abuser, for one thing. He had anger management issues, for another. Too many times, he stepped over the line in the field. I won’t lie to you, either—a lot of this is my responsibility. I saw the signs, I knew he’d been in the field for going on way too long. He needed a reprieve, he needed help. But with two active war theaters and shadow operations like we’ve never seen before, we’ve been stretched. Hell, we’ve got National Guard deployed in Iraq and Afghanistan, grunts on their fifth tour of duty, politicians asking more and more and giving us less and less to do it with. Put enough pressure on the system, you’re going to start seeing cracks. Cracks in the system, cracks in the soldiers.”
Interesting. Hort had read the anger in Larison as he’d read it in Ben. Well, it wasn’t like the unit attracted a lot of Zen Buddhists.
“Why are you so sure it was him?”
“I’m not sure. But there’s no one else that makes any sense.”
“Then couldn’t the other players—the Agency, the Bureau—figure out Larison, too? That he had the access, faked his death—”
“They could, but they won’t. They don’t know him the way I do. Larison was the best. He’s what you’ll be in ten years if you keep developing the way you need to. Right now, you’ve got the confidence and the instincts. What you need is judgment. And control.”
That was a rebuke for Manila. Ben couldn’t deny the justice of it.
“If it’s just the Agency and the Bureau on this, how did you find out? What’s your connection?
Hort smiled as though pleased that Ben was considering all the angles, asking the right questions. But he only said, “I’ve been around for a while, son. I know people.”
Yeah, a guy like Hort had contacts everywhere: Pentagon, State, all the spook services… probably even the White House. Couldn’t really expect him to reveal his sources and methods.
“So, what’s our time frame?”
“Five days. And he says he has an electronic deadman trigger. Even if we find him, we can’t just take him out.”
“A bluff?”
Hort shook his head. “It’s exactly what he would do. Or you or I would do, for that matter.”
“What do I do when I find him?”
That ripple of sadness passed across Hort’s face again. “You don’t do anything. Your job is just to find him and fix him. Not to finish him. Not yet, anyway. For the time being, we’re going to have to play this one by ear.”
Ben wasn’t sure what playing it by ear would be about. Up until now, “find, fix, and finish” had always constituted a half redundant description of what Ben did, with “finish” being the real point. He wanted to ask what Hort had in mind, and why he thought they might be able to end this without ending Larison in the process. But he’d asked the important questions already, and that kind of “why” wasn’t in his job description anyway. His orders were to find and fix Larison, and he would carry them out. Presumably, at that point, he’d get some new orders. In the meantime, someone else would worry about why.
CHAPTER 6
Don’t Want to Wind Up Like Him
T he next morning, Ben was slowly circling Belthorn Drive in Kissimmee, Florida, a half-hour drive southwest of the airport in Orlando. According to Hort, this was the current residence of Larison’s “widow,” now going by her maiden name, Marcy Wheeler. For the moment, Wheeler was pretty much the only actionable thing they had to go on.
He drove, his head sweeping back and forth, absorbing information, looking for the detail that didn’t fit: a parked car with a couple of hard-looking men inside, a van with darked-out windows, a man in shades strolling along and somehow not from the neighborhood. Nothing tickled his radar. Belthorn was a sleepy collection of modest ranch houses being inexorably replaced by more imposing McMansions. But for the heat and the occasional palm tree, it could have been a suburban street in just about any
Interesting. Hort had read the anger in Larison as he’d read it in Ben. Well, it wasn’t like the unit attracted a lot of Zen Buddhists.
“Why are you so sure it was him?”
“I’m not sure. But there’s no one else that makes any sense.”
“Then couldn’t the other players—the Agency, the Bureau—figure out Larison, too? That he had the access, faked his death—”
“They could, but they won’t. They don’t know him the way I do. Larison was the best. He’s what you’ll be in ten years if you keep developing the way you need to. Right now, you’ve got the confidence and the instincts. What you need is judgment. And control.”
That was a rebuke for Manila. Ben couldn’t deny the justice of it.
“If it’s just the Agency and the Bureau on this, how did you find out? What’s your connection?
Hort smiled as though pleased that Ben was considering all the angles, asking the right questions. But he only said, “I’ve been around for a while, son. I know people.”
Yeah, a guy like Hort had contacts everywhere: Pentagon, State, all the spook services… probably even the White House. Couldn’t really expect him to reveal his sources and methods.
“So, what’s our time frame?”
“Five days. And he says he has an electronic deadman trigger. Even if we find him, we can’t just take him out.”
“A bluff?”
Hort shook his head. “It’s exactly what he would do. Or you or I would do, for that matter.”
“What do I do when I find him?”
That ripple of sadness passed across Hort’s face again. “You don’t do anything. Your job is just to find him and fix him. Not to finish him. Not yet, anyway. For the time being, we’re going to have to play this one by ear.”
Ben wasn’t sure what playing it by ear would be about. Up until now, “find, fix, and finish” had always constituted a half redundant description of what Ben did, with “finish” being the real point. He wanted to ask what Hort had in mind, and why he thought they might be able to end this without ending Larison in the process. But he’d asked the important questions already, and that kind of “why” wasn’t in his job description anyway. His orders were to find and fix Larison, and he would carry them out. Presumably, at that point, he’d get some new orders. In the meantime, someone else would worry about why.
CHAPTER 6
Don’t Want to Wind Up Like Him
T he next morning, Ben was slowly circling Belthorn Drive in Kissimmee, Florida, a half-hour drive southwest of the airport in Orlando. According to Hort, this was the current residence of Larison’s “widow,” now going by her maiden name, Marcy Wheeler. For the moment, Wheeler was pretty much the only actionable thing they had to go on.
He drove, his head sweeping back and forth, absorbing information, looking for the detail that didn’t fit: a parked car with a couple of hard-looking men inside, a van with darked-out windows, a man in shades strolling along and somehow not from the neighborhood. Nothing tickled his radar. Belthorn was a sleepy collection of modest ranch houses being inexorably replaced by more imposing McMansions. But for the heat and the occasional palm tree, it could have been a suburban street in just about any
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