The Consultant Read online

  THE CONSULTANT

  Also by Tj O’Connor

  New Sins for Old Scores

  The Gumshoe Ghost Mysteries

  Dying to Know

  Dying for the Past

  Dying to Tell

  THE CONSULTANT

  A JONATHAN HUNTER THRILLER

  Tj O’Connor

  Copyright © 2018 Tj O’Connor

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, businesses, locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-1-60809-283-3

  Cover design by Christian Fuenfhausen

  Published in the United States of America by Oceanview Publishing Sarasota, Florida

  www.oceanviewpub.com

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  For Wallace K. Fetterolf

  The Real Oscar LaRue

  June 24, 1924–August 16, 2015

  It is foolish and wrong

  To mourn the men who died.

  Rather, we should

  thank God that such men lived.

  —GENERAL GEORGE S. PATTON

  CONTENTS

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  THIS NOVEL WAS not my first rodeo—my fourth and ninth actually if you count the first draft several years ago and the rewrites I did this past year—but without question, it was the most difficult. Oh, not because I languished in the writing or struggled with characters and plot (I did, but that’s normal). No, it was because I wrote the first draft while my friend and mentor Wally Fetterolf—to whom this book is dedicated—looked on and badgered me for perfection. Five years later, after having shelved it to write four mysteries, I was halfway through the rewrite when I lost Wally to age and a bad heart. For the next year this novel was a difficult slog. Memories and loss can be a painful companion. I almost didn’t get it right, and if not for the guidance of my brilliant agent, Kimberley Cameron, and my new editor extraordinaire, Terri B, I never would have made it through. I did, and Wally would have loved this final work. Along the way, a very good friend and a real-deal ops-guy, Mike P., jumped in for a lot of laughs, advice, and critiques that kept the story close to home for both of us. Thank you all.

  Of course there are the usual gang to thank, too, whose help was invaluable—my beta readers: Jean my magnificent daughter and critic; Gina; Natalia; and Nicole. Oh, yeah, also my wife, Laurie, and daughter Lindsay who loved to join us for the great evenings out with great food and spirits while critiquing the books they’ve never read. But who’s keeping score? Not me …

  Finally, and perhaps more importantly, a very special thanks to Bob and Pat G. for inviting me to Oceanview. Your confidence and encouragement has been wonderful, and I hope this is the beginning of a long dance.

  THE CONSULTANT

  CHAPTER 1

  Day 1: May 15, 2130 Hours, Daylight Saving Time

  East Bank of the Shenandoah River, Clarke County, Virginia

  THE GUNSHOTS TOOK me by surprise and, without luck, might have killed me.

  The first shot splayed a spiderweb across my windshield before it whistled past my head, peppering glass needles into my face. The second smashed my driver’s-side mirror. An amateur might have panic-braked and skidded to a stop—a fatal mistake. The shooter hesitated, anticipating that decision, and readied for my failure.

  Training. Muscle memory. Response.

  I gunned the engine, wrenched the car to the left to put more steel between me and the shooter, and sped forward, looking for cover.

  My headlights exploded and flashed dark. Bullets breached the windshield. The rearview mirror and rear window were gone. Had I not flinched, one shot would have found my right eye but shredded my headrest instead.

  I careened to a stop at the bottom of the boat launch—vulnerable. The shooter was ahead in the darkness, likely maneuvering for another shot. A closer shot. The kill shot. He’d be closing the distance and finding a new advantage.

  Luck had its limits, so I dove from the car and rolled to cover behind it. I fought to control the adrenaline and bridle my thoughts.

  Easy, Hunter, steady. Listen—watch—survive.

  I stayed low and crept along the side of the car, looking for better cover. Spring rain made the darkness murky and dense. The Shenandoah River was to my left some fifty feet. A blind guess. Overhead, two dark spans of the Route 7 bridge blocked what little light there was but provided some cover from the rain. The six substructure supports in front of me might afford me cover. They also afforded the shooter cover. He was hidden and waiting. Still, Kevin Mallory was nowhere to be seen. Under normal conditions—and normal is relative with me—I might have judged the shots’ origins. Driving headlong into an ambush on terrain I’d long ago forgotten, in darkness and rain, I was all but defeated.

  Silence.

  Easy, Hunter, easy. Count your breaths. One, two, three.

  Out there, somewhere, someone wanted me dead.

  Worse. I was unarme
d and alone.

  Jesus. Where was Kevin?

  The boat launch was just a small gravel lot tucked beneath the expanse of the Route 7 Bridge across the Shenandoah. At night it should have been empty. It was nearing ten p.m. and I hadn’t expected to find anyone but Kevin. Yet, while we’d been estranged for years, under bad circumstances, I doubted he was hunting me.

  Although, I do tend to bring out the worst in people.

  Ahead, perhaps seventy-five feet, a dark four-door SUV faced an old pickup. The vehicles were nose to nose like two dogs sniffing each other.

  No movement. No sound.

  One, two, three. I ran to the nearest bridge support, stopped, listened, and bolted to the rear of the SUV.

  Silence. Safety. But something else—a dangerous odor. The pungent scent of gasoline. A lot of gasoline.

  I got down on one knee and looked around. The dome light was on and the driver’s door was ajar. Something lay on the ground near the left front fender. A large, bulky something that washed an angry tide of flashbacks over me.

  I’d seen silhouettes like that before.

  A body.

  Bodies look the same in any country, under any dark sky. It didn’t matter if it were the rocky Afghan terrain or along a quiet country river. Their lifeless, empty shells were all hopeless. All forsaken. All discards of violence. The silhouette three yards away was no different. Except this wasn’t Afghanistan or Iraq. It was home.

  I made ready.

  No muzzle flash. No assassin’s bullet. I crept to the SUV’s rear tire, crouched low, and slithered to the front fender.

  The body was a man. He lay three feet in front of the fender and precariously vulnerable beneath the spell of the SUV’s dome light. He was tall and bulky. Not fat, but strong and muscled.

  No. No. God, no!

  After fifteen years of silence and thousands of miles, I knew the body—the man. His hair had grayed and his face was creased with age and strain. The years had been hard on him. Years he was here while I was forever there. Always elsewhere. He’d built a life from our loss while I’d escaped—run away. He once warned me that my life’s choice would leave me as I found him now, alone and dead. The irony churned bile inside me.

  Kevin Mallory.

  “Kevin,” I blurted without thinking. “Kevin, it’s me. It’s Jon.”

  My mouth was a desert and the familiar brew of adrenaline and danger coursed through me. In one quick move, I leaped from the SUV’s shadow, grabbed his shoulders, and tried to drag him back to safety.

  No sooner had I reached him when a figure charged from the darkness toward us. His arm leveled—one, two, three shots on the run—all hitting earth nearby. I threw myself over Kevin. Another shot sent stone fragments into my cheeks and neck. The figure reached the rear of the pickup, tossed something in the bed, fired another wild shot, and retreated at a dead run.

  Lightning. A brilliant flash of light, a violent percussion, then a whoosh of fire erupted from the pickup. The flames belched up and over the side panels. They spat light and heat. The truck swelled into an inferno.

  The heat singed my face. I gripped Kevin’s shoulders and dragged him the remaining feet behind the SUV. He was limp and heavy. The raging fire bathed us in light, and I finally saw him clearly. His eyes were dull and vacant. His face pale—a death mask. If life was inside, it was hidden well.

  The truck was engulfed in flames, and the heat was tremendous. It reached us and felt oddly comforting amidst the spring dampness and dark.

  “Kevin, hold on. Hold on.” I looked for an escape.

  I saw the next shot before I heard it—a flash of light where none should be—uphill near River Road. Seasoned instincts threw me atop Kevin again. Glass crackled overhead and rained down. I grabbed for the familiar weight behind my back, but my fingers closed on nothing.

  Dammit.

  I hastily searched him. No weapon. All I found was an empty holster where his handgun should have been. Where was it? In a desperate move, I rolled off and snaked forward beneath the truck’s firelight and groped around where he’d been. It took several long, vulnerable seconds. I dared not breathe or even look for the shooter, fearing I’d see the shot that would end me. Finally, my fingers closed on a wet, gritty semiautomatic.

  As I retreated to the SUV, something moved in the darkness. I pivoted and fired two rapid shots, spacing them three feet apart.

  Response. A shot dug into the gravel inches away to my left.

  Rule one of mortal combat—incoming fire has the right of way.

  Retreat. The flash was a hundred feet away. The shooter had withdrawn and angled south down River Road.

  Should I take him? Could I?

  One, two, three. Reason, Hunter, reason.

  The shooter had fired at least fifteen rounds. Fourteen at me and at least one into Kevin. Had Kevin returned fire? How many rounds did his semiautomatic have left? I was on turf all but forgotten, armed with a handgun that was perhaps near-empty. The shooter must have a high-capacity magazine with plenty of ammo to cut me to pieces. He’d already proven willing and capable of killing. He knew my location. I knew nothing.

  Revenge would wait.

  I sat back against the SUV’s tire and pulled Kevin close, keeping one arm around him and the other holding the handgun ready. The truck fire raged but was easing. The gasoline that had been splashed over it was consumed and only the paint and rubber were burning. Soon, though, the fire might breach the gas tank.

  I pulled Kevin close and braced myself.

  “Kevin, wake up. It’s me—Jon. I’m here.”

  “Jon?” His eyes fluttered and half-opened. “I … so sorry … Khalifah … he’s … find G. Find G …” He gasped for breath. “Khalifah … G … Baltimore … it’s not them. Khalifah … so sorry …”

  “Sorry for what? Who’s Khalifah? Did he shoot you?”

  “Tomorrow … not them. G … Khalifah is …” His body went limp.

  I shook him easily. “Kevin, I don’t understand. Tell me again.”

  “Find G …” His eyes fluttered again, and he clutched my arm with limp, sleepy fingers. “Find … Hunter …”

  “Tell me who did this.”

  “G … Jon … tell no one. Maya … Maya … Maya in Baltimore …” He fumbled with something from his pants pocket. He gasped for breath and pressed that something into my hand. “So sorry …”

  I opened my hand. He’d given me a small, ripped piece of heavy folded paper with handwriting scrawled on it. I couldn’t make out the writing and stuffed it into my pocket. “Kevin, what are you saying? Hold on. Dammit, hold on.”

  “Go … please … not them … it’s not …” He tried to breathe but mustered only a raspy gag.

  “Kevin!”

  Silence.

  His body shuddered. A long, shallow sigh.

  No. No. No …

  My fingers found warm, sticky ooze soaking his shirt. The rain had slowed to a faint mist and, except for the river’s passing and the grumble of fire, there was only silence. Then, somewhere along the highway miles in the distance, sirens wailed.

  “Hold on, Kevin. They’re coming. My God, hold on.”

  I checked his pulse and wounds. Both were draining away life.

  I pressed my hands into the ooze but couldn’t force its retreat. For a few seconds, I was fourteen again. The dull sickness invaded me as my parents were lowered side by side into the earth. The ache started in my gut and swelled until I spat bile and rage.

  It was happening again.

  The man who raised me—the man I’d abandoned—slipped away. The emptiness and loss attacked. I had to fight or it would destroy me again. This time, there was nowhere to run.

  I closed my eyes and willed the anger in, commanding it to take hold and fill me.

  I remember, Kevin. I made you a promise. I’m late, but I’m here.

  He was limp, and I clutched him. A rush of words filled me that I’d wanted to say for so many years. But before I could speak j
ust one, my brother was gone.

  CHAPTER 2

  Day 2: May 16, 0245 Hours, Daylight Saving Time

  West Bank of the Shenandoah River, Clarke County, Virginia

  A FLASH OF car lights swept through Caine’s night vision, momentarily washing the scene’s clarity with a greenish tint inside the monocular lens. Across the Shenandoah, a police cruiser pulled into the boat launch, and its headlights passed directly across his night-vision scope. Because it was designed for extremely low light, the sudden brightness disrupted his view for the second it took the device to correct the light sensitivity.

  Caine slipped the scope into a pocket and lifted the standard binoculars from around his neck. He refocused on the crime scene across the river. The enhanced night-vision images were clear and the line of police cars that poured light onto the scene made his job easier. He was only a few hundred yards away across the river, secreted behind a fallen tree and halfway up the wooded hillside. The darkness and spring foliage made his seclusion almost guaranteed. But in his line of work, guarantees were not to be relied on.

  That mistake had already been made. Across the river, hours earlier, there had been guarantees. Those guarantees were supposed to be a riskless transfer with no problems. Money for product. Betrayal for money. Simple.

  There had been too many surprises. Too many mistakes. Too many bodies.

  Caine studied the figure talking with the detective whom he knew by name. Bond. While he had never met the detective faceto-face, he knew that should they, the encounter would get complicated. But it was the other man—the surprise arrival—that unnerved him. That man had materialized from nowhere. He drove into an ambush he shouldn’t have. He had responded like a professional, someone accustomed to such violence, trained and skilled. He hadn’t panicked. Hadn’t retreated. He counterattacked.

  He was a dangerous man. Was he part of this? A player not yet declared in the game? Had Khalifah failed to give him all the intelligence he’d needed? Or, perhaps more to the point, had Khalifah been caught unaware, too?

  An icy warning surged through Caine’s veins.

  He tapped the earbud in his right ear and waited for the connection. The voice answered as it always did, in Farsi.