Jack Coughlin - An Act of Treason

ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA

N IGHT BROUGHT THE COMFORTABLEcover that the hit team needed for their home invasion, and the fantasy that nothing could stop three large armed and dangerous predators who viewed the coming attack as little more than an evening of fun and a nice paycheck. They had to stay alert, so limited themselves to one beer apiece and a shared marijuana joint as they waited for Lieutenant Commander Benton Freedman to come home.

“Glad it’s finally dark,” said the leader, Samuel Achmed Fox, his big frame slouched in the passenger seat of the little Nissan. “Get this over with. Little Jap cars ain’t made for comfort. You shoulda stole an American, like a big Ford SUV.” His hand rested on the butt of a pistol stuffed into the front of his pants.

“You tol’ me to get something that wouldn’t be noticed. There are more Jap cars in this neighborhood than in downtown Tokyo.” Vincent Parma caught a strand of his long black hair and hooked it behind an ear as he sucked on the joint, catching the smoke in his lungs and holding it as long as possible.

He passed it up to the driver, LeGarret Shields, a nervous kid with shifty eyes, youngest of the three. All had served time together for various crimes, their bodies were painted with raw jailhouse tattoos, and they enjoyed inflicting violence on others. “Why not pay us the rest of the money now, Achmed?” LeGarret already had five thousand dollars in his pocket and was mentally counting the five thousand yet to come.

“After it’s done, bro. After it’s done. Don’t worry. I’ll hand it to you right when we get back in the car. Meanwhile, think about what might be worthwhile in the house that we can take. Could be some good shit.” Parma and Shields each got ten thousand for the hit, and Fox would pocket the lion’s share, twenty-five thousand. After all, he was the one who got the call from Nicky Shaw a few hours ago. He had made it to the bank in time to cash the wire transfer.

The car drove in loops and figure eights through the area, all three men low in their seats. Two black men and a dark-skinned Italian, all dressed in black, would draw the immediate attention of any passing police cruiser in this suburban neighborhood, so they roamed, centering their pattern on a corner house two blocks in from the nearest large street. A single porch light had automatically come on at dusk. The driveway remained empty. They circled. Had another joint. Stayed cool. Took time for a hamburger and bathroom break at McDonald’s.

Their car climbed the hill once again, then nosed around a right-hand turn, and LeGarret pulled to the curb and shut off the lights. “Damn, there’s the mutha, right there! He just got home.”

Parma leaned forward between the guys in the front seat to get a better view. In the dim light from the porch and the light that popped on from inside the target’s car, they made out the figure of a skinny man in the white uniform of a naval officer. “Got to be him. He’s alone, too. No lights in the house, so the family ain’t home.”

“Damn,” said Shields. “I wanted a piece of his wife.”

The target unlocked his front door and went inside, and immediately a series of lights bloomed throughout the house. Living room, kitchen, bedroom, bath.

“Now?” asked LeGarret Shields, his tongue licking his dry lips.

“Not quite. Let him get settled for a minute. Probably taking a leak, then he’ll make some food and turn on the TV. Get comfortable.”

The figure came unexpectedly into view again, walking down the driveway, pulling a green plastic trash cart out for curbside pickup. He had a blue plastic carton of recycled cans under one arm, propped on his hip but resting on a little towel to protect his white uniform.

“Fuck waiting,” hissed Parma. “This is the chance. If he’s taking out the garbage, he’s already off guard and getting comfortable. Soon as he goes back inside, we do it.”

“Unh-hunh. You right. Get ready.” Achmed Fox pulled his pistol free and rested it on his leg. “Go on up there now, LeGarret, soon as he’s back inside.” Fox felt the car drop into gear and slowly creep forward, sticking to the curb.

“Let’s go on and do it,” said Fox, his voice now tense, ready. He threw open the door of the car and climbed out, waiting only a moment for the others to form up beside him; then all three advanced rapidly up the walk and onto the porch. Parma reached up with his pistol and smashed the front porch light as Fox opened the screen door and kicked hard with his steel-toed boot at the lock on the wooden door.

It crashed open, and the three of them dashed inside, looking at the startled man across the room. Little dude in a white uniform. Calm. Fox had expected to see fear. He shouted, “Get your ass on the floor, muthafucka! Get down or I’ll cap you where you stand.”

LeGarret Shields closed the door and turned to look at their prisoner. “What you grinnin’ at, muthafucka?” he yelled at the sailor, who was kneeling, hands locked behind his head.

Then all of the lights went out.

There was a muffled crummpp sound, and Vincent Parma screamed as a high-velocity bullet took out his right knee. He dropped to the wooden floor, and a second rip of bullets shredded the middle of his chest. Another cough from a different direction, and the back of LeGarret’s head exploded.

Before Samuel Achmed Fox could react, an incredibly strong hand reached out in the blackness, closed around his pistol, and snatched it away at the same time a muscular arm wrapped in a tight V around his neck and tightened in a choke hold. The oxygen was cut off, and Fox tried to pry off the arm, but it was as if it were made of steel and concrete. His resistance faded; he could not breathe. The lights came back on, and as his sight faded, he saw four men in full battle gear watching him.

The little sailor spoke. “We’ve been expecting you,” Freedman said. “Let’s have a talk.”

Then the arm turned Fox loose and he toppled over, gasping for breath as his lungs burned in pain. His neck felt broken.

LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

“T HE MONEY KEEPS ROLLINGin, doesn’t it, gentlemen?” Bartlett Geneen, the director of the Central Intelligence Agency, spread his hands over two neatly stacked piles of papers on his desk.

Jack Pathurst from the Office of Security kept a confident look on his face and remained calm. “I am apparently on my way to becoming as rich as the CEO of some state-owned utility company. What’s my latest total, Mia?”

Mia Kim from the Financial Department said, “Two new deposits were wired in just before midnight. One from the Canary Islands, the second from Buenos Aires. You are each up to about forty million.”

“You have it all tagged to be scraped up later?”

“Yes,” Kim said.

“Good.”

Stephen Swinton sighed loudly and looked at his folded hands, which were shaking. His face was ashen. “My wife has left me,” he announced softly. “Glenda cashed out those first deposits in her account and departed, leaving a short note beneath a magnet on the refrigerator. She has gone to Reno to file for divorce.”

Pathurst gave the lawyer a smirk. “Glenda is a smart girl. You owe the government some big bucks.”

Bart Geneen stood up and stretched. “One of the neatest frames I have seen in a long time,” he said. “Homeland Security is interested in both of you, which poses new problems. Bobby Richardson over at the White House is trying to distance himself from this entire episode. He has become a political liability for the president and will soon be dismissed as chief of staff, even if the media does not get a hint of this, as I fully expect them to do.”