Closure

  The judge’s deep baritone silenced the courtroom. “Has the jury reached a verdict?”

  The foreman rose with an envelope in his hand. “Yes, your honor.”

  “Hand it to the bailiff please.” The judge briefly looked at the paper, and without expression, handed it back.

  “The defendant will rise and face the jury,” the judge spoke out of habit. Tony’s lawyer rose, and turned Tony in his chair toward the jury.

  “In the case of Anthony Tasone versus the State of New York, on count one, how do you find?” the judge asked.

  “We, the jury, find the defendant, guilty.”

  Sam couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He froze at the stoplight and turned up the radio. The remaining counts were all read, with the verdict of guilty on every one. He gripped the steering wheel tightly as he listened.

  A honk from the truck behind him broke him out of his stupor, and he looked up to see the light had turned green. He stepped on the gas and was soon through. He couldn’t help but look at the building he had been on his way to as he passed. The reporters outside were all crowded around their respective trucks, watching the trial on TV. Some could be seen packing up their equipment already. Sam was at a loss. A name had been taken off the list for him. Justice had actually won a round. He knew there would be endless appeals, but for now, the man was guilty.

  Sam weighed his options at the next red light. He had two names left. Should he try for them both, or skip to the end of the list while he still had time? He turned the wheel to circle the block and head back toward the Holland Tunnel. He had plenty of time to think about it.

  * * *

  Eight hours later Sam stopped at a fork in the dirt road he was currently navigating for another check of the map. He had committed the address to memory years ago, but the way there was still a mystery. After several folding attempts, and a couple of looks out the window to orient himself, he dropped the van in gear and took the left fork.

  Another hour passed, and the sun was starting its descent when the house came into view. A farmhouse of moderate size, it sat on a small farm of fifty acres in the Virginia mountains. The nearest village was over twenty miles away. Sam took in the picket fence and metal roof as he drove up the drive. A large barn could be seen behind the maple trees surrounding the home and light shone from a corner room. Sam stopped the van close to the long porch and shut it off. He watched the snow fall through the windshield. This could be easy or hard. It was a risk coming here, but it was one he felt was worth taking. In any event, he’d soon know.

  The front door opened and a face appeared, quickly followed by the barrel of a shotgun. Sam opened the door to let the overhead light hit his face before placing his hands back on the steering wheel where they could be seen. He waited. The old man left the doorway and strode slowly down the porch. The gait was slower than Sam remembered, but the shotgun didn’t waiver. The man paused at the end of the porch and squinted. Sam slowly opened the door and stepped out into the fading sunlight.

  “Hello, Top.”

  “Sam?”

  “It’s me, Top.”

  Sam held his breath till the shotgun fell. His old first sergeant looked him up and down for a minute before speaking.

  “Saw you on the TV this morning,” he stated

  Sam just nodded in reply. He waited in silence for the man’s decision.

  “Pull that thing into the barn before you come in.” He turned and walked back into the house.

  Sam smiled and shook his head before climbing back into the van. Top was never one for wasting a lot of words.

  * * *

  “So what’s your plan now?” Hoggard asked.

  He had sat quietly for the past hour, listening to Sam’s story, asking only an occasional question to clarify a point. When it was over, Sam waited through two refills of the man’s scotch glass before hearing the question.

  “Well, I have enough assets cashed to support two more ops. I have a target in...well, do you want to know?”

  “You showed up on my porch, son. No use holding back now.”

  “Stanley Clay.”

  “The Ponzi scheme guy? The one who took all those peoples’ money when his company went belly up? Isn’t he on trial right now?”

  “Yeah, he’s got fourteen lawyers working for him. He’s 61 years old. The appeals will barely be started by the time he kicks off. Even if he is convicted, he’ll go to one of those federal country club prisons. You’ve seen the one at Eglin Air Force Base, right, doesn’t even have a wall around it.”

  “Yeah, I remember. Looked like a damn golf club.” He placed his half-full glass on the table and pushed it away. “Well, I have some bad news for you, son. He’s dead.”

  Sam leaned forward in his chair. “Say that again?”

  “He’s dead. Saw it on the news this afternoon, right after the story about you. Died of a heart attack around noon or so. Prosecutor’s been on ever since, getting the most of his fifteen minutes. No justice for the victims. Evidently the people are going to have an even harder time getting any money from his estate now. Buncha lawyer mumbo-jumbo. Makes me sick.”

  Sam slumped back in his chair and stared into the fire. That was two targets off the list without a shot fired. He’d been spared one by the system, and cheated out of the other. He got up and paced around the room. His eyes were drawn to the many photographs on the walls. He scanned them as he paced, recognizing several faces. In one corner, he found a picture of himself with Jack and the first sergeant. They were sitting on the deck of a Huey, him and Jack soaked in sweat from a just completed mission. Jungle could be seen in the background. They were all smiling. He turned away to see a wall of citations. He followed them through the man’s career. Sergeant Hoggard. Staff Sergeant Hoggard. First Sergeant Hoggard. Sergeant Major Hoggard. He would always be First Sergeant to Sam, it was the rank he had known him by. He turned again to find the man watching him.

  “So, who was the other name?” Hoggard asked.

  —THIRTY-EIGHT—

  The state of Pennsylvania holds 40,890 inmates in its prisons.

  Approximately 27,396 are repeat offenders.

  “Damn it, Paul! It’s over. You’re not helping him. Tell me where he is and let me bring him in. He’s made his point. We can finish his treatments. He won’t gain anything more by continuing.”

  Jack was alone with Paul at the Kalamazoo County prison. The local police, along with Sydney and her crew, were still at the house with the forensics team, or going through the piles of information they had found. The bomb squad had removed and disassembled all the incendiary devices Paul had rigged to the paper documents. Eric and a team of computer experts were attempting to access the two laptops that were also found without triggering the safeguards Paul had set in place. The press were everywhere. They surrounded the house, and also piled at the police barrier erected to cut off traffic to the dead end street on which the jail sat.

  Jack stopped pacing and looked down at Paul in the folding chair. He had said little since his capture, sitting calmly and seemed to be waiting patiently for something. Jack searched his memory for a picture Sam had shown him of him and Paul together. Taken at a wedding, he remembered. Sam’s or Paul’s, he couldn’t recall. There was a time when Jack had known the names of most of Sam’s family. He knew what his wife had been like, seen baby pictures of Katie. They had lost touch when they’d both left the service, but there had been a bond at one point. They had shared combat, something few understood. It was more than just serving in the same unit. Some would liken it to being high school buddies. What was it about high school that made you friends for life, regardless of the time that had passed? Why did those four years create this strange bond? He had never met Paul face-to-face, yet he felt bad about interrogating him due to his bond with Sam. How was he going to do this?

  “I thought you were his friend?”

  Jack spun and faced Paul. He was looking him dead in the eye. The tone was accusi
ng.

  “I am, Paul, that’s why you need to help me. I know there are cops out there who might agree with him, but there are others who see him as nothing more than a step to glory and a promotion. They will shoot him on sight and I can’t issue orders to counter that.”

  “If you were really his friend, you’d let him finish.” Paul’s stare didn’t waver.

  Jack leaned down and put both hands on the table. “Paul, listen to me very closely. I am an FBI agent. Sam knows this. You know this. This is over. This is your fucking wake up call! I know Sam thinks what he’s doing is right, but I have a duty to stop him and he will expect me to do so. He’s not accomplishing a damn thing doing this.”

  “He’s not? He’s done more in the last two months than you and the damn FBI have done in years. Look at the papers, man, he’s a damn hero! While you and your buddies are pushing paper and polishing your leather chairs, he went out and actually took out some bad guys. Some of them you had and let get away! You’re just like the damn politicians. All talk and no action. Give the criminal every conceivable way to get off. Doesn’t matter if he’s guilty or not, it only matters how we can explain it away. Nobody can face the fact that some people are just plain bad and that is all there is to it. It is always some excuse. Their childhood, society, the mental disease-of-the-day, whatever you can come up with. Everybody feels so much better if they can just find a way to explain it away. You know it’s bullshit, so don’t preach to me about it. But hey, don’t worry. If it bothers you what Sam is doing, I’m sure someone will find a way to explain it away for you.” Paul turned his gaze from Jack in disgust.

  Jack was at a loss. Paul was not only tremendously loyal to Sam, he was unwavering in his justification of their actions. He would have to try a different approach. He sighed and walked to the chair opposite Paul. Taking a seat, he made a show of signaling to the one-way mirror and drawing his finger across his throat.

  “Look Paul, you’re right. On some levels I understand what Sam is doing. We’ve all entertained the idea from time to time when we couldn’t make a case stick, or had the opportunity to set up a known criminal. But we have to respect the process, no matter how flawed it is. The result is a downward spiral that leads us to a police state. What you two have done is what I would call the wrong execution of the right idea. Sam’s been to these countries. Hell, I was there with him. We’ve both seen Panama under Noriega. Somalia. Beirut. It’s anarchy. That’s why I’m having a hard time believing Sam could do this. He’s seen the end result. We had to replace everything in those countries and start over, from the presidents on down. Sam’s no army. He knows that, too. He’s made his point. He should know, better than most, that his chances of changing anything this way are next to nothing. Bumping off a few criminals isn’t going to accomplish shit.”

  Paul looked up at Jack. He’d had enough of being patronized. “Sam said you were smart, but you think small.”

  “Really, how’s that?”

  Paul leaned back in the chair and looked at the mirror. He had just said too much. He returned his gaze to Jack.

  “Listen closely, Jack. I’m done talking to you. Sam’s not done and I’m sure as hell not helping you. Lawyer.” Paul looked at the mirror and repeated himself louder, “Lawyer!”

  Jack rose and walked out the door, leaving Paul alone with his thoughts. He proceeded next door. On entering, he saw the technician rewinding the tape of the interview.

  “Not much to go on. Your office called. They’ll have an interrogator from DC here in three hours. But if he’s lawyered up, it won’t do much good.”

  Jack ignored the comment as he stared at the screen. “Play it back from the start.” He watched the two screens closely as he listened. One camera had caught the scene full size, while the other had focused on Paul’s face close up.

  “What was that? Rewind a few seconds,” he ordered.

  Jack watched again closely before reaching out to take the remote from the tech’s hand. Paul’s stoic face filled the screen as Jack’s voice was heard. He rewound it twice more.

  “...and start over, from the presidents on down.” Jack froze the picture.

  At that point Paul’s face had changed. It now showed a slight grin. It lasted less than a second. What was it he had said? “You think small.”

  Jack turned and quickly left the room. He walked down the hallway looking in every office as he went. Finally seeing an empty one, he entered and slammed the door. He quickly pulled out the cell phone and punched speed dial number one.

  “Deacon.”

  “Sir, it’s Jack, I’ve been talking to the shooter’s brother.”

  “And?”

  “I believe the President may be in danger.”

  * * *

  “Are you sure? I don’t mind taking you farther.”

  Sam smiled up at his old first sergeant. Hoggard was looking down at him from his perch high in the RV’s driver’s seat with a genuine look of concern on his face.

  “No thanks, Top, I’ll be fine from here. Better this way for both of us. If you could find your way to my brother-in-law somewhere down the road, I’d appreciate it. He wasn’t supposed to come out of this like he did, but he deserves an explanation.”

  “I’ll fill him in when things calm down, that’s a promise.” Hoggard rubbed his two-day growth of beard. “Got that number I gave ya?”

  Sam tapped his head. “Right up here, Top. Thanks for everything. Where you off to next?”

  “Not sure. South I think. May stop at Bragg and see some of the boys. You guys are all I have left, you know.” He looked out the window for a few seconds before speaking, and he did so without facing Sam.

  “Sam, I’m not sure I agree with this one hundred percent, but I think you’re setting some wrongs right. I don’t want to know where you’re going next, or what you plan to do. Just get their attention. Try not to go past that. Focus on that as your mission and I think you’ll be all right. You and Jack were both two of the best I had. I hope you’ve given some thought as to what you’re gonna do if you two should meet. That’s all this old soldier has to say. You check your six and keep your head. I’m proud of you, son.”

  Before Sam could reply, Hoggard slipped the brakes with a hiss and the RV rolled down the street toward the freeway on-ramp. Sam watched it go until it was out of sight.

  A loud honk brought Sam’s attention back to the curb. A yellow cab had pulled up and the driver was leaning over to look up at him.

  “Hey buddy, need a cab?”

  Sam just nodded before he stooped to pick up the suitcase and travel bag. He loaded them and himself in the rear seat.

  He found himself looking at the cabbie’s license on the rear of the seat. Artie Flocker. Hell of a name, probably caught hell in high school. He looked up to see Artie looking back in the rearview.

  “Need a decent hotel for the night,” Sam said.

  “Okay, I can help ya there. There’s a Marriot about a mile away. A Holiday Inn Express about two the other, both of them new.”

  “Which one’s quieter?”

  “Marriot, it is.” Artie dropped the meter and pulled into the traffic.

  Sam watched the streets of Baltimore speed by.

  * * *

  Two hours later found Sam out on the curb three blocks from the hotel. After checking in, he had unpacked his bag and used the iron provided in each room, to make his clothes presentable. He then changed into casual attire, popped a couple of pills, and left via the back entrance.

  After a short cab ride he found himself at yet another storage unit. Following the instructions he had committed to memory, he found the unit Paul had leased and opened the door. It was beginning to be a familiar sight. Sam took in the two crates, the cardboard boxes and the odd pieces of furniture. He shook his head. Hard to believe things were becoming routine about this. He shut the door and closed the hasp behind him.

  Sam stopped and sat down on a crate. The pain was back more often and more s
evere every time despite the pills and the diet changes. He waited for it to pass. It eventually did.

  The equipment was inventoried. Carefully checked for function and serviceability and packed away in its new container. Sam locked the unit behind him and palmed the key. As he walked out the gate, he tossed it in the dumpster sitting nearby.

  Sam walked until he was out of view of the facility before hailing a cab. Luckily the first one was willing to take him to DC. He was soon deep into a file containing details on the area he was currently en route to, including a map. He avoided small talk with the cabbie by committing the map to memory.

  —THIRTY-NINE—

  The state of Rhode Island holds 3,527 inmates in its prisons.

  Approximately 2,363 are repeat offenders.

  Jack and Sydney were also on their way to the nation’s capital. The plane contained more paper than usual. On top of their own, they now had several boxes from Sam and Paul’s homes. The quantity was enormous: maps, newspaper articles, downloaded webpages and several handwritten lists and sketches. Two laptops and a home computer were being carefully assaulted to try to obtain their secrets.

  “I’ve got a street map of DC here. Some buildings circled with some numbers beside them, no idea what they mean,” Larry sang out.

  “I have pictures of the Kennedy Center and the Jefferson Memorial, Union Station and Reagan Airport. I also have...looks like Hartsfield in Atlanta,...LaGuardia,...and O’Hare.” Sydney held them up for Jack to see.

  “Anything else in DC? I’m looking for a range card. It’s a hand drawn map of the view from a sniper’s position. It’ll have things like range and wind and cover and dead space. Look for something like that. How about the damn computers?” Jack asked.

  Eric looked up when the conversation ended to see everyone looking at him. He was so engrossed in what he was doing he had missed everything said.

  “Yeah?”

  “How long, Eric?”

  “Hard to say, sir, he’s an amateur, but a good one. He used several commercially bought security and encryption products, and then added to them. I’m only past two safeguards with several more to go. If I go too fast, we risk losing everything. I need some time and some help. This is not my usual area. I’m usually putting stuff in, not taking it out. Sorry.”