Page 37 of Be Courageous

As his elderly Black chauffeur pulled into traffic, Len gripped the seat in front of him, leaving off his seat belt to retain a 180-degree field of sight. Not two minutes later, his cell phone buzzed. “Which way?” he demanded, recognizing Cullum’s number.

“They’re crossing Pennsylvania Avenue, heading toward Fairmount.” Cullum huffed as he tried to catch up.

Len ordered Mason to turn right at the next intersection. The roads were jammed with cars leaving the parade. They couldn’t do more than creep forward one yard at a time. “Stay on the line with me, Cullum. Don’t let them get away without finding out where that reporter’s staying.”

“Maybe at the Best Western. She’s headed right toward it. Or, maybe not,” Cullum added a minute later. “They’re going into the parking garage.”

Len raked an eye over the façade of the monstrous hotel in front of him. “Where’s the parking garage?”

“Right side of the hotel as you face the entrance.” Cullum was full-out panting now.

“We’ll wait outside for her. Stay on the phone.” He ordered Mason to pull into a handicapped parking space along the curb. Cullum would blow it for him if he showed his face. “Don’t let her see you. If she drives by you, duck or something. You’ve done enough damage for one day.”

Cullum’s dismay was reflected in his silence. Then, finally, “Okay, they’re getting into a lime-green Escort. Yes, they’re leaving now. You can’t miss them when they pull out.”

“Back off and wait outside the parking garage. We’ll collect you on our way by.”

“Yes, sir.”

Len put his phone away. Blood thrummed through his arteries; a muscle ticked in his cheek. Operation Lights Out had haunted him from the night it totally backfired. He didn’t know if he’d trusted the wrong people or if the assets he’d courted for six months prior to the operation had betrayed him, but either way, he’d messed up.

Gabir al Baldawi hadn’t been in the apartment building surrounded by his closest advisors. Instead, the place had been occupied by nothing but civilians. In his outrage, Len had shot some kid who wouldn’t stop wailing. The bullet had gone straight through the boy killing his mother, too—so what? Things happened. He’d persuaded the SEALs in his firing squad to report the incident as an accident—either that or it’d be his word against theirs. They’d only agreed to keep silent ifheagreed to leave the Agency.

He’d done as they demanded, so why were they betraying him now? Jealousy, no doubt. Maybe they didn’t want him becoming their vice president in a year’s time.

The vision of a bright-green Escort pulled him out of a cold sweat. “Follow that little green car, Mason.” He pointed to it.

As his chauffeur accelerated from the curb, Len spared a glance at Cullum, who hovered just outside the parking garage, expecting to be picked up. The Escort, meanwhile, gained speed, threatening to slip out of sight.

“Leave him,” Len decided. Ignoring Cullum’s look of dismay, he focused his attention on keeping the smaller car in sight.

Two intersections away, the lime-green Escort turned right onto Arch Street and disappeared. “Drive faster.”

They turned the corner just in time to see the Escort veering toward South Broad. When they caught sight of it again, it was turning left onto Christian Street, making its way into the old Italian neighborhood of Bella Vista.

A block ahead of them, it parallel parked in front of a series of row homes. “Pull over, quick. Don’t let them see us.”

Mason swung the front of the Genesis into the nearest alley, leaving the back end sticking out. Craning to see out the rear window, Len peered down the street in time to see the two women hurry from their vehicle into a clapboard home, painted pale yellow. He waited another five minutes to see if they would emerge again. When they didn’t, he instructed Mason to continue down the street.

The number on the door made it easy to find again—769. Now he knew where the reporter was staying.

“Sorry for the detour, Mason.” Len sat back in his seat, finally putting on his seat belt. “We can return for Cullum now.”

With his jaw muscles jumping, he pondered what to do about the journalist. If he let her live, she might ruin his bid for the vice presidency. He would have to silence her the way he’d silenced the Navy SEAL threatening to expose him. And what about the intern? She was probably too young to be a threat. Certainly, nothing he’d said on camera could be used to implicate him. He could probably let her be. Besides, getting rid of people in ways that couldn’t be traced back to him cost a pretty penny. Ruby Bonheur’s disappearance would put him back twenty thousand dollars.Blast it!

As they slowed at a stop sign, Len roused from his dark thoughts and glanced at his watch. He swore aloud this time. “Now I’m late for lunch with the mayor!”

CHAPTER4

Tony emerged from the basement, intent on washing up for the Thanksgiving meal when the wordsformer Navy SEALhad him turning toward the tiny television perched on one end of the kitchen counter. Ruby, Corinna, and his mother heard it, too. The kitchen, already filled with the aroma of roasting turkey, fell quiet as they all turned their attention to the news story.

“. . . The rash of break-ins attributed to a gang of teens resulted in his death. John Staskiewicz left the Navy SEALs six years ago, returning to Fishtown, the neighborhood he grew up in.” The photograph of a handsome bearded man in fatigues appeared on the upper-right side of the screen. “This is the first time the break-ins have resulted in murder. According to the autopsy, Staskiewicz was shot in the head while sleeping. Anyone with information pertaining to his death is requested to call the police. Back to you, Chris.”

As the anchorman moved on to a new topic, Ruby turned three-quarters to send Tony a searching look. “Did you know him, honey?”

Tony shook his head while wiping the incredulity off his face. “No, not personally.” He could have sworn, however, that he’d just seen the distinct name Staskiewicz written somewhere.

As he cast his thoughts back, the memory came to him of a return label affixed to a rectangular box that had been sitting on one corner of his commander’s desk just the other day. Had to be the same Staskiewicz, and now he was dead. But if the police thought some young petty thieves had shot a trained Navy SEAL in his sleep, they were seriously misled. Tony filed away the incident to discuss with Commander Monteague later in the day.

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