Exodus 2022 (11 page)

Palmer said, “I’d like to get a list of the places he’s eaten in the last few days.”

“Short list,” Ella replied. “After we left Bremerton we stopped at a Starbucks in Port Townsend and a Wendy’s in Anacortes. We ate at two places in Friday Harbor.” She rattled off the names.

Palmer took notes. But he wasn’t the only one listening.

The tainted food explanation was Beck’s idea. And now his operatives were considering Ella’s restaurant list with interest.

“I want the cops, and the public, to have an explanation for Joe Stanton’s behavior—so they don’t start looking at other causes,” Beck told Collins.

Within minutes, a plan was under way.

SEVENTEEN HOURS LATER.
Erebus operative Gavin Knox sat behind the wheel of a stolen Honda Accord in a darkened parking lot in Anacortes; a clear view of his target dead ahead.

It seemed a ridiculous target for someone of Knox’s training.

But “target” was how Collins had referred to it. And Knox had prepared for the operation with all of his skill and professionalism. He’d scouted the place. Studied photographs. Spent time, inside and out. He’d broken into the restaurant manager’s apartment and copied the restaurant’s master key.

There were no video cameras at the Wendy’s. And no alarm system. There
were
alarm company stickers on the doors and windows, but no functioning alarm. Knox had checked. Carefully.

He’d rehearsed his moves and knew how he’d get in—via the service door in back, away from the street. He knew where the walk-in freezer was, and what he’d find inside.

The ex-SEAL was prepared.

He was also upset. Pissed off. It was not an emotion he welcomed before a mission. Such an emotion could cause a loss of focus. A lapse in judgment. He lifted his phone and called Collins.

It took ten seconds for the call to connect. For the cell signal to find its way to Collins, on board
Marauder
, nine hundred miles northwest. For the special encryption software to do its thing.

Collins picked up on the first ring, sounding wide-awake even though it was the middle of the night. “There a problem?”

Knox laughed. “You always assume the worst.”

Collins spoke evenly. “You haven’t gone in yet.”

“No.”

“What then?”

Knox cleared his throat. “I scouted the restaurant today.”

“I know.”

“Families eat there. A lot of kids.”

“So?”

Knox sighed. “So what the fuck, Collins? Why are we doing this?”

Silence on the line, then static, then, “Because Beck said to.”

Knox was not a fearful person, never had been. But the way Collins enunciated this sentence sent a little shiver down his spine.

Collins’s tone softened slightly. “Because a diversion is necessary. Because it’s important.”

“Yeah?” said Knox. “Well, I’m the wrong guy for this one.”

“You’re the right guy,” said Collins, sounding more like a coach now. “Beck chose you specifically.”

“Why?

“Because of your expertise. Your attention to detail.”

Knox gazed out the driver’s-side window of the Honda. Checked the street. A soft rain was making halos of mist around each streetlight. It was still dark and the street was still dead, but he had to get moving. Sunrise came early in summer, bringing people with it. All he needed was for some asshole jogger to cruise past the Wendy’s service entrance as he was walking out.

“I could just leave,” Knox said finally. “Drive away.”

Collins laughed. “Yeah, and you know how that would go down.”

Knox knew.

Beck would find him. Or maybe not. Beck might ignore him completely and go after his ex-wife and three-year-old son instead. There was no telling. His ex and son lived far away. In a small town in Upstate New York. But the distance was no kind of barrier for Beck. Knox let it play out in his head. Two or three months would pass. Maybe more. Maybe a year. Nothing would happen. He’d start to believe that Beck had forgotten about him. Then, out of the blue, he’d get a call explaining that something terrible had happened to his kid. Or to his parents in Des Moines. His sister in Tampa.

Collins spoke again, staying in coach mode. “You’re a pro, Knox. That’s why Beck spent a shitload of money saving your ass after Fallujah. And how much are you making now? What? Five times what you did when you were in? Think about that.”

Knox said nothing.

“Are we on the same page here, Knox?”

“What happened with the reporter?” Knox asked. “After the fight?”

Collins seemed taken aback by the question. “What do you think happened? The reporter lost.”

“No. I mean
after
the fight. The ship was locked down. Nobody but you guys on the weather deck.”

“Yeah?”

“So I heard Beck saw a guy. Or claimed to. A stranger. I heard he was adamant about it.”

Collins wondered who had told Knox this and made a mental note to find out. He didn’t like gossip. Especially gossip about the boss.

“But the deck was locked down,” Knox continued. “Nobody else saw anything. Cameras didn’t record anything. There was no one there. No guy. It was impossible.”

“What’s your point?”

Knox hesitated, then said, “You ever think maybe the boss is off his rocker, Collins?”

Collins sighed. “We’re done talking now, Knox. Gonna do your job, or not?”

“Fuck you, Collins.”

Collins kept his voice even. Flat. “Are you doing the job, or not?”

“I’m doing it.”

“Good.”

The call went dead. Knox donned a pair of latex gloves, grabbed his backpack, and headed for the service entrance, sticking to the shadows as he crossed the lots. Inside the service door he slid cotton booties on over his shoes.

Four minutes later he was inside the restaurant’s freezer, staring at neat stacks of perfectly formed all-beef patties. Hundreds of patties filled an entire column of stainless-steel shelves, floor to ceiling, each individual square of meat separated from the next by a single rectangle of wax paper.

The frosty walls of the freezer sparkled through Knox’s night-vision goggles. He could see everything plainly, for a few seconds. Then the lenses fogged and he had to wipe them off, inside and out. He repeated this cleaning every ten seconds or so, silently cursing himself for not anticipating the problem.

He could simply turn the freezer light on, of course, or use his headlamp, but the light—any light—might reflect into the kitchen. Someone might see something from the street. He couldn’t risk it.

Knox’s heart thumped in his ears, a raucous noise against the stillness of the restaurant. The fog was throwing him off. Slowing him down.

He wiped the lenses for the umpteenth time, pulled the little plastic case Collins had given him from his vest pocket, and opened it, revealing a soft foam liner bearing an eyedropper and a single vial of clear liquid.

Knox extracted the vial and eyedropper with his right hand, shut the case and put it back in his pocket. Then he opened the vial, carefully, and filled the dropper.

He turned and focused on the hamburger patties, glowing green through his eyewear. Not the least bit appetizing. He placed the poison randomly. A drop here. A drop there. Some on this shelf. Some on that.

And then it was done and he was moving out, checking his trail, checking everything, shutting the freezer, heading for the exit.

He bolted the service door with the key he’d fabricated, checked the lot, and made for the Honda. One minute later he was on his way out of town, a shadow moving through the darkness and softly falling rain.

JOE SAT ON HIS HOSPITAL BED,
wide-awake and fully dressed. Tired, but relaxed. Ella was there, along with Dr. Heintzel, a nurse named Navarro, and a prim, nattily attired company liaison named Elton Gliss.

As Joe now understood it, he’d been airlifted off Lopez and was en route to a hospital in Bellingham when he’d gone into cardiac arrest. The chopper had diverted to the
Mercy
, which happened to be in the straits south of the San Juans. The ship’s emergency-medicine team had attempted to stabilize Joe and send him on to a traditional hospital, but stabilization had proven difficult. Joe’s heart irregularity—a side effect of the toxin he’d ingested, according to Heintzel—made transport unsafe. They’d sent a helicopter to collect Ella and bring her to the ship, instead.

The
Mercy
had continued on its southward path and was now approaching San Diego, en route to the Panama Canal and an eventual deployment along Ivory Coast.

Sun streamed through the windows and Joe felt his strength returning. The bruises on his face were healing, the soreness in his limbs dissipating with each passing hour. A lingering ache between his eyes was his only complaint now, and Heintzel had assured him that that, too, would fade.

Joe regarded Heintzel and the others. “I don’t know how to thank you folks,” he said. “You’ve shown real kindness to a complete stranger, and, you know—” Tears clouded his eyes and Ella put her arm around his shoulder.

“Mr. Beck was delighted to be able to help you in your time of need,” Elton Gliss said, grinning with a toothsome politician’s smile. “It is the Christian way, is it not?” 

The nurse, Navarro, stared at the floor as Gliss spoke. Kept her head down. No eye contact. Joe wondered if she was just shy.

“Is Mr. Beck on the ship?” Joe asked. “I’d like to thank him personally.”

“I’m afraid not,” Gliss replied. “Mr. Beck is in Europe. On business. But he’s been updated on your condition several times. I spoke with him just an hour ago, in fact, and he was thrilled to learn of your quick recovery.”

“Well,” said Joe, “I hope to meet him one day.”

Sheldon Beck watched the conversation on a video screen in a different part of the ship. “Track them,” he told Collins. “Monitor them, 24/7. Pass everything on to Ring. Keep me in the loop.”

HEINTZEL AND GLISS ESCORTED
Joe and Ella to the
Mercy
’s helipad. Joe rode in a wheelchair pushed by the ever-smiling corporate liaison.

“I can walk,” said Joe. “I feel fine.”

“You may think you feel fine,” Heintzel replied, as they navigated
Mercy
’s gleaming wood-paneled hallways. “But you must remember your ordeal and give yourself time to recover.”

Ella said, “Don’t worry, I’ll remind him.”

“You suffered hypothermia,” said Heintzel. “Shock, exposure, multiple serious abrasions. You have a hairline skull fracture and thirty-five stitches. You nearly drowned. Before all of that, you endured a massive psychological trauma and stress to your heart as a result of the poison you ingested. In the words of my teenage niece, Mr. Stanton, you need to chill for a few days. Call in sick to work.”

“Got it,” said Joe, who seriously doubted he would still even have a job after his parishioners learned the full extent of his bizarre escapades.

They pushed on through the
Mercy
’s bustling corridors. Workers were cleaning rooms and surgical suites, fixing equipment, painting walls. Preparing for the looming deployment.

“Busy day on the
Mercy
,” said Joe.

Gliss nodded. “Mr. Beck likes to keep his fleet in tip-top shape, especially the
Mercy
. Wounded service members deserve nothing less.”

“It’s impressive.”

“More medical staff will deploy in Miami,” said Gliss. “Our last stop before Ivory Coast. The population of this ship will double within a couple of days.”

They emerged onto the upper deck and ascended a long ramp to the waiting helicopter.

The sky was bright, the air warm. Seagulls danced on the thermals, and whitecaps shimmered in the light. In the distance, far to the east, they could make out a flat brown line against the horizon—the California coast. Layered on top of the line, matching it perfectly, another layer. Haze. Smog. The layers made the coastline look like a section of geological strata.

Ella puzzled over their situation. Gliss had told her that after the chopper ride, an Erebus corporate jet would fly them home from California. Free of charge. All free of charge. Gliss attributed the generosity to Beck’s religious convictions.
He’s stepping up to help a man of the cloth
, Gliss had said.
It’s a small act of compassion. A gift.

Ella didn’t buy his story. She’d seen things on the ship. Overheard snippets of conversations. Things that didn’t add up. She wasn’t worried, though, because she thought she had Beck’s real motive figured out.

She’d Googled him. Read about his family, company, and military service. He’d accomplished great things. But there were stains on his record, too. Serious problems. The reports said Beck and a group of special operations soldiers under his control had been charged with killing innocent civilians in Afghanistan. Beck had been cleared, but questions remained. The press dogged him. Beck needed some good PR, Ella thought, and she expected to find reporters waiting in San Diego or Bremerton.

They stopped at the top of the ramp near the waiting helicopter. The engine began to whine.

Heintzel handed Joe a manila envelope and spoke over the din. “There’s a DVD inside with copies of everything. Your history, scans, tests, my notes.”

Joe rose from the wheelchair and gave Heintzel a hug. “Thank you,” he said. “For all you’ve done. And stay safe…in the deployment.”

Heintzel seemed taken aback by the gesture. She smiled fleetingly and smoothed her jacket. “I will try,” she said.

The helicopter shrieked and an attendant in a flight suit adorned with the Erebus logo emerged from the craft to help Joe and Ella aboard.

Joe watched the gleaming white bulk of the
Mercy
recede, its bow rising and falling in the chop. Bold crosses on the top and sides of the craft marked the ship for what it was—very important in combat zones. It looked like a giant floating ambulance. 

Joe stared at the tumultuous sea and thought it mirrored his recent past.