The Man From Belarus (Corps Justice Book 16) Page 2

  Haines leaned in. “I know why you did it, Brandon. Cal crossed the line. You’re worried about your legacy. I get it. Plus, you’re up for re-election. We talked about the possibility of your friendship with Cal, and what acceptance of his actions could do to you.” She stepped up to his desk and rested her hands on the edge, so she was looking down at him. “But the reason I took this job, the reason I deal with the idiots that only seem to want their two minutes of media time, is because I believe that you’re above the morass. Cal is your friend, and while I think he needs to learn a lesson, I’m not sure it’s the best decision to have Dunn and the resources of the federal government after him.”

  They’d had this conversation before. And every time they’d had it, Zimmer had used his position to have the last say. But this time was different. Marjorie Haines had second-guessed her way into his conscience.

  And then, for possibly the first time in weeks, he uttered aloud the very thought that had kept him from getting the sleep he so desperately needed: “I don’t know what to do about Cal Stokes.”

  Chapter Three

  VOLKOV — MINSK, REPUBLIC OF BELARUS — PRESENT DAY

  The ceremony reached its climax with the crescendo of the music. Every member in attendance raised their clasped hands and renewed their vow.

  Arms lowered slowly and a man stepped to the middle of the circle.

  “Brothers and sisters. You’ve made the decision and you’ve chosen. Please take your partner and enjoy the night.”

  The man from Belarus watched as one by one the men stepped to their chosen mate and touched a hand, tenderly. There was no force here. If they wanted to couple, they could. If they wanted to become friends, they could. The ceremony and the subsequent coupling had been mandatory in the old days. Now with the advancement of fertility technology, simple samples were taken and suitable surrogates were matched. It was rare for one of the chosen to give birth. There was a need to stay physically prepared.

  The eighteenth pair left the candlelit room and the man smiled.

  “They will be productive.”

  He closed his eyes and remembered his own upbringing. How he wished he’d been raised in a place where his skills were valued. He would rest assured that not one of the children soon to be born would be mistreated. Raised in love, with proper training of course, the small Belarusians were the future.

  “Sir?”

  The man turned.

  “I have the update you requested.”

  The man pulled a pack of Russian cigarettes from his pocket, tapping it against his palm. “Talk to me.”

  “Stokes has been found.”

  “Where?”

  “The state of Colorado. In America.”

  “I know where it is.”

  The analyst moistened his lips. “My apologies, sir.”

  “A beautiful part of the country.”

  “How would you like to proceed, sir?”

  The man paused for a moment, then gave a slight nod. “Tell them to execute.”

  The analyst gave a bow of his head. “Yes, sir.” And rushed to execute his master’s orders.

  Yes, sir, he thought with an inward roll of the eyes. He’d once mulled over whether he should forbid his people to call him sir. He’d gone to great extremes to foster his extended family. The last thing he wanted was for rank to upset their comfort levels around him. But there are reasons to maintain a respect for position, if for no other reason than to have your underlings know you’re in command.

  The man from Belarus turned back to where he’d blessed the lives of thirty-six of his brothers and sisters. He lit and dragged heartily on the cigarette—it was a habit he’d picked up working for Russia. Kicking it was on his list. Right after finding this Cal Stokes and getting each and every enemy out of the way.

  Chapter Four

  STOKES — WHEAT RIDGE, COLORADO — PRESENT DAY

  The German Shorthaired Pointer leapt over the brush like a gazelle, her prey in sight. Left and right she dodged, eyes wide, tail straight. She snagged the dirty tennis ball with a great huff of breath and an all-consuming doggy relish of victory.

  “Liberty, come!”

  Her master’s voice cut through her excitement, making her wolf brain instantly beeline back to where he stood. She dropped the ball to the ground and nudged it forward with her nose.

  “Good, girl,” Cal said, trying to stroke her coat.

  Liberty was having none of it. There was a time for cuddles and this was certainly not it. For dog’s sake, there was prey to be hunted, chased, and mangled to bits. Cuddles only hindered the effort. Liberty wriggled from his reach, tongue hanging, exhausted but ready for more.

  “You want another?”

  If she could’ve nodded her head she would have. Instead, her tail stood straight, all pointer in that moment.

  Cal made a couple of false throws, faking her out only once. He then chucked the ball over the bramble. Liberty watched the orb soar while she sat twitching in anticipation.

  “Okay... go!”

  Off she bolted.

  Cal folded his arms. “I feel like Liberty’s getting more exercise than we are.”

  Daniel Briggs nodded, taking a last wipe across the barrel of his handgun. “I went for a run this morning.”

  “Of course you did,” Cal said, his annoyance palpable. He rubbed his stomach as if the lack of activity that morning had added six inches to his midsection. The truth was far from perception. Cal Stokes was in the best shape of his life, every muscle honed from hours of training, exercise, and extreme exertion. One of the only men who had the right to brag to be in better shape was now reloading his weapon with a fresh magazine.

  Liberty was back again, all wagging tail and slobbering mouth. She dropped the ball again, wanting more.

  “That’s it, girl,” Cal said, picking the slobber-soaked ball with two fingers. If the dog was disappointed, she didn’t show it. “What do you say, Snake Eyes, you want Mickey D’s or a rundown diner for lunch? Or maybe you have something special planned? Like maybe a sleeve of saltines we can get busy with?”

  “I’ve got an old friend who’s invited us for lunch.”

  “When were you planning on telling me?”

  “I just did.”

  “You’re a font of verbosity, you know that?”

  “And you’re a rainbow of positivity.”

  Cal raised a middle finger, unable to help the smile on his face. Weeks on the road. Just the two, plus Liberty. Time spent with any other human being might have Cal scaling walls. Daniel Briggs was different. He had an aura, something like a cross between a Buddhist’s mindfulness and a Marine’s steadfast resolve. That was Briggs. The warrior monk.

  After water for Liberty, the trio hopped in the rental SUV.

  “Who’s this friend of yours?” Cal asked as Daniel revved the engine.

  “You’ll like him. He makes a mean meat loaf.”

  “Meat loaf? You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

  Cal turned to look out the window specifically to avoid the smile on Daniel’s lips.

  Chapter Five

  LENA — SUMMERSVILLE, WEST VIRGINIA — AGE 12

  She made no less than four passes from every angle the way Daddy taught, her only source of light being the illuminated P.O. box lobby. She bit her cheek in anticipation as the lobby door squeaked its nighttime greeting and slipped inside, just another 12-year-old checking her mail at 11 p.m. All was silent within save the ancient air conditioning clicking off like the last stroke of time.

  There it was. The second set of boxes. Not the largest and not the smallest. A medium-sized box. Number 413.

  She slipped the key from her pocket and inserted it into the lock. For a terrible moment she couldn’t get it to turn. Maybe she’d remembered the wrong box. Maybe it was the wrong key. Maybe they’d changed the lock.

  No, she’d turned the key the wrong way. She rolled her eyes and took a breath of relief. The metal door opened without a sound. Her excitem
ent grew at the sight of a mountain of mail that seemed to choke the thing, then fell when she saw that it was mostly junk mail. Catalogs and insurance company junk and You May Already Be a Winner! crap. Despair rippled through her like a spasm. Then, beneath a brochure for some fitness place, a manila envelope.

  Jane Danton. It wasn’t her name. It was the name of the P.O. box owner. A name she’d come up with herself.

  “Sounds like a teacher on Little House on the Prairie,” said Daddy.

  “What’s that?”

  He looked at her with that look he gave her in the moments just before revealing something precious from his own past. In time, she’d come to recognize it on the spot.

  “You are in for a treat, Little Rabbit. It’s a show about a family living in the olden days when there were no cars, no electricity, and they had to...”

  The look on her face must have tipped him off.

  “Don’t even,” he said. “You’ll love it. You have to trust me. Do you trust me?”

  “No.”

  “Fair enough. Will you watch it with me anyway?”

  How could she say no to that?

  Later that day, they got the DVDs from the library and wound up binge-watching the entire first season during the next few days. Together they booed Mrs. Olsen and her snotty little daughter, Nellie. And Lena cried at the Christmas episode and wrote to Santa that year asking for a horse she could name Bunny. Lena didn’t get it, but she got a sweater that itched like crazy the first time she wore it, but softened after a couple of washes and became her favorite. Only it had these ugly little pom poms that she would worry with her fingers. Dad told her not to do that. He told her one too many times until she ripped one off and threw it at him. It landed in his half-full coffee cup with a plop right in front of his face. He’d watched it go in and then stared at it for longer than was necessary. Lena never laughed so hard and continued to do so in the time-out he’d given her. He couldn’t fool her. She’d caught the leak of laughter in his voice as he banished her to her room.

  Jane Danton. Who knew you could wring so much memory out of a fake name?

  She was disappointed that the handwriting wasn’t her father’s. Had he changed his own or had someone write it? How she would’ve loved to see his penmanship again. It was terrible. What was the word he used to use? Chicken scratch. That’s what it was. But it was still his and she missed it like she missed the way he sighed through his nose when trying to figure out a problem.

  She looked left and right, covering the envelope from view. She knew that it was smarter to take the envelope somewhere else and open it. But she couldn’t wait.

  Little Rabbit,

  If you’re reading this it means that you’ve made it a year. A whole year. That may seem like a long time now, but when you’re my age, it’s nothing. For now, be proud. You made it in the world all by your lonesome. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there with you.

  She brought the paper to her nose, closed her eyes, and tried to find her father’s scent. Nothing. Just the smell of 8 1/2 x 11 paper.

  She continued reading.

  I need you to look for someone. He’s an old friend. A very good friend. He’ll pick up where we left off. Find him, Little Rabbit.

  He’d drawn a rabbit nibbling on a carrot. He’d been a fantastic artist, able to sketch terrain with the same skill as he did a side profile. The note could only be from him.

  “I love you,” he wrote, and despite the hardness that he’d bred there, and the crass that’d crept into her blood during the prior year, she cried. Her eyes blurred the name her father had left for her to find: Gunnery Sergeant Terry Shamblin.

  Chapter Six

  DUNN — CAMP SPARTAN, ARRINGTON, TENNESSEE — PRESENT DAY

  Todd Dunn nodded at the progress of his latest recruits. SSI had started as a security consultancy in the nineties by none other than Colonel Calvin Stokes, Cal’s father. They’d moved on to VIP physical security, international travel security and finally, their cash cow, technology. While he understood the technology more than some of the whiz kids churning away on the latest advance in the SSI’s Batcave, Dunn would always feel pulled to the physicality of busting into a run, taking down a target, and saving the good guys.

  “What did you do wrong?” one of SSI’s instructors asked the five recruits who’d just raided a state-of-the-art take-down complex.

  “We were too slow,” one man said with obvious disgust.

  “They would’ve heard us coming,” another man said.

  “Right and right,” the instructor said, not unkindly. “But listen, you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t deserve to be. Among the five of you we have two SEALs, one Marine, an Army doggie and, if you can believe it, even a Coastie.”

  The Coast Guard veteran grinned and jabbed one of his peers in the side.

  “You’re the best of the best. But even the best can be better.” The instructor turned to Dunn. “Mr. Dunn, do you have anything to add?”

  “Good work, gentlemen.”

  Dunn left them to continue, pausing once to eavesdrop on the aftermath of his departure.

  “That was high praise from Mr. Dunn, boys.”

  “Three words?” one of the new recruits said to the laughter of his peers.

  “You should hear his insults,” said the instructor.

  The CEO of SSI grinned and returned to his office.

  He was annoyed to see that someone had left his door ajar. If there was anything he despised, it was things moved from where he’d left them.

  He entered the office and almost went for the weapon at his side before he realized who was sitting in the guest seat, back facing him.

  “Ms. Haines,” he said, walking around the desk to his own chair.

  “Is it Ms. Haines now?” Marge Haines asked, fiddling with a pen in her hand.

  “How would you like me to address you? Ma’am?”

  She fixed him with an incredulous look. “I thought we were on a first name basis, Todd. I thought we were friends.”

  “You’re the chief of staff to the most powerful man in the world. I figured that deserved a little respect.”

  She stared at him. The smile cracked through and she pointed at him with the pen. “You’re messing with me.”

  He let out his own smile. “An old friend can’t give his old boss a hard time?”

  She walked around the desk and hugged him. “Looks like the boys have rubbed off on you.”

  “They tell me I’m a hard ass,” Dunn said.

  Haines let go of him. “Yeah? They say the same thing about me. By the way, how’d you like my Bond villain entrance?”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t have a cat in your lap.”

  “Couldn’t get one last minute,” she said. “So, Todd, I’d like a chance to catch up on the daily duties of the SSI CEO, but there’s another matter at hand.” She let the words hang in the air as she scrutinized his face. “I assume you know what I’m talking about?”

  “Cal Stokes,” said Todd, his voice laden.

  “You have a bead on him?”

  “Is this you asking or the president?”

  She smiled slightly. “Is there a difference?”

  Dunn crossed his arms across his bulky chest. “There is.”

  Haines tilted her head. “Enlighten me.”

  “It’s just that, if you’re asking for the president, I can tell you the official answer. If you’re asking as a friend, I can tell you my opinion.”

  “Let’s go with Option B.”

  Dunn grunted. He was used to reports and the formality of his job. It was the gray area that kept him on edge. This was the gray area.

  “He stepped in the proverbial shit, Marge.”

  “Yeah, that I knew.”

  “Did you know that he’s been funneling money out of SSI for his operations?”

  “Of course. I helped him set that up. I assumed you’d cut the money off.”

  “We did. It was the first thing we did. Did you know
about the dark fund?”

  Haines shook her head as if she hadn’t heard him correctly. “The what now?”

  “Turns out, before your tenure as CEO, Cal, with the help of Patel—at least we assume it was Patel—set up a secret fund deep inside SSI’s bottom line. Even our tax experts missed it.”

  “Who found it?”

  “A new kid.”

  “Accountant?”

  “Not exactly.”

  Haines huffed. “Come on, Todd. I don’t have all day. You have no idea how many meetings I postponed to be here.”

  “Sorry. It’s that the matter is... delicate.”

  He wanted her to figure it out. And after a minute she nodded, understanding.

  “You brought the new kid in to hack the system. Neil’s system.”

  Dunn nodded.

  “And what else did he find?”

  Dunn would’ve moistened his lips if he’d had the saliva to do it. “You’re not gonna like it.”

  Chapter Seven

  STOKES — STERLING, COLORADO — PRESENT DAY

  The high-rise condo looked like a titan’s spear jabbed into the ground. It was the only building of significance for miles. Part of this remote Colorado town’s plans for expansion, no doubt.

  “You’re not gonna tell me who this is?” Cal asked, stroking Liberty’s head, which was nestled on the console between the two men.

  “I thought you liked surprises.”

  “Your intel source failed you on that one.”

  Daniel threw his friend a glance. The preceding weeks hadn’t been kind to Cal. Patience, while a necessary trait of any good warrior, was not a skill the Marine had in spades.

  The car slid into the guest spot in the rear parking lot. With Liberty leashed and walking at Cal’s side, the trio entered the building with a six-digit code Daniel input from memory.

  They skipped the elevators and trudged up the stairs, both men wary. Cal had known Daniel long enough to know that just because the man looked calm didn’t mean his insides weren’t taut and ready.