She caught up with Chancy as he passed the front end of his Lexus and nodded down the other side of the drive toward a forensics crew and began to narrate, “Those are FBI people down there. We are advising under the aegis of Homeland Security. Everything I am about to relate is classified. The local PD has been debriefed. The press has been misled. We are sitting on this.”
Chancy handed her a mug shot of some sleepy looking skinhead maniac with perspective shots of extensive and bizarre body ink on the back and shocking evidence of trauma that seemed to run from animal attacks and industrial accidents to low velocity bullet wounds and possible shrapnel.
She was stricken with the absurdity of the man’s appearance. “A combat vet and stunt man who is now working as the world’s worst animal wrangler? This should not be a problem.”
Chancy chuckled. “Three weeks ago a narcotics agent and supporting uniformed officers closed in a mile from here on this mug, a biker apparently delivering dope to the house of a fugitive; a mass murder suspect who eluded authorities back in November and has apparently fallen off the planet. The skinhead biker fled, resisted, fought, and eventually surrendered to a tactical squad. He seriously injured four officers and killed a number of pit bulls—don’t ask. No I.D., no Codice match, nothing. Since then he has maimed killed and eaten nine corrections officers and has been removed to the Black Ops Facility.”
“What?”
“Yes, Girlfriend, he is eating law-enforcement people alive. We think he is a weapon Joan. That is our premise. Interestingly some local PD recall apprehending this same man at this location after similar assaults on police officers on Christmas Eve Two-thousand-eleven. They don’t remember anything else Joan. They believe that they were working with a team of FBI profilers searching for a serial killer. But no such team was actually here.”
“Why me?”
“The magnetic pulses in Turkey and Greece for starters—they’re happening here, in correlation with this nut-bag’s appearances and disappearances. By-the-way, Brucasio has since gone missing from maximum security solitary outside of Ankara. A similar weather anomaly accompanied by a magnetic field disturbance was noted. Also, the officers who were present here—including a decorated chopper-pilot—swear to a similar anomaly that accompanied the disappearance of this whack-job and two other individuals—supposedly FBI—who were reportedly interrogating him.”
Holy shit!
Chancy now paused for emphasis as he slipped a print of a security still, which showed an uncommonly beautiful young American Indian woman—yes, Joan, you are an old hag now—and the tiny American Indian boy she had met in Istanbul, exiting a parking garage holding hands with Tina Hesperia, AKA Agent Cheung of Executive Solutions. “And because of her Joan, the woman you noted went under two identities and yet does not exist except in this print, in Ed’s bogus file and in your memory. Executive Solutions has no knowledge of her or her male partner.”
Joan was galvanized, “American Indian kids and Tina in Kylos and Baltimore? Do we have any other parallels here, such as a Brucasio?”
He was becoming clinical like he did every time he unloaded a problem on some forsaken field operative. He nodded to the photo. “Yes, Joan, in Two-thousand-eleven we had two bodies in the parking garage and the car of a hairdresser—a handicapped woman—who has since disappeared. One of the dead men was a local man, a writer who was packed for travel. The other was a Bosnian war criminal by the name of Andre Stilchko, who had been confirmed killed in Two-thousand-and-one by an SAS team in Bosnia.”
Joan was in the zone, “Their muscle is disposable. They traffic in children. Tina mentioned a husband, named Jay. She said he was a real specimen. And the child, his name is Three-Rivers, told stories about this Jay—father or brother-figure I am uncertain—which suggested he was a prize-fighter. Tina claimed he was a military operative with ESC. No sense in researching that; also fictitious I’m sure. Chancy, I spent some time with this woman. She had the Turks eating out of her hand—a master manipulator. I also saw her slap the shit out of Brucasio—a monster. I’d say she runs the muscle and cut’s them loose to cover her tracks.”
You’ve got the angle now girl.
“I suggest…”
His hand came to her cheek as he handed her the envelop that the photos had come out of. “Joan, save the operational shit for these drones and the geeks at Black Ops. That is where the subject is being housed. He’s no Brucasio—a rural American—hello, gentleman, lady. This is Agent Henderson. She will be advising in my stead. Please see to her questions.”
He then stopped and placed his hand on her butt as he whispered in her ear, “Nice to hear you dumped the husband. Call me. Ransom will drive you back to Black Ops this afternoon.”
With those words and a squeeze of her rear end the arrogant bastard was off.
In your dreams asshole!
Tina, what are you into?
We can’t be enemies?
