Dead in Their Tracks (A Mitch Kearns Combat Tracker Story Book 1) (17 page)

Chapter 39

Two weeks later, outside the federal
courthouse in downtown Sacramento, throngs of reporters along with hundreds of spectators
stood on the polished granite steps as the single defendant walked down, his
limp aided by an ivory-handled cane. Nelson Ritter had a faint grin, his
coconut-white teeth showing through his lips as he strode confidently to his
curbside limousine. The reporters swarmed around him, thrusting their
microphones and cameras in his face. Stopping before the limo door, he adjusted
his blue silk necktie and turned to the crowd.

“Mr. Ritter, do you feel that Aeneid was
wrongly accused in connection with the thwarted terrorist attacks?” yelled one
reporter.

“Sir, is the federal government using your
company as a scapegoat for their lack of foresight in handling the situation
with assault weapons entering this country illegally?” said a redheaded woman
to his right.

He waved his hand for them to be quiet.
“Patriotism for this nation has always been my cause and I will continue to
push forward with my company’s good name. We will have our day in court and the
truth behind this fiasco will be known. That is all.”

Ritter got inside the limo and sat down,
reaching for a carafe of chilled red wine in the open ice chest across from him.
His chairside phone rang.

“Nice speech that I just saw on TV,” said
Monroe. “But take it from me, with all my years in public office, you’re better
off just nodding politely to the trolls than trying to present the façade of
doing damage control.”

“Relax, I gave the guppies a few morsels
to blog about for the next week. Besides, I’ve sat stone-faced through this
inane hearing for three days now and I felt like saying a few words on my
behalf.”

“The whole matter should be waylaid by the
end of the week and your role in the matter resolved, according to my
contacts.”

“Ah, you’re too kind. Are you sure there’s
a politician inside you?” He chuckled, taking a sip of wine from his silver
goblet. “Are we still going to meet on Saturday to discuss moving ahead with
Plan B?”

“Yes, the usual location. Have your men
secure the area again—and Nelson, try and keep your trap shut for the cameras
until then.”

Chapter 40

The aspen logs in the fireplace at Thomas Monroe’s
Tahoe chalet sputtered out a succession of hisses as he and Nelson Ritter sat
on the elephant-hide recliners, sipping brandy and chuckling.

“And then the judge says, ‘Agent Mitchell
Kearns, your testimony is inconclusive. You are still under investigation by
your own department which, by the way, is a federal agency,’” Nelson Ritter
said while trying to choke down another swig of whiskey in between bouts of
laughter. “And the best part is that the woman, Leitner…Sanchez…whoever the
fuck she is…she disappeared, leaving Kearns to hang in the wind.”

Monroe nodded and smiled. “That judge
couldn’t be bought off in the beginning so we had to use some incriminating
photos of his youngest daughter at college that one of my men obtained with the
help of—uhm, what do the kids call ’em these days…ah…roofies.”

Two guards in three-piece suits stood by
the front and rear doors, resembling statues except for the automatic weapons
slung about their shoulders. Three more men were doing foot patrols along the
spruce-lined forest surrounding the luxurious A-frame.

“The FBI is facing a possible scandal if I
have my say and the relations with the Israelis could—well, you know—become
strained between our two governments,” continued Monroe, the shot of liquid
bravery infusing him with more bravado than he was accustomed to.

“There’s still the matter of Kearns. He’s
the reason this whole goddamned mess got as far as it did. If he hadn’t helped
that woman and eluded my man Drake in the desert this whole fucking thing
could’ve ended without incident. Months in the planning to get this Fareed
fellow to sign on with the whole religious agenda. Now the Caspian Sea
operation is delayed.”

“It shouldn’t be too hard to find another
loyal extremist to get on board with a different cause in another region of our
country or even Europe. As for Kearns, I’ll see to it he has a horseback riding
accident somewhere on that ranch. Shit—why not torch that entire place and
finish what he started?”

Nelson raised his glass in a toast. “I’ll
have to get another shell corporation created to cloak any movement now that
Aeneid is under the spotlight. I hope you can still help with covering the
digital trail.”

Monroe shook his head, laughing and
pouring himself another drink. “Cheers, my good man.” Raising the golden elixir
to his lips, he heard the crackling of wood to his right, realizing it was
opposite the fireplace and a higher pitch than the burning aspen. The ear-splitting
sound had emanated from the guard by the rear door as his cheekbone split open
from a single round, the man collapsing to the oaken floor. Before Monroe could
stand, another round sliced through the glass in his own hand, spraying shards
into his face. He fell back into the recliner and began yelling as the second
guard was cut down by two rounds that pierced his neck.

“We’ve gotta get out of here,” said Monroe,
reaching for the walkie-talkie on the mahogany table beside him. “Guards—guards,
get up here,” he yelled while flopping to the floor on his belly.

“They’re dead, you fool,” muttered Nelson.
“If these two are already gone, then you can bet we’re all alone.”

“Those fucking Iranians. It has to be
them…but how did they find us up here?” said Monroe, his fear rising like
tendrils of smoke.

Nelson slithered towards his briefcase to
extract a pistol. Just as he reached it, he felt the sting of his kneecap
explode, as if a mighty hammer had been driven from above. He recoiled into the
couch, his body going fetal as he screamed and looked into the face of Dev Leitner
walking through the back door.

She was dressed in black, with inky
streaks running diagonally across her face, her brown eyes magnified by the
firelight as if they were conspiring to consume the cabin. Dev turned towards Monroe
and stepped on his injured hand as he tried to reach for an iron poker near the
hearth.

“I really thought about making this look
like an accident. I really did,” she said. “I had a couple of well-planned
scenarios but I just had to be sure that neither of you sons of bitches got
away by some stroke of luck.” She stood over Nelson, her pistol steady. “Some people
are opposed to violence…and they are protected by those who are not.” She fired
a round into Nelson’s head, which blew apart and sent rivulets of blood into
the fire.

Monroe’s wailing increased as she moved
closer, and he simpered like a pig set upon by wild dogs. “Please, it doesn’t
have to end this way. I have considerable power at the DOD that could be to
your benefit.”

She removed a bronze dagger from her vest
and leaned over, driving it into his chest. “Time to pass that on to your successor,”
she said, slamming Fareed’s old blade into the plump man’s chest a second time.
Dev stared into Monroe’s glassy eyes then stood up and knocked the bottle of
brandy off the table towards the fireplace. Its contents quickly became engulfed
with flames that spread along the oaken floorboards towards the two splayed
figures.

As the chalet became consumed by the intense
fire, she hurried to the back door, stepping over the deceased bodyguard and trotting
down the back stairs of the porch. As Dev slipped into the spruce forest, the
A-frame behind her was illuminated blood-orange as she strode over the soft
matting of old conifer needles. She felt the rage born of loss flow over her as
if the conflagration was emanating from her body. The falling snow covered her
tracks and dampened the sound of the forest until even the crackling of consumed
timber behind her faded. Dev walked another two miles to a narrow dirt road,
below which the jeep she stole earlier was concealed in a thicket. She got in the
vehicle and headed down the mountain, towards the pitch-black horizon, the
flames on the mountainside stabbing upward into the clutches of the sky.

Chapter 41

Three weeks later, after the trial had
been dismissed and Aeneid’s doors shuttered, Mitch found himself adrift. His
involvement in the whole affair had been shown to be instrumental in thwarting
the terrorist attack. Ryker had gone to considerable effort to make sure Mitch’s
record was expunged of any local and federal law enforcement misdeeds. Perry
was officially listed as KIA in the line of duty while his records, files, and
personal life were being investigated by a bureau panel for his connections to
Aeneid and other potential sources that he may have leaked information to.
Publicly, blame was cast upon Fareed and his radicalized group of disillusioned
friends, his previous visit to Yemen cementing his lone-wolf plot with arms dealer
Gamal, who had apparently committed suicide afterwards. This story allowed the
national outrage to be channeled enough to divert attention from the mess
created with Monroe’s and Aeneid’s involvement.

The usual statements of deniability were
issued between the U.S. and Israeli government while keeping the matter of
Monroe’s nebulous undertakings out of the media spotlight. All of the credit
was directed at Bureau Chief Evan Ryker, who was in the spotlight, relaying the
FBI’s investigative work that led to thwarting the attack.

After learning of the Leitners’
involvement through Mitch and with the state department looking for an excuse
to patch up strained relations with Israel, Dev’s participation was never officially
recognized as the only witnesses to her involvement were Perry and Ritter. Her
face was removed from the FBI’s Most Wanted list after Perry’s meddling was
uncovered.

A few days after returning to Arizona,
Mitch headed straight to his friend’s ranch, where he spent time building a new
bunkhouse and doing a lot of campfire cooking for the crew. He stayed in a
small twelve-by-sixteen cabin near the horse pasture, enjoying catching up on
whittling, reading, and tracking animals.

Early one morning, when the purple finches
were singing in the cottonwood tree above his rustic abode, he heard the ranch
hands near the entrance gate talking to someone who had just driven up. A few
minutes later, a red Prius rolled down the hill. Dev Leitner had never looked
as stunning as when she stepped into the sunlight. She wore a red tank-top which
hung slightly over her jeans.

She looked over at the framework of the
bunkhouse and then made a beeline for Mitch. He stood up and walked down the
steps of his tiny porch, meeting her halfway.

“The new place is coming along nicely,
though not as rustic as the original.”

“A few years in this weather and it’ll
look as old as the first one.”

 He tossed the stick that he’d been
whittling on the ground and put away his folding knife. “You know a funny thing
happened—about two weeks ago, the owner of the ranch gets an anonymous check in
the mail. Says it’s from an overseas company out of Tel Aviv that donates to
various causes and that he should apply it towards renovation of a historic
structure on his property.”

“Huh…wow…isn’t the mail wonderful. I mean,
you can just get those kind of surprises through your mailbox.”

“Yeah, I told him he oughta blow most of
the money on beer and new saddles but he managed to save a few pennies for
nails and lumber.”

She folded her arms across her chest, giving
him a fierce stare that then turned into a grin. “Mitch Kearns, you’re sounding
more like a cowboy than a federal agent with each sentence. You sure you’re the
same guy I met a month ago?”

He arched his back up to the blue sky and
stretched his arms out to his sides. “I’m back home where I belong, at least
for now. Got my old job back with the feds if I want it but I’m still thinking
about that one. What brings you out to these parts again?” he said jokingly
while looking up at the ridgeline, half-wondering if there were any surprises.

They walked up to the porch, where he
offered her his only chair while he leaned against the railing. For the next
few hours they spoke about the trial, the FBI, Anatoly, and geopolitics in
Turkmenistan.

“It looks like your father’ legacy will
remain intact. He’s done a lot to ensure their way of life will continue and I
know he’d be damn proud of you.” Mitch lowered his head, thinking of the
warrior philanthropist and what he had risked for so many over the years while
remaining in the shadows. “He was a helluva guy. Tonight we’ll have a campfire
and meal in his honor.”

“I wish I could but I should be going. I
only drove out here to say goodbye and to—” She paused, looking up at him and
smiling. “To thank you for putting so much on the line for me when you could’ve
looked the other way.”

“My pleasure, ma’am,” he said, tilting the
brim of his white cowboy hat.

He got up and went inside his cabin,
removing two cold beers from his cooler and returning. He removed the lids and
then handed her one. “We have to at least give a cowboy salute to the heavens
above for not getting rained on this time.”

“I’ll drink to that,” she said, standing
up.

He took a long swig and then leaned
against the wall. “You know that was pretty shocking what happened in Lake
Tahoe to the assistant sec-def, Ritter, and his entourage. Don’t know if you
read about it in the papers?”

She just raised an eyebrow and continued
fixing her gaze upon the ground ahead. “Pretty shocking.”

“Some Iranians connected to Fareed and his
guys—they think, though that’s not official.” He strolled over to her, reaching
a hand up to the porch rafter and staring out at the cottonwood trees. “Gotta
be careful when you wander into the backcountry.” He tilted his head towards her,
looking into her brown eyes. “Know what I mean?”

She just smiled and tucked a thumb into
her belt loop. “Yep.”

“Sure you can’t stick around? We could do
some horseback riding and run across mesas for fun.”

“Sounds swell—but, you know, I should be
getting back home.” She walked around the front porch, the railing between them,
resting her hands on the cracked wood. She wanted to stay—to get to know him
better without the chaos of what they had endured—but she felt herself closing
up inside. She needed to get back to Israel, to her mother, to her father’s
company, and to piece together her fractured heart.

“You never can tell when I’ll be back in
these parts though—hopefully on more pleasant business.”

He extended his hand over hers, caressing
her wrist with his thumb. “Until then, I hope you’ll remember us rednecks.”

She grinned and tossed her head back,
flinging her raven hair over her shoulder. “Shouldn’t take too much effort.”
Dev turned and walked to her car, climbing inside and pausing to wave one last
time then driving up the dusty road.