The Last Family (13 page)

“We’re getting files on him from the Navy, FBI, and the CIA but the CIA may not be as cooperative as the others. They certainly won’t open any of the Black Operations files. They may, in fact, still be protecting him. The agency’ll ship what they compile to us as soon as it’s assembled,” Paul said. “We need to check for other possible suspects. We know the ranger had red hair, mirrored glasses, and a fancy pistol on his hip. He used a three-eighty on the scout leader—silenced, maybe. Nobody heard a shot.”

“Why did you come? He told you he would stop if you didn’t come after him.”

“I don’t believe it for a minute.”

Rainey looked at Paul and seemed to be measuring him. “Gonna poke the snake with a stick?”

“He has to be stopped, Rainey. Doesn’t matter what he said, even if I believed him. Can’t walk after what he’s already done.”

“Once on stakeout he dressed up like a derelict and called himself Willie the wino,” Rainey said. “He disguised his voice and had this pair of pants that he’d pissed on days before. Smelled like a truck-stop bathroom. Trained to do makeup by one of those Hollywood experts. And got the government to pay for it. So tell me what Robertson said. Pissed, right?”

“I think he saw the wisdom of my idea.”

“T.C. wouldn’t give you green dog shit he scraped off his shoe.”

“I talked to Senator Stanton’s aide the day before I saw T.C. An informal dinner in Arlington. He passed my request for help on to the senator.”

“And the senator was receptive?”

“Absolutely.”

“He agreed?” Rainey slowly shook his head.

“Thorne and I have been reinstated as special agents to apprehend Fletcher, who is also a fleeing felon. He is
to be returned forthwith to Marion, Illinois, where a cell awaits him. If he resists capture, we are to use whatever force appears necessary.”

“Great!” Rainey’s eyes glazed over and lost their focus for a few seconds.

“T.C. was very cooperative. Postal inspectors, U.S. marshals, Secret Service, FBI, and the CIA are to cooperate in whatever manner we see fit, if we need ’em. Thorne and McLean have been reassigned to me.”

“And I’m on your team. Not going back to what I was.”

Paul didn’t answer. Rainey was on extended leave, and Paul didn’t want him activated yet, if at all. Paul said, “Look, I know we’ll get Martin. But the reality is that we may or may not get him before he moves against Laura and the kids. Logically, they have to be his next target. I have to know that someone I can depend on will make sure he doesn’t get them. Otherwise, I’ll have to go myself.”

Rainey couldn’t conceal how ridiculous the idea of Paul pitted one on one against Martin Fletcher was to him. “And see if maybe he’d just kill you and go away?”

“We’re roughly the same size,” Paul said in self-defense. They both knew it was a ludicrous statement.

“Me. I’ll go because I’m the best choice,” Rainey said.

Naturally, Paul knew that Rainey wanted to sit and wait for Martin to show up. His own hatred would give him infinite patience and the courage to face him.

“Rainey, who out of the agency or any other agency I’ve mentioned would be best suited to watch over my family? Aside from you. You’ve been around while I’ve been out of circulation. I need for you to be my right hand on this. Who besides you?”

Rainey looked down into his lap and contemplated the request. “Thorne Greer,” he said finally. “Thorne Greer is the best guy for that. He has the patience of a rock, he’s a crack shot, and he always had great reflexes.”

Paul didn’t speak the rest of the way to the office. He had said more in the space of the past few days than he
had in six years, and it had tired him. Rainey spent the rest of the time in traffic drumming his fingers against the Bible on his lap and humming to himself. Paul hoped the operation would give Rainey a chance to regain some balance. It was obvious to him that the deaths had altered him in some fundamental way—how could they not have? Of all three agents who had lost their families, Rainey was the one most likely to spin out of control when he got the scent of Martin Fletcher.

Paul had to keep the operation as quiet as possible. Powerful people trusted Paul to see that all the
i’s
were dotted and the bodies, if any, were buried quietly. Rainey Lee’s addition to the team wasn’t a good idea, but Paul wanted to help his old friend.

The operation was a hunting party staffed with people who were conflicted by circumstance and driven by revenge. And there were the others in the mix, the new guys. Then there was Tod Peoples’s wild card, Woodrow Poole. Paul hadn’t been able to get any background information on him through his sources at DEA or Justice. The CIA had no one listed with that name, nor did FBI, Secret Service, marshals or anyone else tied into the government-employee database he had access to. So Woody Poole was either an alias for a known agent, deep cover, Black Operational, or freelance.

Paul eyed the people passing in their cars and trucks and wondered what they were thinking as he and Rainey were planning the destruction of a mad killer. A man Paul now knew he should have killed years earlier. Paul tried not to dwell on the fact that he was responsible for letting Fletcher live. He knew that it was his moral stance, his refusal to allow the man to be taken out, that had paved the way for innocent deaths, the destruction of lives, and his own downfall. There was no moral element to the equation now. Martin Fletcher would die.

10

J
OE
M
C
L
EAN HAD BEEN CHAIN SMOKING CIGARETTES, AND THE
small ashtray leaked gray ash onto the conference table’s laminated wood surface. He looked across at Thorne Greer, who rolled his eyes at the ceiling to let McLean know how he felt, working with kids again. Rookies for a job that clearly called for hard-core pros.

There were seven people sitting in the small conference room awaiting Paul’s arrival. The five younger agents were making small talk, sipping sodas or mineral water, and trading the war stories they had heard since they’d joined the DEA. Stories Thorne and Joe had told at the same stage in their own careers. Two of the five were women. McLean pegged all of them at between twenty-three and thirty tops; thirty-four was cutoff age for joining the DEA. A couple still had Quantico, Virginia, soil on their shoes. Only one of the women was attractive, to Joe’s way of measuring, the other looked like a lesbian to him.

Rainey’s secretary, Sherry Lander, had made sure everyone was offered coffee, soda, or mineral water. The agents fresh from the training academy or backwater outposts were excited. McLean and Greer were beyond being excited. The old pros were both wishing Paul had pulled in some freelance or dark-angel pros who’d run Martin to the ground and eat the meat off his bones.

The agents’ eyes followed as Paul appeared in the doorway, then limped to the table, carrying the cane like a shotgun in the crook of his left arm and a valise filled with files in the right. Rainey Lee followed like a tall shadow, carrying the slide projector and a box containing a carousel. Paul’s appearance brought the room to immediate silence. He could almost hear the smoke roll off the cigarette in Joe’s hand. Thorne and Joe got up and shook Rainey’s hand.

“Rainey!” Joe said. “God, it’s great to see you.”

“Hey, Rainey,” Thorne added. “We were planning to get out to see you this afternoon.”

Rainey nodded and smiled weakly. The two agents exchanged glances and took their seats.

“My name’s Paul Masterson. You new troops don’t know me, but I know all of you.” He reached into the valise, pulled six files and tossed them onto the table in front of him. “I wasn’t always this handsome,” he said, unsmiling. He pointed at his eye patch. “This is what can happen to you if you don’t stay on your toes. I assume you’ve heard the story of what happened in Miami a few years back. I understand you studied it at the academy under ‘don’t let this happen to you’ or something similar.”

He saw a flash of recognition in their eyes. Greer and McLean were smiling. He wished they had discussed his appearance with the new agents before he’d come in. He hated looking into the virgin mirrors of other people’s eyes.

“You weren’t briefed in any depth on this operation because I plan to keep everything I say within this group. Our quarry may have sources in the CIA, DEA, and other
groups that give, trade, or sell him information. I have selected each of you from over fifty possible candidates recommended by Mason Anderson in personnel. You five are all fairly new, but enthusiasm and energy are as important as experience.” Paul saw the light go on in the older agents’ eyes. He had said it without saying it. He made the inexperience seem a plus instead of the minus it was.

“The man with me is Rainey Lee, who has been in Nashville for the past four years. He’s providing this conference room.”

Rainey nodded without looking them in the eyes.

“You should know that the four of us were together on that dock in Miami when this happened to me. We four have known each other for at least fifteen years, so forgive us our shorthand. Hopefully you’ll all catch up before we’re finished.”

Paul counted heads. “We’re missing someone.”

Thorne nodded. “A guy named Woodrow Poole is coming in any second from the airport.”

As if on cue the door opened and a baby-faced young man with white-blond hair bolted into the room. He was holding an overnight case. His hair was combed back over his ears, and he was built like a middleweight. He sat beside Sean Merrin, who was a dead ringer for the host of
Wheel of Fortune
, though a foot taller.

“Sorry I’m late,” the newcomer said nervously.

“Woodrow Poole?” Paul asked.

The man nodded and shook Paul’s hand.

“Your timing is perfect.”

“Flight was late, sorry.” He took a seat and nodded at the people around the table.

Paul opened a file. He had been prepared for someone who looked like Arnold Schwarzenegger and picked his teeth with a tenpenny nail. Woody would fit in. In fact, he didn’t look like much. But looks were often deceptive. Martin Fletcher himself had originally been nothing special to look at.

“Most of you don’t know each other. Hands up as I mention your names, please. Agents Stephanie Martin,
Sierra Ross, Walter Davidson, and Larry Burrows …” The hands rose and fell. “You four will make up team Nighthawk under the command of Joe McLean. Each of you has surveillance training, and you will be able to put those skills to use.”

Joe straightened and looked at Paul. There was a smirk on his face.

Doesn’t like the idea of teaching
, Paul thought to himself. “Your objective will be to conduct surveillance on the sole occupant of three twenty-one Tucker Court in Charlotte, North Carolina.”

Paul looked around the room. “Woodrow Poole and Sean Merrin.” Paul looked at each as they raised their hands. “You will accompany Thorne Greer to New Orleans, where you will be responsible for protecting three civilian family members. You will have the services of the local police and DEA agents to help, but each of you will be responsible for maintaining constant cover on the principals. If you need help, you will have contacts to call on. Need ten cops or fifty, they’ll be there.”

“Sorry, sir, but might I ask why this family is so important?” Sean Merrin asked.

“The family in New Orleans is our best and possibly only means of capturing the person responsible for murdering eight people. Those eight were family members of the three strike-force agents in this room. They were slain in the most cold-blooded fashion imaginable. We have every reason to believe the three people in New Orleans will receive the same treatment unless we can prevent it.”

Paul’s voice cracked under the sudden emotion. “The man responsible, one Martin Fletcher, is possibly the most dangerous individual any of you will ever face. He may not be working alone, and if he has an associate, that man or woman will also be extremely dangerous—and unknown, unless we can get lucky with our investigation here in Nashville.”

“Will we be bunking in with three civilians?” Sean asked.

There was nervous laughter scattered about the room.

“I mean, will we be with them twenty-four hours a day?”

“Yes and no,” Paul said. “They are not to be aware that you are there at all.”

“Why?” Sean asked. “I mean, how? Protect people from outside their house?”

“Stealth. I won’t risk the team being uncovered by the target. Everything has to appear normal. If the family knows you are there, they might telegraph it in their behavior. Under no circumstances are you to be seen by the family. Also, we will take for a given that they are under surveillance by the target. So you have to avoid being seen by them
and
Martin Fletcher.”

Sean Merrin shook his head slowly. “I’m new, but according to what I know, it’s not … I mean we can protect them better if …”

Paul’s hand stopped the agent’s voice. “I have thought this through. The family in New Orleans you’re protecting is mine. Believe me, if I could protect them from the inside, I would. If I could spirit them away to a safe place, I would. But I have to do this knowing that we will have
one
shot at Martin. We believe he will go to New Orleans to kill them. He might eventually come for them wherever we put them, but whatever plan he has in place is more than likely already in motion.”

“But won’t he assume there’ll be people watching your family?”

“Good thinking, Sean. Keep that up.” Paul nodded at Rainey, who switched the lights off. The slide projector came to life, blazing a white rectangle on the wall. The first image was of a man in a tough-guy pose wearing fatigues and a black beret cocked over one eye. He had dark hair cut against his skull, and dulled eyes.

“Ladies and gentlemen, meet Martin Fletcher. Martin was born in 1947. His father, Milton, was an eyeglass grinder in Charlotte, North Carolina. The father was a suicide—blew his head off with a shotgun. Martin was educated in public school in Charlotte, and in 1965 he
went straight into the Marine Corps from high school. He was channeled to the SEALs after boot camp because of his special interests and obvious talents. In Vietnam he was decorated for valor on three separate occasions. Martin is cool under fire and fearless to the point of craziness. He’s an expert marksman, a whiz with demolition, and he has few equals at electronic surveillance. He has the conscience of a flashlight and the acting and cloaking skills of a professional performer.”