Suspects often made the blunder of letting their guard down with her.
An easy mistake. Her lean body and exotic looks masked her talent for lethal force. By the time they realized it, they were either in jail, or dead.
She survived more than her share of covert operations by being smart and picking her battles carefully.
“We have to look into this. I have a feeling this guy is telling the truth. He’s the brass ring.”
“I don’t care if he is,” Thorne snapped. “He’s full of it and by the way, fuck a brass ring.” She leaned forward on the dark mahogany conference table that nearly matched her complexion. “If this guy’s telling half the truth, we won’t win this one partner. It’ll get mighty hot mighty fast around here. Let’s let this one pass.” Arms folded across his chest, Robert took a deep breath, his eyes glued to hers. “Twenty years out in the field, all over the world, and we’ve never just let one pass,” he said, his voice steady and controlled.
“If half of what this old man says is true. How can we do nothing?
These people should pay for…”
“You’re not that naive,” said Thorne, biting her lip. She dropped her shotgun on the table hard enough to scratch the wood, and flopped down in a chair. “How will this change anything anyway?” she continued.
“Except for the fact that our lives won’t be worth spit. We have no idea who we’ll be after, or who’ll be after us.”
“Since when do we care who the target is?” he fired. “We’ve chased down drug lords, terrorists. Hell, we even tried to kill Saddam Hussein for heaven’s sake. I don’t want to change things Thorne, but how many chances do you get to set something like this straight.” Thorne glared. “I’m just not sure about this one Robert. If that old fart is telling the truth, once we start, we won’t be able to start over.”
“ Look, if you’re out, then you’re out. I can ride this one without you,” he said, bluffing.
Thorne suppressed a smile and shook her head in light-hearted disgust.
“White boys. Think you can do anything don’t you? John Wayne, Tom Cruise. Every time I turn around, it’s w hite man to the rescue.”
“I’m not kidding. If you won’t come in on this one, I’ll go it alone.” They sat in silence. Thorne looked at him as if he were a fool.
He walked to the door.
“What about the Bear?”
He paused.
“Or have you forgotten that quickly?”
Robert shut his eyes and cursed under his breath. Caught up in Charlie’s confession, he’d forgotten about Andre Perchenkov. The Bear.
A Russian Mafia crime lord, turned serial killer, executed three DEA agents and viciously murdered five federal judges. Grudgingly, Justice Department officials hired Robert and Thorne to find him, dead or alive, for a one million dollar bounty.
Normally the federal law enforcement community didn’t work with outsiders, but the FBI and Secret Service were at a stand still, and the White House, desperate to keep U.S. citizens calm, wanted him caught right away.
“You’re right,” he said, turning to face her. “I forgot about the Bear.”
“Then we’ll drop this matter,” she said, showing a little relief. “Let’s tell the old man to shove off.”
Robert stroked his chin, walked over to the chair directly across from her and sat down.
Tabling the Kennedy matter for even a minute annoyed him, but Thorne hit a nerve. The Bear would strike again soon, and they needed a break in the case. Fast.
However, the chance to break the Kennedy case, he couldn’t pass up.
The gun, bullet fragments, and brain matter would have to be analyzed, and he’d find a safe place to hide Charlie until he confirmed his story.
No. Both. Charlie and the Bear.
“Thorne, this is why we left the service. Or have you forgotten?
We’ll get the Bear. We’ll get him. But don’t ask me to turn my back and let this one walk away.”
Thorne’s face twisted in frustration. Robert combed his fingers back through his hair. “Do you remember the day Kennedy was killed?”
“Vaguely,” said Thorne. “We were a little young back then.”
“Well I remember. Eighty-three people were murdered in the United States on November 22, 1963. One of them, President John Fitzgerald Kennedy. Another, Thomas Randolph Veil.” Thorne’s face softened. “Your father. I’d forgotten.”
“Neither President Kennedy nor my father were perfect men,” he continued. “But neither deserved to die the way they did, and in both cases, no one was ever held responsible. Now, my father was just a construction worker, and one death had nothing to do with the other.” He stopped, eyes narrow, breathing heavy. He wanted to continue, but couldn’t. The rancid flavor of acid rose up in the back of his throat.
“Let’s get these guys and burn their asses. Burn’em straight to the ground.”
“Robert, I understand how you feel,” Thorne said, in a gentle voice.
“Some creep took my mother from me long ago, but this isn’t about us.
This is something else, something bigger.” Robert glared through her, his mind traveling back to his parent’s kitchen, the day they heard about President Kennedy’s death. He didn’t fully understand at the time, but he’d never seen his father break down and cry. Later, Thomas Veil went out to the grocery store. Robert had no idea it would be the last time he’d see his father alive. He heard detectives explain to his mother how his dad tried to stop a robbery.
They never found the men who killed him. The country wept for Kennedy. Robert cried for a man he’d have to grow up without.
Thorne picked up her shotgun and stood, resting the weapon on her shoulder. “I haven’t forgotten why we quit working for Uncle Sam.
Deep down I want these bastards too. But you better be right partner. If not…” She smiled. “You know I’ve got your back. Just promise me if this does turn out to be legit, we won’t give an inch. It’s all or nothing.” Robert’s anger leveled. “Agreed,” he said, returning her smile.
“Now let’s go tell our new friend.”
“You mean your new friend,” said Thorne. “He’s goin’ down in flames with the rest of em. I don’t care how long he’s been livin’ on the streets.”
They walked out of the conference room and down the hall. Robert noticed drops of blood on the hallway floor.
In unison, they quietly stepped to opposite sides of the door and readied their weapons. Robert released the safety on his Berretta.
Thorne racked her shotgun.
He carefully tried the doorknob to his office. Open. He signaled Thorne with three fingers.
On three, they burst inside, guns pointing in every direction.
Charlie’s chair lay turned over on its side next to a small pool of blood.
They relaxed their weapons, bewildered.
Charlie and the evidence were gone.
3
Andre Perchenkov thought himself the perfect hunter. Growing up in St.
Petersburg, Russia, the hunting trips he and his brother, Vladimir, took with their alcoholic father were the high point of a debilitating, abusive childhood.
Those trips made up the few pleasant moments he could remember growing up. Killing his father during one of those outings, another.
Hidden in the thick branches of a leafless tree, twenty yards from an elegant Georgetown townhouse, Andre, ski masked and dressed in black, watched Superior Court Judge Jonathan Weiss pack for what looked like a
