John Gilstrap - No mercy

Jesse didn’t seem surprised. “Want me to grab a flight out there and talk to someone? It’s easy to stonewall when all you have to do is press a hold button. It gets a little more complicated when you have to look people in the eye.”

Gail stood and stretched. “It might come to that.”

Jesse turned to a page in his pile of reports. “I have an interesting lead here,” he said. “Day before yesterday, outside of Muncie, a pharmacist called the local cops to report what he thought might be a runaway. The report here says he was a kid, a teenager or maybe very early twenties, and he was filthy and clearly distraught. He waited there a long time for the bus to Chicago.”

Gail cocked her head. “How is that a lead for us?”

Jesse sensed disapproval and his shoulders slumped a little. “The timing works. As far as I’m concerned, wherever the stars align, there’s a potential lead. On the morning of the attack, there’s a kid waiting for a bus to the same place where our Gulf Stream headed. All things considered, it’s a pretty close match.”

The sheriff didn’t get it. “If they were going to Chicago, why not just fly him to Chicago? What’s the bus thing all about?”

Jesse gave that some thought. “I can’t say for sure, but a bus doesn’t go right to a location, does it? Maybe he intended to get off somewhere in between.”

Gail looked at her deputy. For the first time since she’d taken office, she saw why this man was so popular among the troops. His mind was suited perfectly for this line of work. “Do we have a name?” she asked.

Jesse nodded, and quickly scanned the page. “We’ve got two, actually. We’ve got a name for the pharmacist, and we’ve got a name for the kid.”

Gail’s jaw dropped.

Jesse chuckled. “Yeah, that sort of surprised me, too. Apparently the kid gave his name as Hughes, either Thomas or

“And anybody that rich can certainly afford the services of an independent hostage rescue contractor,” Jesse agreed. “We can’t prove anything, of course.”

Gail shrugged it off. “We’re too early in the process to worry about proof. Right now, let’s just celebrate our first real break. Now we have to find out what Thomas or Tony Hughes has in common with Richard Lydell of Perseus Foods.”

Richard Lydell was apoplectic, his voice betraying a level of rage that Jonathan hadn’t heard since his days in the Unit, and that diatribe had involved a mud bog and a colonel’s Corvette. “Scorpion, do you understand the peril you’ve put me in? Do you understand how I am not cut out for this kind of pressure?”

Jonathan adjusted the earpiece of his Bluetooth telephone receiver and strolled a circle around the interior of his office. Sometimes, people just needed to vent, and by staying out of their way, you made it easier on everyone. “I’ll say it again, Mr. Lydell, you don’t have anything to worry about. Frankly, I wish you hadn’t decided to stonewall them. Sometimes, protection of one’s constitutional rights is a very small step away from an admission of guilt.” He winced as soon as he heard the G-word pass his lips.

“What the hell have I got to feel guilty for?” Lydell boomed. Then, before Jonathan could answer, the CEO of Perseus Foods took care of it himself. “The answer is nothing! Under any reasonable circumstance, the answer should be that I’m guilty of nothing. But now that you took my airplane to do whatever terrible thing you did-and I figure it had to have something to do with the triple murder in Indiana that’s all over the news-you’ve made me an accessory. My God, man, do you have any idea how much danger you’ve put me in?”

Jonathan stood with his back to his Italian mahogany desk, staring out the window at the swarm of boats clogging the river. “Mr. Lydell, whatever danger you are or are not in is now a permanent part of your life. I do everything I can to mask my movements, and you were well aware of the nature of my business when we negotiated my fee.”

“I didn’t know that you’d be killing people in the United States. I had assumed that your… business took you mainly abroad.”

Outside of his office, in the reception area of the executive suite, Jonathan heard a door slam open, and a voice bellow, “This had better be goddamn good!” Boxers had responded to Venice’s summons. It was going to be a long day.

“Look,” Jonathan said into the phone. “I don’t know what you want from me. I never made any promises to you regarding the nature of my business, and I don’t remember a lot of caveats from you when that business involved bringing your daughter home. You do what you think you have to do, but I assure you that your blood pressure should be a far greater concern right now than being linked to my activities.”

His office door erupted open, and Boxers’ frame filled it. He looked like hammered shit. Clearly, he hadn’t bothered to glance in a mirror before he’d driven in from his house in DC. The quaintness of Fisherman’s Cove was wasted on Boxers, whose primaryound the twenty-four-year-old Lagavulin, and poured himself thirty dollars’ worth.

Jonathan continued, “I won’t share the details of my precautions, but I can tell you this-the nature of our agreement has not changed. Please try to have a nice day.”

Lydell was just about to open a new round of negotiation when Jonathan pushed the disconnect button.

“The hell was that about?” Boxers rumbled as he fell into the leather sofa near the fireplace.

Jonathan wandered his way and helped himself to the wooden William and Mary rocking chair. The slatted back was somehow easier on his twice-broken vertebrae than the really soft stuff. “Richard Lydell is whining again. The cops in Indiana are better than we gave them credit for.”

Boxers scowled. “We in trouble?”

Jonathan shook his head. “Nah. The locals in Samson put the right pieces together and figured out that we flew in from out of town. They traced some records at the airport to Perseus, and when they called, Lydell refused to talk with them.”

Boxers looked concerned. “That’s like wearing an ‘I’m guilty’ sweatshirt.”

Jonathan chuckled. “Lydell’s connected. He got the politcos involved. That investigation won’t go anywhere.”

Boxers took a hit of the scotch and winced. “I wish you wouldn’t talk directly to people like that. It’s a security breach. You’re gonna get yourself in trouble one day.”

“What, the phone call? Christ, the Scorpion calls are routed through so many switches, nobody could ever know where it’s coming from.”

It had been a bone of contention between the two of them for some time. Boxers had long believed that Jonathan took too many security shortcuts, arguing that the little things add up over time. Jonathan’s side of the argument was all about personal contact. Without it, he felt, a mission was never whole. You had to make some kind of contact with every client, or else you risked getting set up. Jonathan respected his own ability to judge people by their voices.

Boxers let the point drop. “Sorry to hear about the ex, Dig. How’s she doing?”

“Not well, but so far, no change. They’re just hoping that they’ll be able to pull her through it.” He modulated his voice to filter out all emotion.

“Been to see her?”

“I’ve tried, but they won’t let me into ICU. I’m not family.”

“Ven told me that Fuckface is dead, too. Real shame about that.” Like Venice, Boxers had witnessed the Divorce Wars.

Jonathan wasn’t in the mood for that kind of bantering. He stood. “Come with me to the War Room,” he said. “I’ve got something you need to see.”

Boxers stood, shifting his drink to his left hand so he could use his right to push himself up from the seat. “I saw the Angry One in there cuing something up for the screen. Is that it?”