“I’m sure.” Thorn frowned. “So, why is whoever stole the launchers using them to shoot down armed terrorists?”
“Got me. Patriots, maybe. Or maybe they are bucking for jobs in Homeland Security?”
A chime on Thorn’s computer alerted him to an incoming priority message. Thorn waved his hand, and a security-encoded text appeared, repeating what Jay had just told him.
“How did you get this before I did?”
“Friends in low places.”
Thorn sighed. “You will see what you can find out about this, won’t you?”
“In my copious spare time, sure.”
“Thanks, Jay.”
“No problem, Boss.”
But after he was gone, Thorn sat there thinking about it. It was a problem. That the missile had been used against the bad guys was good, but they still had two left, and the next one could just as easily be shot in another direction. Or not. He wanted to run these thieves down and make sure they didn’t get another shot off in any direction. . . .
His assistant said, “General Hadden is on the phone.”
“Of course he is,” Thorn said. He shook his head and reached for the receiver.
Tex’s Truck Stop and Grill
Alexandria, Virginia
Lewis listened to the story without interrupting. At the end of it, she nodded. “Couldn’t be helped. Even if you’d known they had a chartered helicopter, you would have still had to take it out. Bringing the rocket launcher was smart.”
Somebody fed money into a jukebox by the pool tables. A country and western song started playing in the background. A twangy-voiced woman singing something about a lyin’, cheatin’ man.
Ain’t they all, honey?
Carruth nodded. “I’m guessing our boy was on it, and unless he melted down to butter during the fire, they’ll eventually get around to identifying him.”
“Already have,” Lewis said. “And he was killed in the fire. Good news for us. He doesn’t appear to have any more blood kin in the terrorist business, so maybe we are done with that.”
“Must be nice to have access to all that,” he said.
“It is. And to have them giving it to you because you are helping protect them from yourself? That’s even better.”
“You hate the Army, don’tcha?”
She blinked at him. “Why do you say that?”
“I’m maybe not the brightest bulb on the string, Captain, but I’m not completely stupid. I can hear. It comes out every time you talk about the service, there’s a nasty edge in your tone. Contempt.”
She didn’t speak to that. It wasn’t supposed to show, though. If Carruth here could see that—and he wasn’t exactly a candidate for Mr. Sensitive—then somebody else could. She would have to work on that. It wouldn’t do at all for people on the inside to be looking at her squinty-eyed. Certainly not Mr. Jay Gridley.
“So, now what?” he said.
“We’re back to one decent buyer. If he’s legit, we talk deal. If he pans out, we’re done. If not, we keep trolling the waters.”
“Think ole Benny is gonna want another token of our ability to deliver?”
She shrugged. “Maybe. Whatever it takes. I’ll call you as soon as I have something.”
“Yes, ma’am. You do that.”
After she was gone, Carruth ordered a beer and listened to the jukebox. He liked country music, and a truck-stop bar was as good a place as any to have a beer. Truckers and cowboys, though most of the guys in Western gear here would be all hat and no cattle. There might be a few real ranchers who dropped by—they still had farms and ranches in this part of the world. Carruth had grown up in cattle country, at least partially, outside of Denver, and he had some good memories of that time. First girl, first woman, first beer, first bar fight, all as a teenager. One of the reasons he went into the Navy had to do with the last of those bar fights, in which a loudmouth asshole had bought himself a week in the local hospital when he pissed Carruth off. The judge, an ex-Marine, thought that the service was a good place for boys who liked to mix it up, and Carruth agreed with him—given the other choice, which had been doing a few months working on a road crew out of the local jail.
So he joined the Navy, found he had a talent for warfare, and was accepted into SEAL training, where he did real good. He’d always been a swimmer, no fear of the water, and the physical stuff was challenging, but something he liked doing. He was big, strong, got the training, and nobody messed with him. There were a lot worse ways to get by in life.
He sipped at the bottle of beer. Of course, there came a time when he and the Navy found themselves at odds and he had more or less been told to leave under his own steam or be tossed out, but he had learned a trade, and he’d done okay since. This deal with Lewis would be his ticket to freedom. He could travel, live high, enjoy his life, work or not as he felt like. There was risk—but, hell, all life was risk. You could get caught in an earthquake, be hit head-on by a drunk driver, or have a heart attack—you never knew when your number was gonna be up, and Carruth figured that it was best to live life to the hilt before God tapped you out.
He finished his beer. At the pool table closest, a couple guys in baseball caps wrangled over something. Time was, he’d have moseyed over that way and looked to put himself in the middle of whatever was going on, and maybe got into kicking some ass. He couldn’t risk that now. There was too much riding on him staying out of trouble. Time to pack it up and go home. That mess with the Metro cops? That had sobered him. The big gun under his jacket was worth his neck just being on his hip—
A sudden thought ghosted through his head, and it went by so fast he almost couldn’t snag it. The gun, something about the gun . . .
Holy shit! The Army guy!
Carruth sat there stunned, unable to move, held in his chair by the realization. How could he have missed it? His brain was turning to Jell-O!
Well, yeah, okay, blowing up the Humvee full of soldiers a few minutes later had kind of taken over the memory of that night, the first guy he’d tapped had faded, but still. Stupid!
He dropped a ten on the table to pay for his beer, stood, and headed for his car. He had to hide the big revolver. The cops all talked to each other these days—feds, NCIC, everybody—and sooner or later, somebody was gonna notice that the ballistics on the BMF slug that nailed the Army guy in Kentucky matched those on the bullets that hammered the D.C. Metro cops. It might not happen soon, but it would eventually. Now he had three dead guys notched on the big honker, and a line between them. It wasn’t as if it had his name on it or anything, but Jesus, carrying it around really wasn’t smart. If he had to shoot somebody else, they would start triangulating in on him. They already had too much information; he ought not give ’em any more.
He didn’t have to destroy it. He could get down in the crawl space under his house, wrap the piece in a plastic bag, stick it under the moisture shield. Nobody would find it there by accident, and if they found it on purpose, he was screwed anyhow.
He should have done it as soon as he had capped the Metro cops, he knew that. He just hadn’t wanted to—he really liked the BMF, liked carrying it, liked how it made him feel. It was a man’s gun.
But if he wasn’t the brightest bulb on the string, he also wasn’t the dimmest one, and he needed to get his act together. He had a SIG, an S&W, he could use one of those, and they were enough gun for soft targets like people. When it was all done and he had money coming out the wazoo, he’d buy another honker or two, and maybe move someplace where it was legal to carry, get a license, and never have to worry about it again. Yeah. That was the way to go.