Dead Shot

Kyle Swanson had been running through a series of isometric exercises to keep blood flowing to his extremities, muscles, and brain, straining so hard that he had broken into a light sweat.

He had recognized the chair as soon as he had awakened and gotten his bearings, for he had strapped a couple of guys into one just like it in other places, in other times. Stamped into the base of the round metal frame would be a stamp that read PROPERTY OF THE UNITED STATES GOVERNMENT. Kyle had remained still, knowing he was probably being monitored with an infrared camera, and had given the man and woman who questioned him nothing to work with. They weren’t going to kill him, so all he had to do was hang on until the cavalry arrived.

He also had been expecting this new tactic, because he was being so uncooperative, and centered his mind on how to deal with it. There would be physical pain, and standard practice was to get the subject out of the chair for a Level Two so the apes could toss him around.

Agent Kepo’o threw a five-gallon bucket filled with cold water onto him, and Kyle did not tense up. He was relaxed and fully alert. Waiting for an opportunity.

Brown stood beside him, hands on hips, and Kyle glanced at the diver’s watch on the agent’s left wrist. The hands were almost at six o’clock, but a small dial indicated the military time. Almost 1800, which would make it six in the afternoon. Free information. Thanks, big guy.

“We are required to ask you one last time to cooperate with the special agents who have been questioning you,” said Brown. “So I just did that, you little shit.” He slapped Kyle hard with his open palm, and Swanson’s head snapped around.

Kepo’o hit him with a return volley, using a fist that seemed the size of a volleyball. The first punch had split Kyle’s lip, and blood oozed from it. He shrugged off the pain.

“Now we are going to drag you up out of the chair and kick your skinny ass around this room until you decide to cooperate.” Brown roughly undid the strap around Kyle’s right arm and leg while the giant Hawaiian unbuckled the left side. Then Brown released the chest restraint and unsnapped the Velcro head band.

Before the agent could lean back, Kyle grabbed the man’s neck in a tie-clinch and jumped up in one fluid move. Brown was instantly off balance, and Swanson pulled down hard on the head while smashing his knee upward. The agent fell, grabbing his shattered nose and fractured eye socket.

Swanson was now able to face Kepo’o, who had recovered from the momentary surprise and moved forward, just close enough for Kyle to lean back and telegraph that a kick was coming. The 275-pound Polynesian saw the slight position change and put his arms down to protect his stomach and groin. Instead, Kyle snapped into a complete fast spin and landed a roundhouse kick that sailed over the lowered arms and slammed against the man’s temple so hard that it knocked Kealoha Kepo’o unconscious on the spot and dropped him sprawling to the floor. Swanson stepped forward and kicked the fallen man hard in the unguarded balls. “That’s for the punch,” he said.

Then Swanson grimly faced the mirror and sat back down as Walker, Dave Hunt, and two other agents burst into the room with their guns drawn. Kyle allowed himself to be strapped back into the chair without a struggle.

“Okay, so you’re a tough guy. Are you willing to talk to us now?” asked Carolyn Walker.

Kyle stared back. “No. Fuck all of you. It’s almost six o’clock. Can I have some dinner?”

“You’re a real bastard, you know that?” Dave Hunt snarled as he turned on his heel and walked out, passing an EMT team coming in to tend the agents. The suspect had taken down Evan Brown and Kealoha Kepo’o as easily as swatting a couple of flies. Hunt said, “We go to Level Four, Carolyn.”

“No Level Three?”

“It would be idiotic to unstrap him again to make him kneel on a broomstick or hold his arms out with weights attached. We can’t take the chance, so we waterboard him instead. Then probably the battery and electrodes, too. Hell, I may even take a baseball bat and a meat cleaver to the son of a bitch! How did he know what time it was?”

“Cool down, Dave. What about getting permission?”

Hunt sighed. This thing was escalating, popping up out of the ordinary run of business and therefore likely to get noticed. The bosses would want to know how two agents had been injured and what was going on, but somebody in Washington would have to sign off on the waterboarding, and few would want their names on such an authorization.

Walker was also disgusted. “It may take a few hours, but it will be worth the wait. No way should you and I take the fall for this all by ourselves.” She spent some time drafting the request message in careful, legal language, then signed it.

19

WASHINGTON, D.C.

GENERAL BRADLEY MIDDLETON WAS in the spacious office of the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Dark furniture. Framed handshake pictures on the wall. FBI symbols everywhere. It bespoke power, as did the quiet and competent man across the desk from him, who never took off his dark suit coat, even while he was sitting.

“What do you mean, Mr. Director? You’ve lost one of my people and can’t tell me where he is or even if you have him? How does that work?” Middleton cocked an eyebrow.

Director Samuel Banks spread his arms wide, palms up. “I can only repeat what I just told you, General. As of now, I have no report whatsoever of any unidentified suspects being picked up yesterday.”

“Our alert came straight from your FBI computer system, Mr. Director. Your machine talked to my machine and said one of our hot sets of prints was being examined. The link activates only for that specific reason.”

The director nodded in affirmation. “And our system shows that indeed a query was made, and that we replied that there were no such prints on record in the NCIC. But our people were not the ones who initiated the inquiry! Anyway, you are military. How can your people not have fingerprints on file?”

“Sorry, Mr. Director. Need-to-know basis on that one.”

“I’m the director of the FBI!”

“I apologize and suggest you take up any questions you have about this with the White House. I do not have authorization to discuss it. Back to business. If the FBI system was pinged last night, where else could it have come from? Can just any hacker or country cop do it? Or could the NSA or a foreign government run something without a trace?”

“No, of course not. There are high-level security protocols and firewalls and passwords that I can’t discuss with you. Need-to-know.” The eternal Washington game. My dick is as long as yours.

Middleton smiled, and the director grinned back. “Mr. Director, I don’t care about the inner workings of your computer and databases as long as we continue to have authorized access. I just want my operator back.”

“I understand that, General. Here’s my suggestion. I will put a tag on the query. If anything pops up, I will personally give you a call.” He scribbled on the back of a business card and handed it to Middleton. “Here’s my private number in case you need to contact me directly.” The general looked at it. There was no telephone number, just DHS??

Middleton put the card in his jacket pocket and rose, shook hands and left, wondering why Banks had chosen such an odd method of communication. Was he concerned that the office of the director of the FBI might be bugged? No, it was simpler than that. Banks knew the conversation was recorded, because he was the one recording it. Just in case questions were asked later. Weird world we live in, Middleton thought, getting into his waiting car.

“Sar’nt Johnson!”

“Yes, sir!”

“Do you know where to find the Department of Homeland Security offices in this hick town?”

“Yes, sir! The Department of Homeland Security. Uh, down at the far end of the Mall in that really tall, skinny building with the pointy top?”