Lewis Perdue - Perfect killer

We walked silently and got in. Vince started the truck's engine and backed out of the space.

"Remember what I said back there. Jones is a terrific detective, closes a lot of his cases without all the BS you get from others." Vince headed for the exit. "He's a lot smarter than he is big, but he's got this thing about his black women and white guys."

My fingers tingled with anger and caffeine.

He paused at the Culver Boulevard exit. "Where to? Where the hell you gonna sleep now that your boat's sunk and your house is trashed?"

I shrugged. "My lab's pretty much it." I looked at my watch. "Besides, it's time for work."

Vince smiled, then pulled carefully into traffic.

"I thought Jones's kind of thinking was for Archie Bunker," I said.

"Bigots come in all colors." Vince turned north on Centinela. "Watch yourself."

I opened my mouth to reply, but he cut me off.

"Look, Doc, we could talk forever about why its not right. But we can't change it and we don't have all day because I need to tell you a few things which are a lot more important."

"Ooh-kay," I said slowly.

"Chris Nellis-you remember him, the reserve guy who dives?"

"Uh-huh, he's got an ad agency or something. I've trained with him."

"We had Chris in the water right after we pulled you off the rocks, down to check to make sure there wasn't anybody still alive. He retrieves some debris and a few pieces of a guy left after the explosion. Then out beyond the breakwater, one of the Harbor Patrol guys finds an inflatable idling around in a circle, and nearby a floater with a very broken neck.

"So, while the suits at Internal Affairs are working you over, they haul all this stuff to the dock, and they're not there half an hour when this Army chopper lands on the jetty and farts out some pretty pushy guys in fatigues flashing heavy-duty military ID and firepower."

Vince stopped at the light by the east end of the Santa Monica airport where Centinela turns into Bundy Drive. A small single-engine plane on final approach coasted across the road above the stoplight.

"To make things short, these military guys check out. Then they take everything. Raft, body, body parts, debris." The light turned green, and a nanosecond later a horn sounded behind us. I turned around and spotted a blond in a black BMW, one of those California cliches that plays on the worst of both worlds. Vince looked in the rearview mirror as she honked again. He pressed on the accelerator more slowly than usual.

"She's very important, I guess." He smiled. She wore a snarl on her face as she weaved the Beemer back and forth in the lane. She had nice, shiny nails on the hand used for her Anglo-Saxon salute.

"Anyway, these Army jerks are gone almost as fast as they arrive, only they leave behind a tight-assed, full-bird colonel, who tells us there's not going to be a report on this incident because it involves national security and it's a training exercise that got out of hand with some new men who were way too gung ho."

"Whoa! No report? What about my boat?"

"He said the check would be in the mail."

My jaw dropped.

"No, really." Vince gave me a smile. "That's what he said. Checks would go out to everybody today. He made a point of saying that you would be a lot better off without insurance, not filing a claim."

"It doesn't add up. My attackers told me exactly what they came for and that they came looking for me to give it to them."

"That's what you say, Officer;" Vince said.

"What the hell's that supposed to mean, sergeant?"

"It's their story and your word against theirs." He fell silent. Then: "Look, Doc. I know you did some classified work before. And if this is connected, you'll need to sort it out."

"This has nothing to do with my past life and everything to do with Vanessa Thompson's killing."

"Uh-huh. They have a different story. And firepower to make their version stick." He turned right on Olympic. "Not that I believe a word of it, which is why I am telling you what they told me not to. It's not a lot, mostly what Chris pulled together before the chopper arrived-that the people you killed were from an elite unit attached to the Army Technical Escort Unit, which is a one-of-a-kind, battalion-level organization headquartered at the Edgewood facility at Aberdeen Proving Ground in Maryland. They were reorganized a while back into something called the Guardian Brigade, and when that happened, some of their command structure went covert and untraceable. They're all good soldiers is my understanding, but the covert part of things offers some opportunities for abuse, especially those who're supposed to be secretly supporting Homeland Security operations.

"In the words of the tight-assed colonel who did all the speaking, most of their missions are 'no notice, hazardous, and classified.' which means no damn thing to me. Does it to you?"

It did. Dread gathered in my gut. "What else?"

"Nothing, unless Chris has something."

We drove the rest of the way in silence, up Westwood Boulevard, past the medical school and right toward my lab's entrance, where Vince stopped at the curb.

"Watch your back. These guys may be assholes, but they're powerful, dangerous assholes and they're holding enough cards to make you play whatever game they want."

"They think." I got out.

"No hero stuff," Vince said. "What you're doing in there means a lot more to the world than you getting killed." He paused. "Call me if you need help."

"Thanks, Vince," I said. "I will."

Former general and president-to-be Clark Braxton held the telephone handset to his ear and struggled with the hot and ready rage seething in his guts. He glared at the night-mirrored windows in his private study, watching the anger play across his face, But when he spoke, his voice carried the cool, even authority of command.

"Colonel, I comprehend the situation report, but I hope you realize what a bind the events of this evening puts you in." Braxton emphasized the you and allowed himself a thin smile in the ensuing silence. The colonel was one of an elite corps of devoted loyalists on active duty who owed their lives or careers-or both-to him. Obedience to Braxton outranked other loyalties and commitments because they believed only Clark Braxton's presidency could save the United States.

"Of course, sir. I fully recognize the gravity, which is why we've moved as quickly to neutralize the consequences and collateral damage. With all the military and Special Forces exercises we perform out here in the West, law enforcement cooperates with us pretty well."

"Law enforcement's not the concern," Braxton said. "Stone's a natural twopercenter."

"Yes, sir. I've reviewed his record, active-duty and his covert service. He's unusually capable."

"Better than six of your elite so far."

Braxton let the awkward silence work on the colonel.

"Sir-uh, we… well, I have an operational situation."

Braxton said nothing.

"Sir?"

"Go on."

"Sir, I've committed as many of my resources as I have for this operation. I, uh.. I've got quite a mess to clean up. Mounting another operation now would produce issues I would not be able to successfully contain."

Braxton watched the second hand of his Rolex sweep smoothly through another ten seconds of silence.

"I understand your predicament and appreciate the effort and risk you have undertaken," Braxton said finally, his voice calibrated with firm, sympathetic authority. "You contain things there. I may be able to help."

Braxton smiled broadly as the colonel exhaled a faint shudder of relief.

"I will contact a combat-tested operative I already have on the ground," Braxton continued. "I want you to go back to the sheriff and to the LAPD. Just you. Find some politically ambitious blabbermouth way up in the chain of command. Meet them at a coffee shop or some other neutral territory. Before you go, shape Stone's record to fit what I am about to tell you. Make sure you give them a hard copy with all the right classified stamps on it so it'll have maximum credibility when they leak it to the press. You with me so far?"