that none of them seemed to be alone—they all had at least one friend with them. The men, on the other hand, were mostly alone. Leaning against the bar, watching the girls, and drinking beer. There were very few couples like him and Karen Shipman.
Not
, he reminded himself,
that we're a couple.

She looked amazing.

The sundress wasn't cut low enough to be slutty, but it was low enough to be interesting. Very interesting. He could just make out her thighs and was pleased to have his suspicions confirmed. Flawless skin and the type of smooth, long muscles that very fit women seemed to possess.

“If you've finished staring I'd like another drink too,” she said dryly. She wasn't even looking at him, just gazing out over the beach toward the water.

He swallowed hard. Modesty, denial, or bravado. The situation called for one of them. Fast. Flashing a grin, he decided on bravado. “No worries . . . be right back.”

That earned him a frosty glance, so he left. Sighing, she watched waves rolling in and people strolling along the beach. She was a bit dismayed to be interested in this man, and hadn't made up her mind about it. Physically, he was impressive. He was handsome, but not pretty, and very athletic without being overpumped like many men. He'd made a few comments in casual conversation that had revealed a considerable intellect and a surprising range of interests. This, of course, was usually hidden behind a nonchalant and infuriating facade.

She'd been down that road before and swore to never do it again. For all their talents, most fighter pilots were notoriously difficult to live with. There was also their strange love affair with the damn airplanes, not to mention the constant strain of knowing he could be killed at any time. No, Karen told herself. Never again.

As she shifted on the stool she saw the man sitting next to her from the corner of her eye. He was wearing a dark blue Hawaiian-type beach shirt and tan shorts. Startled, she leaned away.

“I'm not interested,” she said politely but firmly. “I'm here with someone.”

Middle-aged and tan, the man had prominent cheekbones and dirty-blond hair, and was calmly appraising her with a pair of hazel eyes. Leaning his thick, muscular forearms on the table, he gave a little grin. “You may be here with Axe, but you're not
here
with him.”

It clicked. This was Dan Morgan, ex-fighter pilot and mercenary. How long, she wondered, had he been watching her?

“What makes you think so?”

He smiled again and she noticed it was only with his mouth. The eyes didn't change.

“I know what an interested woman looks like.”

“Apparently not.”

“There's one right in front of me.”

“I'm not his date, Colonel Morgan. Or yours.”

He leaned back, crossed his arms and yawned. “So. I see Air Force officers have gotten better-looking there, Major Shipman.”

“Karen is just fine. Thank you . . . I think,” she added. This man made her feel strange. Not threatened exactly, but on edge. He was looking directly into her eyes, and unlike most men, not stealing glances at her legs or breasts. She noticed a scar that ran down from his hairline past his left cheekbone.

Just then two twenty-somethings wandered by and one of them glanced at her, stopped and looked again. Both had the shaggy, casual beach-bum look—like high-school boys who had gotten older and done nothing special with their lives. The bigger one grinned and weaved over to the table.

“Hey.” By way of a greeting. He leaned over on his elbows and looked at her, ignoring Morgan.

Exhaling a bit, she shook her head slightly and stared past the man. He hiccupped and tried again. “Nice evenin'. You wanna drink?”

“Only with humans.”

He blinked. “Whazzat mean?”

“Means get lost. Go back to the primate cage where you belong.”

Blinking again, he lost his stupid grin. “Pri . . . primary age . . . what?”

“Just go, moron. No one here's interested.”

He straightened up with that slow deliberateness common to drunks and jerked a thumb toward Morgan. “C'mon baby, you can't hang out with your dad all night.”

She never saw the pilot move, but suddenly his fist dropped over the drunk's right hand, jamming the knuckles together. The man's eyes gaped open and he bent forward, but Morgan just squeezed harder.

“Hurts, doesn't it? So here's what you do.” A nasty little smile crossed his face. “Apologize to the lady for being a jackass.”

“I . . . no . . . I just . . .”

Karen saw the muscles on Morgan's forearm contract, and the drunk's eyes widened with pain.

“Sorry!” he managed to gasp. His friend staggered over to see what was happening.

“Now apologize to me for wasting my time and interrupting my drink.”

The man twisted a bit and tried to pry his hand loose, but Morgan added pressure so he stopped, wheezing with pain.

“Hey man . . . what's goin' on?” The other one finally figured out that all wasn't well.

“S . . . sorry,” he blurted out.

Just then Axe appeared next to Karen, took in the situation, and sighed. Some things never changed around here.

“Leggo of 'is hand, man!” The other drunk snarled. “He just wanted to buy the bitch a drink. What's wrong wi—”

Axe grabbed a fistful of long hair and slammed the man's face into the table. He immediately released him and let the guy fall to the ground. Morgan wrenched the other man's thumb straight back, dislocated it and let him go. Yelping with pain, the drunk stepped back, tripped over his friend and went down. Predictably, two bouncers in black T-shirts materialized almost immediately.

“What happened?” one demanded.

“Don't know.” Axe shrugged his shoulders and sat down. “I think they're drunk and fell over each other.”

The older bouncer took in the pretty woman and two well-dressed men, who seemed completely disinterested. The drunks on the ground were stirring and one moaned, “My hand . . . it's broken.”

“Okay. We'll take care of it.” He nodded at his partner. “Sorry for the trouble, folks.”

“Oh, no trouble at all.” Axe was the picture of innocence and Karen Shipman stifled a smile.

“He broke my fuckin' hand!”

“C'mon you two. Leave the paying customers alone.”

“But . . . but . . .”

As they were led off protesting, Karen quietly thanked Morgan.

He shrugged. “Bad manners piss me off. Didn't want to interfere if they were your type though.”

“Hardly. You don't take much pushing, do you?”

“None at all. Never saw the point.”

Doug Truax sat down and stared at the other pilot. “Nice of you to come.”

“Your message was . . . intriguing. Besides”—Morgan shrugged—“Langley didn't really leave me much of a choice.”

“Price you pay for being allowed back here to live.”

“True enough. So.” He glanced at Karen Shipman. “What's it all about?”

She met his gaze and sipped her drink. “How many top-tier aviation mercenaries do you think are still operating?”

“Straight to the point, huh? Maybe five.”

“Including you?”

Dan Morgan smiled. “I'm retired—remember?”

“Right. Do you know them all?”

“
Of
them all. Personally, I knew three. Timo van Oste, Willie Reinholdt, and Charles McCallum.” He looked at both of them. “But Langley is aware of all of this. So what do you really want?”

Shipman and Axe exchanged glances and Truax shrugged.

“Okay. Cards on the table—we want their fixer. Or fixers.”

“Why?”

“We weren't told why. The information is just needed.”

Morgan was expressionless. “So guess.”

She took another sip and looked directly back at him. “I'd say that someone in our government may want to contract with one of these men.”

Morgan crunched on an ice cube and was silent. Perfect horseshit, he knew. She was telling half a truth like all good operatives. After all, it had to sound convincing. Langley, at the highest levels, knew all about the fixers and had used them in the past. No, this was about Taiwan. Either they thought he knew something or could put them onto someone who did.

“Mr. Morgan—I answered you.”

“And it was certainly an answer.”

“So can you help us?'

He considered that. Three years ago, when he wanted to come back to the United States to live, he'd agreed to “assist” from time to time in areas that concerned his expertise. As she'd said, that was the price of his residence. Parroting back information that other branches of the same government already knew was hardly betraying anyone.

“Emil Mousa has the most extensive connections. Geoffrey Whyte is the most expensive.”

“And who is the best? I mean, if you were at the top of the food chain, who would you use?” Karen asked.

“I was at the top of the food chain.”

“So?”

“Rama Buradi.”

“How did you contact him . . . or vice versa?”

“Email. But the address I have wouldn't work any longer. He always changed every few months.”

“Did he have a base location, someplace he worked from or returned back to regularly?”

“I don't know. He had a place in Jordan, but I've no idea how permanent it was or if he still uses it.”

They all sat for a few moments. The band was playing Buffet's “Cowboy in the Jungle” and the waitresses darted among the tables as the crowd grew. The warm, salty breeze floated in off the water as the evening tide began crashing in.

“Who else used Buradi?” Axe asked.

Ah
, Morgan thought, but kept his face neutral.

“Van Oste, for one.” No conflict there. The Dutchman was a prick.

“Anyone else?”

Morgan shook his head. “I couldn't say. It's not a business that uses message boards or takes out ads.”

“Did you ever hear of any other Americans in this line of work?”

Morgan yawned. “Can't say that I did. Not flying anyway.”

“Well we did. Or at least pretty good rumors to that effect.”

“If that's true, what do you need me for?”

“Verification.”

“Just told you I didn't know of any Americans.”

Karen smiled. “Mr. Morgan. I find it a bit hard to believe that we would have good intel on an American in this business and you, who were intimately involved, wouldn't have at least heard a murmur or two.”

“Intimate involvement is no guarantee of an information exchange.” He smiled back. “You ought to know that by this point in your life.”

Touché. Axe glanced at Major Shipman to see how she'd handle it, but Karen was unfazed. “No guarantee of performance either.”

Ouch. But Morgan only chuckled.

“Need I remind you,” she continued, “that your . . . status . . . here in America depends upon your cooperation.”

Morgan leaned back and met her eyes. “No, you don't need to remind me.” After a few moments he sighed. “All right. There
was
a rumor. He was very high end. Remember the Iranian research facility outside Tabriz that just vaporized? Or the attack on that Israeli airfield that nearly started another Mid East war?”

“Him?”

“That's the rumor. He also was believed to have done some work in Africa for the Nigerians . . . killing off Boko Haram.”

“You were there too. So how is it you never met?”

Morgan shrugged. “I was working for our Department of Defense. He was rumored to work for the Nigerian military. If he did exist, I never met him.”

“Any name?”

“You must be joking.”

“Well, then how was he referred to?”

“The rumor was about the ‘Sandman' . . . they supposedly called him that because he put people to sleep—permanently. But again, I never met him, and if he was real, just because he spoke English didn't make him American. I believe there is such a man, but he could be British, Australian, or even a Canadian.”

Doug Truax sighed. This was a useless trip. He was certain Dan Morgan knew more than he was telling, but there was no way to get more from him if he didn't want to talk.

“Can you think of anything else that would help us?” Karen Shipman asked, making small wet circles on the tabletop with her drink. “Anything at all?”

“Just this. If it's Buradi you're after, you may find him . . . or someone else may beat you to it. If it's not Buradi you're after, if you're after a professional mercenary in this type of league, then you won't get him.”

“Who said we're after anyone else?” Axe replied. “We want Buradi or someone like him.”

Morgan smiled and again it stopped at the corners of his mouth. “If you say so. But if you change your mind I'd forget it.”

“Why is that?” Karen wanted to know.

Morgan stood and wiped his mouth. “Because a man like this finds out when people are asking about him.”

“Well, that would be good if we were looking for him, because he couldn't really hide from us.”

The pilot chuckled grimly. “You miss the point. He wouldn't hide from you—he'd come after you. And you'd never see it coming, so forget it. Thanks for the drink.”

With that he turned and walked away, leaving the two Air Force officers staring after him. Weaving through the crowd, he went down the stairs and exited on the beach side of Benny's. Standing quietly under the stars, Dan Morgan waited and watched out of habit.