Dan Fesperman - Unmanned

Within half an hour he was ready to roll. The last thing he did before heading to the airport was to shoot an email to Hagan, to let the general know about his plans. Immediately he wondered if it was a bad move. Hagan, not exactly the kind of guy who stayed plugged in at all hours, probably wouldn’t see it until Riggleman had completed the job. But what if, for whatever reason, he saw the message sooner and ordered a halt to Riggleman’s op? After all the hinky stuff that had cropped up already, it certainly wouldn’t be out of the question.

Or, worse, what if Harry Walsh, or whoever he was, spent the rest of his Sunday contacting his connections and otherwise moving heaven and earth to stop him. Get this fucker off the case, now! And if Hagan had Walsh’s private number, there was a decent chance Walsh had Hagan’s.

So Riggleman shut down his laptop, shut down his smart phone, and even shut down his new cell phone, the one he had used only once. But he didn’t destroy it as Walsh had demanded. Something told him he might yet need a record of that call, if only for his own legal protection.

For the next twelve hours at least, he was going to be officially out of touch.

He locked his office door and set out for the parking lot. It was time to go operational. Time to get Cole in his sights and shoot him down. Figuratively speaking, of course.

COLE, ON FULL ALERT NOW, pulled back the blinds and checked outside. Lights were again on in the main house. One downstairs, two upstairs. Either the gunman was inside, lording it over them with blood on the floor, or everyone was awake for the same reason he was. Sharpe’s van was silent and dark, all locked up.

He stepped reluctantly into the night and the cold, walking quietly but briskly toward the house. Halfway there he stopped, overcome by the same creeping sense of another presence that he’d experienced the night before—someone, or something, watching from the trees. Or maybe even from above. He imagined himself as a green blob on an infrared display.

He moved behind a pine and peered at the dark line marking the edge of the woods. Nothing, as far as he could tell, although he knew this observation was meaningless. If someone back there wanted to drop him, it probably would have happened by now. He stepped out from behind the tree and made his way to the door, pausing on the porch to listen for sounds from inside. Muffled voices, no sense of panic, a few footfalls at an easy pace. He pushed on through. Three of them—Barb, Steve, and Sharpe—were gathered in the living room, just beyond the foyer. They looked up in unison, eyes a bit wide.

Sharpe looked at Cole and grimly shook his head as if to say, “Not my doing. Not this time.”

“Where’s Keira?” Cole asked.

“In the kitchen,” Barb said. “She called the cops. They’re keeping her on the line.”

“Some deputy named Tony,” Steve said. “She seems to know him.”

“And you’re surprised?” Barb said.

“Probably a friend of the family’s,” Cole said. It was too early for their usual bullshit. Keira emerged from the hallway, cell phone pressed to her ear.

“There’s a police cruiser now at the upper end of the drive,” she said. “They’re looking around, but they’re thinking it might be hunters.”

“At this hour?” Steve said.

“Spotlight hunters,” Cole said. “I knew guys back home who did that shit.”

“Spotlight?”

“For deer. Blind ’em and shoot ’em. Illegal. It’s why they do it in the middle of the night.”

“Tony said some of the neighbors heard cars coming and going. I don’t think we were the only ones who called.”

“Cars?” Barb said. “In the plural? Jesus, how many people are out there?”

“Is there a coffeemaker handy?” These were Sharpe’s first words since Cole had come through the door, and it was clear he didn’t give a shit about what the others were saying. He looked detached from them, as though thinking this was their fight, not his. Cole saw his sleeping bag, unrolled on the living room carpet. Couldn’t they have at least offered him a bed? Maybe this had been his punishment for the stunt with the minidrones. Or maybe Sharpe had preferred it this way, with easier access to his boxful of toys out in the van.

A voice squawked on Keira’s cell phone. She pressed it to her ear while everyone watched. Her mouth flew open, but for a moment no words emerged. She turned away from them and spoke in a low voice, the words inaudible. A few seconds later she turned back around, shaking her head, holding the phone at her side.

“What is it?” Barb asked. “What’s happened?”

“They found a body. On the property, up in the woods. Shot.”

“Hunting accident?” Barb asked hopefully, almost desperately.

“Shot twice,” Keira answered. “The two shots we heard.”

“No accident, then,” Steve said. He was already reaching for his coat. “One to knock him down, then a second to make sure. We need to get a look at the scene before they’ve had time to clean it up. Somebody bring a notebook.”

Barb had already produced one from somewhere—did she sleep with a supply?—and she held a pencil in her right hand. Steve paused at the door.

“You coming, Keira? It would probably help to have you out there, since you know the cops.”

“Sure,” she said, barely a whisper. She turned slowly, took her coat from the closet, and got Barb’s out as well. They trooped out the door together, a team again, at least for now, pursuing their story. Cole’s first impulse was to join them, but something made him hesitate. Maybe he didn’t belong, not this time. After the door shut, the room was enveloped in silence. Then Sharpe spoke up.

“Any theories?” He looked somber, but not particularly surprised.

“No idea. It’s the hour of death.”

“What?”

“Nothing. I should go out there. See what’s up.”

“Suit yourself. I’m going to find a room upstairs where I can get some sleep. We’re flying at first light, provided the cops have cleared out. We need to make the most of every opportunity now, because it’s pretty obvious someone is trying to shut us down.”

“Maybe they got shut down instead.”

“By whom? It’s not like the woods are crawling with our allies.”

“True. Doesn’t make much sense, does it?”

“None at all.”

Cole paused, looked around, as if wondering if there was anything he should take with him. “Okay, then. I’m off.”

Steve led the journalists toward the murder scene, which was lit up by the headlights of two Talbot County police cars parked at angles facing the body from the driveway. The body lay about ten feet into the trees. The victim had fallen perhaps a hundred yards from the house, about seventy from the pool house. Even from a distance you could tell it was a man. He wore a camouflage uniform and some sort of floppy jungle hat. Off to one side was a rifle with a sighting scope. He was either a hunter who’d come to the wrong place or some sort of freelance commando. But on what sort of mission? To watch them, or to bring them down? And if either was the case, then who had brought him down, and why?

Steve watched Keira for her reaction as they reached the scene. He’d already been feeling guilty about the drone thing and the way they’d accused her, and now there was a murder on her family’s property, with God knows what sort of ramifications. She’d grown up with this place, a haven of peace and safety, and now she’d probably never feel the same way about it again. They’d ruined it for her, and a man was dead. She was probably scared, too. He knew he was, out here in the wild with shooters on the loose and all their secrets up for grabs, now that the police were involved.