Fear No Evil

Chapter 30

Washington, DC

At a quarter to six John Sampson parked his car at home and walked to pick up Willow in the church parking lot. He got there a little early so he could check the street for any sign of Hayden Brooker.

But Sampson saw no one who even vaguely resembled the former Delta Force operator. Soon, the buses arrived.

The second his young daughter came off the bus, the sense of threat Sampson had been feeling all day eased. Maybe he’d been mistaken.

He grinned as he scooped up Willow, who looked both happy and exhausted.

“Did you bring the car, Daddy?” she asked.

“Nope.”

She made a dramatic face. “I can’t take another step.”

“Need a ride up top?”

“Yes, please!”

Sampson lifted her higher and turned her so she could sit on his broad shoulders, which delighted her no end. Willow giggled and waved to her friends as they left the church.

He again scanned the area by the tree where Brooker had been earlier in the day, but he saw only harried moms and dads bringing their kids to waiting cars. He turned toward home as Willow did a data dump of her day, describing every game she’d played, all the times she’d gone swimming in the lake, and the glorious hot dogs they’d cooked on sticks over a fire.

Sampson relished every second of it and put his girl down on their front porch feeling as if he’d lived the day himself. Jannie Cross opened the door. Willow ran in and hugged her favorite babysitter, who told Sampson she’d brought over some mac and cheese and the rabbit leftovers from the night before and she was heating it up for dinner.

“Perfect,” he said.

“Do you have to work late?” she asked.

“Couple of hours? I want to be back to tuck her in.”

“That helps. I’ve got a big workout in the morning.”

“See you soon, Daddy, I’m hungry,” Willow said and tugged on Jannie’s hand.

“Nice to be needed,” she said smiling, and she shut the door.

Sampson felt as if nothing in the world could go wrong as he bopped down the stoop stairs and along the walk, heading for his car in the drive. Then he glanced across his street and spotted the silhouette of a man among the shadows thrown by a big maple. He was big and broad enough...

When the man took a step into the slanting light, Sampson had no doubt who it was, even after a decade and a half. Master Sergeant Psycho himself.

Brooker raised both palms, held them at shoulder height. Sampson walked by the car and across the street.

When he’d gotten feet from the man, he stopped. “Master Sergeant Brooker.”

Brooker laughed hoarsely at that; he sounded as if he was a smoker or was getting over a cold. “No one’s called me that in years.”

In his forties now, Brooker appeared no less fit than Sampson remembered, still with the height and build of a pro basketball guard. Indeed, the way he kept his palms raised, his knees slightly flexed, and his balance forward over his black sneakers suggested a guard playing defense. Or an assassin expecting trouble.

“Heard you’re a big-time homicide detective now,” Brooker said.

“And I heard you’re a killer for the CIA.”

He laughed even harder than before, which started a ragged coughing fit. When it ended, he laughed again. “Sorry, no one’s called me that in years either. And it was never true, by the way. I went private security is all.”

“Good for you,” Sampson said, though he did not like mercenaries in general. “Why are you here, Brooker? Outside my house? Outside my church this morning?”

“Hey, man, I’m sorry about that. I honestly didn’t think you’d hear me out if I called.”

“Hear you out about what?”

“Making amends,” Brooker said, sounding quieter and more unsure of himself. “I, uh, got sober last year, John. AA. And this is step eight. Well, nine. Step eight, you write a list of everyone you ever harmed when you were under the influence. Nine is facing the people you harmed and making amends.”

“Okay?”

“I seem to recollect harming you,” he said and coughed again. “One drunken night in Kandahar.”

“You broke my jaw,” Sampson said.

“And you covered for me, said you fell on patrol,” Brooker said, lowering his hands. “I want to say I appreciated that and you in no way deserved a broken jaw. And I apologize. Seriously, I’m a different man now, someone who... ah, it doesn’t matter. I’d like to shake your hand and take that memory with me as I continue my search for inner peace. But if not, I totally understand.”

He took two steps forward, reached out his right hand, and held Sampson’s gaze with a sincere gaze of his own.

“Fine,” Sampson said, moving toward Brooker. “I don’t begrudge anyone trying to find inner peace.”

“Appreciate that, John,” he said, a slight catch in his voice. “I really do.”

Sampson reached for the former commando’s hand. He heard a soft click just before Brooker gripped his hand tight and came up with a knife blade in his left hand.

He yanked Sampson forward, shoved the knife tip against his throat. “I hate to say this, what with you being a recent widower and your little girl waiting for you, but I bring you sad tidings of your imminent death, John Sampson,” Brooker said. “From M.”