Ghost Target Page 6

  “Holy shit,” Harwood said to himself. “That’s General Dillman.”

  Mike Dillman was a retired two-star general, who was now the chief executive officer of Military Logistics and Quality Manpower, which Harwood knew had the unfortunate NASDAQ stock ticker symbol of MLQM. Many of the active-duty army soldiers had nicknamed the private military contracting company “Milk ’Em.” Dillman was a former special operations soldier and intelligence officer, who first had moved up the ranks as an infantryman and then was assigned to the military intelligence branch by the military human resources command. But now Dillman was worth hundreds of millions of dollars, as his company had blossomed and profited during the Iraq, Afghanistan, and ISIS wars. That gravy train was coming to an end, though, as American presence overseas had dwindled.

  There was movement in the third-story tower of the Victorian-era home. A wrought-iron balcony protruded from a small doorway that had sheer curtains fluttering outward like escaping ghosts.

  More like Norman Bates, Harwood found himself thinking.

  A woman with olive skin and black hair stood just inside the open doors. Her set jaw, pressed lips, and distant eyes combined into a terrified look. Quickly, she turned back inside, as if she was breaking a rule by stepping onto the balcony. Wearing a long, flowing dress, the woman appeared out of place in every way. A young, ethnic woman on an old white man’s balcony. A long dress in the heat of summer. A distant look of remorse etched onto her otherwise striking face.

  Harwood had not expected to see the recently retired general on this run, much less a Middle Eastern beauty on the general’s balcony. Vaguely he recalled that he knew that the general lived in Savannah, but truly he was having a hard time remembering what he had for breakfast, so some random general’s residence was not on his radar.

  But then again, Dillman wasn’t a random general. His company, MLQM, had provided to the war efforts dining facilities, power generators, embassy security, and even contract hit teams for high-value targets on occasion. Harwood had crossed paths with some of the MLQM contractors. Most were good dudes, he thought, but he had encountered a few douche bags. Dillman was a first-class douche bag. The general had flown on his private jet to Kandahar to check on his troops. Harwood recalled landing in a Chinook helicopter after killing number eight of his thirty-three confirmed scalps early in his three-month tour. He was sweaty and dusty, hadn’t bathed for three days. He stepped off the chopper carrying his rucksack and his SR-25 and eyed the glistening Gulfstream V with the oversized jets on the back. He was wondering, WTF, is the president here or something?

  The retired general looked pissed off, and as if he had a mission. Harwood stopped walking and nudged his former spotter LaBoeuf as he pointed at Dillman.

  “What kind of rod does that guy have up his ass?” Harwood had said. “Just floated in here on a jet with pole dancers and booze. He’s got nothing to bitch about.”

  “Got that right,” LaBoeuf had said. “Wait a sec. That dude was the speaker at my basic training graduation. Dillard. Dillweed. Something like that.”

  Harwood remembered looking at LaBoeuf and saying, “Shit, dude, you remember your basic grad?”

  “Well, wasn’t that long ago, old-timer.”

  Dillman had been yelling at the pilots and shouting at crewmen putting the chocks beneath the wheels. He spun and yelled at Harwood and the Rangers.

  “What are you assholes looking at?”

  “Back at you,” LaBoeuf shouted.

  Dillman was running toward them when one of his private contractors blocked him about ten meters out.

  Harwood and LaBoeuf looked at each other and shrugged. Harwood said, “Next time I’ll cap his ass for you.” LaBoeuf had smiled.

  Back in the moment now, Harwood was thinking of LaBoeuf as he looked over his shoulder. He was deep in the wooded section of the park. His mind spun as he dropped to do some push-ups. He was in a thick grove of mature live oaks, their branches low to the ground and providing cover and concealment as the sun was setting.

  He looked at Dillman again, confirmed it was him, nodded, then unshouldered his rucksack. Looked at the general one more time, his mind spinning.

  Then Harwood went back to his rucksack.

  * * *

  The sniper watched through the scope, seeing General Dillman standing on his porch with a glass of booze. Knowing the sins of this man, the sniper had no remorse leveling the crosshairs of the banged-up Leupold scope on the general’s head. It wasn’t a long-distance shot, maybe fifty to one hundred meters. It was a simple distance for an expert such as the sniper.

  With a score to settle, the sniper went through the mental calculations of the shot. Distance was not a problem. Therefore, wind and altitude were not an issue. This was more like what the sniper imagined combat to be. The short-range kill.

  In fact, it was combat. Dillman was number two on the kill sheet. General Sampson was number one and that shot could not have been more perfectly executed. The goal was to have the same type of success this evening. The park was sparsely populated. The heat was driving everyone indoors, except General Dillman, who continued to sip the gold liquid from the glass tumbler and talk on the phone.

  A peaceful look on his face, Dillman appeared about as satisfied and happy as a man could be, which meant to the sniper that it was a perfect time to kill him. The angle was good. The sniper saw the man’s head in the scope as big as a full moon. Behind the man’s head was the soft pine of the porch, which would welcome the lead that was about to pass through General Dillman’s brain.

  Why did Dillman deserve to die?

  Sins against humanity. The terrified woman in the turret was why. She was just one of many. The sniper’s finger tightened against the trigger mechanism, the movement nearly autonomous from years of practice, training, studying, and actual field craft.

  With steady, unflinching aim, the sniper felt the trigger give, the firing pin snap forward, the bullet release, and weapon buck. The scope jumped marginally, but never lost sight of the head of General Dillman, which exploded in a gruesome eruption of gray and pink matter. The glass tumbler hung for just a second in the general’s hand before his grip loosened and the glass shattered on the concrete porch. The phone landed in the broken shards. The general’s head was mostly gone. Mission accomplished.

  The sniper checked the ejected shell casing, left it where it was, disassembled the rifle, repacked it, and moved quickly away from the scene. After the murder of General Sampson in Fort Bragg, the sniper knew that things were about to get interesting.

  * * *

  Night had fallen completely as Harwood left Forsyth Park and ran toward the hotel where Jackie had mentioned she was staying. His heart was racing beyond its normal rhythm. Whenever he went into memory-loss mode, he became anxious and his fight-or-flight instinct kicked in. Why couldn’t he remember what happened even a few minutes ago? He had no problem recalling the starting line up from his high school football team. Could even see their faces.

  He turned down a side street toward the hotel and slowed to a walk. Gathering himself, he retrieved his phone from his armband, removed his earbuds, and opened the Wickr app, which Jackie had encouraged him to use.

  At the hotel, he typed.

  She replied quickly. Ok Room 814;)

  He navigated past the registration desk, nodded at the two female clerks, who smiled at him, and found the elevator bank. Harwood stepped into the elevator and the doors began to close. He pressed number eight on the keypad and the doors suddenly retreated open again. In stepped a man about his size and age. Dark blond/light brown hair, ice-blue eyes, tailored Canali suit, checked shirt with an open collar. Dark stubble highlighted the outline of the man’s prominent jawline and chin. The man had combed his hair back in Wall Street greaser style and the length in the back reached the collar of his suit coat. He reached a long arm across the elevator and slid his key card into the reader, then pressed the button for the top floor.

  Harwood r
ecognized something about the man, but couldn’t place him. Most likely a television commercial, he thought. There were several television shows and commercials filmed in Savannah and the surrounding areas.

  “Hello,” the man said, returning Harwood’s stare.

  “Hi.” Harwood nodded. He was still sweating. As in his combat days, he was the filthy field soldier to so many others who were well-groomed.

  “Good workout?” the man asked, eyeing Harwood’s sweating face and his dirty, sweat-stained shirt and shorts. Harwood checked himself out in the reflective elevator doors. There were leaves clinging to him from his push-ups.

  “Roger that,” Harwood said. Then, to change the topic, he countered, “Nice suit.”

  The man smiled, as if he understood that Harwood didn’t want to talk about himself. “Thank you. Just business. Would much rather be working out. Forsyth Park, I presume?”

  The ball had been lobbed back at him. However, the chime rang and the doors began to open for the eighth floor. There was an inflection to the man’s voice that wasn’t of American origin, but Harwood couldn’t quite place it.

  “Have a good day,” Harwood said, always reluctant to offer more information than anyone needed. He stepped out of the elevator. The doors began to close behind him.

  “You do the same, Reaper.”

  The doors snapped shut. Harwood stopped. Turned around. The elevator was shooting to the top, the protected floor for VIP guests. How did the man know who he was? And why did he look so familiar?

  Standing in front of the four closed elevator doors, two on each side, Harwood remained motionless. He struggled to remember the face. It was familiar. A face from a different time and place? Or one from television or the cyber world? He couldn’t be sure. After the Rolling Stone article crowning him as the Reaper, he knew that some may recognize him. Perhaps it was just a fan. But fans usually asked for autographs or made the connection immediately, not with elevator doors closing and no chance of retort. The man’s comment seemed almost like a taunt, a challenge.

  You do the same, Reaper.

  Harwood found Jackie’s room, knocked, and saw that she had left the bolt in the door to keep it open for him. He stepped in and saw the back of her sports bra and her well-toned legs covered only by running shorts. She was still in her running shoes and her blond hair was in a ponytail. She was texting on her phone, it appeared. He walked up behind her and kissed her neck. He saw her blank the screen and toss the phone on the bed with the flick of her wrist.

  She turned and kissed him fully, leading him to the bed. She ripped the Under Armour shirt off his muscled frame and yanked down his running shorts. Soon they were tangled in the sheets, making love with vigor.

  Done, sweating, and breathing heavy, raspy breaths, Harwood looked at Jackie.

  “Missed me?” He smiled.

  “Always,” she purred. Her head was on his bronze chest, her hair having burst free from the elastic band and now fanned out across his pecs. She looked up at him, his head propped on a pillow. “You have a good run? I’ve got you more of that sports drink.”

  “Thanks. Good run. Been getting dizzy some, though,” Harwood replied. He pulled her closer, liked the feel of her warmth right up on him. She traced letters absently on his abs, running her slender fingers along the ridges. “Thanks for the liquids. Staying hydrated has been an issue, I think.”

  “Make sure you drink enough before you run,” she added. “That’s probably what’s causing your dizzy spells. It’s a million degrees outside with the humidity.”

  “Roger that,” he said. His chest heaved with every breath. The fan of blond hair looked like an exotic sea coral spread against his pectorals.

  A moment passed before Jackie looked up at him.

  “Did I scare you yesterday with the baby talk?”

  There was something in her voice. Maybe a question, maybe some doubt, he wasn’t sure. He looked at her.

  “Nah,” Harwood said. “You know my background. Orphan. Foster kid. You don’t think I want that? This?” He waved his hand between her face and his.

  Her blue eyes flicked away and then locked with his again. “Vick, I want this with you. I like that we’re both strong and have made something of ourselves. I may have had a head start, but you’ve blown past me.”

  “Jackie, you’re an Olympic champion. I haven’t blown past anything.”

  “So I can shoot a BB gun better than most. Big deal. You’ve been protecting our country. I couldn’t even protect my little brother.”

  “Hey, Jack. Don’t be so hard on yourself. People can hide stuff and trick you. You never had a chance to protect him from the way you tell it.”

  Jackie sniffed and a tear slid onto Harwood’s chest, then another. He pulled her closer. As Jackie had described it, her brother, Richard, had died eighteen months ago of an opium overdose. Richard’s body had been found at Fort Benning’s Airborne School near Columbus, Georgia. Columbus was the city just outside the main gate of Fort Benning where Rangers, paratroopers, and basic trainees all trained for combat. There was a seedy underbelly at the seam of the base and the town, though. Growing up in Columbus, Jackie and Richard had gone to school with the children of soldiers all their lives. Given her father’s status as the president of the Chamber of Commerce, she and her brother interacted with the senior officers’ children frequently.

  “I should have seen the difference in him. I was too busy training. Too self-absorbed.”

  “You’re being hard on yourself. You tell me to stop it when I beat myself up about Samuelson and LaBoeuf. So let’s just agree that neither of us is perfect. We’ve both lost people close to us. No, those two soldiers weren’t my blood brothers, but they were brothers-in-arms. Warriors.”

  Jackie stiffened when he said the word “warriors.” Her fingernails dug into his side. Her biceps flexed and she pulled deeper into his chest.

  “He told me things,” Jackie said. “That a year before he died kids around Fort Benning were scoring uncut opium. Pure poppy resin. Everyone assumed it was from Mexico, but Richard told me there was a pipeline coming in through the military bases.”

  “You never know,” Harwood said. And he didn’t know. He lived in the world of privates and sergeants, not generals and colonels.

  “He said some generals were running a ring. That one of the generals’ sons was the distributor.” Her fingernail dug deeper into his skin as she spoke, the emotions of sibling loss surging. Harwood did the math. He had met Jackie about four months ago. She had lost her brother over a year ago. In the last couple of years, she had won an Olympic gold medal, had dedicated it to her brother, and was a last-minute addition to the USO trip, which consisted mostly of entertainers. Her presence made sense. She was a national icon. Not a hero, but certainly a marketer’s dream.

  Across the room, the mirror reflected into a halfway-open closet where her rucksack sat with its drawstring loose and open.

  A rifle barrel poked upward from the opening like a small black smokestack.

  CHAPTER 8

  FBI Special Agent Deke Bronson rode in the black Suburban next to Faye Wilde as they traveled from Fort Benning’s Lawson Army Airfield to the commanding general’s quarters on the main base. White and Corent were sitting behind them in the rear seats. Night approached with the static buzz of cicadas as the shadows from the tall pines lining the road blended with the graying twilight.

  “Checking Match?” Faye asked, smiling.

  “Big-time,” Bronson said. “Need you to respond to Samantha and Amelia after work hours, of course. Delete the rest.”

  Faye helped manage Bronson’s Match.com account as a “consultant” for a fee of one hundred dollars a month. Bronson figured she enjoyed the inside look at his psyche and playing matchmaker. Faye was tech-savvy and knew how to position Bronson’s profile best, using “click bait” one-liners such as “I promise not to handcuff you,” which of course, given the popularity of Fifty Shades of Grey, drove huge numbers of women
his way. Once they saw his picture, they lingered. Once they saw his background, Marines, FBI, loved musicals, the gym, and national parks, they emailed him.

  “Really, Samantha? The redhead?” Wilde asked. “Thought you’d go for Syrah, the Egyptian fashion maven from Tysons Corner.”

  “Liked her. So okay, don’t delete that one yet. Keep her in the bullpen.”

  “Knew you’d like Amelia. She’s a big Teddy Roosevelt fan, so you guys have the park thing going. Was going to put you down for this Saturday with her at Virginia Beach Oceanfront. Walk and a picnic?”

  Bronson smiled. “That’s perfect. Then dinner with Samantha at someplace trendy. You pick it.”

  Wilde rolled her eyes and smiled. Two dates in one day, she must have been thinking. Whatever, she’d get used to it eventually.

  “Roger that, Romeo.” Wilde smiled.

  In the near of the Suburban, Corent and White seemed bored until they pulled in front of the general’s home.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” White said.

  “The brass knows how to treat themselves,” Bronson said. “Have to visit this dude first, according to protocol.”

  The compound had a home with antebellum pillars, live oaks with strings of moss, a grove of magnolia trees, and an out-of-place guard shack with two riflemen manning their weapons. Bright lights illuminated the entire façade, as if the home were on display. Two late-model Corvettes sat in the driveway, like twin brats ready to wreak havoc somewhere.

  From the driver’s seat, the agent from the Atlanta field office spun his window down and flashed his creds to one soldier while the other used a mirror to inspect under their vehicle.

  “General Bishop is expecting you,” the private said once the inspection was complete.

  They drove along a gravel driveway to the front of the covered porch, where Bronson got out and directed his team to stay on the porch.