Missing lynx, p.4
Missing Lynx, page 4
Go back to North Carolina and look by the river
for now I am your giver.
Walter Owens
*
Southwestern Colorado
A week later
“They should be here any minute.” Joanne Grant, Director of Academics, smiled as she straightened Montgomery Pierce’s tie.
By force of habit, Monty, the chief administrator of the Elite Operatives Organization, sucked in his stomach, though his relationship with Joanne had recently evolved into a level of intimacy that made such a gesture almost laughable. “Thank you, honey.”
As Monty looked lovingly into her vivid green eyes, he saw not the white hair and crow’s feet of her sixty years, but the vivacious girl who had first enchanted him when they were students together four decades earlier. They were alone in Pierce’s spacious office, which overlooked the EOO’s Rocky Mountain campus. Except for its high razor-wire fence and preponderance of security cameras, the sixty-three-acre compound looked much like the private boarding school it was purported to be. Red brick dormitories dominated, alongside classrooms, sports fields and a gymnasium, and a massive neo-Gothic administration building. But the notable graduates of this school who were gathering in the next room excelled at more than academics. They were some of the world’s most accomplished covert agents, assigned to missions that were out of reach of legitimate law enforcement.
Monty was about to ask Joanne about her plans for later that evening when a knock on the door interrupted their brief private moment. Joanne took a step back as he answered. “Yes?”
“We’re good to go.” The voice was David Arthur’s, the EOO’s Director of Training and third member of the organization’s governing trio.
Arthur opened the door when Monty called him in, but didn’t enter. His copper-colored crew cut added a refreshing touch of color to the drab green of his trademark fatigues. “They’re all here.”
“Are we all in agreement?” Monty asked them both, but looked at Joanne.
“She’s young,” Joanne said.
“And inexperienced,” David Arthur added.
“But she’s an excellent tracker, which makes her perfect for this assignment. Finding Owens will be difficult. He could be anywhere on the planet by now,” Monty argued. “And the fact that she is young and attractive,” he told Joanne, “works to our advantage.”
“Christ, Monty, must you make her sound like bait?” Joanne looked away.
“He’s right. Joanne. She’ll do fine,” Arthur said. “You’ve seen what she’s capable of. She holds three black belts—in Tae Kwon Do, Kendo, and Krav Maga—and you know what she can do with blades.”
“So we’re all in agreement,” Monty said.
“Yup.” Arthur headed toward the conference room as Joanne picked up the operative’s file from Monty’s desk.
He paused to wait for her but she slipped past him without meeting his eyes.
Her voice was sad. “They’re waiting for us.”
*
The ten members of the organization’s Elite Tactical Force—five men and five women—who’d been summoned for the briefing gathered in the large conference room next to Pierce’s office. Some helped themselves to coffee at a side buffet, while the rest milled around, catching up. When the governing trio arrived, all conversation ceased.
“Everybody take a seat and let’s get started,” Monty said.
“Three, two, one, and he’s off,” he heard ETF op Allegro mutter as he went to the windows to shut the blinds, a habit whenever anything of importance was being discussed. “You know, just in case Martians are spying on us via a big-ass telescope,” she added in a low voice to agent Domino, sitting beside her.
“I heard that.” Monty turned and met Allegro’s eyes. God, how he hated that ever-present cocky attitude of hers. “By the way, I forwarded some of the Amsterdam traffic tickets to your address.”
“What? Why? They were on the job.”
He took a chair at the round mahogany table, flanked by Grant and Arthur. “And some were recreational.”
“But since when do I have to pay—”
“It builds character,” Monty said, and Domino laughed at Allegro’s shocked expression.
“I have no idea what you’re talking—”
“Enough. Down to business.” It was a rare occasion for so many ETFs to gather and share information on one assignment, but the operation the governing trio had accepted was a complicated one and backup operatives would likely be necessary.
Each of the ETFs was highly trained for any and all situations, but most also had specialties. Domino was an exceptional sharpshooter and master of disguise, and Allegro was skilled at finding things, cracking safes, and engaging in high-speed chases. Reno, a computer freak, could break codes and hack into any database and was assigned a lot of corporate espionage cases. And Fetch was a specialist in infiltration who had dealt with trafficking in weapons, drugs, and humans. In more recent years, her assignments consisted mostly of rescuing guerrilla hostages. Her expertise and contacts within these groups were invaluable.
“If you’ve paid attention to the news recently, you are familiar with the Headhunter case. We’ll recap that now to catch you up on the latest developments.” Monty went over the serial killer’s history: his background, the victims found in North Carolina and the Sonoran Desert, the FBI’s ID of Walter Owens based on the DNA evidence, and their search of his home and cabin based on calls to the tip line.
“As you know, a week ago, the FBI converged on Owens’s cabin and found what they believed to be the suspect, dead of a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. Everything fit. Right height, weight, burn marks on the face. He was even wearing the guy’s clothes and one of his masks. And he left a suicide note that led them to two more victims. The only odd thing at first was that he’d burned off his fingertips. The feds concluded he’d initially tried to get away and wanted to conceal his ID, and took the suicide alternative instead when he realized they were closing in and all avenues out were blocked.” He studied the faces of his operatives. “However, the victim wasn’t Owens at all. It was a setup. Forensics confirmed that yesterday.”
“The feds’ big screwup was in publicly announcing they had the perp before they got the DNA back,” Arthur put in. “They took down the roadblocks and Border Control pulled their alerts, which gave Owens plenty of time to escape. A car found abandoned near the Mexican border was stolen the same night of the FBI raid, within walking distance of the cabin. The elderly owner of the car didn’t realize it until the next day. Owens evidently broke into his house while he was sleeping and took the keys. Since the suspect’s apparently fled the country and is out of the feds’ jurisdiction, this is where we come in.”
“Owens is not going to stop,” Monty said. “His history shows when he’s close to being caught, he moves, lies low, then resurfaces a couple years later to start killing again. The feds want this guy bad. They’ve lost him all too publicly twice now.”
Turning to address Reno, Monty placed his hand on one of the files he’d brought with him and slid it toward the agent. “His computer records. A good place to start looking for him.” As Reno picked up the file, he added, “The name of the FBI computer expert who’s working this is in there. Get with him and see if you can come up with any leads.”
Reno immediately left the room and Monty returned his attention to the rest. “Since there are so many unknowns about this mission, we wanted this particular group here to cover all bases. Some of you will be working the case from here, and we’ll put a few on standby to call in if needed. We will need a primary field ETF, of course, to start tracking him immediately.”
“Send me,” Allegro volunteered. “Let me send the sick fuck to the netherworld.”
Domino rolled her eyes. “Christ, she saves the world and now she thinks she owns it.” The others laughed. She added, more seriously, “I’m offering as well, Monty.”
“He needs to be brought in alive. They want to question him about other victims and ties to the Asian skin trade, and they want a media show to reassure the public they’ve really got the guy this time. We’re to find him and turn him over to the FBI, who’ll take credit for apprehending him.”
“As usual,” Cameo put in. She offered to go as well.
“Thank you, ladies. But I have someone else in mind. I’m sending in the one with the most fitting profile.”
“What profile is that?” Allegro asked.
“Someone with less experience, but not as openly controversial as you,” Monty answered, looking at Allegro. “Who doesn’t bend the rules at every opportunity.”
He turned to Domino and Fetch. “And someone who is not likely to be recognized by the Asian skin traders.”
Monty gestured toward a female op seated to his left. “Fetch has the contacts and cover, so we’ll need you on this end to potentially approach any traders should Reno recover links or contacts on Owens’s computer.” He put his hand on the file before him, which contained everything they knew about Walter Owens. “The target’s code name is Face,” he informed them as he slid the dossier across the table. Everyone’s gaze followed the file until it stopped in front of the agent it was intended for. “Lynx,” he said. “Operation Mask is yours.”
Chapter Four
Manhattan Beach, N.Y.
Most of Yuri Dratshev’s neighbors along the sedate, oceanfront Brooklyn street were old money, and their affluent homes reflected their refined and elegant sensibilities. The Tudor mansions and stately colonials had manicured lawns and neatly trimmed topiaries, and except for the ubiquitous new-model luxury car in the drive, were generally devoid of ostentatious displays.
There goes the neighborhood, Jack thought as she pulled in front of the Russian mob boss’s home, a newly constructed brick fortress surrounded by a formidable wrought-iron fence. The mansion had a garish excess of mismatched ornamentation: a gold-painted cupola gave hint to the owner’s ethnicity, as did the blue- and gold-plated tiles that surrounded every window. Six Roman columns, also in gold, flanked the massive front door, which had been painted the same bright red as the brickwork.
Lawn statues abounded, mostly classic Italian nudes. And at the center of a fountain in the middle of the yard, four brass dolphins spewed water in all directions.
The one vehicle parked in front, a canary yellow Hummer, had an airbrushed phoenix on the side.
An intercom stood ready beside the closed iron gate, but she didn’t need to use it. As soon as she faced the security camera, the gate opened automatically to admit her, and when she reached the door she didn’t need to knock. Oleksei was waiting for her. “Come in,” he said, stepping to one side.
“Interesting choice of bling,” she replied, referring to the Uzi submachine gun strapped around his neck.
The interior of the mob boss’s mansion was even more of a cheesy eyesore than the outside. The entryway had doors leading off to the left and right. In front of her, an enormous marble staircase curled upward. Directly above was a chandelier made out of antlers, and the walls on either side of the staircase were crammed with stuffed trophy heads. They went hideously well with the faux tiger-skin runners that adorned the stairs and the black bear rug that covered the floor. A painted Russian icon of the Virgin Mary overlooked the entire taxidermy motif with an expression of benign approval.
Oleksei led her to the right, through a curtain of multicolored plastic beads and into a sitting room. The walls there were painted the same bright red as the brick exterior of the house, and somewhere Dratshev had unearthed a velvet couch that almost matched. Another couch, set perpendicular to the first, was covered with a leopard-skin print. Both were filled with plush gold pillows edged in fringe. The coffee table between them held an ornate, gold-plated samovar, several Russian lacquer boxes, and a chess set pitting Red Army figures against American GIs.
Along one wall was a well-stocked bar, with a gold-flecked mirror behind it. The opposite wall held a trophy case filled dozens of Russian matryoshki, or nesting dolls.
“You can wait over there.” Oleksei pointed to the huge red couch.
“I didn’t come here to wait.” She started to turn for the door, but a voice interrupted from directly behind her.
“Ms. Norris, welcome to my home. I’m glad you decided to take the job.” Yuri Dratshev smiled at her, displaying several gold teeth. He was big and bald, fifty or so, with a neatly trimmed black-gray mustache and narrow beard that ran along his jawline to the bottom of his ears. His bulbous nose was red veined from his love of vodka, which had also given him puffy bags beneath his dark eyes.
“I haven’t decided anything yet.”
“Please come further and have a seat.” He gestured toward the couch. “Can I get you a drink?”
“Vodka, neat.”
Dratshev snapped his fingers and Oleksei immediately headed to the bar, like an anxious puppy sent to fetch his master’s newspaper.
Jack walked over to the trophy case, taking in the kitschy display. In addition to the classic smiling babushki and fairy-tale characters, there were the more modern ones mass-produced for tourists, depicting American and Soviet political figures, Disney cartoon characters, the Beatles, and other pop musicians.
“Beautiful, no?” he said proudly, gesturing with outstretched hands. He looked as though he expected Jack to bow to his fortune and welfare. “Nyet?” he insisted in Russian when she didn’t answer, as though mistaking his question for a rhetorical one.
“It’s true. Money can buy almost anything, but not everything.”
“Oh, is something missing?”
“Taste. But hey, that’s just me.”
“If you take this job, you will be able to live like this, too.” Dratshev’s smile never faded, and Jack wondered whether all these ruthless killing machines were too dumb to know when they were being insulted, or if they lived in a permanent state of denial. She knew that the Russian mobsters gave the impression of being unorganized and almost primitive in their approach, but in truth they were among the most capable and covert in their business. They had their hands in the lot, from drugs to the skin trade and everything in between.
Oleksei returned with two glasses of vodka and handed one to each. Jack raised hers in a toast. “Davai.” She took a sip and set the glass down.
“Good, yes?” Dratshev asked.
“Vodka and AK-47s are the best things to ever come out of Russia,” she agreed, leaning back into the couch. “Now why am I here and what’s it going to cost you?”
“I am sure you have heard about this Headhunter.”
“Me and the rest of the civilized world. What about it?”
“My daughter Nina. She was the girl, the victim that got away ten years ago.”
“I heard the story.”
“Now the feds have fucked up again and he has gotten away. He was so close and they let him get away. Do you believe it?” Dratshev got up and began to pace, his hands in fists at his sides. “My daughter hasn’t slept in ten years. Every night she wakes up with nightmares. She has seen doctors. You know—those shrinking people.”
“Shrinks,” Jack corrected.
“That’s what I said. They have tried medicines and therapies but nothing helps.”
“Sorry to hear that.” She empathized. Sleep had become a precious commodity for her as well.
“Nothing helps,” Dratshev repeated, louder. “She is so damaged by that fucking mudilo. My Nina is so afraid he will come back for her. I give her twenty-four-hour protection to make her feel safe but nothing works.” He rubbed his eyes as if to clear his head. “I have dreamed of killing him with my own hands. Tearing his head off just so my little girl can sleep again. My daughter means the fucking world to me.”
How poetic. If that isn’t a Hallmark card, it should be. “I bet,” Jack replied, still wondering why she was there.
“And I will,” the mob boss said, more to himself than to her.
“You’ll be doing the world a favor.”
“And soon,” he continued, as though he hadn’t heard her. Dratshev stopped pacing and seemed to shake off whatever images were distracting him.
“You know where he is?” she asked.
“Of course not.” His dark eyes bored into hers. “You’re going to bring him to me.”
“Are you out of your vodka-damaged mind?” Jack got to her feet. “He could be anywhere.”
“Da. That’s why I’m going to pay you big money to find him. I know that you have friends on the inside.”
It was true she had extraordinary access to inside information. After years of working to cover the asses of dirty politicians and law enforcement agents, she knew lowlifes in high places who owed her. She sat back down and sipped her vodka while she considered whom she might call upon.
“So between your friends and mine,” Dratshev continued, “we can find the son of a bitch.”
“Why me? If you can get your own info, and you’ve got enough like him working for you.” She tilted her chin toward Oleksei.
“My men, they are not hunters. But you know this job. Silent Killer, da? Besides, I’m getting enough heat at the moment concerning my business.”
“They haven’t linked you to the truckload of weapons in Sierra Leone yet.” She kept her voice matter-of-fact. The Russian raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I did my homework,” she added. “I was curious about what kind of shit you might need me to shovel.”
Dratshev continued to stare at her, and she was gratified to read both awe and fear in his face as it sank in that she could destroy anyone she wanted. It was clear that though he knew her reputation, he’d still underestimated her. The Russians were the type to silence their freelancers as soon as they’d completed their tasks, and she’d effectively guaranteed he wouldn’t try that with her. She was the best for the job, and he would likely use her again.
Jack looked at her glass and absently swirled the clear contents. “Yes, you need me and will probably seek me out again in times to come,” she said, never lifting her head. “I’m the last person you want dead.” Finally she looked up at him. “How much?”
