The Black Bullet

CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

Detective Dan Grant loaded eight black bullets into the clip and slid it in the Luger. He was in the Volusia County Sheriff’s forensics lab in a room where a steel-lined, three-hundred gallon water filled tank sat in front of him. Grant called O’Brien and said, “I’m about to fire one of the black bullets through the Luger. If this thing blows in my face, tell my wife I didn’t commit suicide.”

“It’ll fire,” O’Brien said. “I have faith in the old German gun shop owner.”

“Only one way to find out.” Grant pointed the barrel toward the center of the tank and squeezed the trigger.

The water exploded. “Bull’s-eye!” Grant said. “Hold on, Sean.” He set the Luger and phone on a table and then used a net on a long handle to retrieve the bullet. He picked up the phone and said, “The bullet’s a heavy sucker. We’ll compare it to the one removed from Billy Lawson. Just eyeballing it, I can tell it’s a match. I’ve never seen bullets like these.”

“The Germans were resourceful. How quickly can you compare the bullets?”

“Joe ought to nail this one without much trouble. Where are you going to be?”

“South of you.”

“Okay, so that would be where?”

“Hopefully, with the guy who knew about these black bullets sixty-seven years ago.”

Dave Collins waited at least ten minutes after they left his boat before he called O’Brien. He climbed up to the fly bridge and used his cell. “Sean, where are you?”

“Heading to the location south of you.”

“You managed to do what few people, at least people in this country, do … you’re wanted by every government intelligence agency at the same time.”

“Should I feel honored or paranoid?”

“They want me to bring you into their command post where, for all practical purposes, you’d be a sacrificial lamb.” Dave told O’Brien everything that was said on his boat and he added, “We need to come up with a plan.”

“I may have one.”

“I’m listening.”

“I believe that one of the reason’s Mike Gates wants my head on a platter is because he knows I’m about to deliver his. I will call you back shortly. My phone will be on speaker, so don’t say a word. Feed the audio into your laptop, record an MP3 file. Make copies and hide them.”

“Why? What are you doing?”

“Just do it, Dave. If we’re lucky, it’ll be a confession that is long overdue.”

O’Brien drove around the perimeter of the Olde Club Condominiums in New Smyrna. The covered parking lot was filled with Mercedes, Jaguars, BMWs, and SUVs larger than some kitchens. He watched an older man and woman, both dressed in beach clothes, use a side entrance to enter the six-story building. The man had used a key, holding the door open for his wife.

O’Brien drove off the lot and headed to a grocery store across the street. His cell rang. It was Agent Lauren Miles. “Sean, I dug up a buried and still classified FBI report on the death of William Lawson, age twenty-one. Died May 19, 1945. Report reads that, I’m quoting here, ‘Lawson was shot and killed as he made an alcohol-induced telephone call to us wife. In an incoherent manner, he is reported to have told her he saw something strange on the beach. Subject, in a delirious state-of-mind, said German soldiers were invading the beach. Subject may have been suffering from a warfront related psychosis or paranoia. He died as a result of an armed robbery. Subject expired from a single.38 caliber gunshot wound to the chest. No suspects could be produced, and there is no indication his story of invading German soldiers was real. Until further notice, the case is closed and remains a homicide.’ The report was filed by Agent Robert Miller.”

“Excellent! Nice work. Tell Dave everything you told me.”

“Sean, Mike Gates has you in his cross-hairs. I believe his attack dog is Eric Hunter. They’re moving fast.”

“I’ll have to move faster.”

“Where will you be?”

“If you don’t know, they can’t force it out of you.”