Charles Henderson - Terminal Impact

“I fired the three of them on the spot,” Cesare said. “They’re awaiting transportation back stateside. I have not talked to any of them since the shooting of those poor people. Frankly, I hope I never speak to that crew again.”

“Can’t blame you there, Cesare,” Liberty said. “You wouldn’t know where we could find them? Any ideas will help.”

“I’d start at his apartment,” Alosi said, trying to sound casual, but now worrying about what Cooder-with-a-D might say to the FBI if he had a little pressure put on him.

“You know,” Liberty said, “I happen to be standing in Ray-Dean’s kitchen right now. He’s nowhere around. And let me tell you, this boy lives like a pig.”

“How did you get in his apartment?” Cesare said, and had to work at sounding calm. “You have no jurisdiction.”

“Well…” Liberty said, letting the word stretch into almost a whine. “Iraqi police have taken jurisdiction on the killings. They opened full cooperation with the FBI in the investigation. Also, we have a little matter of some highly classified materials that we found hidden under the organizer tray in Mr. Blevins’s silverware drawer. You wouldn’t know about that, would you? Espionage and violation of the National Security Act of 1947? It opens a whole world of jurisdiction for the FBI. The Iraqi government is bending over backwards to help us, too. They’re very upset at the security compromise. It is their country after all.”

“I had no idea!” Cesare exclaimed, really scared. “What sort of classified documents we talking about? I should know about these things. It’s a reflection on our company.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. All I can share is the fact that the material we discovered in Mr. Blevins’s apartment is highly classified,” Liberty said. “Your man and his conspirators face serious charges. A capital offense.”

“Death penalty?” Alosi gasped. “Seriously?”

“Treason is a capital crime,” Liberty said.

“But nobody’s been put to death,” Alosi argued.

“You ever hear of Julius and Ethel Rosenberg?” the FBI agent said, trying really hard to suppress the tone in her voice that gave away the elation she felt, driving a dagger into the slimeball’s heart.

“That was like the 1950s. The McCarthy Red Scare,” Cesare scoffed. “America wouldn’t do that now.”

“Don’t bet on it. If the espionage costs American lives? You better believe we’ll fry the sons of bitches,” Liberty fired back. Bob Hartley, Casey Runyan, and Cliff Towler stood close to her now, listening on the smartphone’s speaker. Hartley had a big grin going on.

“Well, those sons of bitches deserve what they get!” Cesare said, trying to now sound supportive. “You can count on Malone-Leyva pulling out all stops to assist the FBI in bringing the scumbags to swift justice. Let the chips fall where they may. Just rest assured that no one in this company had any idea that Blevins or those other two fools on his team had anything like espionage going on.”

“Count on a thorough investigation, Cesare,” Liberty said. “We appreciate your cooperation. Now, how about any ideas you may have on Blevins and his crew’s location?”

“If he’s not at his apartment, there’s only one other place I’d look,” Alosi said.

“Baghdad Country Club?” Liberty said.

“Oh! You know the place?” Cesare said, trying to sound surprised.

“Of course you know I do.” Liberty smiled. “I would be disappointed if your agents had not reported seeing me there with Chris Gray just after I arrived in Baghdad.”

“They mentioned this beautiful woman with long black hair smoking a cigar,” Alosi answered. “I thought it might be you, but no one said your name.”

“Of course not,” Liberty said.

“You heading there now?” Cesare asked.

“Closing up Ray-Dean’s apartment as we speak,” Liberty said. “We’ve got what we need for now.”

“Look, I’ll head to the club myself,” Cesare said.

“Oh, I think we have it covered,” Liberty said. “But if you really want to help. By all means. Join us.”

“Thirty minutes?” Cesare said.

“Probably less,” Liberty said.

High in a window overlooking the Baghdad Country Club a block away, Ken with the face tattoo lay on a table atop a Remington model 700 custom sniper rifle chambered to shoot the standard Russian 7.62-by-54-millimeter rimmed Dragunov sniper-rifle round. George sat in a chair by the table, watching the front door of the saloon where Ray-Dean Blevins, Freddie Stein, and Gary Frank had gone two hours ago, getting snot-slinging, commode-hugging drunk.

When the phone rang, George with the Nazi SS neck tattoo answered, “Yeah.”

“You remember what we talked about at my office?” Cesare Alosi said.

The big guy with the shaved head wiped sweat off of it and had to think.

Ken looked away from the scope on the sniper rifle, and said, “Come on, George. You know. After we took those civilians to the airport. We went to the office and talked about stuff.”

“Oh yeah,” George said. “That?”

“Yeah,” Cesare said. Then added, “Are you where you said you’d be?”

“Were we supposed to be someplace else?” George said.

“Look,” Cesare said, “I have no doubt that right now our communications are anything but private, much less even resembling secure. Do you understand?”

“So, we shouldn’t talk about what we talked about?” George asked.

“Not even,” Ken grumbled, rolling on his side on the table. “You’re dumber than a fucking lamp, George.”

He grabbed the cell phone from his partner.

“Boss,” Ken said. “The mission’s a go?”

“Yes!” Cesare said, relieved. “Be quick. You have less than twenty minutes.”

“It’s all good, boss,” Ken said. “We did a little prep work, just in case it was a go. You know?”

“Very good,” Alosi said, smiling. “Very good indeed. You’ve got the green light on the mission.”

Chris Gray had listened to Alosi’s phone calls for days, and to his henchmen just now. He grabbed his driver at the CIA office in the embassy and headed out. On the run to Baghdad Country Club, he called Liberty Cruz.

“Two hours ago, I got a call from Ajax. Blevins and his crew arrived at the club, drinking hard,” Gray said. “Just now, I’m monitoring Alosi’s phone, and he gives a crew of enforcers a green light on executing a mission they’d talked about shortly after the civilian shootings. Fair warning. Ears up, eyes open. Something’s going down.”

“We’re nearly there now,” Liberty said, Bob Hartley zigging and zagging through Green Zone traffic, the female agent in the backseat of a government GMC Denali, hidden by black, bullet-resistant glass. “You think they’ll try something against us? Surely not!”

“Actually, I was thinking old Cooder and the boys,” Gray said. “If Alosi’s guilty, I’m betting that Blevins and Frank-n-Stein can nail him. Especially now that you recovered the missing copy of the op plan and the thumb drive. Dead men tell no tales.”

“About that missing copy,” Liberty said. “The one we found in Blevins’s apartment is a copy of the missing original. Made on a machine you find in any office here.”

“Maybe Cooder passed off the original, for the cash. Kept a copy as a backup to sell to the next bidder,” Gray said.

“Who knows?” Cruz said. “It’s not the original, but it’s incriminating for Blevins. I want to hear what he says.”

“You better step on it then,” Gray said. “I’ve got a hunch that Cooder and his boys may not live much longer.”

“We’re five minutes out,” Liberty said.

“Look in the mirror,” Gray said. “Right behind you.”