The Hammer of God

12

O n the road back to Chicago, Robert called Thorne to find out if she’d had more success than him. He had tracked her down at Detective Reynolds apartment. His conversation with Donovan was a draining dead-end, and he needed good news.

“I haven’t found out much,” she told him. “But we should discuss this in person, not on the cell phone.” Robert agreed, hung up, and headed for Chicago’s south side.

Fifteen minutes later, he spotted a light brown sedan tailing him. The car looked like a standard government issue. Why tail me? You could’ve questioned me at the Napier’s.

Robert increased his speed to nearly ninety miles an hour. The sedan followed, but just enough to keep him in sight. Five miles down the freeway, Robert slowed down to fifty and made a sudden exit off I-94 at Illinois Route 60/Townline Road. The car stayed right on his tail, a red police light now flashing from the dashboard. Robert made a right turn onto Route 60/Townline Road, which was lightly trafficked, and kept going. The sedan fired up its siren. Robert pulled into a busy gas station and jumped out, hand on his gun. Two men exited the sedan.

On the passenger side, a tall, thick shouldered, African-American stared at him like a pit bull. The other, a half bald waif of a WASP, with a nearly finished cigarette hanging from his lips, Robert recognized. He was Assistant Director of Field Operations, Glenn Thompson, CIA.

“I knew you’d pick us up right away,” said Thompson, taking a long last drag and tossing the butt on the asphalt. “We were going to wait until you reached the city before we stopped you; thought you’d be less likely to shoot us in a crowd.” He laughed, marched over and stuck out his hand. Robert shook it, looking over at the stone-faced black man, who still hadn’t said a word. “Allow me to introduce Special Agent Kirk Maxwell. He’s here from D.C., and specializes in finding missing persons.”

Agent Maxwell walked over and shook Robert’s hand, but remained stoic.

“You’re here because of Samuel?” asked Robert.

“Yes,” said Thompson. “Thought we’d lend a helping hand to Donovan, he’s still family.”

“Since when do retired agents rate a visit from an assistant director?

Even in a case like this.”

“Since the Director himself ordered it,” answered Thompson. “It seems as though he’s taken a personal interest in helping find Samuel.” Bullshit, thought Robert. You guys don’t give a shit about anybody who’s not important to you. “Well, we can certainly use all the help we can get,” said Robert, taking another look at Agent Maxwell, who was now leaning back against the hood of the sedan. “You know anything I haven’t already heard?”

“I’m not sure. How much do you know?” asked Thompson.

Robert measured both men. Something big is going on. The same something Donovan is keeping from me. “Samuel’s gone, and nobody’s heard a peep from the kidnappers. I’ve scrounged around a bit, but haven’t come up with a thing.”

The two men looked at each other.

“What about at the school?” asked Agent Maxwell, his voice calm and smooth. “Find out anything important from the kids or staff?” Robert decided he wouldn’t mention the breakdown of Samuel’s two best friends. “No, nothing,” he said. “It was a dead end.”

“So, what’s your next move?” chimed Thompson. “Any way we can be of assistance?”

“Yes,” said Robert. “You can start by telling me the reason you’re really out here. I know you guys. I used to be on the team, remember?

Now, why the sudden intense interest in Samuel Napier?” Agent Maxwell took a step toward Robert. “We could tell you, but then again, like you said you’re not one of us.” Robert smiled at the rookie’s mistake. So, there is something you guys want.

“Stand down, Agent Maxwell. Wait for me in the car,” ordered Thompson, pulling a pack of Camels from his inside pocket. Agent Maxwell, not happy, slid inside the sedan and slammed the door. “Let’s walk,” said Thompson, brushing by Robert, a freshly lit cigarette in his mouth.

Just beyond the gas station was a small park, empty, except for a few joggers and a homeless man carrying two large plastic bags on his shoulders. Thompson stopped at a severely chipped, green wooden bench and sat. Robert eased down next to him, his scowl and wrinkled forehead demanding answers.

“I can’t tell you much,” said Thompson. “In fact, we don’t know much.”

“Then tell me why the CIA is interested in a little boy’s kidnapping?

And don’t feed me the bullshit about caring for Donavon. ” The silence lasted a second too long, and Robert knew he wouldn’t get the answer he was looking for.

“You know as well as I do that information is handed out on a need to know basis,” said Thompson.

Need to know. You mean, go fuck yourself. “Donovan says there’s something special about Samuel,” Robert lied. “Do you think that’s why they took him?”

Robert watched his fabrication worm its way through Thompson’s mind. The Assistant Director, his reputation built on calculating intuition, seemed to suppress a smile. “And exactly what is this special thing Donavon shared with you?”

“Something valuable enough to put the boy’s life in danger,” answered Robert. “Any idea who’s behind this?” Thompson continued to measure Robert. “None at this time. We were hoping you’d picked up their scent.”

“No such luck. If I knew where the bastards were, I wouldn’t be here bullshitting with you.”

Thompson smiled and lit another cigarette off the one he’d just finished. “If you do find them, we’d appreciate a phone call. We’ll provide any assistance you ask for, including intelligence, hardware, money. It’s your call. Name your price.” Robert, off the bench before he knew it, grabbed Thompson by the collar. “Price! There’s no price you could pay for this, asshole! He’s my godson, not a bounty!”

Thompson continued to smile, the cigarette tucked in the corner of his mouth. Two cold taps on the nap of his neck, and Robert turned his head.

“Let the director go,” said Agent Maxwell, his. 357 automatic pointed at Robert’s right eye socket.

Robert didn’t let go right away. He wanted to shake Thompson till his brain scrambled. Agent Maxwell cocked the hammer on his weapon.

Robert let Thompson go and took a step back. When Agent Maxwell checked to see if his boss was okay, Robert grabbed the agent’s wrist, and spun clockwise, twisting the gun out of the agent’s grasp and flipped him over his shoulder. Agent Maxwell let out a grunt as he pounded down, back first, to the ground. Robert fired a shot in the dirt just past the agent’s head.

“You pull a gun on me, use it,” he snarled.

“I won’t forget,” said Agent Maxwell. “You can believe it.” Thompson, seated again on the bench, lit another smoke, took a deep drag, leaned back and blew a hazy cloud into the air. He looked down at the two, amused. “Please let him up, Mr. Veil.” Robert stared at the agent, his forearm pressed hard against Maxwell’s throat. But it wasn’t the FBI agent he saw on the ground, it was one of the masked men who kidnapped his godson. Robert hit Agent Maxwell on the temple with the butt of the gun, knocking him out cold.

Then he tossed the weapon to Thompson, who fumbled it, losing his Camel in the process, sending orange ash sparkling in the air.

“That was uncalled for,” raged Thompson, standing.

“So is all this crap you’re trying to hand me,” fired Robert. “And until the CIA learns to share, don’t call on me again.”

“You’re one of us,” growled Thompson. “You know how this is played. Help us with anything you learn, and I’ll do the same. You have my word. I’ll let you in on everything when you find the boy.” Agent Maxwell, groggy, tried to stand, but collapsed back to the ground, hands on his head. Robert headed back to his vehicle, ignoring Thompson’s calls.

Back in the Explorer, Robert gripped the steering wheel tight. Why is Samuel drawing attention from the CIA? He racked his brain, but no scenario that fit made any sense. He started the engine and hit the highway. He dialed his office in Washington D.C. on his cell. Evelyn Hollis, their office manager, picked up.

“Evie, it’s me. I want you to do a full background work-up on Samuel. Go back as far as you can, and list every name you can find.” Evelyn grilled him, and he brought her up to date as much as he could over the phone. She hung up with promises to move as quickly as possible. Robert dialed Thorne, who picked up on the first ring.

“I have news, Robert. Come to Detective Reynolds apartment. It doesn’t look good,” said Thorne.