Chapter 13

Clay Pigeon

Carter yanked the steering wheel of his white Malibu, dodging a pothole. The passenger tire sank into the soft shoulder of Meadow Ridge Drive like a plow harrowing soft earth, threatening to pull the vehicle off the road. It’d been fifteen minutes since they’d turned at a sign that read Bull Run Estates, one of Washington DC’s thousands of bedroom communities. But they had sped past the suburban mini-mansioned development and now were cruising through old farmland. He hadn’t expected the scenery to turn rustic so quickly. Black and brown cattle rested in the shade of a sprawling maple. Knowing they’d be in the sticks, he’d left his tie at home. A hideous orange polo hung untucked over Grind’s trousers. So bright, he resembled a school crossing guard. The bottom half of the undercover uniform consisted of baggy jeans with faded knees. The man must shop from a thrift store trash bin.

Carter steered the vehicle back onto the road and tapped the GPS stuck beneath the rearview.

“I doubt that thing works out here,” Grind mumbled, studying a mailbox as they passed.

Carter shrugged. “I need to update the maps. Daughter hasn’t taught me how to use the one on my phone yet.”

“It’s been five minutes since Bitching Betty told us to turn down a driveway that didn’t exist. Go ’round and try again.”

An Appaloosa raised its head from behind a split rail fence. Pastel green moss blanketed the low plank.

Grind pointed to a mailbox with brass numbers on its side. “That’s the one.”

Carter turned down a white stone driveway. “Never seen so many trees. Makes me claustrophobic.”

Grind scratched the nape of his neck, pink with a mild rash. “Worried about that shooting in Colorado?”

That, and more. Jamison had already found a library of audio files on Senator Moses’ computer. The traitor had bugged Red and Lori’s house. Apparently it had gone on for years. The hacker had said it’d take weeks to synthesize everything, but he’d discovered one audio file that sounded like Lori at her office in Fairfax. Carter had tried to call Lori and Red, but no luck. “News is calling it a ‘domestic terrorist event.’ It came out too fast. A cover story if I’ve ever heard one.”

“We’ve got no indicators Red was involved. Let it go.”

Carter rolled down his window and spat into tall grass. Ammonia swelled into the vehicle. Did horses always smell this bad?

Grind put a finger across his nostrils. “Hogs. That smell never goes away.”

Carter breathed through his mouth. “If Red was in the area he would’ve given us a call by now to say he was OK.”

“So, because we didn’t hear from him, you think he was the shooter?”

Carter rode the brake as he steered across a cattle guard spanning the opening in a white-railed pasture fence. “It’s just a feeling. I don’t like that we can’t reach him. We’ll know for sure in a day once the feds get it organized. Earlier if we can get the cooperation of the locals. In the meantime, we keep moving.”

Grind massaged a thumb, popping the joint. “So, how we going to play this one?”

Good question. It was a late Saturday morning, and they’d just turned down the driveway of Stacy Giles, Lori’s supervisor. He needed to confirm Lori’s cover. Suspicion had burned Carter’s chest ever since he’d met Red’s wife. Some variable was rattling in his subconscious, like a marble in a locked box, clanging against steel walls. He’d strained to pry the latch open ever since. And now its racket had become unbearable. Even Red had admitted suspicion that Lori was working more than fintel for the CIA. She’d have reasons for keeping secrets, he’d said. A good friend, but Lori was making him look like an idiot.

Still, Grind’s question stood. How do we play it? What would make Stacy open up?

As he steered around a stand of white oak, a blue Cape Cod with cedar-shingled roof stood atop a green earthen mound. Carter pulled behind a silver Toyota SUV and stomped the parking brake. “I’m going to give her the benefit of the doubt. Assume she’s a patriot and gives a crap about her analyst. I’ll give her enough to appreciate the situation and see where it goes from there.”

Grind swung his door halfway shut, then froze. “You going to tell the truth?”

“That’s the plan.”

Grind huffed. “Gimme lies any day. Want me to take the lead?”

He studied the thick curly stubble on his partner’s face. The man claimed he had a skin condition that prevented him from shaving. In the sun, his blaze-orange polo made Carter squint. “You look like a color-blind dealer strung out on meth. Just take notes. And try not to scare the kids.”

An annoyed grunt.

The bell rang, and a bright-eyed skinny man in tight khakis opened the door. Exposing only half his body in the gap—was he hiding something back there? A weapon? His smile quickly faded when his eyes landed upon Grind. “Avon?” he said, with a curt curl of his lips.

Carter smiled. “I’m sorry to bother you on a Saturday, but is—”

Two shots boomed. A tall pine full of blackbirds took to flight, wings buzzing. Grind flinched, but the skinny man stood still. “Yes?”

Carter cleared his throat. “Is Stacy available?”

“And you are?”

“We work with her.” A broad smile to cover the lie. But not a complete untruth. The Det’s CIA liaison had set them up with files as independent contractors. “Stacy won’t know us, but she’ll want to talk.”

Skinny didn’t flinch. “I’ll ask.” Then the door shut with a solid ca-chunk.

Maybe he should’ve left Grind in the car. A minute later, a short, middle-aged brunette with a fair complexion and crow’s-feet, in blue jeans and neat white blouse, opened the door, gripping a twelve-gauge Remington pump action by the forestock, pointed to the ceiling.

She glanced at Carter, then eyes locked with Grind. “Who’s the stiff?”

His partner smirked, white teeth beaming in contrast to dark skin. “Sorry. It’s as loose as he gets.”

She faced Carter. Words snappy, confident. “Is it something that can’t wait till Monday?”

He resisted shifting his feet. “I’d like to talk about Lori Harmon.”

Her face remained smooth. No change in expression or sign of nervousness. “She’s dead. Car accident, six months ago.”

He clasped fingers in front of his belt. If that’s how she wants to play it. “Understand. Nevertheless, we have questions.”

“What’s your interest?” A glance at Grind. “You’re not IG.”

“Promise it won’t take long. May we?” He stretched out a hand.

Stacy lifted her chin a beat, then stepped aside. “We’ll talk out back. We’re breaking in my birthday present, dusting a few pigeons.” She led them straight through a warm hallway lined with wood-framed pictures of kids and babies, out a back door. Following, Skinny reached behind it and drew out a second shotgun, this one with pistol grip and ten-round magazine.

They stepped down flagstone pads onto a grassy, flat lawn trimmed as tight as a cemetery. Its edge disappeared down a hill like an infinity pool, spilling into a wide valley filled with low clouds. Over a mile away, rolling green mountains sprung back up from beneath the white blanket.

Carter’s feet sank into the dense grass. “I’d prefer to speak privately.”

She raised her shotgun toward the valley and leaned into it. “Pull!”

Skinny yanked a string on a red machine the size of a lawnmower. A whir wound up, and two orange pigeons flew from the bottom. Tracking them with the barrel, she fired twice, puffing them to pepper flakes that sank onto the green carpet. “Out here is private. And my husband’s staying.” She ejected a blue plastic shell. “What’s your angle? You talk too polite. Gives me the idea you don’t have a right to be here.” With practiced coordination, she slid two fresh loads neatly beneath the receiver. “You came to me. Talk.”

Carter glanced at Skinny, assault shotgun hanging from his fist. Glad he’d brought Grind after all. But though Stacy’s voice was steady, her fingers trembled slightly as she reloaded. Anger, fear? She seemed the polar opposite of Lori, who always struggled to cover her feral nature with a smile and floured apron.

“You know why someone might have wanted to harm Lori?” A dramatic pause. Often, subjects felt the need to fill silence. She didn’t bite. “She ever mention she was scared of her father?”

Her response was quick. Reflexive. “Moses? Don’t know anything about him. Who you really with?”

Carter raised eyebrows, hoping to look genuine. “CIA.”

She swung the barrel in a circle. “Yeah. All of us. What part? Who’s running the investigation now? I was told it was closed months ago.”

Carter sensed Grind’s gaze upon his back. Sometimes you have to give a little to move forward. “We’re with a fusion cell, and CIA is a cooperative member. Lots of other co-ops as well. DEA, FBI, military. Maybe you’ve heard rumors?”

Lips parted just so slightly. She glanced at her husband, who dipped his head. Was that a good sign? Or did it mean let’s dust these guys and feed them to the hogs?

She squinted. “K…”

“Lori’s not dead. She’s still working for you.”

Stacy’s stare was blank, as if waiting for him to continue.

“We’re investigating attempts on her life. Right now, I’m asking about her father.” More silence. “I’ve made significant progress.”

The corner of her mouth turned up. Even her eyes seemed to smile. Still, she said nothing.

So much for giving a little. But Stacy was Lori’s supervisor. If anyone would have inside intel… He’d try once more. “Six months ago, during an op in North Korea, we killed a CIA asset. One of yours. We think that was a setup for Lori.”

Stacy lifted the weapon to her hip and punched in three more shells. Must not have a plug installed. “Where you going with this?”

Carter shrugged. He’d stuck his neck out far enough.

She snapped on the safety and rested the weapon across her forearm. “You’ve got proof Moses was involved?” She raised a finger toward him. “It’ll never stick. That man’s got dirt on everyone. He could shoot the pope during Christmas mass. Saint Valentine would grant the pardon.” She stepped closer and brushed a fallen green leaf from his shoulder. “Watch your step. A man who’d kill his own daughter…you’re just a sneeze to him. Which is why, I suspect, you haven’t brought him in. You don’t have ironclad evidence.” She brushed his jacket once more. “But if you have it, do this country a favor and make the dickless skirt-chaser disappear. Your organization can handle that, right?”

Maybe this woman wasn’t Martha Stewart after all. “That’s not the way we work.”

She gripped the forend and raised the barrel. “Seemed to work for my asset.” A pause. “You ever hunt?”

“Nothing besides ducks.”

She thrust the weapon into his chest. “But a hunter, nonetheless. I’m a detective too. Lori and I, a team. We were on the scent of a mole leaking tradecraft—how the CIA tracks financial transactions—and were getting close.” She tapped his chest. “Just like you say you are now. But two years of planning would have gone to hell because Lori got hurt. A bullet in her calf. She was supposed to make that appearance in North Korea. I couldn’t send a wounded agent, so I sent Karen, one of my other girls. So few people knew about our little fintel op, her cover was rock solid. We could still pull it off. Sound familiar?”

Too familiar. He was keeping his own investigation tightly wrapped. He swallowed, trying to relieve the irritating prickle at the back of his throat.

Her lips barely moved now. “Know what people think of you guys? You’re the CIA’s hit squad. Whenever they need a bigger hammer.”

Carter gripped the shotgun and stepped next to a blue mosaic of spent shells. “How does that affect our conversation?”

She straightened and cocked her head. “You murdered Karen. And now you want help figuring out who’s trying to kill your squadron commander. You don’t give a shit about Lori. But I do. I want the guilty party dead.”

A quiver ran up Carter’s neck. “We don’t act singularly. All ops are cleared through channels. Karen’s dead because you didn’t clear your little project through your chain of command. Our team did their job that night.” He considered saying more, but clenched his jaw.

She stepped close to Skinny, shotgun resting on his belt. “This is where the conversation always breaks down. You want info from me. I don’t trust you. You get dick. Nobody’s happy.”

Carter lifted the barrel toward the empty valley. “Pull!” Two pigeons flew. Chasing their path, the front sight overtook the targets. Aiming a foot ahead, he squeezed the trigger and pumped the action. The gun’s booming echoed from the edge of the woods, sending another tree of blackbirds to flight and spurring a munching rabbit to sprint beneath a holly shrub. A rude interruption to an otherwise peaceful countryside. The weapon bucked his shoulder three times to bring them down, peppering the air with the scent of spent powder. She’d loaded five shells, so two shots left.

He turned back to the pair. Her arms were crossed so tightly her blouse was about to tear. Time to shift his approach. “Or maybe we’ve both been duped and the real threat is enjoying seeing us piss on each other.”

She shook her head. “Lori’s a solid gal, married to a half-cocked nutcase. Other than her taste in men, she’s earned my trust. Suppose I share, what’s in it for me?”

“Lori’s safety. And Red’s. That’s the goal.”

“She’ll never be safe as long as she’s married to that guy.”

Enough. He kept his volume just under a shout. “Last hit was after Lori. Not Red. Sending agents into North Korea? That’s no job for fintel. Lori does more than stare at dollars on computer screens. Quit the posturing. Someone’s after her. We’re trying to do some good here.”

She stared at Carter, then glanced at Skinny. He shrugged. Grind’s hands twitched uneasily in his pockets, no doubt gripping his .357 Mag.

She stepped over the small pile of shells and pointed down the hill. He walked next to her for a minute. Leafy tops of hardwoods sprung from the green horizon as they neared the lawn’s edge. Her lips stretched tight. “Normally, at this point in negotiations, I’d threaten you with IRS audit triggers for three generations. But I don’t have to do that, do I, madman?”

Fear iced his chest. She’d spoken the word warmly, but her threat was clear. Marble Hill Madmen was the name the national media had given the current Senate hearings on the deaths of six terror suspects. Carter had performed several of the interrogations, obtaining perishable intel that saved over fifty American lives. But prisoners had died, and now, three years later, the media was having a feeding frenzy.

She lowered her head slightly, staring beneath eyebrows. “That’s right, Detective. What I’m going to share stays between us Girl Scouts. Got it?”

Carter swallowed.

“Follow the money.”

He winced. “That it?”

“Want to flesh out a terror system’s network, follow the money. Where it flows. It can paint a clearer org chart than you can get tearing off fingernails or acid baths. It shows the real chain of command. You think Moses is dirty?” A shrug. “Join the club. The man’s campaign contributors read like Hoffa’s payroll. Legit on the surface. Even stand up to a good shakedown. But he’s been my personal hobby for years. He could teach drug cartels how to launder money. He’s got it coming in from overseas. North Korea, China, Iran, and other nasties. They get run through Bahamian accounts, bitcoin, and eventually come back to the US in small packages that stay below campaign finance reform’s radar. Not long ago we noticed he started getting greedy, risking larger transactions.”

“Why haven’t you brought charges?”

“Like you, no proof beyond doubt. I thought we’d have him with that deal in North Korea. We were planting gear behind their firewall. A little time on their servers and I’d have the smoking gun. But someone had to kill my agent and burn down the entire North Korean data center.”

A thought jolted his mind. He shuddered. “You saying we were played?”

“Your op was legit. But someone took advantage of the situation, fed you massaged intel, and set your boys up to kill Lori. Instead, you killed her replacement. I faked Lori’s death stateside to give her breathing room. Get the huntsman off her back.” She tapped a temple. “I follow money. Your poison is the trail of intel. You follow who provided it for your op in North Korea. Somewhere along that path you’ll find the real mole. Dig him out, and I’ll bet he looks a lot like Moses. Cut off his head, then bury him again.”

Carter punched the weapon’s safety. He’d forgotten after his first shots. “You have any indication Moses is into more than money laundering or illegal campaign contributions?”

Her expression remained flat. Not even the dilation of pupils. “Such as?”

“Such as selling national secrets? Specifically, a list of active military operators and the ops in which they’d participated?”

“I was told your op in North Korea plugged that leak.”

“But we never nailed the source. I suspect Moses’ involvement wasn’t just to cover up his money laundering.”

She tapped her fingers on her thumb, as if counting. “My interests are in fintel. Anything else would be outside my purview. However, national secrets are highly lucrative. And money flows from that man’s pockets like a fire hydrant.”

Back up the hill, Carter held the weapon out to her. “Nice action.”

She snatched it from his grasp.

He turned toward the house and stepped away. Glancing back, he said, “You have a way of contacting her?”

Skinny remained a statue. Stacy stepped next to the pile of shells. “No. Off the grid for two weeks.”

Carter stopped. “You haven’t heard?”

“Heard what?”

“Take a look at CNN. There’s been a shooting on the top of some mountain in Colorado. I can’t hail either one. They’ve gone dark.” He kicked a mushroom, and it puffed gray spore atop his black Gucci leather lace-ups.

She raised the weapon toward the valley and leaned into it. “It’s a big state. No reason to suspect they were involved.”

Carter glanced at Grind, then jerked his head toward the house.

As they walked across the stone patio, Stacy shouted, “Pull!” Two shots boomed. Over his shoulder, Carter glimpsed a single black-and-orange disc sinking like a setting sun beyond the lawn’s horizon.