Chapter 1

The phone ringing woke him in the night.

Thirty-five-year-old Garrett Finnigan rolled to his side and picked up the receiver, listening. It was three-fifteen in the morning.

On the other side of the line a man said, “Colorado is a river.”

Garrett knew who it was immediately. “Yes, sir.”

“My office. Nine.”

Then, the line disconnected.

Garrett put the phone back into its cradle on the nightstand and set his alarm clock for seven a.m. and then went back to sleep.

Tuesday morning, wearing a suit and tie, his shoulder holster concealed by his jacket, Sergeant Major Garrett Finnigan showed his ID quickly to a guard. He was given a nod.

Walking down a long sterile white corridor, Garrett bypassed more security men wearing black suits, radio earpieces, and concealed weapons.

“The director will see you now.”

Garrett stood outside a closed door. Leaning to listen through it first, he then tapped it with his knuckle.

“Come in.”

Opening the door, Garrett entered a government office, one with the Washington DC State Seal in a frame on the wall behind a desk. State, government department, and the nation’s banners hung limply on poles near a window overlooking the Washington Monument.

Garrett approached the man with white hair and piercing blue eyes sitting at his desk. He gestured for Garrett to sit.

Unbuttoning his suit jacket, Garrett took a seat in a chair opposite the desk. His clothing felt tight on his muscular build.

“We lost a good man last night.”

Garrett listened carefully.

“One of our best operators. AJ Henderson was found dead in a back alley of Baltimore.”

Garrett registered every detail.

“He was scheduled to meet a contact from the state department here in Washington yesterday and when he didn’t arrive, I sent scouts to find him.”

Garrett studied the director’s movements, his eye contact, and the way he shuffled the paperwork on his desk.

“I have no idea who may be responsible. I want you to look into his death. The man he was supposed to meet with seems to have vanished. So, he’s a possible suspect.”

“Yes, sir.”

The director, David Jordan, handed him a file. “This is what I have on him. Read it. The local police were notified and are on the scene.”

Garrett took the folder.

“I want you to find the man that killed him. I want him brought here to me. Or neutralized. This man may be a threat to National security. He has murdered a top operator.”

“Yes, sir.”

“If you have any questions, contact my office.”

“Yes, sir.” Garrett stood and held the file. He looked back at the director first, studying him carefully, then took the file with him and left.

Outside the door, security officers lingered.

Garrett kept his gaze ahead and left the building. The late June heat was building. His tie blew in the warm breeze.

Garrett scanned the area, the pedestrians, vehicle traffic, and surrounding buildings.

He sat inside his sedan and opened the file.

In this dossier he had information on two men. One was the deceased, and the other was the contact the dead man was supposed to meet with. Inside the file was both a headshot and full body photograph, height, weight, date of birth, social security number, blood type, fingerprint card, previous addresses, work and education background, and family located here in Maryland was included.

Garrett inspected the possible suspect’s face. White male, twenty-seven-years of age, five-ten, one-hundred-eighty pounds. Brown eyes, brown hair. Aaron B. Zefron.

He didn’t look like a killer to Garrett, but he’d been wrong before. He read his rap sheet and last known address and then drove to the location of the murdered operator first. That intel had also been included in his information packet.

Garrett arrived. The local police were on the scene. Two black sedans with government plates were nearby. Garrett exited his car and showed his ID to a man in uniform. He backed away, allowing Garrett access to an alley that was used as a dump for trash. Crime scene tape flapped in the wind, and it stunk of rotting garbage and flesh.

Garrett stepped over the yellow tape and paused to survey the ground. This part of town, Mill Hill, was known to be high crime, muggers’ alley. It was an illegal dumping ground for trash, appliances, burned cars, and tire rubber. This was not the type of meeting ground he would expect an operator to choose. Something wasn’t right. Garrett sensed it immediately.

Since he wasn’t the investigating personnel here, he took a quick read of the men on the scene and figured out who was in charge. A plainclothes detective. Photographers, forensic experts, and a K9 unit were present.

The K9 dog was in a car, barking from the back seat.

Garrett assumed there was no scent track, or the animal would be on it. Although getting any suspect scent in this dump would be next to impossible.

The man he assumed was the lead investigator paused when he noticed him. Garrett flashed his ID quickly, not wanting too much attention. He approached the policeman. “Are you in charge?”

“I am. Lieutenant Bradford, Baltimore PD.”

“I would like to inspect the crime scene and victim, sir, with your permission.”

“What does the CIA have to do with this homicide?”

“Probably nothing. But that’s why I’m here. To make sure.”

The police lieutenant nodded his head. “Okay, boys, back up and let this man have it for a moment.”

The forensic team stepped aside.

Garrett moved carefully through the grass and weeds, not wanting to disturb any possible evidence. He noticed the dead man’s jacket had been removed and tossed aside. He asked the lieutenant, “Was his jacket off when you found him?”

“Yes. We haven’t moved anything yet.”

Garrett crouched next to the body. It had begun to decompose overnight in the summer humid heat and smelled. He’d been dead for hours. The victim had been struck twice with a blunt instrument. He had a massive head wound on his forehead and a bashed skull on the back of the head at the base. No doubt he was hit first in the face, then when he went down, he was hit again, ensuring he was dead. Garrett had a feeling the victim and killer knew one another. How else could an operator be struck from the front?

Garrett saw all his pockets were turned out, and there was no rings or watch, which meant they may have been removed by the assailant.

Someone made this look like a robbery. He wasn’t buying it.

Garrett glanced at the dirt around the man. Needles, used condoms, nasty shit. Then, he noticed something shiny and plastic, bright blue. He picked it up and saw it was a poker chip, cut in half, zigzagged. He held it up. “What’s this?”

“There’s a ton of trash here. Everything from beer cans to car parts. It’s a forensic nightmare.”

Garrett stood with the blue chip in his hand and then noticed another, not far from it. He picked it up. It was a perfect fit for the one in his hand.

He kept the two pieces of plastic and said, “Thank you, Lieutenant.” Garrett walked back to his sedan.

“Why is the CIA interested in this case. I’d like an answer, sir.” The lieutenant looked worried.

“Yes. So would I.” Garrett walked away.

With a frustrated exhaled, the police lieutenant signaled for his forensic team to continue.

Garrett started his car and blew the air conditioner vent at himself in the warmth. He inspected the two pieces curiously.

They were clean, as if newly dropped, and not snapped. They were cut specifically to fit together, like a puzzle piece.

He pocketed them and left the area.

~

Aaron B. Zefron watched the street where law enforcement had clustered. Hiding behind a fence coated with graffiti tags, Aaron grew anxious and afraid.

Last night he was instructed to meet a man, AJ Henderson, in a sleazy area of DC. They were to discuss a drop for Top Secret information on microfilm.

Although he thought it was a shitty area to meet, Aaron met the man. They didn’t linger. He held out the poker chip, AJ Henderson handed him his, and when they fit together. Aaron knew Henderson was legit and could be trusted. He dropped the plastic pieces in the weeds and said, “The contact in Europe wants gold. Not cash.”

“How much?”

“Six-hundred and fifty thousand. He wants gold so the cash can’t be traced. I can give you the bank account in Switzerland he’s using. He said once the payment drops, he’ll release the microfilm.”

“Make it six-hundred and twenty-five thousand. I want something for myself.”

“I’ll tell him six-hundred thousand, that way we’ll both get something.”

“How will I contact you again?” Henderson asked, giving the stinking alley glances in both directions in paranoia.

“We’ll meet here. Same time tomorrow.”

He got a nod.

Aaron left, jogging away from the area in the deep night. He got in his car and sped away. His nerves were shot. This was his last mission as a messenger. No way was he cut out for this espionage bullshit. He’d been conned into it. Why? Because he had a criminal record. Part of his plea deal was to help the government in some shady backhanded deals.

What choice did he have? It beat prison.

He’d been incarcerated only once, as a youth. The only thing he liked about prison was being around men. Sex. Yeah. That’s the one perk the joint had going for it. But he much preferred being a free man and intended to stay that way.

Later that night when he watched the local news, Aaron was stunned to hear of a man being mugged in the alley where he had met Henderson.

He tried to contact his handler but wasn’t able to.

Aaron was an outsider. He wasn’t law enforcement. He had one man to contact when things were happening. No one else knew about him, and he knew of no one else. His handler demanded it be that way. Who was he to argue?

He didn’t know what to think. Had Henderson just been mugged? Or did someone set him up?

The fact that he couldn’t contact his handler made him anxious.

So? He packed a bag with nearly all his clothing and left his apartment in the wee hours of the morning. Intuition told him he wasn’t safe. Previously he was able to make contact with a man named Steinmetz. This man was an old dude, with a weird accent, and walked hunched over. They always met at night when the lighting sucked.

As he went on the lam, considering renting a motel room to hide, he wondered if he should catch a plane to Europe. He had no idea if he was in trouble. He’d done as he was told. He met the dude. He then told Steinmetz the contact was complete and let him know the price for the microfilm. That was his job. He’d done it. He started his shitty old car and drove to the alley where the killing had occurred, just to peek.

Then, he was supposed to meet the guy tonight. Gee, I guess that’s not going to happen. What the fuck?

Could he be on a do-not-fly list? He had no reason to flee the country, until now. Racking his brains as to how the man was killed last night, Aaron wondered if he should go to the police.

No way.

He’d be suspected because of his criminal background, no doubt.

Fuck!

Aaron felt like a caged animal as he spied on the police activity along with a few dozen other citizens that came to gawk. He figured instead of panicking and renting a sleezy motel room, he’d keep a low profile, then, drive by his apartment house to see if there were any suspicious vehicles lingering. If so, then he knew he had been double-crossed.

What am I supposed to do now? Huh?

He left the area, driving away from the scene so he had time to think.

~

Back at his office in DC, Garrett reread the information he had been given on AJ Henderson. He then used government record files and located a home address. Henderson was an operator using an alias. Garrett had a hunch he was armed that night because his jacket had been removed. That meant someone knew he carried a gun. A common mugger would never have suspected that, nor bothered to look. He’d grab the wallet, watch, and split. Or… if he did see a holster, he’d snatch the gun. Why remove the jacket at all? That made no sense.

If, indeed, Henderson was hit first on the front of his head, then he knew his killer, otherwise why didn’t he just shoot the assailant. Something simply did not add up.

Using a network computer that restricted access to all but the top few in this building would result in fake intel. That’s how these operators worked. At high level jobs they were given false names, PO boxes, and resume files that were fabricated.

But Garrett had access to hard copies. He knew where to look for old data, still on paper and microfiche.

He stood from his desk, adjusted his shoulder holster, and left his suit jacket on the back of his chair. He was hot but that was normal. He was a very fit man, and his bulk wasn’t easy to cool off.

His necktie removed, his cotton shirt unbuttoned, the sleeves rolled up, Garrett climbed the back stairwell to the personnel office. He used his ID card to gain entry and opened a metal door.

Inside the room, lights on sensors lit when he entered. The information inside this place was kept like a bank vault. Not many had high enough clearance to gain access.

He inspected the file identifiers and found the H’s. Opening the metal file drawer with a key, Garrett fanned the files and located AJ Henderson.

He removed it and rested it on the top of the other files in the drawer.

Inside the folder was a photo of the man, the picture that was used on his government ID card, his height, weight, date of birth, which Garrett was given by the director. But, he wasn’t satisfied and dug deeper.

He read this man’s real name and home address. The operator had a wife and kids. It wasn’t Garrett’s job to notify them. Some families were kept in the dark. There was no way Garrett would know if Henderson’s wife knew he was an operator.

He doubted it.

Garrett looked behind him quickly, seeing he was indeed alone, and then took a miniature camera out of his top shirt pocket. Blocking his act with his girth, he photographed the confidential information secretly.

Once he’d gotten everything he needed on the dead man, Garrett replaced the file and stopped short, seeing the F’s on another drawer. He opened it.

His file. Garrett Finnigan, Sergeant Major.

He pulled it out and scanned it. He hadn’t seen it recently.

His background in special forces was notated along with his entire military career, commendations, medals, and honors as well as his civilian jobs. A list of his skills followed; sniper, marine, expert marksman, black belt in karate, judo, scuba diver, jet pilot… trained assassin.

Several aliases were listed. He had no family members listed. No emergency contact. But his Baltimore home address was printed.

Garrett wanted to remove this file to keep his personal information away from potential backlash. But it wouldn’t matter. Someone somewhere in this massive building had copies. Also, under lock and key. Keys he did not have.

Garrett held the file under his arm, then looked up at the corner of the room. A surveillance camera was watching. So, he put his personnel file back into the drawer and locked it.

With the information he had come for on his camera, Garrett left the secure vault and made his way to a dark room to develop the prints, for his eyes only.

~

Aaron drove to his apartment at one in the morning. He parked two blocks away after circling it and not seeing anything suspicious. His head low, carrying his small suitcase, he briskly walked to the lobby of the building. His apartment was in a low-income area of Baltimore where he could disappear in the shadows. It was near the notorious Mill Hill area.

Street gangs prowled the neighborhood, but he had no fear of them. They left him alone.

He jogged up the cement stairs to his floor, glancing behind him in paranoia. Aaron was about to use his key and then noticed scratches near the lock. A tool may have been used to pry it open.

He pressed his ear to the door. No sound.

Aaron turned the knob and looked into the blackness. He shut the door behind him and touched a light switch. The place had been ransacked. Someone had made entry and tossed the place.

Fuck .

Leaving his suitcase near the door for a quick escape, he did a quick search of the three rooms, but no one was here. The clothing he’d left behind had been dumped from his dresser drawers, his closets were rifled through, his kitchen cabinets were open, the cushions of his couch were toppled, and nothing had been left untouched.

He knew what they were after.

The microfilm he and Henderson were discussing.

“I don’t have it yet, morons.” Aaron shook his head at the mess. Well, they knew where to find him. That was obvious.

“Now what?” Aaron threw his hands up in frustration.

He moved a couch cushion back on the frame, sat down, and covered his face with his hands.

~

Garrett notated a car license plate as a solo male parked near the apartment house carrying a suitcase and seemed paranoid as fuck.

He checked the numbers with his paperwork, and the license plate and car model matched.

Garrett had already been inside the apartment unit, seeing what had occurred, the search and ransacking. Someone was looking for something inside this young man’s home. Garrett didn’t know what… yet.

He placed a listening device inside a lampshade and left to watch the place to see if Aaron returned.

Who tossed this man’s home?

If someone was already onto him, searching his home, why was I assigned? What were they looking for?

This doesn’t make sense.

Why did the director choose him for this detail?

The suspect was being cautious, that was certain.

Something told Garrett this man did not murder AJ Henderson. A gut instinct? But he knew better than to believe those. He’d been wrong before.

The director gave Garrett the distinct impression that Aaron Zefron would flee the country. Garrett waited, assuming Aaron would pack a bag and get his ass to an airport. But the opposite had occurred. Aaron returned to his home with his suitcase. He did not flee when the murder was discovered.

While he waited, Garrett observed the street action. Local drug dealers and whores out for a buck. Cars slowed, men emerged from shadows, cash for dope, cash for sex. Then, as quickly as the buyers showed, they vanished.

Lights from windows dimmed as the wee hours approached.

An hour had past and Aaron did not flee. He also did not make any phone calls, because there was no chatting coming from the bug he planted.

Garrett emerged from his car, dressed in jet-black, and touched the holster on his waist belt as he crossed the street. The transmitter tucked inside his ear, Garrett wondered if Aaron would call for flight reservations. But he heard nothing but movement, rustling.

He entered the broken security door entrance and used a back staircase to ascend to Aaron’s floor.

This didn’t make sense to him. It was too easy. Why would the director ask him to find this man when he was right here? Right where his last address was listed? The local police could have picked him up for suspected murder.

No. Something wasn’t sitting right with him.

Standing near the apartment entrance, smelling old cooking odors like from deep frying, lingered in the hall, Garrett pressed the listening earpiece tighter to his ear. No talking. Just the sound of movement.

More packing? Why? Aaron already had a suitcase with him.

He tried the doorknob. It was locked. Before Aaron returned, someone had pried it open. He had gained access into the place without breaking in. Someone had already done that.

Garrett removed his gun and pressed his ear to the door, getting ready to make entry.