After the End Read online

  Marilyn crosses her arms, snaps off a fierce nod. “Regrets? I have two regrets. One, I woke up Raynie…and he was sleeping good that night. Second…that there weren’t any bloodstains on the porch when I checked it out. That means I missed.”

  I hear soft whispers again from the medical aide.

  Marilyn says, “Jack Zach? You destroy that man.”

  Chapter 21

  On the way back to Atlanta on I-20, Allison is still driving, which I think is a grand idea, for I’m going to raise a subject that’s going to test her and test us. If she’s occupied with driving, I’m hoping that it’ll work in my favor.

  “Got a moment?” I ask.

  She checks the rental vehicle’s dashboard clock. “If the traffic doesn’t get any heavier, you’ve got lots of moments. What’s up?”

  I peek at the side-view mirror. There’s a Chevy Suburban a ways behind us, weaving through traffic.

  I say, “Why are you here?”

  “Pretty apparent,” she says. “I’m driving us to the airport.”

  “Stop playing around.” I look to the side-view mirror, noticing that the Suburban is definitely approaching us.

  “You know me by now, I don’t play.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. Still not sure what you do on your off hours…if you have them. But there are hundreds—if not thousands—of guys like Ray Winston, all across the country. Why are you standing up for him? Why are you jeopardizing your career over one disabled soldier?”

  I think she wants to strike out with her hand and slap me one, but I’m over as far as I can be on the passenger’s side. I go on. “So it’s Ray Winston, here in Georgia. Injured because Jack Zach was a creep who wanted a story, and the Taliban gave him one. But he’s also injured because of what Marilyn said, that first day. Ray and his unit weren’t supposed to go out that night. But they were ordered to do so. By you…right?”

  Now I think Allison wants to ram the rental into the nearest bridge abutment, and I say, “High value target nearby? Somebody you wanted to kill or capture that was worth the risk?”

  She says, “Yeah.”

  “What kind of high value target?”

  “The kind of target that has a high value on it, and that later turns out not to be there,” she says crisply. “Meaning some good soldiers got slaughtered and shattered for nothing.”

  I think of my friend Pete Picard, over there in Turkey. “Seeking atonement, then.”

  “Seeking the ability to sleep at night,” she says.

  I look again at the side-view mirror. Allison slowly changes lanes, and the Suburban stays with us. “Speaking of abilities…”

  “Yeah, the Suburban back there,” she says. “It’s been dogging us for the last ten minutes.”

  “Good eye,” I say. “I’ve only been seeing it for eight. What do you want to do?”

  “We have a known unknown back there,” she says. “I hate having anything unknown following me.”

  A sign up ahead says REST AREA ONE MILE.

  “Then let’s get things known,” I say.

  In less than sixty seconds, we pull off the highway and come up to a pretty one-story brick building with a green metal roof. It looks like some sort of out-of-the-way chapel for an obscure Christian sect. Allison pulls in and we both get out, and head to our respective rest areas. When I’m done, she isn’t in the small lobby, which is okay.

  I step outside into the warm Georgia winter sun, and the Chevy Suburban is parked next to our rental car.

  Still no Allison.

  Definitely not okay.

  The right rear door of the Suburban opens. Inside there’s a squat, bulky bald man wearing an expensive and well-tailored black pinstriped two-piece suit with white shirt and dark-red tie. He blinks and says, “Mister Taylor, if you please, I’d like a word with you.”

  I say, “I’d rather wait for my driving companion to come back.”

  He says, “I’m afraid she’s been…detained.”

  The bright Georgia sun seems to kick it up a notch, and I’m sweating even though it’s chilly outside. “I know you want to talk to me. I’m not sure if I want to talk to you.”

  He says, “Want to keep that pretty face on your lady friend? That’ll depend on your cooperation. Do I have it?”

  I start climbing into the backseat of the Suburban. “You have me,” I say.

  Chapter 22

  Inside the clean and tidy interior of the Suburban, it smells of cologne, and I can’t tell if it’s coming from my Daddy Warbucks companion or his driver. The man in the driver’s seat is quiet but built and dressed like the man I’m sitting with, save his head of thick, close-cropped black hair. He backs out and in a few seconds, we’re heading east again on I-20.

  Supposedly in negotiations, whoever speaks first loses. I don’t have anything to say, so I figure that I might as well keep my mouth shut. We drive along until we get to an exit, and then we drive for another ten or so minutes along back roads. We go down an unmarked dirt road and the driver seems sure of where he’s going.

  The road opens up in a wide spot of grass, about knee-high, and there’s a rocky cliff across the way, which looks like it has a stone quarry in the center. I can’t see how deep it is from where I’m sitting, but based on these two muscular guys, I guess it will be plenty deep enough to hide whatever they want to hide.

  The driver maneuvers around until the Suburban is facing back up the dirt road. He puts it in Park and switches off the engine. The man next to me sighs and says, “The name is Pope.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “Lousy,” he says. “I had a number of items on my agenda today, and you and your woman friend weren’t supposed to be one of them.”

  “I’d say I’m sorry, but you probably know I’m not.”

  “True,” he says. He shifts in his seat and says, “Your pistol, please. And do me the favor of removing it slowly, and using only the first two fingers of your left hand.”

  “All right,” I say, and the driver has moved around so he’s covering me with whatever he had in his lap—which is blocked by the driver’s seat—and I helpfully say, “Moving now.”

  I lean forward and remove my SIG Sauer from my waist holster, and hold it up with the requested two fingers.

  Pope says, “Kindly pass it over to Trevor.”

  I move my gun forward and the driver takes it out of my hand.

  Pope sighs. “Very well,” he says. “You’re starting off reasonable. I like reasonable.”

  “Don’t we all.”

  Pope says, “You and your friend have been disturbing a delicate balance. We want it to stop.”

  “Who’s ‘we’?” I ask. “Members of the Jack Zach fan club? No offense to you and your driver, but I expected that kind of group to trend toward the female audience.”

  “There’s no need for you to know who hired us,” he says. “For now, we want you to stop. Do I have your agreement?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’d rather not,” I say, starting to brace myself for what’s probably going to happen next.

  Another sigh from Pope. From a net storage bag in the seat in front of him, he takes out two black leather gloves, and from the way he handles them, I know there’s more than just leather there.

  He carefully and with precision puts on the lead-lined gloves, and says, “Please forgive me for what I’m about to do, but if you want your female friend to remain unharmed, you’ll just have to suck it up.”

  And then his fist smashes into my face.

  Chapter 23

  What happens next has been pre-determined from the moment I got into the Suburban back at the rest area. Pope is beating me in a way that causes me the most pain and hurt with only a few well-directed punches that he slams out without exhausting himself. I’m playing the part of the victim, holding up my hands, cowering, crying out with pain and discomfort. I’d be a hard-assed stoic but for a professional like Pope—and in his manne
r and language, I know he’s a professional—that would just lengthen the process for the two of us. He might have a suspicion that I’m overreacting, just to get things done, but as a professional, he’ll punish me enough to meet his own personal goals.

  But even though a part of me is coldly and rationally analyzing the beating he’s giving me, most of all, it hurts like hell.

  Long minutes pass, and there’s a pause before he resumes.

  I grit my teeth, tasting that coppery taste of blood.

  At times like this, I hate professionals.

  Then he stops, breathing just a bit harder, and says, “I’m sorry for my atavistic nature. But I do find it gets me in the mood to have an open and frank exchange of views.”

  The driver passes over a white handkerchief. Pope wipes the gloves as best as he can, removes them, and delicately passes everything back to his driver.

  “Then get on with it,” I say, feeling the puffiness in my lips.

  “You’ve been after Jack Zach. Stop it.”

  “Why?”

  His right hand moves as fast as a rattlesnake strike, punching my very sore face. I gasp out something and fall back against the door.

  “Isn’t that a good enough reason?” he asks. “Or should I ask Trevor to return the gloves to me?”

  My mouth is full with saliva and blood, and I lean forward and let it drip out onto the floor. I wipe at my lips and say, “Maybe. But why don’t you humor me. You seem to be in a good mood.”

  Pope shakes his head for a moment, like he can’t believe he has to put up with my attitude. “Jack Zach is a fool, a headline grabber, and a hack that would sell his soul—if he had one—to get a scoop, a story, anything that would put his name out there. Then, like a gambler who needs another high, he rests for a moment before going out again.”

  “That’s no surprise.”

  I move slowly, rubbing at my sore face and trying to gauge the damage.

  As I wince in pain, something comes to me. I say, “You been to Turkey lately?”

  The slight smile tells me all I need to know. Pope doesn’t answer, and instead says, “You’ll back off?”

  “Hard to do so right now,” I say.

  Pope says, “Don’t be surprised at the depth of his protection. We won’t allow you to threaten him.”

  Chapter 24

  There’s a flicker of light and shadows, and another black Chevy Suburban is coming down the dirt road. Pope says, “Your companion is in that vehicle. I’m sure you’re aware of how remote it is around here, and that you and your friend are outnumbered.”

  “Well, I’ve been pretty distracted these past few minutes, but I see what you mean.”

  “Do you?”

  The other Suburban makes a wide turn, backs in so that it’s parallel to the one we’re in. Like the Chevy I’m in, it also has tinted windows.

  Pope shifts some, his weight making the seat creak. “Then let me make it very, very clear. This is your last chance to make your intentions known.”

  I say, “Remind me again what you’re looking for?”

  His lips purse. “You will cease all activities with regards to Jack Zach. You will step away, you will halt, you will even refrain from mentioning Jack Zach in polite company. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Very,” I say. “But you forgot one important matter. You didn’t say, ‘or else.’ Isn’t that part of the routine?”

  “You think I have a routine?”

  “Pope, you’ve got something, I’ll give you that.”

  “What you did have was time, and you’re now out of time. You say what I want to hear, or the treatment I gave you will be considered a spa session compared to what we have in store for your female friend. Do I have your agreement?”

  The driver’s side door to the Suburban opens.

  Allison steps out.

  She’s holding a 9mm pistol in her right hand.

  I say, “I think my female friend wants to propose another agreement.”

  Pope shouts to Trevor and with the two of them distracted, I move quickly, reaching into my pocket, pulling out the pen Allison gave me back in New York, and I click the top. But instead of a ballpoint tip, a thin stiletto blade made of carbon steel pops out.

  I nail Trevor in the back of his neck, and he squeals loudly, like a little boy stubbing his toe on a rock, and I tug out the stiletto, whirl and stab Pope in the throat. He gurgles and his eyes widen in shock, and one stab was probably enough, but I’m pissed enough at him that I let emotions take over and stab him again.

  After retrieving my SIG Sauer from the front seat—and Trevor has both hands on the back of his neck and is crying as he slowly collapses—I get out and Allison says, “Christ, he really beat the crap out of you.”

  I say, “But he never got my secret chicken recipe.”

  She looks past me, into the car, and says, “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  “Agreed.”

  We go back to the Suburban and for the first time I spot the dried blood on Allison’s hands, and some blood spatter on her neck and on the right side of her face.

  She says, “I’m driving. And do me a favor, don’t look in the back.”

  “Why?”

  Allison puts her 9mm back into a waist holster, underneath her black blazer.

  “Even with a pistol, some guys won’t listen to an armed woman,” she says. “So I did what I had to do.”

  Chapter 25

  Allison drives us out and gets us back on the interstate, and making some illegal U-turns, returns us back to the rest area. We dump the Suburban—the rear seat unviewed by yours truly—at the far end of the lot, away from any possible surveillance cameras. Then we get back into our rental car and back on track.

  We drive for a bit and find a gas station, where we each take time getting cleaned up. Allison has the easier time of it, since the blood on her face and hands doesn’t belong to her, and I do the best I can with my own wounds.

  We end up missing our flight from Atlanta-Hartsfield, but we have good excuses, none of which we share with the nice Delta ticketing woman as she sets us up with new arrangements.

  Now I’m sitting in a remote part of Concourse A, and when Allison exits the women’s room with her hair rearranged in a tight ponytail, I gently applaud and say, “Jesus, you clean up nicely.”

  Instead of saying something snappy, Allison seems to blush for a second or two, and says, “All right. We got a couple of hours to kill.”

  “Bad choice of words.”

  “What, now you’re the grammar police?” she asks.

  “I’ll show you my badge if you like,” I say.

  She sits next to me. “From what that guy Pope told you, we’re never going to get close to Jack Zach. He’s a protected asset, and in troubled times like these, corporations are going to protect things that bring in a steady income stream.”

  I had made a compress of paper towels and cold water, and now move it from one aching part of my face to the other. “They also have a pretty long reach. Somehow they knew I was in Turkey, looking for their best boy, and then they tried to snatch me in Syria.”

  “Tricky bastards.”

  “And powerful bastards,” I say. “The company and whatever friends and co-workers he has won’t give him up. He probably has a half dozen condos, chalets, and cabins to hide out in, and if we follow him on television, we’ll always be a day behind.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  I wiggle my jaw. It seems like all my teeth are still in place. Good.

  “We broaden the battlefield,” I say. “Look at the backgrounds of some of the network’s execs. Or their advertisers. Or staff that work out of their Manhattan office. Somewhere, somehow, someone will crack, or give us a lead.”

  Allison frowns. “That’ll take some time.”

  “What, you got a bus to catch?”

  An odd beeping sound blurts out from somewhere and I look around our seating area, and Allison says, “Hey, big boy, check your
pockets. That’s your cell phone talking to you.”

  Sure enough, I pull my cell phone out of my coat pocket and swipe through the screens, and find an incoming text:

  Please see me as soon as you can

  “Well?” Allison demands.

  I read her the text and she says, “Where did that come from?”

  “Rachel Cooper,” I say. “Wife of Jack Zach’s favorite cameraman.”

  One hand holding the phone, I move the compress again. Allison says, “She was pretty adamant that she didn’t want to deal with us.”

  “Something’s changed.”

  “Apparently so, and probably for the better,” I say. “Looks like we’re going back to New Rochelle.”

  “Might be a trap,” Allison says.

  “You and I have been lucky so far.”

  “No, we haven’t,” Allison points out. “We’ve been good.”

  “But not cocky,” I say.

  “Never cocky,” Allison says.

  Chapter 26

  After replying to Rachel’s text, it’s time to board our flight back to JFK. Once again, I pay to upgrade the tickets to first class.

  Once we’ve eaten our meals of pasta and drunk our wine, I ask for a warm towel. Allison looks to me and I say, “You missed a couple of spots on your neck. We don’t want Rachel Cooper to think poorly of your grooming skills, especially after a very deadly event.”

  “How do you know it was a deadly event?” she asks. “Maybe one of my captors had a nosebleed, and I just tried to help.”

  “Yes, you always have been the helpful one. Lift up your chin, turn right.”

  Allison does that and I locate two smears of rust-red dried blood at her jawline, just above her slim and delicate neck. I gently rub the dried blood and it comes off. She sighs and seems to enjoy my touch, so I don’t pull away. I keep on gently rubbing and rubbing. Her skin is smooth and flawless.

  She turns her head and I say, “Believe it or not, it looks like you have a scratch.”

  “Really?”