eyes.
“You weren’t briefed in any depth on this operation because I plan to keep everything I say within this group. Our quarry may have sources in the CIA, DEA, and other groups that give, trade, or sell him information. I have selected each of you from over fifty possible candidates recommended by Mason Anderson in personnel. You five are all fairly new, but enthusiasm and energy are as important as experience.” Paul saw the light go on in the older agents’ eyes. He had said it without saying it. He made the inexperience seem a plus instead of the minus it was.
“The man with me is Rainey Lee, who has been in Nashville for the past four years. He’s providing this conference room.”
Rainey nodded without looking them in the eyes.
“You should know that the four of us were together on that dock in Miami when this happened to me. We four have known each other for at least fifteen years, so forgive us our shorthand. Hopefully you’ll all catch up before we’re finished.”
Paul counted heads. “We’re missing someone.”
Thorne nodded. “A guy named Woodrow Poole is coming in any second from the airport.”
As if on cue the door opened and a baby-faced young man with white-blond hair bolted into the room. He was holding an overnight case. His hair was combed back over his ears, and he was built like a middleweight. He sat beside Sean Merrin, who was a dead ringer for the host of Wheel of Fortune, though a foot taller.
“Sorry I’m late,” the newcomer said nervously.
“Woodrow Poole?” Paul asked.
The man nodded and shook Paul’s hand.
“Your timing is perfect.”
“Flight was late, sorry.” He took a seat and nodded at the people around the table.
Paul opened a file. He had been prepared for someone who looked like Arnold Schwarzenegger and picked his teeth with a tenpenny nail. Woody would fit in. In fact, he didn’t look like much. But looks were often deceptive. Martin Fletcher himself had originally been nothing special to look at.
“Most of you don’t know each other. Hands up as I mention your names, please. Agents Stephanie Martin, Sierra Ross, Walter Davidson, and Larry Burrows…” The hands rose and fell. “You four will make up team Nighthawk under the command of Joe McLean. Each of you has surveillance training, and you will be able to put those skills to use.”
Joe straightened and looked at Paul. There was a smirk on his face.
Doesn’t like the idea of teaching, Paul thought to himself. “Your objective will be to conduct surveillance on the sole occupant of three twenty-one Tucker Court in Charlotte, North Carolina.”
Paul looked around the room. “Woodrow Poole and Sean Merrin.” Paul looked at each as they raised their hands. “You will accompany Thorne Greer to New Orleans, where you will be responsible for protecting three civilian family members. You will have the services of the local police and DEA agents to help, but each of you will be responsible for maintaining constant cover on the principals. If you need help, you will have contacts to call on. Need ten cops or fifty, they’ll be there.”
“Sorry, sir, but might I ask why this family is so important?” Sean Merrin asked.
“The family in New Orleans is our best and possibly only means of capturing the person responsible for murdering eight people. Those eight were family members of the three strike-force agents in this room. They were slain in the most cold-blooded fashion imaginable. We have every reason to believe the three people in New Orleans will receive the same treatment unless we can prevent it.”
Paul’s voice cracked under the sudden emotion. “The man responsible, one Martin Fletcher, is possibly the most dangerous individual any of you will ever face. He may not be working alone, and if he has an associate, that man or woman will also be extremely dangerous-and unknown, unless we can get lucky with our investigation here in Nashville.”
“Will we be bunking in with three civilians?” Sean asked.
There was nervous laughter scattered about the room.
“I mean, will we be with them twenty-four hours a day?”
“Yes and no,” Paul said. “They are not to be aware that you are there at all.”
“Why?” Sean asked. “I mean, how? Protect people from outside their house?”
“Stealth. I won’t risk the team being uncovered by the target. Everything has to appear normal. If the family knows you are there, they might telegraph it in their behavior. Under no circumstances are you to be seen by the family. Also, we will take for a given that they are under surveillance by the target. So you have to avoid being seen by them and Martin Fletcher.”
Sean Merrin shook his head slowly. “I’m new, but according to what I know, it’s not… I mean we can protect them better if…”
Paul’s hand stopped the agent’s voice. “I have thought this through. The family in New Orleans you’re protecting is mine. Believe me, if I could protect them from the inside, I would. If I could spirit them away to a safe place, I would. But I have to do this knowing that we will have one shot at Martin. We believe he will go to New Orleans to kill them. He might eventually come for them wherever we put them, but whatever plan he has in place is more than likely already in motion.”
“But won’t he assume there’ll be people watching your family?”
“Good thinking, Sean. Keep that up.” Paul nodded at Rainey, who switched the lights off. The slide projector came to life, blazing a white rectangle on the wall. The first image was of a man in a tough-guy pose wearing fatigues and a black beret cocked over one eye. He had dark hair cut against his skull, and dulled eyes.
“Ladies and gentlemen, meet Martin Fletcher. Martin was born in 1947. His father, Milton, was an eyeglass grinder in Charlotte, North Carolina. The father was a suicide-blew his head off with a shotgun. Martin was educated in public school in Charlotte, and in 1965 he went straight into the Marine Corps from high school. He was channeled to the SEALs after boot camp because of his special interests and obvious talents. In Vietnam he was decorated for valor on three separate occasions. Martin is cool under fire and fearless to the point of craziness. He’s an expert marksman, a whiz with demolition, and he has few equals at electronic surveillance. He has the conscience of a flashlight and the acting and cloaking skills of a professional performer.”
Paul changed to a shot of Martin in a suit and dark glasses taken in some pigeon-packed Italian plaza.
“Martin’s skills were such that he became a cleaner. He was involved in especially delicate work. He took difficult government assignments where his particular talents were needed. He worked with the Central Intelligence Agency and several other groups who won’t be named. He was what we call a dark angel. Dark by nature of deed, but an angel because they’re on the right side, our side.”
Paul looked around the room. “Factually speaking, this government does not, outside of national emergency or war, employ people like Martin Fletcher. I will say this once and never again. Martin Fletcher is one of a double handful of men we could accurately refer to as antipersonnel weapons.”
“Wet work?” Stephanie said. “A hit person?”
“Let’s just say he was a soldier under exclusive contract to certain of Uncle Sam’s representatives until ten years ago, when he was retired from the field and put into a training position. Normally people in Martin’s field do not retire as we think of retirement. They stay commissioned until they die. Sometimes they die at a rate well beyond the actuarial tables. Accidents without witnesses are not uncommon. Neither are mysterious disappearances. Martin Fletcher was made an instructor at the Democratic College at Fort Benning, Georgia, where he made good friends among some of the future leaders of Central and South America. Those connections have served him well.”
He lit another cigarette and inhaled twice before he went on.
“Let’s assume for a minute that Martin Fletcher was helping certain elements of the CIA move heroin from the Golden Triangle while he served in Nam. Let’s imagine he made some important friends and possibly millions of dollars toward his retirement. While he was working at Fort Benning, let’s say he made contacts within another set of important people. People who were interested in what the DEA knew. So Martin may have used his contacts to attach himself to the DEA in Miami as a member of the Green Team in the guise of field study and evaluation of our troops. He may well have used his position and clearances to sell certain drug lords information and a measure of protection. Let’s say he did help intelligence just to cover his bases.”
“In short,” Thorne added, “he played all sides against the middle with little regard for what tragedy befell
