Talkin' Jive Page 11

  Maddox raised his eyebrows, looked straight at Dale, trying to be as earnest as possible. “Listen to me. No one’s been following you—not me, not the other men. Don’t you get it, Conley? Those guys are chasing me.”

  Dale’s head was spinning.

  “So … who are they? Foreign intelligence?”

  “They’re CIA too.”

  “WHAT? If you’re on the same team … I …” Dale stammered. A moment’s pause then he stepped closer, sticking the gun out another couple inches. He gritted his teeth. “You’d better start making some sense, Maddox.”

  “I was with a team in Moscow,” he said. “We were profiling a high-ranking civilian at the Kremlin. Ulan Lebedev. A member of their nuclear program.”

  Nuclear …

  Oak Ridge. Y-12. Atomic bombs. Dale’s thoughts headed in myriad directions, all twisted and dark. But he pulled his focus back to center.

  “With détente ongoing,” Dale said, “how much CIA surveillance is still happening at the Kremlin?”

  “Plenty. More than you might think. I’ve particularly taken an interest in any faction potentially going rogue, selling materials or secrets. I chased a false lead, developed a theory that was completely wrong. Since then, no one has trusted me. They think I’ve come apart. So when an American ecoterrorist named Trent Steeger began meeting with Lebedev regularly, no one took my findings seriously.”

  “What did you find?”

  “Lebedev and Steeger met four times in three months, always in Moscow, always alone, away from the Kremlin. Steeger is known for violence. The bombing outside the UN last year — those were his people. He’s like a really violent Greenpeace. Everyone I talked to thought I had gone paranoid. They said Steeger was peacefully negotiating with Lebedev, trying to quell any potential for another terrorist attack. But I tell you, there’s something else going on. They’re working together. Lebedev wouldn’t have met with a guy like Steeger if he didn’t have something in mind. Certainly not in private. So I left my post, went AWOL and followed Steeger back to the U.S. For the last two weeks, I’ve been here in Tennessee.”

  Maddox spoke with authority, and the details he was providing had an air of authenticity. The story was just crazy enough to be true.

  In a situation like this, it was best to be as amicable as possible. Dale needed to cut the tension. He lowered his gun and motioned for Steeger to drop his hands, which he did.

  “Since you went AWOL,” Dale said, “and since they already thought you were a nut, they sent a team to hunt you down. The guys with the guns in Knoxville. Special Activities Division?”

  Maddox nodded. “Exactly. SAD/SOG.”

  “Oh god…” Dale said. “The Special Operations Group…”

  “That’s right. They’re literally hunting me down. Remember, not only do they think I’m paranoid, and not only has the man who’s obsessed with Soviet rogue agents selling secrets gone rogue himself, but I’ve been hanging around Y-12 and the groups actively protesting it. They think I’m selling secrets. They’ll drop me on sight. I recognized the team leader. Marcus Sloane. I’m sure you saw him in Knoxville. Sandy blonde hair, widow’s peak. He’s an assassin, Conley. Ruthless. I’m a marked man.”

  “So, in Knoxville, you weren’t running from me. You were running from Sloane.”

  Maddox nodded. “Correct.”

  “Why’d you run from me the second time? Here at the cabin, during the meeting last night?”

  “I thought if I ran out you’d follow me again. Which you did. But then Hendrix’s man came after us. I had to get away.”

  “You dragged me from your car!”

  “You could have let go.”

  “Touché. The gentleman in the pickup who chased us was Cody Ellis, by the way. One of Hendrix’s cronies. They’re out to get you too, ya know? Hendrix has his eye on you.” Dale sighed long and hard. “What the hell have you gotten me involved in, Maddox?” A thought came to him. “Wait. How did you get me involved in this? Your message—you called me out specifically, referenced the BEI. No one knows about the BEI.”

  “The CIA knows everything.”

  Dale nodded reluctantly. “True. But why me?”

  “I followed Steeger here,” Maddox said. “The fact that he went to one of the U.S.’s nuclear weapons facilities didn’t surprise me at all, of course. But I was more than a little surprised to find out that Steeger was the second-in-command to a mystic prophet preaching in the woods outside town.”

  Dale’s mind flashed on the silent man, the one who had sat in a place of prominence during Asa Hendrix’s speech.

  “The guy with the ponytail…”

  Maddox nodded. “That’s Steeger.”

  Dale put the pieces together. “And since Asa Hendrix has connected himself to a quirky historical figure in John Hendrix, and since you had no one to turn to in the CIA, you sent a cryptic message in the newspaper, knowing the BEI’s notorious history guy would take the bait and come here to help you.”

  “I did what I had to,” Steeger said. “Understand that I wouldn’t have pulled you into this had I not thought this was of massive importance. Something huge is going to happen here in Tennessee. And I need your help. Before I left Moscow, one of the last bits of intel I uncovered on Lebedev was his upcoming flight. Guess where Lebedev is gonna visit.”

  Dale took Maddox’s meaning, but the whole idea was so astounding he could hardly reply.

  “Here…”

  “Bingo. Lebedev’s secretary booked him a ticket to Knoxville two weeks ago.”

  “When’s the flight?”

  Maddox grinned. “Today.”

  “And this is the day Hendrix told his followers to prepare for,” Dale said. “Almost like a mobilization. I heard Hendrix on the phone last night, speaking in Russian …”

  He trailed off. Thought for a moment.

  “You’re right, Maddox,” Dale said. “Something huge is going down here.”

  All of this was so crazy it made sense. In Dale’s line of work, he had to be very suspicious of anyone he encountered. And when you think someone’s been chasing you down with a team of armed men, it makes them even harder to trust.

  But Dale could tell Maddox was telling the truth.

  Dale took a look at him, at his fake beard.

  “That’s a quality beard, Maddox,” Dale said, pointing at his face. “But I don’t know why you chose red when your hair is brown.”

  Dale reached out, gave the beard a sharp tug.

  The beard didn’t come off. Maddox yelped.

  “Ow! What the hell’s the matter with you?”

  “Sorry … thought it was a fake.”

  Maddox rubbed his cheek.

  Dale looked away, ran a hand through his hair, putting more of the pieces together.

  “So, ecoterrorist Steeger and Russian nuclear specialist Lebedev had clandestine meetings in Moscow. Now Steeger is here in Tennessee with Asa Hendrix, and Lebedev will be flying in later today …”

  His voice trailed off as the pistons in his brain started to gain speed. He thought for a moment.

  “At the same time Steeger and Lebedev were having their meetings,” he continued, “there was a massive, ongoing conference against nuclear waste in Knoxville. At the head of this conference was an enigmatic leader, someone who was powerful enough to bring together people from all over the world, and yet someone who has never been seen. Someone known simply as The Guide.

  “The Guide and the Prophet, Asa Hendrix, have been working together. The protests at Y-12 have gotten more unruly. And now, Hendrix is planning something huge, something that’s gonna happen tonight.”

  He paused.

  “Hendrix … Steeger …”

  He paused again. And then a revelation hit him.

  Hard.

  “Trent Steeger is The Guide!”

  Maddox opened his mouth to reply…

  And his head exploded.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Hot fluid sprayed all ove
r Dale’s face. Terribly hot. And something heavy and hard smashed into his forehead. A piece of Maddox’s skull, no doubt. It brought sharp pain, an instant headache.

  Dale staggered back.

  Maddox dropped to his knees. His head was destroyed. An absolute ruin. Dale had unfortunately seen more than a couple headshot wounds in his time as a federal agent, all of which had come from standard-size rounds. Clean holes on the entry and, when the bullet didn’t get lodged in the head, larger exit wounds. Sometimes a bit of open cranium.

  But whatever had struck Maddox hadn’t been a standard-sized round. It had been something massive. And it absolutely tore the man’s head apart. His red beard was completely missing.

  His body dropped from his knees and onto his face.

  Or, where the face used to be.

  Dale thought of the Special Activities agent and his team that Maddox said had been hunting him. Marcus Sloane, the guy with the widow’s peak Dale had seen in Knoxville.

  Maddox had described Sloane as a hunter.

  An assassin.

  And Dale knew he could be next.

  There was a tree to his right. Farther away than he would want, about ten feet. He sprinted to it, plastered his back against it.

  He sucked in a few shallow, rapid breaths.

  He had his Model 36 in his right hand and the M1911 in his left. He adjusted his grips on both, flicked off the 1911’s safety, and put his index fingers on both triggers. He inched his face just barely around the side of the tree, looking in the direction he thought the shot had come from, ready for the firefight of his life.

  But his worry was in vain.

  At the top of the hill was a pair of men, and neither one of them was Agent Sloane.

  It was Asa Hendrix and Cody Ellis, the latter of whom carried a large rifle.

  They descended the steep hill, sliding in the leaves. Hendrix called out to Dale.

  “Come on out, Tommy! Didn’t mean to give you such a fright.”

  Dale slowly lowered the handguns. Took a breath. And walked back to Maddox’s body. Hendrix and Cody met him there.

  Cody held a gigantic, scoped rifle. Massive. Almost as big as he was. Dale didn’t know specifically what kind of rifle it was—the make or the model—but this was something entirely different from your typical Winchester. This was a specialty weapon, something rare, the sort of thing that dickheads on safari use to bring down elephants.

  No wonder Maddox’s head had blown up.

  Hendrix rolled the body over with his foot. The mangled head revealed itself. He slapped Cody on the back.

  “God damn, Cody! You did well, son.” He turned to Dale, looked him up and down. Smiled. “You’re drenched, Tommy. You look like you just stepped out of a horror movie. Like Sissy Spacek. Thanks for catching this son of a bitch for us.”

  He looked to Dale’s left hand. At the 1911.

  “The guy was armed, huh?” he said. He reached out toward Dale. Expectantly. Wanting the gun.

  Dale hesitated for a half moment. Then handed it to him.

  Hendrix turned the 1911 over in his hands, inspected it, shook his head. “I knew this guy was some sort of spy.”

  Dale returned his attention to the body. Absolutely grotesque. He could hardly look.

  Dale was deep undercover. And he had to stay in character. But, still, something couldn’t keep the words from escaping his lips.

  “This is murder…” he said quietly.

  “What did you say?” Hendrix said.

  “I said, this is murder!” He faced Cody. “You’re a goddamn murderer!”

  “Murder?” Hendrix said with a scoff. “This guy was one of the enemies. I had him followed. For the last couple weeks since we first spotted him, he’s spent half his time near Y-12 and the other half shadowing us. We know they’ve sent spies out here before, but until now they’ve not been stupid enough to send the same guy more than once. I hope that our killing one little spy hasn’t made you lose your resolve. We have major work to do today, and it’s gonna get dark. Have you gone soft on me, Tommy?”

  Hendrix had kept his eyes locked on Dale while he spoke, and there was a certain quality to his stare, similar to how he’d looked at him back on the porch—like he didn’t completely trust Dale. A tiny suspicion. An inkling.

  Dale didn’t immediately reply. He wanted to lash out at them, haul both of their asses to jail. But he had to maintain his cover. He still didn’t know what Hendrix’s massive plan was for that day, and he knew that it somehow involved a nuclear weapons facility. And Russians. Whatever Hendrix had planned, it had the potential for devastating, international, world-changing ramifications. As awful as Agent Maddox’s murder had been, Dale would need to file it away in his mental notes and continue to play along. For now.

  Even after watching a man get half-decapitated.

  “No,” Dale said. “I’m still with you, Asa. It was just so … gruesome.”

  Hendrix’s eyes grew cold, and he watched Dale for a moment. He then raised his arm and looked at his watch, dramatically.

  “Getting late, Tommy. I still need those sandwiches,” he said. “Probably more your speed—sandwich duty.”

  Cody snickered behind him.

  Dale again had to restrain himself. He took a breath. And nodded.

  “Okay.”

  Hendrix shook his head in disgust. “Go clean yourself up, you goddamn pussy.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The desk chair creaked as Sloane leaned back, awaiting the director’s response.

  The good news was the target had been eliminated and was, therefore, no longer a threat.

  The bad news was plentiful.

  Sloane and his men hadn’t been the ones to eliminate the target; the target had been killed before any intel had been extracted; and Sloane had no explanation as to the target’s connection to Y-12, Asa Hendrix, Trent Steeger, the Russians, or the mysterious man who carried a Model 36.

  Basically, Sloane’s assignment had just changed from an intriguing cerebral challenge to a complete shit storm.

  All in the blink of an eye.

  Or, rather, the explosion of Donovan Maddox’s head.

  He was in his motel room on the west side of Oak Ridge. A simple motor lodge. Unassuming. Cheap furnishings. Musty air. The stale smell of cigarette smoke. He had the curtains drawn. There was the sound of traffic from the nearby street.

  Finally, the director spoke. “Not your best work, Agent Sloane.”

  Sloane wasn’t the groveling type. And groveling wasn’t the thing to do with the director. Nor any other federal agent, for that matter. Just accept your failings with dignified resignation.

  “Yes, sir,” was all he said.

  The director clicked his tongue. There was a pause, and Sloane prepared himself for a request that he return to Langley.

  “And what does this other man look like?” the director said.

  “Above average height. Athletic build. Brown hair. Casual attire. Armed. Smith & Wesson Model 36.”

  Another pause.

  “All right. Change of plans,” the director said. “Follow the guy.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Dale held a small poster in his hand, its background a pink-yellow-green gradient, the kind of poster that announces concerts and other entertainment events. In big letters across the top was:

  DARRELL LUTZ: UNLOCK YOUR MIND

  Two Days Only, March 22nd & 23rd

  Below this was a photo of a man holding a microphone, mouth open, in the middle of a powerful speech. It was a man Dale recognized.

  Asa Hendrix.

  He handed the poster back to Becker.

  They stood outside the guard station at the front gate of the massive Y-12 complex. Strange, industrial, and almost ominous-looking buildings loomed behind them. When Dale had driven up in a vehicle with a tag not on the registered list—the old Dodge truck—Becker had rushed over in person to confirm Dale’s identity.

  Becker squinted in the
bright sunlight. Dale wore his aviator sunglasses.

  “Lutz worked in the State Department for nineteen years. A Field Service Officer,” Becker said.

  “An FSO? You gotta be kidding me.”

  Hendrix’s communications skills were clearly in line with a career as an international diplomat, so that part made sense to Dale. What bothered him was Hendrix’s malignancy. Dale had just witnessed the man instruct someone to blow a guy’s head in half. Not the kind of person you want representing the U.S. on the world’s stage.

  “Why nineteen years?” Dale said. “Why not get a retirement?”

  “Lutz said his wife and kids couldn’t take the lifestyle anymore.”

  “This is the same wife who left him and took the kids with her,” Dale said skeptically.

  “Exactly. I had my bloodhound, Kieran Burks, dig into it further. Ends up, Lutz had been under the microscope during his last year with the State Department. Funds were disappearing at the embassy in Copenhagen, Lutz’s last station. When the investigation got close to him, he suddenly quit. He comes back to the States, his wife leaves, and he starts motivational speaking.”

  “You said he only did the speaking for a year. Looks like he was doing well with it,” Dale said, pointing at the poster in Becker’s hand. “Why stop out of the blue?”

  “Because the State Department’s investigation continued during that year. He was indicted for embezzlement. Then he disappeared.”

  “Holy shit,” Dale said. “He’s a damn federal fugitive.”

  “He comes back here to this area, somewhere he hasn’t been since he was eighteen, a familiar place where no one would recognize him, and he creates a fake identity, saying he’s another Prophet of Oak Ridge. That’s where we lose sight of the narrative. We haven’t been able to figure out why the hell he came back here.”

  Something clicked in Dale’s brain.

  Something massive.

  “I know why,” he said.

  “Don’t hold out on me.”

  “It all ties to Steeger.”