Reginald Cook - The Hammer of God

“Since when do retired agents rate a visit from an assistant director?

Even in a case like this.”

“Since the Director himself ordered it,” answered Thompson. “It seems as though he’s taken a personal interest in helping find Samuel.” Bullshit, thought Robert. You guys don’t give a shit about anybody who’s not important to you. “Well, we can certainly use all the help we can get,” said Robert, taking another look at Agent Maxwell, who was now leaning back against the hood of the sedan. “You know anything I haven’t already heard?”

“I’m not sure. How much do you know?” asked Thompson.

Robert measured both men. Something big is going on. The same something Donovan is keeping from me. “Samuel’s gone, and nobody’s heard a peep from the kidnappers. I’ve scrounged around a bit, but haven’t come up with a thing.”

The two men looked at each other.

“What about at the school?” asked Agent Maxwell, his voice calm and smooth. “Find out anything important from the kids or staff?” Robert decided he wouldn’t mention the breakdown of Samuel’s two best friends. “No, nothing,” he said. “It was a dead end.”

“So, what’s your next move?” chimed Thompson. “Any way we can be of assistance?”

“Yes,” said Robert. “You can start by telling me the reason you’re really out here. I know you guys. I used to be on the team, remember?

Now, why the sudden intense interest in Samuel Napier?” Agent Maxwell took a step toward Robert. “We could tell you, but then again, like you said you’re not one of us.” Robert smiled at the rookie’s mistake. So, there is something you guys want.

“Stand down, Agent Maxwell. Wait for me in the car,” ordered Thompson, pulling a pack of Camels from his inside pocket. Agent Maxwell, not happy, slid inside the sedan and slammed the door. “Let’s walk,” said Thompson, brushing by Robert, a freshly lit cigarette in his mouth.

Just beyond the gas station was a small park, empty, except for a few joggers and a homeless man carrying two large plastic bags on his shoulders. Thompson stopped at a severely chipped, green wooden bench and sat. Robert eased down next to him, his scowl and wrinkled forehead demanding answers.

“I can’t tell you much,” said Thompson. “In fact, we don’t know much.”

“Then tell me why the CIA is interested in a little boy’s kidnapping?

And don’t feed me the bullshit about caring for Donavon. ” The silence lasted a second too long, and Robert knew he wouldn’t get the answer he was looking for.

“You know as well as I do that information is handed out on a need to know basis,” said Thompson.

Need to know. You mean, go fuck yourself. “Donovan says there’s something special about Samuel,” Robert lied. “Do you think that’s why they took him?”

Robert watched his fabrication worm its way through Thompson’s mind. The Assistant Director, his reputation built on calculating intuition, seemed to suppress a smile. “And exactly what is this special thing Donavon shared with you?”

“Something valuable enough to put the boy’s life in danger,” answered Robert. “Any idea who’s behind this?” Thompson continued to measure Robert. “None at this time. We were hoping you’d picked up their scent.”

“No such luck. If I knew where the bastards were, I wouldn’t be here bullshitting with you.”

Thompson smiled and lit another cigarette off the one he’d just finished. “If you do find them, we’d appreciate a phone call. We’ll provide any assistance you ask for, including intelligence, hardware, money. It’s your call. Name your price.” Robert, off the bench before he knew it, grabbed Thompson by the collar. “Price! There’s no price you could pay for this, asshole! He’s my godson, not a bounty!”

Thompson continued to smile, the cigarette tucked in the corner of his mouth. Two cold taps on the nap of his neck, and Robert turned his head.

“Let the director go,” said Agent Maxwell, his. 357 automatic pointed at Robert’s right eye socket.

Robert didn’t let go right away. He wanted to shake Thompson till his brain scrambled. Agent Maxwell cocked the hammer on his weapon.

Robert let Thompson go and took a step back. When Agent Maxwell checked to see if his boss was okay, Robert grabbed the agent’s wrist, and spun clockwise, twisting the gun out of the agent’s grasp and flipped him over his shoulder. Agent Maxwell let out a grunt as he pounded down, back first, to the ground. Robert fired a shot in the dirt just past the agent’s head.

“You pull a gun on me, use it,” he snarled.

“I won’t forget,” said Agent Maxwell. “You can believe it.” Thompson, seated again on the bench, lit another smoke, took a deep drag, leaned back and blew a hazy cloud into the air. He looked down at the two, amused. “Please let him up, Mr. Veil.” Robert stared at the agent, his forearm pressed hard against Maxwell’s throat. But it wasn’t the FBI agent he saw on the ground, it was one of the masked men who kidnapped his godson. Robert hit Agent Maxwell on the temple with the butt of the gun, knocking him out cold.

Then he tossed the weapon to Thompson, who fumbled it, losing his Camel in the process, sending orange ash sparkling in the air.

“That was uncalled for,” raged Thompson, standing.

“So is all this crap you’re trying to hand me,” fired Robert. “And until the CIA learns to share, don’t call on me again.”

“You’re one of us,” growled Thompson. “You know how this is played. Help us with anything you learn, and I’ll do the same. You have my word. I’ll let you in on everything when you find the boy.” Agent Maxwell, groggy, tried to stand, but collapsed back to the ground, hands on his head. Robert headed back to his vehicle, ignoring Thompson’s calls.

Back in the Explorer, Robert gripped the steering wheel tight. Why is Samuel drawing attention from the CIA? He racked his brain, but no scenario that fit made any sense. He started the engine and hit the highway. He dialed his office in Washington D.C. on his cell. Evelyn Hollis, their office manager, picked up.

“Evie, it’s me. I want you to do a full background work-up on Samuel. Go back as far as you can, and list every name you can find.” Evelyn grilled him, and he brought her up to date as much as he could over the phone. She hung up with promises to move as quickly as possible. Robert dialed Thorne, who picked up on the first ring.

“I have news, Robert. Come to Detective Reynolds apartment. It doesn’t look good,” said Thorne.

R obert sped into Chicago and headed for South Shore, where Detective Reynolds owned a condominium. Forty-five minutes past noon, most of the city’s faithful went about their daily routine with systematic ease. City street crews directed traffic around pylons, while they repaired chuckholes in the asphalt, and scheduled maintenance before a hard winter took its toll. Hustlers hawked their wares, some legit, most illegal, all under the occasional watchful eyes of Chicago’s patrolling finest.

Detective Reynolds, a twenty year police veteran, was somewhat of a legend on the streets of Chicago. Tales of his exploits were many, however, one story stood out as Robert’s favorite.

Late one Friday night, back when the detective was still a uniform patrolman, he and his partner were cruising through one of the seedier sections of the city’s South Side, when an explosion in a house the next street over rocked the neighborhood. Reynolds and his partner were the first to arrive on the scene and found an old, beaten down house quickly being gobbled up in flames.

“My babies, my babies!” a distraught mother in a nightgown bellowed, running up to the car. “My son and daughter are up there! Help them, please!”