David Golemon - Ripper

“I have a little surprise for you,” Hiram Vickers said on the other end of the cell phone call.

“Surprises in my line of work are never a good thing, Mr. Vickers. You should know that.”

“Yes, yes. Now, before I give you the information you’ve been waiting on, I just wanted to say that was a real nice piece of work south of the border this afternoon. Real nice.”

The man known as Smith didn’t respond. He didn’t need the adulation of some desk jockey in Washington to critique his work. He waited in silence.

“Well, anyway, the man with the hard bug on him has left whatever hole in the ground he was in. The signal is weakening, but we are able to maintain the trace for the time being. Not for long though. The man is definitely the officer you know as Jack Collins. I cannot get into his file other than his regular 201 file, which basically only tells us he’s not dead. As for his current assignment, no luck there either. I do know that he is now a full-bird colonel not, as you said, a major. At one time everyone inside the military world thought this man would one day wind up running the whole army corporate arm, until his command had been shot to hell thanks to some generals and rats in Washington a few years back. That was when he was on Capitol Hill testifying before the Ways and Means Committee.”

The large man known to Vickers as Smith made no comment but did reach over for a pen atop his desk and started writing.

“Where can our good colonel be located?”

“I’m waiting on the next package from Imaging, but you can start at 1267 Flamingo Road, Las Vegas. After he appeared downtown, he was traced to this address, and that data is only fifteen minutes old.”

“Now, I’m going to ask this but one time. When I trace this colonel to wherever he is based, what kind of executive power do I have to recover this substance?”

“The highest. These orders come down from on high. But we’ll never have to prove that since you can get what we want and not get caught doing it, and with as few unpleasant things happening as possible, am I right?”

“You know, without knowing who this Collins works for, this thing could get messy. This could involve the elimination of American citizens.”

“The substance that was removed from the Mexican hole in the wall must be recovered or destroyed at all costs.”

“Now you see Mr. Vickers, that is why I hate dealing with you intel types. First you wanted the substance found and destroyed; now you want it recovered. Which is it?”

“Our financiers would like it destroyed. However, we here at the home office believe you can recover at least a sample; that wouldn’t be a bad thing either. But if you doubt recovery is possible, destroy it for our friends.”

Smith just pushed the end-call button on his cell phone and then looked at the address he had written on the pad. He heard the den door open and a small scream of delight. He turned to see his six-year-old daughter run into his study followed by his wife of ten years. They were both smiling.

“Honey, did you forget about our guests?” his dark-haired wife asked as Smith sweeped his daughter into his arms.

“I’m afraid you’re on your own tonight sweetheart; Daddy has some work to do.”

The daughter frowned and the wife only shook her head.

“It can’t wait?” she asked as she removed their daughter from his large arms.

The man known to certain aspects of the intelligence community as Mr. Smith looked from his wife and daughter to the address on the notepad. He tore it off and then reached for a black suitcase and placed the address inside.

“No, the country is in danger and Daddy has to save the world from the bad guys!” he said dramatically, making both his daughter and wife laugh as they kissed him and then left his study to deliver their guests the bad news.

Smith watched them leave and then the smile vanished from his face. He made the necessary phone calls and then looked out of his window at the fine Denver night.

He joked about saving the world from the bad guys, but little did his wife and child know that he was the biggest and baddest of them all.

Jack rang the doorbell several times, but no one answered. He knew someone was home because he could hear the deep bass thump coming through the door. Someone was blasting the old Credence Clearwater Revival song, “Green River.” As Jack was just about ready to knock loudly on the door, the music was lowered inside of the modest house. He turned slightly and looked at two of those plastic flamingos that always drove him crazy. Their black eyes looked accusatory to him, so he sneered and turned away. As he did there was the sound of a chain being removed and then he saw the door open. Standing there smiling was Alice Hamilton.

Since Senator Garrison Lee had died three months before, Alice had kept pretty much to herself. Jack and the others figured she needed the time to grieve and allow the senator’s memory to settle into its proper place. But as Collins looked down upon the eighty-five-year-old woman, he could see that if she were grieving, it was one dirty process. She had paint covering most of her face and even more of her arms and hands.

“Jack,” she said loudly and then reached up and put her arms around him and squeezed him so tight he lost his breath.

“And how are you doing?” he asked when he was able to pry her arms off of his neck.

“Just rockin’ out here and painting the old place. You know, adding a little color now that … that the ogre has gone to the great beyond.”

Jack could see that as much as Alice tried to hide it, the loss of Lee was still etched into her mind.

“Ogre, yeah, whatever you say,” Jack said as he stepped into the foyer of the small house.

“Now, I understand you’ve had some excitement?” Alice said as she walked a few steps to the bar, a new addition to the house Jack noted. She started pouring whiskey for both of them. “Ice?” she asked, holding up the amber fluid, which reminded Jack of the substance they removed from Perdition’s Gate.

“No ice, and yes, much excitement.”

Alice stepped from behind the bar and handed Jack his drink, which he looked at curiously because of its color.

“So, tell me Jack, what’s it like to be a civilian?” she asked as she took half of her drink down in a swallow.

“How in the hell did you know about that already?”

Alice smiled and batted her eyelids, just the way she used to do with Garrison Lee, which drove him insane. “Now, just because I haven’t returned to work yet, doesn’t mean I don’t have my sources.”

“Sarah,” Jack said as he downed his entire drink in a swallow.

“Well, actually I received calls from Sarah, Carl, Niles, Virginia, and Charlie Ellenshaw.”

“Did they think you could do something about my resignation?”

Alice took Jack’s empty glass and returned to the bar and refilled them both. Before she could return, the phone rang and she answered it.

“Hello?” she said.

“Yes, I’ve heard. I know it hurts, but you have to let him sort through this. I know you do, but like the rest of us have to do, you just need to give him his space. Yes dear, thank you, and yes, you can come over anytime. Yes, goodbye, Will.” Alice hung up the phone and then brought Jack his drink.

“You can add Will Mendenhall to the list.”

Jack shook his head and then had to smile.

“Hey, since you’re no longer an officer and a gentleman, Mr. Collins, would you care to get drunk with an old woman and tell me a story?”

Jack downed his second drink and then pursed his lips as the whiskey burned its way to his stomach.

“It would be a pleasure, Mrs. Hamilton. But get this straight young lady — I am not helping you paint. I draw the line right there.”