Black Ghost Page 3

  “No,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Alexis?”

  “So?”

  “That’s why you were late.”

  “I don’t kiss and tell.” His lips twitched in a slight smile.

  “You don’t need to. Her shirt’s practically on backwards.”

  As they approached the elevators, she said, “I work that bastard for twenty minutes and he doesn’t budge. You walk in late reeking of his assistant’s perfume and he puts us on the case.”

  “Still jealous about me finishing number one at Quantico.”

  “Bite me.”

  “Would you rather I didn’t get us on it?”

  Caroline glared at Mack. “You did it on purpose. The way you handled that undermined our partnership and teamwork.”

  “You’re paranoid.”

  “No, no, I get it now. I’m an idiot.”

  The elevator doors opened.

  “Our ride’s here.”

  “You let me go in there and fall on the knife with Bender. Then you come in like Braveheart. Just one problem with that.”

  “What?”

  “A real man leads the charge.”

  Mack looked uncomfortable, and finally sighed. “I’m sorry, Caroline. I had no idea about the off-book deals until an hour ago.”

  “I knew it. You weren’t late this morning. You were early.” Caroline thought for a moment and then put two and two together. “You disgusting little man-whore.”

  Mack grinned a Cheshire-cat grin. “You won’t believe what that girl will do for little Mackie boy here. I got Alexis to give me the file she was putting together for Bender’s noon brief.”

  “You basically gave him information he already had to get us on this case?”

  “Yep.”

  He shrugged. “It had to happen this way. Neither one of us could stand being in that basement any longer.”

  The reality dawned on her, and she couldn’t help feel relief. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t high-five you at the moment.”

  “When you said ‘bite me’, exactly where we talking about?”

  “With that mouth? I’d rather dive into an alligator pond.”

  9

  Bic Green waited in line at Gunthorpe’s butcher shop on Chicago’s South Side. Honking horns and other traffic sounds rose each time a customer entered or left the shop, but Bic only briefly noticed. He was growing impatient. He needed to be at Midway Airport in two hours, and this morning the blasted butcher was as slow as Christmas.

  He had no problem seeing all seven heads between him and the meat case. His immense size meant he nearly always stood out, a disadvantage that he worked hard to overcome in his business. Dressed in old blue jeans, a dark navy T-shirt, an oversized Chicago Bears jacket, a ball-cap, and sunglasses, he looked like many of the loyal Bears fans residing on the South Side. And then there was his very dark skin. In the U.S., his complexion was distinctive; he was more often taken for African than African-American.

  The minutes kept slicing away with loud ticks from the overhead clock. Bic had returned to Gunthorpe’s exactly twenty-six times, once for every job he had taken over the past thirty-four years. He had bought a lot of pork chops here, and had put them all to good use.

  Starting with Vietnam, he had taken well over three hundred lives during his career, but he couldn’t recall one of his victims’ faces. Every time he pulled the trigger, snapped a neck, or slit a throat, the only face he ever saw was that of his father Clarence Green. Fifty years later, the pain, anger, and violence still washed through him.

  The butcher behind the counter rang the bell and said, “Next.”

  Bic realized with a start he was up.

  “What’ll it be?” the butcher asked.

  Bic shook his head and scanned the glass, seeing rib-eyes, T-bones, chicken, ground beef, and ribs all piled neatly. He looked again, but didn’t see what he needed.

  “We’re ten deep here,” the butcher said impatiently.

  “I don’t see any pork chops.”

  The butcher pointed toward an empty tray. “Big sale, we’re all out. What else can I getchya?”

  “How about in the back freezer?”

  “We only sell what’s cut from the night before. No exceptions.”

  Bic’s body temperature rose, his thoughts roiling with fury and irritation. He needed those chops and would do anything—even kill everyone in the store with his bare hands—to get them.

  He looked at his watch. He now had an hour and a half to get to the airport. He took in a deep breath and gathered his thoughts. He had never done a job without getting pork chops from this shop. And they had to be from here, from this shop.

  Time to break rule number one, he thought.

  He looked down into the counter glass and stared at the reflection of his large, square face. He removed the gargoyle glasses resting on his thick nose. The next thing the butcher saw, he would remember for the rest of his life—a rare experience, as no one else who had admired Bic’s gaze before this had ever lived to talk about it.

  Bic looked up, and his eyes met the butcher’s. The man’s face went ashen.

  “Son,” Bic said gently, “I need ten individually-wrapped pork chops.” He replaced his sunglasses, then leaned over the counter toward the butcher. He whispered, “I don’t want any trouble, but I’m not leaving without those chops—so just go in the back and get them.”

  The butcher nodded, spun around, and hurried into the back freezer.

  10

  Congressman John Tidwell stared at the front page of the morning paper in his plush San Francisco congressional office. The cover story was “AIRPLANE HIJACKED BY TERRORISTS” with a picture of the wreckage below the title, and assorted bloody victims. But it was the slug at the bottom of the page that disgusted him most: “CONGRESS UNANIMOUSLY PASSES $250BN EMERGENCY AIRLINE SECURITY BILL.”

  Those terrorists had effectively hijacked his quarter of a trillion dollars. He had worked for two years securing those funds for a joint venture with Russia to extract oil and natural gas from the frozen heart of Siberia, which included an unprecedented 4,000 miles of pipeline to four ports along the Black Sea and the Pacific. Two years—down the toilet a month before his budget would have been pushed through.

  As consolation for screwing him over, colleagues from both sides of the aisle promised him that when the budget committee reported the next fiscal financial projection, his bill would be the first to benefit from any revenue increase. With only twenty-two days until the committee’s next meeting, he had to deliver on the promise he had made to his Russian business interests—not to mention the Russian mob.

  It was time for Plan B.

  Sarah, Tidwell’s assistant, entered his office and said tentatively, “Sir, there’s a man here who says he has to see you,”

  “You know what to do,” Tidwell barked at the girl. “Set him up with one of the staff.”

  “I tried, but he insists on seeing you. He claims he’s one of your partners,” she hesitated.

  A skinny twenty-year-old white kid wearing baggy jeans, a flat-billed baseball cap, and a perpetual annoying smirk sauntered into the office and plopped himself into a chair opposite Tidwell’s desk. “I told you, amiga,” he said. “I only need two minutes of the good congressman’s time.”

  “Sarah, call security.”

  The assistant left the office as if shot from a cannon.

  “Today’s not the day for some righteous speech,” Tidwell growled. “Leave now, or security will have you arrested.”

  “That’s funny” he smirked. “As I said. I’m one of your new partners. Gentry Jacobson, Senator.”

  Tidwell was not at all amused.

  The kid continued, “You hired me to make a list.”

  This hit a nerve with Tidwell, but he covered it. “I have no idea what you’re talking about!”

  “That’s the thing about outsourcing.
Does 12K to hack into a list of people’s personal information and create detailed profiles about ten people—ten important people—ring a bell?”

  Tidwell held his ground. “That sounds illegal.”

  This amused Gentry, who said, “Legal, illegal—it’s all a gray area nowadays. I think public opinion is more dangerous than a Judge’s opinion.” The man continued, groping Tidwell’s 19th Century carved, walnut Swiss Black Forest desk clock, “The pay seemed fair—initially, but I couldn’t help notice the people on the list were worth over half a trillion dollars. So, I did a little digging. I couldn’t help myself. I get bored. It’s kind of a genius problem.

  “I learned that someone was paid two-point-five million to perform a service related to that list. Imagine my surprise when, after a little more digging, I learned what that service was. Congressman Tidwell, that’s quite a dangerous cookie jar you’ve got your hand in.”

  “I think you’ve made a mistake, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Gentry pulled out his phone. “Really? Then you won’t mind me sending this list to, say, CNN and Fox for the public to see? You know, as a scorecard of sorts? To track those still standing—”

  “What do you want?” Tidwell demanded.

  The young man smirked, “A quarter of a mil. That should be no biggie for a public servant like you to raise—considering how good you’ve gotten at raising money recently.”

  At this point, Sarah returned with a uniformed security guard in tow.

  “Perfect timing,” said Gentry.

  “It’s ok,” said the congressman. “It’s under control. Sarah, would you excuse us?”

  When they were alone, Gentry stood up. “They sure love you here, don’t they?”

  “You’re making a big mistake,” Tidwell said.

  “Twelve hours, Mr. Congressman.”

  He walked out of the room with Tidwell’s clock in hand.

  11

  The bar’s 70s rock-n-roll motif wasn’t what Caroline had expected as she and Mack entered Chico’s Pub to meet their new partners at around nine. What should have been a sad joint that smelled of beer and stale dreams was actually a pretty hopping bar with a great energy to it. Mack bobbed his head up and down to the music and pointed to the ceiling. “Now this is the stuff.”

  Caroline watched him indifferently, her head tilted.

  “Not a Creedence fan, huh?”

  “Nope.”

  Two bartenders poured drinks behind an old oak bar-top inlaid with several original rock album covers.

  “My dad has this album,” Mack said, pointing to a Pink Floyd album. “The original in the gatefold sleeve, not this cheap-ass knockoff.” He pointed to another. “He has that one, too.”

  Caroline nodded distractedly, then asked, “How’s he doing?”

  “He’s had a good couple of months. He’s been keeping up with his meds.” Mack obviously didn’t want to talk about it.

  “I think it’s great you call him every day. Reminds me of how my dad and I used to be.” Caroline looked off. “I miss that.”

  A loud, taunting voice caught Caroline’s attention. To her right, a completely mismatched pair of men—a tall, athletic, well-dressed black man in his thirties wearing a sport coat, and an older, out-of-shape white man dressed like an old-school Italian wise guy—waved her over from where they played darts. The older man had just planted his latest missile in the barroom wall, a good two feet left of the dartboard, and cursed the game out like any good goombah.

  Mack nodded to the bartender. “Two Coronas with limes, please,” he said, then motioned with his chin to a high-top table next to a pillar in the middle of the room. “That one’s free.”

  As Mack reached into his pocket for his wallet, the loud man from the darts game approached them. “Put your cash away,” he said, forcefully wedging himself between Mack and Caroline and putting one of his burly, hairy arms around each of them. He reeked of cheap cologne and didn’t win any style awards in his overlarge Hawaiian shirt, fringed at the neck with curly black chest hair.

  “Some girls have all the luck,” said Caroline, shaking him off like a loose cape.

  Mack extended his hand. “You must be the infamous Nick Moretto.”

  The man smiled. “How’d you guess?”

  “Saw the gold chain, the shirt, and the accent straight out of a tin can. You’re either auditioning for a summer stock production of Goodfellas or a narc.”

  The beefy Moretto threw his head back in a wet laugh, then jabbed a thumb into his chest. “Nah, the real deal here, all the way.”

  The man turned to his friend, who had appeared at his side. “This here is my partner, Tom Jackson.”

  “TJ,” said the man. “Good to meet you.”

  “Caroline Foxx,” said Caroline. She put her hand past Moretto and shook TJ’s hand.

  “Pleasure’s all mine.”

  Moretto ignored the snub. “This bar makes a margarita that’ll knock you on your ass,” he said, then motioned to the bartender. “My good man, four of your finest margaritas.” He looked to Caroline. “Unless you wanna just stick to the two Coronas?”

  “A margarita will be fine,” she said dryly.

  “Good choice,” said Moretto. “It’ll loosen you up a bit. No offense.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m just sayin’. You look a little tightly wound.”

  “And you look like you’re half a mozzarella stick away from an infarct.”

  He threw his head back again. “Funny! I like that.”

  Moretto led everyone back to the dartboard. “Partners for teams—you guys know how to play cricket, right?” He threw three darts into the twenty before Mack or Caroline could respond.

  Caroline tugged at Mack’s sleeve. “Is Pillsbury Corleone here really going to hustle us?”

  Moretto wrote ‘A TEAM’ in chalk on the scoreboard. Underneath he wrote ‘B TEAM.’

  “B Team, you’re up,” Moretto smirked as he handed the darts to Caroline.

  Caroline honed in as she got ready to throw her first dart. Moretto tried to distract her by growling, “You’re swimming with the sharks now. You never know what might be lurking in the depths.” He sang the theme from JAWS. “Duhh-dun... duhhh dun...” He threw his head back with a guffaw.

  Caroline narrowed her eyes and whipped the first dart into the fourteen, followed quickly by the nine, then one in the seven. “The sharks will probably take down an old elephant seal before me. I’m not too worried.”

  TJ laughed as he slapped Moretto on the back. “She got you on that one, partner.”

  Moretto smiled in appreciation before responding, “The wise old seal never gets eaten, honey; only those young ones who don’t see the teeth before the jaws come down.”

  Caroline handed her darts to Moretto. “I’m pretty sure the fat, slow, oily ones get it first.”

  “Nice shootin’. I see pressure’s really not your thing.”

  “It’s darts,” she replied.

  “Free lesson number one, rooks. You rattle easy. Never let anything get under your skin.” He pointed to his head. “Lose this in the field and you wind up dead.”

  “We appreciate the advice,” Mack said to Moretto, “We’re both eager to prove ourselves.”

  “See this guy?” Moretto grabbed TJ’s shoulder and shook it back and forth. “I love him because he can handle pressure. In our business, there’s nothing more important.”

  Mack raised his glass and offered a loud toast. “Here’s to getting to work then, and learning from two pros. I can promise one thing: we will bust our asses and not let you down.”

  “Mack,” said TJ, “you might consider politics cuz you sure can kiss butt. Especially fat hairy Italian butt.”

  “Hey, I lost two pounds last week,” Moretto complained, holding his belly. He nudged Mack with his elbow. “I lost my wallet.”

  12

  Chicago Midway
Airport thrummed with the usual vibrant mix of businesspeople, vacationers, and last-minute travelers—and Bic Green was in the thick of it. With his bag slung over his shoulder, he slowly negotiated the throngs of people, attempting to blend in.

  As he approached the gate, he saw a six-year-old boy fall hard. The boy began to cry, but his sister went to comfort him.

  The scene sent Bic’s mind back to the day he had first met Chandra as he distractedly navigated the airport to his gate.

  Bic Green, seven years old, spent his first day in foster care hiding in a dark closet, crying.

  His new foster mother had yelled at him to stop whining about his mom, to stop grieving over this woman who had been everything to him. At some point, the door opened a crack, and Bic pressed himself into the corner of the closet. A little girl peeked inside, leading with a flashlight.

  “Whatchu doin’ in here?”

  “Nothin’.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “No.”

  “Then why you cryin’?”

  “I dunno.”

  The girl’s tongue darted out and felt for the corners of her mouth while Bic got his sobs under control.

  “I want to play in here with you,” she said.

  Bic scooted over and allowed her to crawl in beside him.

  “This will be our hideout from the bad guys,” she said.

  “Ok.”

  “Did they take your mom away too?”

  “No,” said Bic. “She dead.”

  She rested her chin on the head of the flashlight. “Is that why you was cryin’?”

  The boy shrugged.

  “My name’s Chandra. What’s yours?”

  “Bic.”

  “Bic?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “What kinda name’s Bic?”

  He shrugged again.

  “Is it ok if I be your friend?”

  “I dunno.”

  “You don’t wanna be here?”

  A frown tugged at the boy’s mouth, and his eyes began to well up, and he shook his head.

  “You don’t have nobody, right?”

  He shook his head.

  “I don’t either—but you got me, and if I got you, then we do have somebody, right? So that’s why we’re going to stick together.” She shined the light in his face. “Deal?”