Wrong Town: A Mark Landry Novel (19 page)

Fifty-six

“Open your eyes, Mark.”

“Why? You said to do it blind.”

“You will,” answered Father Peck. “But first give me the knife, have a seat, and just listen.”

Mark sat on the cool dungeon floor, caught his breath, and took a drink from his water bottle. The priest sent the knife spinning into the air. They both watched the shiny blade as it rotated and climbed within inches of the ceiling before losing momentum and dropping like a stone into Peck’s waiting hand.

“Never forget that weapons—all weapons, even guns—are simply extensions of your body,” he lectured as he gracefully flipped and spun the knife, passing it from hand to hand in a fluid dance. “If you don’t have control and awareness of your body, you can’t possibly wield a weapon—or defend yourself against one. You understand that, right?”

Mark chugged water and wiped his chin with his forearm.

“Yes. You’ve mentioned that since the beginning. I understand.”

“Good. Now I want you to understand something else. You see all this flipping, spinning, and dancing I’m doing?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s nonsense,” he declared as he closed his eyes and caught the blade behind his back with one hand. “Nonsense that would certainly get you killed in a real battle. It’s useless, Mark.”

“So how did you get so good at it?” asked the young apprentice.

“There’s nothing inherently wrong with it, Mark. It’s good to move your body in different ways and to know the weight of the weapon, how it flies, how it feels in your hands in different positions as you try to keep it moving like running water … and how it can cut you if you’re not too careful. Just don’t ever equate that with real battle. I studied formal systems for years until I learned the reality of knife attacks the hard way.”

“Where did you learn the hard way?”

“In prison,” answered the priest matter-of-factly. “Stand up and come here, Mark.”

Mark sat stunned and motionless, his eyes wide.

“Why were you in prison, Father?”

“I wasn’t an inmate, Mark. I was a maximum-security chaplain. Now stand up and come here. I want to show you how it really happens.”

Mark sprang to his feet and the priest positioned him in the middle of the floor.

“First things first. Prepare yourself mentally now, and if you ever find yourself in a real knife attack, expect to get cut. But the key is to try to protect your vital areas and minimize the damage as much as possible as you counterattack with overwhelming force.”

“Have you ever been cut?”

“A few times. A few scars,” he answered, pointing to his elbow and thigh and finally lifting his shirt to expose a horizontal scar across his abdomen. “But each scar comes with a valuable lesson—a reason why you probably got cut.”

Mark pointed at the priest’s stomach.

“Why did you get cut there?”

Father Peck searched for the right words.

“Because I ignored my intuition and trusted someone I shouldn’t have.”

Fifty-seven

“When I was a rookie, my training officer said, ‘Listen, Alvarez. If you remember only one thing, remember this: everybody lies. Everybody knows why they got pulled over. Nobody only had two beers. They know exactly where their buddy is. They knew what was in the trunk. And no matter what they say or how they look, assume everyone has a weapon.’ ”

“Sounds like good advice,” replied Mark, grabbing the wine bottle and topping off her glass.

“It was,” she answered.

The Mediterranean restaurant was packed. Mark had reserved the large, comfortable booth in the far corner of the dining room. It was normally reserved for parties of four to six, but a little extra cash made that rule temporarily go away. A sheer, white curtain separated the table from the rest of the diners and provided some privacy.

After the staff removed the empty plates and glasses from the table, Luci wedged herself into the corner, stretched her legs out on the booth’s soft cushions, and admired her freshly pedicured feet and red toenails. Mark loosened his belt and removed his black loafers, leaving them beside her high-heeled shoes under the table.

“Actually, I take that back,” she said after a few moments of reflection. “That all seems true a lot of the time, but I don’t want to be one of those cynical cops.”

“Like that Worth guy?”

“He’s more creepy than cynical, but yeah,” she answered.

“Not the first time I’ve heard that. What makes him so creepy?”

“I don’t know. Nothing specific—mostly intuition. Anyway, there are plenty of good people out there; cops just don’t get to interact with them very much. Unfortunately, if you’re talking to me on the street there’s usually a reason, but I can’t let myself go down that road of automatically distrusting everyone. It’ll just chip away at my soul and make me miserable. I got into the job because I wanted to help keep kids from screwing up their futures.”

“How’s that going?”

“Could be better, but I’m a realist. You can’t save everyone, but if I can help just one kid make a better life, it’s worth it. I know that sounds corny to a tough guy like you, but it’s true.”

“It’s not corny and I’m not a tough guy, Luci. You care about people. And it’s one of the things I love most about you.”

She leaned forward with a mischievous smile, slightly tipsy from the wine.

“What else is on that list? I want to hear the whole thing.”

“Nah, it’s way too long.”

“I’ve got time,” she answered, but after glancing at her watch she corrected herself. “Actually, I don’t. We need to wrap this up, Mark. I’m on the early shift tomorrow and I’m dead tired.”

Mark flagged down the waiter and asked for the check.

“Did you hear about the knife attack on the Philly cop? Two attackers from opposite directions. He got one of them with a decent headshot but bled out before the EMTs could get there. The other asshole ran and slashed random people over a six-block area before a civilian woman emptied her .38 Special into him. Lone wolves inspired by the Islamic State.”

“Saw it.”

“I worry about you. I know you’re a big girl and an experienced cop. But how often do you actually fire your weapon? How much have you trained for those kinds of ambush attacks? Are you ready if someone jumps you or goes for your gun?”

“We do some training, but thankfully stuff like that doesn’t happen very much in town,” she answered as she slipped her heels back onto her rested feet.

“That’s good, but you never know when—”

“Mark,” she said, cutting him off. “You’ve done well tonight. Don’t blow it at the very end. Now take me home before I fall asleep on the table…”

* * *

“So, do you want me to come in?” he asked timidly as the car rolled to a stop in Luci’s driveway.

“No need. I’m just going to brush my fangs and go to bed. And I can do that on my own,” she answered drowsily as she stifled a yawn.

He turned off the ignition and removed the keys.

“Then I’ll just walk you to the door.”

“No need, Mark. But you can watch me from the car until I’m safely inside if it’ll make you feel better.”

“Fine.”

She leaned over and gave him a long, soft kiss on the cheek.

“Thanks for dinner. Drive home safely and try not to get pulled over. If you do, don’t call me.”

With a shoe in each hand, she walked toward the house.

“Luci, do me a favor and start locking your door,” he yelled from the car.

Seriously, that’s just common sense. No training necessary.

“What makes you think it isn’t locked?” she answered over her shoulder dismissively.

Mark put the key in the ignition and started the car. Luci climbed the front steps, twisted the knob and pushed the door open, without using a key. She tossed her shoes inside. Then she turned to face the car, stood at mock attention, and casually saluted with a brilliant smile on her face.

I love that woman.

Fifty-eight

“Don’t even look at her, boys. If she says something, just keep walking,” said Dunbar to the two intentionally unremarkable-looking operators who flanked him. The only thing he hated more than Washington, D.C. was the idiots who ran it.

Entitled, arrogant, greedy, clueless
—
every one of them. If you wanted to give the United States an enema, D.C. is where you’d stick the hose.

Senator McDermott stood alone in the long marble hallway, holding a large cup of coffee in each hand. The three men walked passed her unnoticed, slipped into the elevator, and entered a classified security code into the keypad on the interior wall. The doors closed immediately and the elevator soared toward S407, the Capitol’s classified briefing room.

“Can I help you?” asked Senator Johnson.

McDermott turned and extended her arm with one of the coffees. “Good morning,” she said.

Johnson smiled politely and accepted the offer. “Doctors told me to cut back, but what do they know?”

“Got a quick minute?” she asked.

“Those are the only kinds of minutes I have these days. What can I do for you?”

“I just wanted to personally apologize for what happened a few weeks ago. I would have done so sooner, but maybe your staff hasn’t been giving you the messages. Regardless, I couldn’t be more embarrassed and I wanted you to know that I would never intentionally say anything so insensitive. I know my assistant reached out—”

“Your daughter, right? Seems like a nice kid.”

“Thank you. Anyway, is there any chance you could just forgive my boorishness? Or better yet—forget it altogether?” she asked sincerely.

“Already have. I’ve been around for a long time—as you were nice enough to point out—and it takes a lot more than that to ruffle my feathers. Don’t worry about it, Senator. It’s water under the bridge.”

She breathed a sigh of relief. “I appreciate that. I’m still stumbling a bit while I try to get my footing.”

“I know that, Senator. We’ve all been through it. Just keep at it and you’ll settle in eventually. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a briefing.”

“I hope you’re right. There have been more than a few days when I don’t even want to get out of bed, but that’s my problem. Thanks again for your time.”

Johnson looked at her quizzically as he sipped his coffee.

“You and I may not agree on much, but one thing I know for sure is that you’re no quitter. Keep at it. But since we’re talking, let me give you a tip. You’re a good person and you obviously care about people. So consider shifting gears and focusing on less sensitive issues. Focus all that goodness and caring somewhere where those attributes might better serve the cause.”

“You mean somewhere more appropriate for a woman?” she asked, with a tinge of sarcasm, but careful not to toss any matches on the bridge she had just built.

“No,” he replied sternly. “If that’s what I had meant, that’s what I would have said. Strong women don’t scare me, Senator. I just don’t want to see you waste your time when you could be doing some real good. Take the tip for what’s worth. I’m a D.C. dinosaur on the verge of extinction, but you’ve got a few more terms left in you if you play your cards right.”

“Thanks for the tip. I know you have to go. What’s your briefing about?”

“Nice try. Have a good day, Senator,” he replied with a wink.

McDermott craned her neck and followed him with her eyes until he entered the elevator and punched in a few numbers on the keypad. The doors quickly shut.

Fifty-nine

Senator Johnson entered the room and sat across the table from Dunbar while the two operators stood off to the side. Nobody shook hands.

“I’ll hold my questions and comments until the end and let you do your thing, Mr. Dunbar,” Johnson announced.

“It’s just Dunbar, Senator. That’s fine. I know this isn’t your first time at the circus, but I’m required to review some of the ground rules before we begin. Any information shared with you today is never to be repeated outside the company of duly vetted individuals with appropriate and current security clearances. You may not record any portion of this briefing, nor may you take notes. You may ask questions, but I may not be able to answer them. Do you have any questions before I begin, Sir?”

Senator Bradley Johnson of North Carolina was unaccustomed to the scarcity of courtesy and reverence in Dunbar’s tone. Everything he had said was true, but he had added force to his words as if to taunt the Senator’s ego. Johnson stared into the other man’s eyes.

Got it. Enjoy your position of advantage while it lasts.

Johnson nodded his head and gave his best campaign season smile.

“I’ll hold my questions until the end … just Dunbar…”

* * *

“Does the total number of eliminations include domestic jobs? Or do we categorize those differently?” asked Johnson.

Although they were meeting for the first and hopefully the last time, Dunbar was fully aware of the Senator’s support for covert programs and his willingness to look the other way when necessary. A close friend of the president’s, Johnson had been instrumental in getting him to issue a classified Executive Order that essentially declared the entire globe a free-fire zone for Dunbar’s operators. The order also put in place mechanisms to shield them from investigation and prosecution.

Dunbar answered the question.

“Domestic jobs are included in that number—it’s all one battlefield. The targets were mostly foreign, but there’s a few rogue citizens in there too.”

Rogue citizens? Is that what we’re calling them now?

Johnson had wholeheartedly backed a policy of targeted assassinations of American citizens who join America’s enemies, and he had been an outspoken supporter of the administration when the press raised inconvenient questions about specific cases. But he silently worried about the dangerous precedent he had helped to set.

“Should it be this easy to kill one of our own citizens?” the president had asked Johnson over cocktails after viewing the footage of one such strike in Yemen. His lifelong friend and trusted confidant stared into his glass and jiggled the ice cubes as he searched for an answer.

“Hemingway wrote, ‘Once we have a war there is only one thing to do. It must be won. For defeat brings worse things than can ever happen in war.’ I don’t have a crystal ball, Mr. President. But my gut tells me that if we can prevent a single major terrorist attack on American soil, it’s worth it,” said Johnson.

Dunbar sat silently waiting for the next question.

“And this list right here,” said Johnson, pointing to a piece of paper but making sure not to touch it. “I understand these are their top potential assassination targets, but I would like to know more about the criteria for the list.”

“Senator, this is a dynamic battlefield with lots of moving parts. The criteria change constantly. The entire list is much longer than this, though. The names you’re looking at now are the people we consider our enemies’ leading targets. Some of them are simply symbolic targets; others are on the list because of what they do and say.”

“I’m still a little confused. It’s not surprising to see my own name, given my political stature and proximity to the president. But there are a few folks here whose presence on the list boggles the mind, Dunbar. How would terrorist organizations benefit from eliminating people who crusade against foreign interventions, guns, secrecy, and all that good stuff? You’d think they would want more of them, not less.”

Dunbar answered without hesitation while glancing at his watch.

“That all depends, Senator. If they whacked a dove and took credit for the hit, it might certainly work against them. Support for the cause could wane, donors could dry up. But attribution is everything. If they whacked that same dove but pinned it on someone else, they might benefit from the fallout.”

Johnson sat back and breathed deeply.

“It sounds like you’ve thought about this, Dunbar. Keep going, please. Do you have any theories about who they would pin things on and why?” he asked.

Because I know you won’t tell me unless I specifically ask.

“Our analysts have looked at this pretty closely and think it might represent an entirely new front in the war on terror. There is no force on earth that can go toe to toe with our military, so nobody’s dumb enough to even try it. So they will continue to coax us into scenarios designed to bleed us dry, but that could take generations if it works at all. They’re frustrated and not nearly as patient as people think. They know they cannot defeat America, so the plan may be a long-shot gamble to get America to defeat itself.”

“What do you mean?” asked Johnson.

“The political climate in the United States these days is fragile. They want to take advantage of that and pit Americans against each other. Brutally kill enough cops, and law enforcement across the country will be wound so tight with paranoia that they’ll assume everyone is a threat and treat them accordingly—sowing even more discontent than there is now. Targeted assassinations and attacks can also be pinned on domestic groups. For example, if the President of the NRA was killed and attribution was given to a far-left organization, or if a liberal icon was eliminated and the blame was placed on right-wing groups, it could stir the pot much worse than a few marches or some hasty legislation. Imagine five or six simultaneous attacks on abortion clinics where all evidence leads to mainstream anti-abortion conservatives. Or a string of Mosque, Synagogue, and Christian Church bombings.”

“Civil war,” whispered Johnson.

“Something like that, Senator. It’s a long shot, but if it ever hits we’re in for a world of shit.”

Dunbar looked at his watch again and tapped his fingers on the table. Johnson took the hint and slowly stood up.

“Very well. Thank you for your time, gentlemen.”

“Don’t thank us, Senator. We were never here.”