The Hit (2013) Read online

  He wasn’t sure the pair had ever met face-to-face. There wasn’t anything in the record to show they had. That was not unusual. Robie had never met any of his handlers. The agency subscribed to the Chinese wall policy on operatives. The less people knew about each other, the less they could tell if they were captured and tortured.

  Robie discounted any issues in Jacobs’s personal life. With Reel’s being involved, this had to emanate from his professional life.

  So many successful missions. No problems. Then Reel had shot Jacobs in the back while she was supposedly on a mission in the Middle East to end the life of someone America could not tolerate being in power.

  Finding nothing in Jacobs’s file, Robie opened the far larger digital history of James Gelder.

  Gelder had been a lifelong public servant starting in the military, all in the intelligence sector. He had risen quickly and was seen as a likely successor to Evan Tucker—unless the president decided to make a political statement and appoint some Capitol Hill banger whose only connection to intelligence was that he had none.

  Evan Tucker was the public face of the agency, to the extent it had one. He was more hands-on than some of his predecessors, but at the operations level it was Gelder’s ball to carry across the goal line.

  Robie wondered who would replace him. Would anyone want the job, seeing how it had ended for Gelder?

  Robie started way back at the beginning, before Gelder had even joined the agency and was still in the Navy. Then he methodically worked his way forward. The man had had an exemplary career and the respect that Robie had for him only increased.

  He came to the end of the file and sat back.

  So why would Jessica Reel kill him? If this was personal, what would the reason be? Robie could find no connection between Reel and Gelder. As Evan Tucker had said, Gelder had had no direct hand in the Ahmadi mission other than to give it his official blessing. And Robie could find no other evidence that Gelder had worked with Reel either directly or indirectly.

  He hit some computer keys to exit out of the file, but a crack of thunder distracted him and he hit a couple of other keys by accident. The page he was looking at was instantly reformatted. Headers and footers and other electronic gibberish sprang forth.

  Shit.

  He couldn’t change the page; it was a read-only document, of course.

  He hit some keys to try and get out of this new, if accidental, format, but nothing seemed to work. He was about to try again when he looked down at the bottom of the page. In a very faint font, so faint he needed to turn on his desk lamp to see it better, was one word in brackets.

  [Deleted]

  Robie stared at the faded word like it was a ghost appearing on his screen.

  Shit again.

  He immediately paged back through Gelder’s file and found twenty-one instances of [Deleted].

  He went back through Jacobs’s file, hit the same key combo, and found nineteen such deletions.

  He sat back.

  He had expected some censorship, but they had basically electronically redacted the whole damn thing. Who “they” were could include either only certain unknown persons, or the entire agency from Tucker on down.

  He opened Reel’s official file, and after performing the same keystrokes on this document, he found it littered with the [Deleted] mark.

  They want me to investigate this, but they’ve tied my arms and my legs together. They’ve lied to me by not telling me the whole story.

  He grabbed his phone to call Blue Man, but stopped, his finger hovering over the keypad.

  Blue Man had sounded very unusual during their last call. He had wanted Robie to come in, ostensibly so his burns could be attended to. But he had given Robie another location, and this made him wonder if the burns were uppermost on Blue Man’s agenda.

  There was clearly something going on here to which Robie was not attuned.

  He rose and went to the window and stared out at the rain, as though the messy weather would somehow clear his thinking.

  It did and it didn’t.

  It did in that Robie decided he would go in to see Blue Man. But he would not mention what he had just discovered. He would see how it played out. He would see if Blue Man brought it up or whether he was playing for a side other than Robie’s. Yesterday this would have been unthinkable. But yesterday what Robie had just seen on the screen would have been unthinkable too.

  His thinking was far less clear when it came to Jessica Reel. He was beginning to have doubts there. Severe ones.

  Nothing personal, she had said.

  Yet Robie was beginning to think that somehow this couldn’t get any more personal for the woman. And if that were the case he had to find out why.

  CHAPTER

  18

  AS HE WAS PULLING OUT of his garage Robie heard his phone ring. He looked at the screen and groaned. She had called many times and he had never called back. He was hoping she would just stop phoning. But it didn’t seem she was getting the message.

  On impulse he hit the answer button. “Yeah?”

  “What the hell game are you playing, Robie?”

  Julie Getty sounded just like she had the last time they had spoken. Slightly ticked off. Slightly mistrustful. Well, she actually sounded really pissed off and vastly mistrustful.

  And he couldn’t really blame her.

  “Not sure what you mean?”

  “I mean, when someone leaves you twenty-six voice mails, it ‘might’ be a sign they want to talk to you.”

  “So how’s life treating you?”

  “Shitty.”

  “Seriously?” Robie said cautiously.

  “No, not seriously. Jerome’s been everything as advertised. In fact, maybe too good. I feel like I’m Huck Finn back living with the Widow Douglas.”

  “I wouldn’t hold that against him. A normal, boring life is severely underrated.”

  “But you’d know all about how I was doing if you’d called me back!”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “You wimped out on me and you know it. I even went by your place, but you moved out. I waited for hours five separate times until I figured that out. Then I kept looking in the obits for your picture because I figured you were a man who kept his word. And if you didn’t contact me it was because you must be dead. I only tried to call one more time for the hell of it.”

  “Look, Julie.”

  She snapped, “You promised me. I normally discount shit like that, but I trusted you. I really trusted you. And you let me down.”

  “You do not need someone like me in your life. I think past events showed you that was the case.”

  “Past events showed me that you were a man who did what he said he would do. Only then you stopped.”

  “It was for your own good,” Robie said.

  “Why don’t you let me decide stuff like that?”

  “You’re fourteen. You don’t get to make those sorts of choices.”

  “So you say.”

  “You can hate me and curse me and think I’m a pile of shit. But in the end it’s for the best.”

  “No thinking needed. You are a pile of shit.”

  The line went dead and Robie dropped the phone on the seat.

  He shouldn’t feel bad about this, he really shouldn’t. Everything he had told Julie Getty was the truth.

  So why do I feel like the world’s biggest asshole?

  A half mile from his apartment he pulled to the curb and got out. He opened the door of the shop and went inside. He was instantly hit by a thick wall of scents. If he’d had allergies he would have started sneezing.

  He walked to the counter where a young woman was working. He pulled out the tiny white fragments and set them on the counter as she turned to him.

  “Strange question, I know,” he began. “Could you tell me what kind of flower this is?”

  The young woman peered down at the fragments of petals. “That’s not really a flower, sir.”

  “It�
�s all that was left.”

  She poked it with a finger and held it up to her nose. She shook her head. “I’m not sure. I only work here part-time.”

  “Is there anybody else who can help me?”

  “Give me a sec.”

  She stepped into a back room and a few moments later a woman wearing spectacles came out. She was older and heavier and for some reason Robie concluded that she was the owner of this florist shop.

  “Can I help you?” she asked politely.

  Robie repeated his question. The woman picked up what remained of the petal, held it close to her eyes, took off her glasses, examined it more closely, and then took a whiff.

  “White rose,” she said decisively. “A Madame Alfred Carriere.” She pointed to a spot on the petal. “You can see just a hint of pink blush there. And the smell is strong spicy-sweet. The Madame Plantier by comparison is all white and the smell is quite different—at least it is to someone who knows roses. I’ve got some Carriere in stock if you’d like to see them.”

  “Maybe another time.” Robie paused, thinking how best to phrase this. “What would you buy white flowers for? I mean, what sort of an occasion?”

  “Oh, well, white roses are a traditional wedding flower. They symbolize innocence, purity, virginity, you know, those sorts of things.”

  Robie glanced over at the young woman and found her rolling her eyes.

  “Although it is interesting,” said the older woman.

  Robie refocused on her. “What is?”

  “Well, white roses are often used at funeral services too. They represent peacefulness, spiritual love, that sort of thing.” She glanced down at the petal Robie had brought in. She put her finger on the pinkish smudge. “Although that’s another sort of symbol that I wouldn’t associate with peace.”

  “The pink part? What do you mean?”

  “Well, some people associate it with something entirely different from peace and love.”

  “What?”

  “Blood.”

  CHAPTER

  19

  ROBIE LEFT THE FLOWER SHOP and headed on. He had a lot to think about. And he was angry. Flowers at both scenes. No, actually remnants of flowers at both scenes. The files he had been given were not the only thing his agency had redacted. They had policed the crime scenes and removed the white roses that Reel had left there, but they had missed a couple petals.

  In her message Reel had suggested that he watch his back. That there were other agendas on the table. Now he was thinking she was more right than wrong about that.

  The new location Blue Man had directed him to was west of D.C. in Loudoun County, Virginia. This was horse country, big estates behind miles of fencing, mingled with more modest homesteads. Interspersed throughout were small towns with upscale shopping and restaurants that catered to the well-heeled playing at being country squires. Alongside those establishments were stores that sold things people actually needed, like crop seed and saddles.

  Eventually Robie turned down a graveled lane bracketed by dense pines that had turned the ground underneath them orange with their fallen needles. There was a sign at the entrance to the lane that warned folks who did not have business down here not to make the turn.

  He came to a steel gate manned by two men in cammies and holding MP5s. He and his car were searched and his invitation to be here confirmed. The steel gate slid open on motorized tracks and he drove on.

  The complex was sprawling and all on one story. It looked like a well-funded community college.

  He parked and walked to the front door, was buzzed in, and a woman in a conservative navy blue pantsuit escorted him back. On her hip rode her security creds. Robie eyed them. When she glanced up at him and saw what he was doing she admonished, “I wouldn’t commit them to memory.”

  “I never do,” replied Robie.

  He was left in a sterile examination room by the woman, who closed the door behind her. He assumed it would lock automatically. He doubted they wanted him wandering the halls unaccompanied.

  A minute later the door opened and another woman came in. She was slender, in her late thirties, with long dark hair tied back, glasses, and red lipstick. She wore a white doctor’s coat.

  “I’m Dr. Karin Meenan, Mr. Robie. I understand you’ve sustained some injuries?”

  “Nothing too serious.”

  “Where are they located?”

  “Arm and leg.”

  “Can you disrobe and get up on the table, please?”

  She prepared some medical devices while Robie took off his jacket, shirt, pants, and shoes. He perched on the table while Meenan sat on a stool with rollers and moved closer to him.

  She looked at the burns. “You think these aren’t serious?” she said, her eyebrows hiked.

  “I’m not dead.”

  She continued to examine him. “I guess you have a different set of standards than most.”

  “I guess.”

  “Did you clean these?”

  “Yes.”

  “You did a good job,” she noted.

  “Thanks.”

  “But they need some more work.”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  “I’m also going to give you some meds to prevent infection. And a shot.”

  “Whatever you think best,” replied Robie.

  “You’re a very cooperative patient.”

  “Do you get any other kind here?”

  “Not really. But I didn’t always work here, either,” said Meenan.

  “Where before?”

  “Trauma center, southeast D.C.”

  “Then you’ve seen your share of gunshot wounds.”

  “Yes, I have. Speaking of which, you have your share.” She eyed two spots on Robie’s body. She placed her finger in a divot on Robie’s arm. “Nine-mil?”

  “Three-fifty-seven, actually. Shooter was using an off-brand that luckily jammed on him the second time around, or else I might not be here talking to you.”

  Her gaze flicked up at him. “Are you often lucky in your work?”

  “Almost never.”

  “It’s not about luck, is it?”

  “Almost never,” he repeated.

  She spent the next hour thoroughly cleaning and then bandaging his wounds. “I can give you the first round of meds in the butt or the arm. The injection spot will be sore for a while,” she said.

  Robie immediately held out his left arm.

  “You shoot right-handed, I take it.”

  “Yes,” he answered.

  She stuck the syringe into his arm and depressed the plunger. “There will be a bottle of pills waiting for you in the lobby. Follow the directions and you shouldn’t have any problems. But you were lucky. You came close to requiring skin grafts. As it is the skin may not heal completely without plastic surgery.”

  “Okay.”

  “I don’t suppose I’ll see you again.”

  “Do you do autopsies here?”

  She looked surprised. “No, why?”

  “Then you probably won’t see me again.”

  Robie slipped his clothes back on. “Can you direct me to where I need to go next?”

  “Someone else will come in to do that. There aren’t many places here I’m cleared to go.”

  “Glad you signed up?”

  “Are you?” she shot back.

  “Keep asking myself that every day.”

  “And your answer?”

  “It changes depending on the day.”

  She held out her card. “My contact info is on there. Burns are not to be messed with. And you really need to take it easy. I would limit strenuous exercise, travel, and. . .” Her voice trailed off as he stared at her. “And none of that is possible, right?”

  He took the card. “Thanks for fixing me up.”

  She walked to the door and then turned back. “For what it’s worth, good luck.” And then she was gone.

  Robie waited there for another five minutes.

  The door open
ed.

  Blue Man stood there. Suit, modest tie, polished shoes, hair perfect.

  But his face was not.

  In those features Robie could see that Blue Man was not himself at all today.

  Which meant that things were about to change for Robie.

  CHAPTER

  20

  JESSICA REEL WAS ONCE MORE on the move.

  She had never liked to stay in one place for too long.

  She had taken a cab and then she had walked. She liked to walk. When you were being driven in a cab you gave up some measure of control. She never liked to do that.

  This day was cooler than the day before. The rain had come and gone yet it was overcast and still felt damp. But it wasn’t a humid damp. It was a chilly one.

  She was glad of the long trench coat. And the hat.

  And the sunglasses, despite the weak light.

  The car came down the street. It was a late-model hunter green Jag convertible. A man was driving. He looked to be in his late forties. His hair was short and he sported a small graying goatee.

  His name was Jerome Cassidy. He had overcome alcohol addictions and other problems to become a self-made millionaire. There were many lessons to be learned from the man’s personal triumph.

  But the person sitting next to Cassidy interested Reel far more.

  Fourteen, small for her age, with messy hair.

  When the car stopped and she got out, Reel saw that she wore torn jeans, cheap sneakers, and a sweatshirt. A large backpack was over one shoulder. It looked like it weighed as much as she did.

  Julie Getty looked like a typical urban teen going to school.

  A few words were exchanged between the two and then the Jag drove off.

  Reel knew that Jerome Cassidy loved Julie Getty as a father did a daughter, though they had just recently become acquainted.

  Now she forgot about Cassidy and focused on Julie.

  The first thing she did was scan the area. She doubted they would have thought that far ahead, but one never knew.