David Morrell - The naked edge

"They probably think you're a hooker."

"As long as we don't leave a paper trail, I don't even care if they think I'm a lobbyist." Jamie pointed toward a thick manila envelope Rutherford held. "What did you learn?"

"Gerald Brockman made several disastrous investments. He borrowed money to buy on margin. When the market collapsed, he needed to pay off the loans. Basically, he's broke."

"So, when Duncan was killed, Brockman might have hoped he'd inherit Global Protective Services," Cavanaugh said. "Except, he had reason to suspect someone named Aaron Stoddard was set to inherit. Maybe he decided that getting rid of Stoddard would move him to the front of the line."

"Who's Aaron Stoddard?"

"Me," Cavanaugh said. "That's my real name. Word's getting around fast enough, you might as well be in on the secret."

"Your real name?"

"From time to time, it does a person good to be somebody else."

"Not me. I'm still trying to figure out how to be John Rutherford."

"What did you learn about Kim Lee?" Jamie asked.

"She has a drug problem."

"What?"

"Two years ago, she fractured a spinal disc during a martial-arts competition. Now she's addicted to big-time painkillers like OxyContin, so many pills a day that she needs a black-market supply."

"But she never gave the slightest indication."

"Some don't. If her stash runs out, though, she'll give you plenty of indication when she climbs the walls during withdrawal. It's as bad as trying to withdraw from heroin. Someone wanting information about Global Protective Services could blackmail her to supply it."

"What about Ali Karim?"

"So far, he appears to be squeaky clean."

"For a change, good news," Cavanaugh said. "And what about Carl Duran?"

"As you mentioned, after he got fired from GPS, he worked as the director of security for a Colombian drug lord." Rutherford paused for emphasis. "Until two years ago."

"What happened then?"

"He disappeared."

Cavanaugh frowned. "You mean his boss suddenly mistrusted him and had him killed?"

"No. There's not even a hint of that. We've got an informant who says Carl was considered irreplaceable. He was so furious about the way legitimate protectors turned against him that he went in the opposite direction and made the drug lord's security the best in the business. He even got his pilot's license so he could handle the drug lord's private jet in an emergency. Then one day, he was gone."

"Did your informant say if anything unusual happened before Carl disappeared?"

"As a matter of fact, he said the compound had a visitor. The newcomer was so important that the cartel's leader went out to meet the helicopter."

"Any idea who he was?"

"Not by name. But even after two years, the informant remembers what he looked like."

"Hard to believe," Jamie said.

"Not when you hear the description. The guy was in his forties. With a mustache. Solidly built. Intense eyes. Dark complexion. Serious expression."

"Doesn't help us."

"He came from Iraq," Rutherford said.

"Iraq," Cavanaugh repeated in surprise.

"Yeah, they don't see a lot of guys from that part of the world paying visits to drug-cartel compounds in South America," Rutherford said.

"At least, they didn't before nine eleven."

Jamie looked mystified.

Rutherford explained. "After the attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, we started the in-depth investigation we should have been doing all along. Extreme religious terrorist groups figure that because we're corrupt, depraved infidels, they'll attack us through our corruption. A lot of terrorist funding comes through proceeds from prostitution and drugs."

"Drugs. A reason to pay attention to Kim," Jamie said.

"The stranger spent a lot of time talking to Carl," Rutherford continued. "The next morning, Carl and the newcomer were gone."

"So Carl was recruited because of his deep understanding of how the legitimate security community works," Cavanaugh said. "But he can't be doing this on his own. Too many agents have died. He can't be everywhere. He needs help. Trained help. Like the team who attacked us in Jackson Hole."

"Jackson Hole? You'd better bring me up to speed on that."

Cavanaugh told Rutherford about the incident.

"The men I shot turned out to have been released from prison, all within the past six weeks. They were each in a different prison, and it doesn't seem they'd ever met before they were convicted."

"So what brought them together after they were released?" Rutherford wanted to know.

"Maybe the right word is who brought them together," Cavanaugh answered. "And how did Carl change them so rapidly that in six weeks they became operators instead of thugs?"

Shots echoed through the swamp. Explosions rumbled. Even wearing ear protectors, Raoul heard the concussions as Bowie shook him, yelled obscenities, and spun him three times one way, then the other. Raoul wanted to push back, to shout at Bowie and knock him to the ground. But he didn't act on the impulse because he knew the purpose was to disorient him and get his adrenaline flowing.

Bowie shoved his face close to Raoul's, screaming, "Four bad guys ran into this building! They have automatic weapons! They have hostages! No time to negotiate! There's a bomb set to explode in thirty seconds! It'll level the block! Get in there, kill the bad guys, save the hostages, and shut off the bomb! Move!"

With a force that snapped Raoul's teeth together, Bowie pushed him into the building. It was actually a maze of walls without a roof, but Raoul's emotions were so engaged, he imagined it was a building. He was vaguely aware of Bowie rushing behind him, but all Raoul paid attention to was the pistol he drew from his holster, a target popping up, a man with a gun, shooting him, crouching, peering around a corner, another target, a man with a gun, an elderly woman next to him, shooting the man, pivoting, another target popping up, a woman holding a baby, Bowie yelling, "She's got a gun in the blanket! Shoot her!," ignoring the voice, rushing forward, a guy with an assault rifle popping up, shooting him, the fourth guy, where was the fourth guy, where was the bomb, peering around another corner, a kid popping up, a priest popping up, pivoting in search of the fourth guy, realizing the priest had a gun, ducking, turning, shooting him, seeing a metal box on the ground, rushing over, flipping the "off" switch, and suddenly noticing how fast his heart was pounding, how sweat-soaked his clothes were.

Trembling, he looked up from the box, seeing Bowie and a couple of students grin at him.

"Three seconds before the bomb would have blown," Bowie said. "Every bad guy down. No hostages lost. You spotted the trick with the priest. Very good, Mr. Ramirez."

"Thanks." Raoul's voice was unsteady, remembering to add "sir." The emotional involvement in navigating a shooting house amazed him.

Outside, as more shots and explosions rumbled from the swamp, he watched Bowie approach more students. "Mr. Ferguson, you're next."

The tall, red-haired twenty-year-old didn't look enthusiastic.

"Let's go, Mr. Ferguson." Bowie pushed him, beginning the disorientation process. He shook him, cursed, spun him, yelled orders, and shoved him into the shooting house so hard that Ferguson nearly fell.

Raoul and the students who'd passed the exercise followed Bowie.

Ferguson shot the first bad guy and the second, ignored the old woman, shot the third gunman, saw the woman holding the infant, pivoted in search of another target, and heard Bowie yell, "She's got a gun in the blanket!" He fired three times into the target. "You missed!" Bowie yelled. "Shoot her! Shoot her!" Ferguson emptied the rest of his magazine into the target. He did a rapid reload, hurried on, ignored the priest, and ran to the metal box, flicking the "off" switch.