John Gilstrap - Damage Control

The elevator doors opened again, and they stepped out to stroll the mall.

“Interesting you put it that way,” Sjogren said. “Normally, when people pay a lot of money for expensive contractors, they know enough to stay out of the contractor’s way so that he can do his job.”

Munro’s stomach flipped. “What are you telling me?”

Sjogren recoiled. “Holy shit, I thought you knew.” He laughed. “It was a cluster fuck of major proportions. Hostages dead, money gone, and your guys still alive and on the run.”

Munro’s emotional shield faltered. He pointed to the right, toward the door to the parking lot. The conversation had turned to one that demanded more privacy.

When they were outside, Munro opted to keep them walking, despite the thick humidity and blistering sun. “How is that possible? How did you let it go so wrong?”

“I didn’t let anything go wrong,” Sjogren said with a laugh. “You wanted me to find out who killed your friend, and I did that. I even got you names-Harris and Lerner, though I’d be shocked if that was their real names. You asked me to arrange a way to snare them, and I did that, too. I even found a church to play along-and I gotta tell you it’s scary how really frickin’ easy that was. Everything I touched went fine. If I’d had my way, Harris and Lerner would both be dead now, and the dear little darling kids would be home, or at least on their way.”

Sjogren paused. Munro knew he was waiting for a reaction, but he wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. One of the problems with ceding wet work to contractors was the lack of respect. The better they were at their jobs, the worse the problem became.

Sjogren pressed his attack. “Things didn’t start coming apart until you had to go all Machiavellian and kill the kidnappers-who, by the way, worked for Felix Hernandez, about the most disturbed and disturbing asshole on the planet. I thought that’s the guy whose dick you were trying to suck in the first place.”

This time, Munro had to stop. It was just too much to process while walking. “Felix didn’t care about them. I had his blessing.”

Sjogren laughed again, causing Munro’s ears to burn. Everything was funny to this guy. People who laughed too much died early in Munro’s world

“Felix now, is it?” Sjogren mocked. “So you two really are butt buddies. I’d heard that, but I didn’t believe it. I didn’t think that even you Agency guys were stupid enough to go to bed with the likes of him.” He poked Munro with his elbow. “You know, Trev, friendships like that can be hard to survive.”

“ None of the hostages survived?” Munro asked. It seemed impossible. “Have you verified that?”

“One or two might have,” Sjogren said. “My guy on the ground-an army captain named Palma-told me there were thirteen dead on the ground, including the kidnappers and two of Palma’s own guys, but a full count is complicated by the fact that we don’t really know what the starting numbers were. We know that your butt buddy’s goons killed a couple before the bus ever got to the jungle, but since you insisted that the goons die first, we don’t know who or how many. The only kid missing is a seventeen-year-old named Tristan Wagner. Stupid name, yeah, I know. The four chaperones are missing, too, but like I said, they might have been killed before. I haven’t looked it up in the dictionary, Trev, but I’m pretty sure this set the new definition for a cluster fuck.”

Profanity notwithstanding, Sjogren’s larger point was spot-on. But what seemed so shockingly simple to that beefy boor-getting the Crystal Palace to go along with the scheme-turned out in the end to require a great deal of heated last-minute negotiation.

The original plan had called for Hernandez to keep the ransom-three million dollars. Then, the right reverend Jackie Mitchell changed the rules at the last minute. She decided that for the kind of risk she was taking, her own three million was not enough. She needed the ransom, too, for a total of six mill. Any less, she said, and she’d go to the FBI. She’d take some heat, she reasoned, and might even face jail time, but she rolled the dice that it would all go harder on Munro than it would on her.

As with any good game of brinksmanship, it’s impossible to tell when the other party is bluffing. As a longtime veteran of such games, Munro sensed that she was serious. Given all the scandals she’d endured in the last year or so, she’d been coming from a very weird psychological starting point. Under the circumstances, such self-destructive behavior was well within the bounds of reason.

In the end, he’d had no choice but to blink.

Getting Hernandez to agree took some work, as well, but it turned out that settling the debt owed to him by Harris and Lerner-Munro was likewise willing to bet those weren’t their real names-was worth the three million dollars. Unfortunately, Felix’s largesse did not extend to the soldiers who’d done the kidnapping in return for a share of the payment. They would be angry when they found out that there’d be no payment for their efforts-angry enough to pose a security risk to Felix. Therefore, they had to die, too.

Now, after all that, Munro had nothing to show for all of his efforts but collateral damage. Worse, if Sjogren knew these details from his people on the ground, then Hernandez must know as well, and he’d be furious.

“What are you going to do to fix this?” Munro asked.

“What am I going to do?” Sjogren said, aghast. “I’m going to call it a day and watch the fireworks. The question is, what are you going to do? You screwed the pooch big-time on this. Not only are Harris and Lerner still out there-now they know they’re being hunted. You don’t have a clue who they are, but depending on who they might talk to, they’ll find out who you are. Or maybe they’ll just figure out how totally screwed up the Crystal Palace folks are. Oh, yeah, and let’s not forget what’s going to happen when all those big parishioners get wind of what you did with those little parishioners. Of course none of that will matter if Hernandez gets to you first.” Another laugh, this one heartier than the others. “Hell, Trev, I get nervous just standing next to you.”

“We can’t let them get back into the country,” Munro said, the barest outline of a plan forming in his mind.

“How’s that?”

“If we can keep them in Mexico, we can keep this contained. If they cross the border, it will be too late.”

“You don’t even know who you’re looking for. How are you gonna do that?”

“I’m going to trap them,” Munro said. Just like that, the plan became fully formed in his head. As he walked away from Sjogren, he said over his shoulder, “You’re still in this. Keep a phone nearby in case I need you.”

Mother Hen-a.k.a. Venice Alexander (it’s pronounced Ven-EE-chay, by the way)-sat in her office on the top floor of the converted firehouse in Fisherman’s Cove, Virginia, watching helplessly as the nightmare unfolded. Her official job title was something like director of operations for Security Solutions Inc., the private investigation firm that served as the cover for Jonathan Grave’s hostage rescue shenanigans. When the boys weren’t out saving lives, she in fact managed seven investigators, who each ran as many as eight different investigations simultaneously. The legitimate side of the business earned a fortune-not that Jonathan needed it-and numbered among its clients some of the biggest corporate names in the world. Few of the staff on the overt side of the business understood the covert side-or if they did, they had the good sense to keep their suspicions to themselves.

Routine investigations, though, could never hold Jonathan’s attention. He lived for the adrenaline rush of the rescue missions. When he was away on an op, it fell to Venice to manage whatever intel they could get, and to troubleshoot things when they went wrong.