Maden Mike - Tom Clancy Firing Point

Jack followed the Jeep’s GPS back east on Kingston Pike to Neyland Drive. He followed the winding curve of the Tennessee River along the back side of the University of Tennessee campus, checking his mirrors for unwanted friends.

Gavin nearly jumped out of his seat as they passed Thompson-Boling Arena, where the national champion Lady Vols basketball team played. Gavin had only ever seen the inside of it on a television screen. He made Jack promise they’d come back later and tour the arena, then grab pulled pork sandwiches at Calhoun’s on the River nearby.

From Neyland they made their way up to the Henley Street Bridge and headed south on Chapman Highway. They made the turn onto Druid Drive past Berry Funeral Home, a stately, mountain stone building and into a historic, tree-lined neighborhood.

Following the narrow two-lane roads, Jack and Gavin navigated past dozens of cozy, well-kept homes. It was a workday morning and there were few signs of life save for a half-dozen parked cars in driveways or on the street. Jack assumed those belonged to stay-at-home moms, working self-employed and remotes.

“There it is,” Gavin said, pointing at one of the few river rock houses on the street. Jack gently lowered his arm. “No pointing, Gav. It’s rude. It’s also a big red flag.”

“Oh, gee. That was stupid. Sorry.”

Jack could see the yellow NO ENTRANCE sign taped to the red front door in his peripheral vision as they passed by. No doubt put there by the FBI.

He took one more trip around the neighborhood just to make sure there wasn’t a government car parked somewhere or anyone watching from a living room window. Reasonably sure they weren’t being watched, Jack pulled into Runtso’s leafy driveway and around toward the back of the house, where a one-door garage stood, out of sight of the street.

“Keep your eyes open, Gav. And let’s not give the neighbors any reason to call the cops.”

“You got it,” Gavin whispered, slinging his messenger bag over one of his narrow shoulders.

Jack glanced around one more time for prying eyes but didn’t see any. He and Gavin snapped on pairs of latex gloves before Jack pulled out his lockpick set and easily opened the back door. They stepped inside the small kitchen.

Not good.

—

The kitchen was trashed. Drawers had been pulled out and crashed on the floor, along with silverware, pots, pans, and lids. Cabinets were opened, as were the pantry, the doors beneath the sink, and the utility closet. Everything in them had also been thrown to the floor. Someone had gone through this room like a hurricane. Judging by the effort, Jack assumed they had done the same to the rest of the house.

He was right. They went room to room in the old house, including two small bathrooms, a formal dining room—with a pool table—and two bedrooms. Each had been thoroughly tossed. Furniture cushions, pillows, and mattresses had been cut open. Drawers, cabinets, and closets were also torn apart.

The only good news in all of this mess was that the whole house wouldn’t have been torn apart if whatever they were looking for had been found easily, if at all.

Jack also knew it wasn’t the FBI’s style to tear a place apart like that. If they had, they would have attempted to bring it back to some kind of order. That told him someone else had been here besides the Feds.

Probably Sammler .

The largest bedroom was the last they checked and it had been converted into a game room and office. A file cabinet stood in one corner, its drawers opened and files tossed on the floor, along with a smashed router and a broken laser printer. A green leather couch was shoved against the far wall, its cushions cut open. A busted shadow box lay on one of the ripped cushions.

“Jeepers! Look at that!” Gavin dashed over to the couch and picked it up. The two-foot-wide, one-foot-tall, six-inch-deep display case was glassed-in but the glass was cracked. Inside of the case was an object that looked to Jack like an old computer keyboard. It was thick and beige with brown keys.

Jack didn’t get it. Why is Gavin so fired up?

“What’s the big deal?”

“Are you kidding? That’s an old Commodore 64! I had one of those when I was a kid. How freaking awesome is that?”

Jack shrugged. “Couldn’t say.” He pointed at a cut-up padded chair, tossed on its side. “What’s that?”

Gavin looked at Jack like he was the village idiot. “That’s a reclining racing simulator cockpit driving seat with a gearshift, steering wheel, and pedal mounts. Dude must have been a serious racer.”

“As in computer games?”

Gavin’s eyes said, Duh, even if his mouth didn’t.

Gavin set the broken display case back down on the couch gently, as if it were a rare Egyptian artifact, then pointed at the eighty-five-inch LG TV on the wall.

“Runtso sure had an awesome setup.” Gavin walked over to the shelving beneath the TV. He pointed at the rectangular dust outline on the top shelf. “They took his game machine.” Gavin bent close to the dust outline. “Judging by the size of the imprint, I’d say this was an Xbox One X.” He glanced around the room and pointed to a broken controller lying in the corner. “Yup. Definitely a One X.”

“Why?”

“Game consoles are serious machines, especially this one. It has a one-terabyte hard drive, twelve gigabytes of RAM, and a whopping six-teraflop GPU. If I was hiding files, that’s where I’d put them.”

Jack kicked aside one of the dozens of emptied game poly-boxes. Most of the titles were racing games, especially cars. “Took the DVDs, too.”

“Yeah, an even better place to stash stuff.”

Jack swore. Whatever Runtso might have stored anywhere in the house had probably been found and taken away, either by the FBI or, more likely, Sammler.

“HEY!”

Gavin’s high-pitched shriek spun Jack around on his heels. He reached beneath his sport coat. By the time he faced Gavin, the Glock 43 was in both of Jack’s steady hands at low ready.

Gavin’s eyes went wide as dinner plates. “Wow! That was a Wyatt Earp fast draw if I ever saw one.”

“A scream will do that.” Jack holstered his weapon, half angry, but mostly relieved. “What’d you see?”

Gavin bent over and picked up a cracked photo frame and handed it to Jack. It was a photo of Elon Musk with his signature, addressed to Runtso.

“How cool is that?”

Jack frowned, unimpressed.

Until he had a thought. He glanced around the room again and handed Gavin the photo frame back. “What do you make of that?”

“He must have met Elon. That would be awesome.”

Jack shook his head. “Look around you. What do you see?”

Gavin did as he was told. His face lit up with a smile. He held up the photo. “You’re right, Jack. Runtso was into cars. I bet he even owns a Tesla.”

“Let’s go.”

—

Jack led the way back out through the kitchen, stopping briefly at the door to make sure no one was watching them. Then he and Gavin dashed over to the garage and pulled open the door.

No car.

The garage was completely empty. Just a couple of rakes and a shovel hanging on nails on the walls. Gavin tugged at the messenger bag that kept slipping off his shoulder.

Jack pointed at the floor. “Looks like there were storage boxes in here. A lot of them.”

“Whoever took them thought there was something in them.”

“Something that had to be gone through with a fine-tooth comb. My guess is tax records, business records, that sort of thing. They took them because otherwise they’d be standing in here for hours going through them.”

“Makes sense, Jack. But where’s his car?”

“The only thing I can think of is at the airport, where he left it before his trip to Spain.”