TWENTY-FIVE

Antimony, Utah

 

 

 

 

 

NEXT DAY, with the sky clear-blue to the horizon, the Vulcanair departed with a flyby and a playful waggle of its wings.

Later, in the kitchen over coffee, Tara said to Mathias: “You’re being manipulated, Mathias. Berkshire is playing your guilt like a fiddle.”

Setting down his steaming mug, Mathias replied, “Doesn’t alter the facts.”

“Facts? Whose facts? Dabney Berkshire? The man never met a fact he didn’t try to screw-over.”

In the barn the previous evening the men had talked until past midnight. Islamic Terrorist, Domestic Terrorist, or Serial Killer Berkshire had told Mathias; foreign national or radicalized American citizen yet to be determined. Thirty-two dead in twelve western States over a seventy-three day period beginning in May, all by a long-range military-grade sniper rifle. Kill-distance estimated at between fifteen hundred and two thousand-plus yards. Women and men, no children so far, thank God. But to Berkshire, it was just a matter of time.

“The media haven’t yet connected the dots,” he said. “We hope to have closure before they do.”

“Local law enforcement?”

“Clueless.”

“The Bureau?”

“To answer your question, it’s why I’m here. They need someone of your specific skill-set, Mathias. I’m here on behalf of a friend: Deputy Director Gloria Resnick. She and I go way back. She called me. I told her all I can do is ask.”

Sitting on a bale of hay, elbows on knees, Mathias regarded Berkshire skeptically. “Why recruit from the outside? The Bureau has access to the resources internally.”

Berkshire nodded. “The Director is hanging on to his job by his short and curlies. Congress has his balls in a vice, and the grip is tightening. The DNC hack, Russia, Vegas, Parkland. From influencing the outcome of an election to selectively ignoring threats to national security and innocent American lives, it’s been one massive cock-up after another. If he isn’t dismissed, the Director will be forced to resign. The Bureau will need a replacement.”

“And this friend with who you go way back, the Deputy Director, is the logical choice.”

“Resnick wants to go in on a high note. She’s overseeing the investigation herself.”

Standing, Mathias worked the damp from his joints. “Doesn’t explain the need to hire a freelancer. Freelancers are messy and unpredictable,” Mathias said, quoting Berkshire directly from his own statement made to a Congressional inquiry into the behavior of Brookbank contractors in Iraq.

Berkshire studied Mathias’s compact six foot, two hundred pound frame. After what he’d been through, a remarkable testament to human resilience and recovery. When Mathias arrived Stateside from Germany, Berkshire was on the tarmac to greet him. The prognosis was dire. More broken bones than suffered in a lifetime of motorcycle stunts performed by the daredevil Evel Knievel. Brain trauma from which doctors feared he would never recover. A stent through his skull to relieve the pressure of internal bleeding. Mathias’s face had been heavily bandaged with only protruding tubes to provide oxygen.

With his face no longer handsome, you couldn’t argue it lacked for character, Berkshire decided.

Sensing his scrutiny, Mathias said, “So you know, Tara blames you for all of this.”

“Tara blames me for everything, Mathias. But you were the Commanding Officer.” Berkshire watched as the muscles of Mathias’s body tightened into hard knots of remorse. “Full disclosure?” he said.

Humorless, Mathias chuckled.

“Fair enough, Mathias. You have no reason to trust me.”

“Carry on.”

“The White House wants this guy’s head on a pike.”

“Ah,” Mathias said, realization dawning. “You need an assassin.”

Over the next two hours, Berkshire briefed Mathias on the details of the problem and his proposed solution.