Last Man Standing

from memory. “Randall Cove. Age forty-four. Been with the Bureau his whole career. He was an All-American tailback from Oklahoma but blew out his knees before the NFL draft. Here’s a recent photo.” Bates slid it across and Web looked at the face. The guy had a short beard, dreadlocks and eyes that could only be described as piercing. The vitals said he was a big man, about six-three, two-forty. He looked powerful enough to take on a grizzly and maybe win. Web hunched forward and while he pretended to study the picture in greater depth he was actually reading as much as he could from the file Bates had open. His years as an FBI agent had left him with many tricks to help his short-term memory retention until he could write things down. And he had also become very proficient at reading upside down.

Bates said, “He could take care of himself, knew the street better than most kingpins. And cool under pressure.”

“Yeah, Princeton white-breads named William and Jeffrey just never seem to fit in with Drug Town, USA, I wonder why,” said Web. “You mentioned before that he didn’t have a wife or kids. So he never married?”

“No, his wife’s dead.”

“And they didn’t have kids?”

“He did.”

“What happened to them?”

Bates shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “It happened a while back.”

“I’m all attention.”

Bates let out a long breath and didn’t seem like he was going to start talking.

“I lost my whole team, Perce, I’d kind of appreciate full disclosure here.”

Bates sat forward and clasped his hands in front of him. “He was working an assignment in California. Heavy cover because it involved the Russian mob, and those guys will fire a missile up your ass for coughing around them. They make the Mafia look like preschoolers.” Bates stopped there.

“And?”

“And his cover got blown. They traced his family.”

“And killed them?”

“Slaughtered would be more like it.” Bates cleared his throat. “I saw the photos.”

“Where was Cove?”

“They had intentionally diverted him away so they’d have a free hand.”

“And they didn’t go after him too?”

“They tried, later. They waited until he buried his family, nice guys that they were. And Cove was waiting for them when they came.”

“And he killed them?”

Bates started blinking rapidly and Web noted a sudden tic over the man’s left eye.

“Slaughtered. I saw those photos too.”

“And the Bureau just let this guy keep working? What, they don’t believe in early retirement for agents with butchered families?”

Bates spread his hands in resignation. “The Bureau tried, but he wouldn’t go. He wanted to work. And to tell you the truth, after what happened to his family, the guy worked longer and harder than any UC we ever had. They transferred him to WFO to get him out of California. Let me tell you, he got into places we were never able to get into before. We got convictions on serious large-scale operators all across the board because of Randall Cove.”

“Sounds like a hero.”

Bates finally smoothed out his tic. “He’s unorthodox, goes his own way a lot, and the higher-ups can only take so much of that, even from the undercover dudes, slaughtered family or not. But none of it really stuck to Cove. I can’t say it hasn’t hurt his career, I mean, it’s not like the Bureau has a place for a guy like this outside of undercover, and I’m sure he knew that too. But he plays the Bureau games. Always covered his back. You take the dirt with the good and the guy always delivered. Until now.”

“And the trace on his family by the Russians—would that have been in any way the Bureau’s screw-up?”

Bates shrugged. “Cove didn’t seem to think so. He’s been plugging away ever since.”

“You know what they say about revenge, Perce, it’s the only dish best eaten really cold.”

Bates shrugged again. “Possibly.”

Web was just starting to get worked up. “You know, it just gives me the warm fuzzies that a guy like that was able to stay in the Bureau and maybe lead my team down the primrose path to Armageddon to avenge his wife and kids. Don’t you guys have some kind of quality control over this shit?”

“Earth to Web, undercover agents are a different breed. They live a lie all the time and sometimes they get in too deep and get turned or just go nuts all on their own. That’s why the Bureau switches people in and out, changes assignments and lets them recharge their batteries.”

“And they did all that with Cove? Switched him out, let him recharge his dreadlocks? Gave him crisis counseling after he buried his family?” Bates was silent on this. “Or was he so good at his job that they just let him keep rocking along until he finally erupted all over my team?”

“I’m not going to discuss that with you. I can’t discuss that with you.”

“What if I told you that was unacceptable bullshit?”

“What if I told you, you were getting way too close to the line?”

The men glared at one another until the fires died down.

“And his snitches? Were they all-pro too?” asked Web.

“Cove always played it close. He had access to them only, not anybody else. That’s not exactly Bureau procedure, but like I said, you couldn’t argue with the guy’s results. Those were his rules.”

“So we know any more about this target? You said it was the financial guts of some drug op. Whose?”

“Well, there’s some difference of opinion about that.”

“Oh, swell, Perce. I love a puzzle at both ends.”

“This stuff is not an exact science, Web. The area where your mission went down is controlled pretty much by one crew, Big F’s—I told you that.”

“So it was his operation we were hitting in that building.”

“Cove didn’t think so.”

“He didn’t know for sure”

“What, you think the bad guys carry union cards or ID reading, ‘I’m a member of X crew’?”

“So what was Cove’s opinion?”

“That the money operation was that of a much bigger player. Maybe the ring supplying a drug called Oxycontin to the D.C. area. You heard of it?”

Web nodded. “DEA guys talk about it all the time down at Quantico. You don’t have to drug-lab the stuff or worry about sneaking it past customs. All you have to do is get your hands on it, which you can a dozen different ways, and then start printing money.”

“A criminal’s Nirvana,” added Bates dryly. “It’s one of the most potent and frequently prescribed painkillers on the market right now. It blocks pain signals from the nerves to the brain and gives you a feeling of euphoria. Normally, it works on a twelve-hour time release, but if you crush it or smoke it you get a brain rush that some say is almost equal to heroin. It also can throw the abuser into respiratory arrest, which it has frequently.”

“Nice little side effect. Are you telling me you have no idea who his inside guy might have been?”

Bates tapped the file in front of him. “We have some ideas. Now, this is totally unofficial.”

“At this point, I’ll take rumors and lies.”

“For Cove to get in as deep as he was, we figure the snitch has to be in the inner circle, pretty tight. He was working the Westbrook angle when he stumbled into the Oxy piece. But I have to presume that whomever he was using to infiltrate Westbrook’s operation is the person who helped him get on to this new development. Antoine Peebles is Westbrook’s COO, for want of a better term. He runs a damn tight ship and it’s largely because of him that we haven’t been able to lay a finger on Westbrook. Here’s Westbrook, and the other one is Peebles.” He slid across two photos.

Web looked at them. Westbrook was a monster, far bigger even than Cove. He looked like he’d been through a war, his eyes, even staring out from the paper two-dimensionally, had the keenness that you always saw in survivors. Peebles was an altogether different picture.

“Westbrook is a warhorse. Peebles looks like he should be graduating from Stanford.”

“Right. He’s young and we figure Peebles is the new breed of drug entrepreneurs, not as violent, more businesslike and ambitious as hell. Word on the street is that someone’s looking to band all the local distributors together, to make them more efficient, enhanced bargaining power up the line, economies of scale, a real business approach to it.”

“Sounds like old Antoine may want to be CEO instead of just COO.”

“Maybe. Now, Westbrook came up through the streets. He’s seen and done it all, but we’ve heard that he may be looking for an exit from the drug business.”

“Well, Peebles may have a different agenda if he’s the one behind the organization of the local crews. But giving away valuable stuff to Cove doesn’t exactly figure with being the heir apparent. If you bust the operation, what does Peebles have left to run?”

“That’s a problem,” conceded Bates.

“Who else is in the picture?”

“Westbrook’s main muscle. Clyde Macy.”

Bates handed him the photo of Macy, who, to put it kindly, looked like he should be taking up space on death row somewhere. Macy was so white he looked anemic; a skinhead with the sort of calm yet merciless eyes that Web associated with the worst serial killers of his experience.

“If Jesus saw this guy coming at him, he’d scream for a cop.”

“Apparently Westbrook only works with the best,” commented Bates.

“How did Macy fit in with all the brothers? He looks like a white supremacist.”

“Nope. Apparently just doesn’t like hair. We don’t know much about him before he came to D.C. Though we could never prove it, he was believed to be a foot soldier for a couple kingpins who got sent to federal Shangri-La in Joliet. After that he came to D.C. and joined Westbrook. He has a well-deserved rep on the street for loyalty and extreme violence. A real crazy-ass, but professional in his own way.”

“Just as any good criminal should be.”

“His first big act of malice was putting a meat cleaver in his grandma’s head because, he claimed, she was shortchanging him at dinnertime.”

“How come he’s walking around free after a murder rap like that?”

“He was only eleven, so he did time at a juvie detention center. Since then, the only crime the guy’s committed is three speeding tickets.”

“Nice guy. Mind if I keep these photos?”

“Help yourself. But if you run into Macy in a dark alley or a well-lit street, my advice to you would be to run.”

“I’m HRT, Perce. I eat guys like him for breakfast.”

“Right. Keep telling yourself that.”

“If Cove’s really as good as you say, then he didn’t just walk into an ambush. Something else is going on.”

“Maybe, but everybody makes mistakes.”

“Did you confirm that Cove didn’t know when we were coming?”

“I did. Cove was not told the date of the hit.”

“How come he didn’t know?”

“They didn’t want any leaks, and he wasn’t going to be there anyway, so he didn’t qualify as a need-to-know.”

“That’s great, you didn’t trust your own undercover. That doesn’t mean he couldn’t have gotten the information from another source. Like WFO?”

“Or like HRT?” Bates shot back.

“And the potential witnesses being there, was that intel from Cove?” Bates nodded. “You know, Perce, it would have been nice to know all this up front.”

“Need-to-know, Web. And you didn’t need to know that to do your job.”

“How the hell can you say that when you don’t have a damn clue how I do my job?”

“You’re getting close to that line again, my friend. Don’t push it!”

“Does anybody give a damn that six men were killed in the process?”

“In the grand scheme of things, Web, no. Only people like you and me care.”

“So, anything else I don’t need to know?”

From his large stack of documents Bates pulled out a very thick expandable file, slid out one of the manila folders and opened it. “Why didn’t you tell me Harry Sullivan was your old man?”

Web immediately rose and poured himself another cup of coffee. He didn’t really need the extra caffeine, but it gave him time to think of a response or a lie. When he sat back down Bates was still looking over the file. When he glanced at Web, it was clear Bates wanted an answer to that question before he would give up the material.

“I never really thought of him as my father. We parted company when I was barely six. To me, he’s just a guy.” After a moment, he asked, “When did you find out he was my father?”

Bates ran his finger down one of the pages. “Not until I pulled your entire background-check file. Frankly, looking at this arrest and conviction record, I’m surprised he had time to get your mother pregnant. Lotta stuff in here,” he added enticingly.

Web wanted to snatch the file out of Bates’s hands and run from the room. However, he just sat there, staring at the upside-down pages, waiting. The bustle of the room had receded for him now. It was just him, Bates and, on those pages, his father.

“So why are you suddenly so interested in, as you say, ‘just a guy’?” asked Bates.

“I guess you get to a certain age, things like that start to matter.”

Bates put the folder back and slid the entire file across to Web. “Happy reading.”





25




The first thing Web noticed when he got back to the motel was that there was a fresh oil patch in the parking space he had been using. Nothing unusual, really, for another guest could have used that spot, though it was directly in front of Web’s unit. Before he unlocked the door, he checked out the doorknob while pretending to fumble for his room key. Unfortunately, even Web could not tell if the lock had been picked or not. It hadn’t been forced, but somebody who knew what he was doing could pop the simple lock in the time it took to sneeze and leave not a trace.

Web opened the door, his other hand on the butt of his gun. It took him about ten seconds to discover that no one was in the tiny room. Nothing was out of place, and even the box he had taken from his mother’s attic was there, each piece of paper exactly where he had left it. However, Web had five different types of tiny booby traps set up throughout his room and three of them had been tripped. Over the years, Web had developed this system whenever he was on the road. Well, whoever had searched his room was good but not perfect. That was comforting, like knowing the four-hundred-pound brute you were about to rumble with had a glass chin and occasionally wet his bed.

Ironic, that while he’d been meeting with Bates, someone had searched his room. Web had never been naive about life, because he had seen the worst of it, as both a child and an adult. Yet the one thing he had always thought he could count on was the Bureau and all the people who gave it life beyond the technical forms and guns. For the first time in his career, that faith had been shaken.

He packed his few belongings and was on the road within five minutes. He went to a restaurant near Old Town Alexandria, parked where he could see his car through the restaurant’s window, ate his lunch and made his way through Harry Sullivan’s life.

Bates had not been joking. Web’s old man had been a guest of some of the finest correctional facilities the country had to offer, most of them in the South, where Web knew they grew some exceptionally fine human cages. His father’s offenses were myriad yet had a common theme: They were typically low-level financial crimes, business scams, embezzlement and fraud. From some of the old court transcripts and arrest records in the file, Web could see his old man’s main weapon had been a smooth tongue and more chutzpah than any one human being should be toting around.

There were various photos of his father in the file, from the front, right and left sides, with the little line of prisoner identification numbers running underneath. Web had seen many mug shots of arrested people, and they all looked remarkably the same: