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  “What did you do?” Cat’s fork stopped halfway to her mouth.

  “Best way to stop someone from tormenting other people? I make it so they’re so busy trying to put their lives together, they can’t get their happy high from making other folks suffer.”

  “Tell me you didn’t order them killed.”

  “Nope. Just adjusted their finances. The nice thing about a person’s credit history? Once you make it disappear, they can’t never get it back again.”

  12

  Childs

  The Rusty Bucket Tavern and Stone Fired Pizza had been a tried-and-true retreat for the Washington district CID. The bar was well stocked, the taps carried local microbrews, the food was good and reasonably priced. The place was just loud enough that shop talk didn’t carry, but agents could still hear each other over the din. The décor was dark barn wood, burnished copper, and polished brass with comfortable rustic-leather chairs.

  Where they sat at a table in the rear, Hanson Childs leaned forward and asked his friend and superior, Captain LeRoy Holloman, “Am I being tested?”

  “I’d say so,” Holloman told him, an eye squinted over his beer. “It’s like you’ve vanished from the face of the earth. Your bank accounts, your car, your phone, evicted from your apartment, all your credit cards don’t exist, I’ve never seen or heard the like. If God was picking a new Job, I’d say you were it. That what you’ve done, Hands? Pissed off God?”

  Hands. He’d gotten the nickname as a shortened version of Hanson back in his high school football days. As a wide receiver, he’d set school records for catching footballs.

  “Cap, I mean am I being tested over Santa Fe? What happened there? That whole investigation? Because if I am, I’ve never spilled a word. Or is that what they’re trying to find out? See if I’ll start asking questions? Demanding answers.”

  “Hands, all I can tell you is that I don’t know squat. Whatever happened out west, I got it from on high that you were never there and your record would be altered to reflect that fact. So, if I were you, I’d keep every bean in the pot locked down.”

  “As if I’d ever spill them.” Hanson rubbed his face, peered into the mirror behind the bar to see his pale blond hair gleaming in the lights, his light-blue eyes looking haggard. Was that really him?

  I’ve lost everything. Overnight. Vanished.

  How the hell did that happen? And when he’d used Cap’s phone to trace down the problem, no one could even find the records. Like they’d been erased. And it was impossible stuff, like the fact that according to his loan officer, no payments had been made for six months since he’d signed the papers for the Mustang, when, damn it, he’d deducted them right along. Same with his apartment. The computer had him listed as five months in delinquency. Sam, at the desk, said that he knew it had to be a mistake, but the corporation in Florida that owned the complex insisted they had no record of any rent payments. Hanson Childs had to go.

  For three days now, all Hanson had done was try to piece his life together. He just knew it had to go back to Santa Fe.

  He took a deep breath, feeling sick. If Cap hadn’t offered him a couch, let him keep a few things, Hanson would have been on the street. Susan’s leaving had been the worst part. She’d refused to believe that the account on his computer wasn’t a fake that he’d put there as a means to keep her in the dark. That he’d been playing the stock market, paying blackmail, or up to his eyebrows in some other form of malfeasance.

  “Is that all the better you know me?” he’d demanded.

  “I only know you as a tough cop,” she’d shot back. “And now I find out you’re either an incompetent one. Or corrupt. Or both!” And then she’d stomped out the door. Was refusing to answer any call when she didn’t recognize the number. He’d been reduced to the level of pleading on her voicemail.

  “NSA could do this,” Cap noted after sipping his beer. “I mean it’s, like, across the board. Your bank, your car loan, phone account, the credit cards, rent, that’s a lot of places. Not just some simple computer hack.”

  “And don’t forget my credit rating score. It’s gone. No record of me. Who has the power to do that?”

  “Hands, tell me straight: You sure you’re not into something? Drugs? Payoffs? Some security breach? That this isn’t more than just some black-on-black operation you stumbled into out west?”

  “I swear, Cap. I’ve been by the book.”

  “The old saying was, ‘Once Hands gets a grip, he never lets go.’ You didn’t let your emotions override your good sense?”

  “How’d I get picked for Colorado? Why’d you send me?”

  Cap chewed his lips, glanced around, and lowered his voice. “They said they wanted someone who’d get results fast. That they had a situation that needed to be cleaned up, and they didn’t care how it got done. Oh, and that the SA had to be able to work with a partner. You fit the bill.”

  “Wonder if Jaime Chenwith’s having the same shit pulled on him?”

  “You tried calling him?”

  “Can’t. I’m under orders not to. The words were ‘under no circumstances.’ ”

  “I don’t know what to tell you.”

  “Cap, my fucking life’s been stolen,” he roared louder than he should have. Fought to keep his heart from hammering through his breastbone. Fist clenched, he fought tears. Nothing made sense. He was a sergeant/E-7 in the CID. One of their best, and he couldn’t come up with a single lead when it came to figuring out who’d erased his identity.

  “At least your check will come to my place on the first. Just be glad they still mail.”

  Hanson had managed to get that cleared up. But it was most of the month away. He had thirty-four dollars and fifty-five cents to his name.

  Cap had said he’d cover him, let him have the couch. But after that? Base housing, for sure. Thank God he was in the army.

  He noticed when the two men, dressed in suits, entered the front. Knew they were agents. Wouldn’t have paid them the slightest attention. It was that kind of bar, after all. But when another two stepped in from the back entrance where it opened out into the alley, that changed the equation.

  As they approached the table, Hanson’s heart felt more and more like a lump of lead. This couldn’t be happening. But it was.

  “Captain Holloman,” the first agent—a tall guy in his forties—said. “My apologies, sir.” To Hanson he said, “Special Agent Hanson Childs, would you please come with us? We have some issues we’d like to discuss with you.”

  “I didn’t do anything,” Hanson whispered, feeling defeated as he slipped off the stool and started for the door. The agents fell in around him in a diamond. Just like they’d do when escorting a prisoner out of a room and they didn’t want a scene.

  Chancing a last glance over his shoulder, it was to see Cap looking desolate and shaking his head in disappointment.

  13

  Childs

  For Hanson Childs, the trip seemed instantaneous and at the same time interminable. He was wedged in the back seat of a nondescript government Chevrolet Tahoe as it wound through DC streets. An agent sat on either side, keeping him sandwiched. As he would have done in their position, neither spoke so much as a word. That was standard procedure. And Hanson knew enough not to ask questions. These guys—even if they knew—weren’t going to tell him squat. It was all part of the game, designed to make him uncomfortable, insecure, afraid, and compliant.

  It was working.

  His anxiety pegged the needle when they crossed the I-495 bridge into Alexandria, took the Patrick Street exit, and then a right on Pendleton. Several blocks later, the Tahoe turned into an alley. As the Tahoe made its way past dumpsters, Hanson tried to swallow. Couldn’t. The effect was like a knotted sock stuck in his throat.

  The vehicle pulled to a stop; the rear of a commercial building was illuminated by a cone of security ligh
t. In a dirty, whitewashed brick wall, a brown steel door and barred windows faced the alley.

  “We’re here,” the driver announced needlessly as he propped his hands on the wheel.

  The guy to Hanson’s right opened the door, stepped out, and gestured. “Please don’t make this difficult. You know the drill.”

  Hanson considered his odds, figured he might be able to take them both before the driver could get out. Then it hit him that he didn’t have a single clue about what was going on. And what the hell was he going to get by running? One thing was sure; he needed some kind of answers to find a way out of this mess.

  “I’m offering no resistance,” he told the man. “Let’s get this over with.”

  The two agents escorted him to the door. It opened as they approached, the man inside having monitored their arrival.

  Hanson was led down a dingy hallway, then right into a crummy little office. He might have stepped into a Raymond Chandler novel: The place looked like it was last used in the 1930s. A battered wooden desk stood in the middle, ancient metal file cabinets and shelves crammed with yellowed papers to the right. An electric fan with a frayed cord perched on a credenza. The walls were covered with cheap wood-veneer paneling beneath stained acoustical ceiling panels. A single incandescent light illuminated the room.

  Behind the desk, in an oak swivel chair, sat a tall man in a very expensive suit. The guy had silvering hair, a patrician face, and confident gray eyes. A cup of coffee was cradled in the man’s right hand.

  Something about him . . . Hanson couldn’t quite place the guy.

  To the officers, the suit said, “That will be sufficient. Thank you, gentlemen. If you’ll wait out back, I’ll let you know when I need you.”

  The two agents nodded and left without a word. The third guy, the door man, took a position just outside in the hallway, hands held before him.

  “Staff Sergeant and Special Agent Hanson Childs,” the suit told him. “I hear that your life has taken a severe turn for the worse in the last week.”

  That prickle of unease ran down Hanson’s back. “You know anything about that? You behind it? Got a reason for ruining my life? ’Cause if you do, you’re gonna find yourself in a whole world of—”

  “Whoa! Easy there.” The suit held up a cautioning hand. “Down, Sergeant. It’s not me. Just the opposite, I’m on your side. I’m your way out of this mess.”

  “Why do I think I know you?”

  “Name’s Bill Stevens. I work for the president.”

  Holy shit. That was it. Stevens. The president’s chief of staff. Some called him the most powerful man on the planet. The chill running down Hanson’s back turned a couple of degrees colder. He swallowed, voice wavering. “What the hell am I doing here, sir?”

  Stevens waved to one of the rickety chairs along the wall. “Have a seat, Sergeant. Want a cup of coffee?” He glanced up. “Mack, could you bring the sergeant a cup?”

  As the man at the door departed, Stevens added, “I’m afraid it’s not Starbucks, but it’s better than nothing.” Then, “Seriously, sit.”

  Hanson lowered himself to the closest chair, wary eyes on Stevens. “The president’s chief of staff doesn’t set up meetings in old buildings with a down-and-out CID agent. My guess is that you’re a look-alike? An actor? Is that what this is all about? Some kind of setup? A way to play me? ’Cause I don’t buy this for a minute.”

  “You’re not being played, Sergeant. You’re caught in the middle of a power struggle that could remake the planet. Which is why I’m skulking around Alexandria when I ought to be riding herd on Ben Masters. Since he was elected president, he’s become something of a handful.”

  Mack reentered, handing Hanson a Styrofoam cup of coffee and stating, “Second car’s just pulled up. I’ll go let him in.”

  “Thanks, Mack.”

  “Him?” Hanson asked as Mack vanished down the hall.

  “Yeah, well, you’re not the only one to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.”

  Down the hall, the door could be heard as it slammed. Moments later, Jaime Chenwith strode in, the expression on his face one of anger, frustration, and incipient violence. He stopped short, taking in first Stevens, and then Hanson. Quick thoughts played behind his dark eyes, then a faint smile bent his lips. “Hey, amigo. This shit just gets better and better.”

  “Yeah, well, my life’s not turning out so well.”

  “Mine, either,” Jaime muttered. Turning to Stevens, he did a double take, gave a slight shake of the head. “This ain’t happening, man. Uh, I mean, sir.”

  “Take a seat, Master Sergeant. And, yes, it’s happening. First, I want you to know that neither I nor any of my people are behind your recent misfortunes. And before you ask who is . . . well, we’re still working on that little problem. Our search for the hacker who cleaned out your accounts dead-ended in Belarus with a two-bit scammer who doesn’t have the necessary skills. Our guess? He’s just a cutout.”

  “What the hell is going on?” Jaime asked, stepping forward. “My bank accounts, my credit rating, my mortgage? It’s, like, all fucked.” He swallowed. “Apologies for the language, sir.”

  “Not a problem. Couldn’t have said it better myself. Have a seat, Sergeant. Mack, another cup of coffee.”

  As Jaime seated himself uncertainly, Hanson asked, “You, too, huh? Everything I had went away. Funds, phone, apartment, even my beautiful blue Mustang. Susan beat feet. I’m sleeping on a friend’s couch, for God’s sake.”

  “ ’Bout the same with me.” Jaime slitted an eye. “It’s like a fucking apocalypse.”

  Mack appeared with coffee, stepped back out the door.

  Stevens gestured at the room. “Sorry for the cloak and dagger, but this is about the safest place I could come up with on short notice. No chance that anyone could listen in, present or past. Mack got the key from a real estate agent this afternoon. Nothing electronic on any of us. We can talk.”

  The chill intensified in Hanson’s spine. “You want to tell us what’s going on, sir?”

  “Yeah, and here’s how it fits together: You two were chosen to go after the people who raided the Skientia mansion in Aspen. Discern who was behind that little charade. Bring them to justice, especially given that it involved stolen government aircraft, a rather messy shootout, a media circus, and lot of unwanted attention.”

  “Yes, sir. But the rest is a matter of national security.” Jaime glanced at Hanson, wet his lips. “You’ll have to go through channels for the details, sir.”

  “Gentlemen, I’m well aware of what Grazier did to you in New Mexico. It’s no secret that I’m the president’s right-hand man. I’ve got every security clearance on the books.” Stevens reached down, handed them each an envelope. “Those are orders, signed by the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff reassigning you and authorizing you to cooperate with my investigation.” A pause. “You may take a moment to read through and absolve yourselves of any reservations you may be feeling.”

  Hanson tightened his gut muscles against the runny feeling inside, scanned the lines, checked the signatures. Figured that—hell, yeah—they must be genuine. He glanced at Jaime, seeing the man’s unease. They both shrugged in unison.

  “What went down out there?” Stevens asked softly. “The short version, please.”

  “Yeah, well, the fingerprints in the stolen Forest Service chopper got us a hit on a Major Winchester Wesson Swink,” Jaime told him. “Prints off a discarded MP-5 magazine at the Skientia mansion matched those of a Chief Petty Officer Karla Raven. Both were supposed to be institutionalized at Grantham Barracks, a military psychiatric hospital outside Colorado Springs. A bunch of local burglaries led us to a room at the St. Regis in Aspen where we picked up additional evidence implicating Dr. Timothy Ryan and more of his patients.”

  Hanson added, “Grantham Barracks was a bust. None
of the patients implicated were on the premises. A tip took us to Los Alamos, where, unsurprisingly, Skientia had one of its labs. By the time we arrived, the action had already gone down. It was like a war zone. Six dead, four critically wounded. From there, we tracked the suspects to the Buffalo Thunder Resort, called for backup, and placed them all under arrest.”

  Jaime leaned forward, eyes glittering. “That’s when General Grazier walked in and pulled the rug out from under us. Said everything that had happened was classified. Had us sign a slew of nondisclosure agreements. Told us to hit the road.”

  “And what did you do?” Stevens asked.

  “We followed orders, sir.” Hanson stiffened in defiance. “That’s what we do. Down to the letter. I never, ever, so much as breathed a word of what went down out west. So, if wrecking my credit, confiscating my money, and fucking me over is some kind of punishment or test, I pass. Whatever this is about, I didn’t deserve it.”

  “Me, either,” Jaime muttered.

  “Like I said, I don’t know who’s behind your recent misfortunes.” Stevens studied them, seemed to like what he was seeing. “You really believe that a bunch of escaped lunatics pulled this off?”

  “Do you, sir?”

  “Not a chance in hell. The prints on that magazine? The Forest Service helicopter? It’s to mislead us. Perfectly played, I might add. Of course, it was crazy. We’re to believe escaped nuts from an insane asylum orchestrated the whole op? I call it a perfectly played diversion with Raven, Swink, and the rest nothing more than ready-made fall guys.”

  Stevens waved a chiding finger back and forth as if in negation. “My call? Grazier has a top spec ops team hidden away somewhere. But, damn it, try as I might, and even with the strings I’ve been pulling in the Defense Department, I can’t figure out who the hell they are. They’re not private sector. If they were foreign, Israeli, French, maybe Brits, we’d have some clue.” He studied them. “You were there, face-to-face with Grazier’s psychos. What did you think?”