Jack Del Rio: Complete Trilogy: Reservations, Betrayals, Endgames Page 4

  Waving off his security guard, Yazzie walked away from the grisly scene, the reporters, and the highway. Turning his back on them all, he faced toward the west where the sun was still well above the horizon, his thoughts in turmoil. He had never before felt so alone.

  There could no longer be any doubt. Someone had found out too early. Now everything he had worked for was in jeopardy; all that time and effort wasted. Salvaging the plan he had for his people was less of a priority right now than was trying to keep anyone else from dying over it.

  The problem was he had no clue at all who was doing this, and it was painfully clear that the killer was someone close. It could even be that the person was among the group of people currently gathered behind him. There simply was no way to know who he could trust anymore even among his own protection service or police department. He couldn’t reach out to the Gallup city police or the county sheriff over in New Mexico either. Aside from the lack of jurisdiction, there had just been too much bad blood built up over the years for an effective investigation.

  Yazzie could think of only one possible solution that might have a chance. The resentment of an outsider poking into reservation affairs would still be there of course, but it could possibly be muted just enough so that a positive outcome might still result. At least there wouldn’t be the kind of open hostility that any of the other alternatives presented. He pulled out his Blackberry, did a quick Google search for the number and called the only person who might be able to throw him a lifeline.

  “Federal Bureau of Investigations,” said the operator. “How may I direct your call?”

  “Deputy Director Baker Collins’ office please,” Yazzie replied softly. Director Collins’ secretary answered after the call had been transferred and Yazzie identified himself before asking to speak with Collins.

  “Ben Yazzie,” Collins boomed when he picked up the call. “How long has it been Big Chief?”

  “Too long,” Yazzie answered, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth at the old nickname despite the circumstances. They had been roommates back when they’d played on the Arizona State football team. Collins, the big boisterous black man from Alabama, and the stoic Indian straight off the reservation had seemed an unlikely pairing at the time. Whatever the odds, they had become good friends at school and occasionally kept in touch even as the years passed.

  “So, how’s life at the top treating you?”

  “It’s been better,” Yazzie said. “Actually, that’s why I called. I need a favor Baker.”

  “Anything for the best running back I ever blocked for, Chief,” Baker said. “What can I do for you?”

  “I was hoping you could save my life.”

  SEVEN

  The sun hadn’t yet risen when Del Rio levered himself out of his bed still wondering how many more nights the dream would plague his sleep. The flat he called home had been found after returning to D.C. and was quickly becoming his greatest pride and joy. It had also been a stroke of very lucky timing that had landed it for him. Barely a week back in the States after his six-year assignment in London, Del Rio hadn’t been able to find permanent living quarters. While reconnecting with old friends, Del Rio’s former college roommate, now a commercial real estate developer, was showing off his latest project and a related headache.

  Nine of the ten-story building’s floors had been remodeled and occupied, but there had been no plans for the top floor, which was being considered for storage, nothing more. That is, until Del Rio had walked out onto the floor and instantly saw what he’d like to do with it. He made an offer, which was quickly accepted, and he went to work turning it into an open living space.

  The greatest feature of the flat was the four exterior walls. With the exception of the corner pillars of brick, the entryway area, and part of the corner housing the kitchen, all four walls were glass. Del Rio had almost a full 360 degree view of Washington D.C. with a spectacular view of the White House and the Washington and Lincoln Memorials.

  Thanks to his knowledge of a contractor stuck with a lot of one-way glass planes, and looking to dump them at a discounted price, Del Rio could stand anywhere in his flat and look out while anyone on the outside looking in would only see their reflection as well as the city behind them. Within a month Del Rio had a finished apartment, and drew high praise from his friend when he showed off the end product.

  Del Rio watched the few cars moving about this early in the morning for a minute or so before getting ready for the three-hour drive down to Norfolk to welcome his brother home. He hadn’t seen Steve in two years, since his elder brother’s submarine, the USS Los Angeles, had pulled into port for an official visit in Portsmouth, England. Even then, there had only been a scant six hours of shore leave which left little more time than lunch at a nearby pub and not nearly enough time to catch up.

  This time, Jack would be there to greet his brother when the submarine pulled into port this afternoon. A proper tour had been promised. There would be plenty of time to visit, not only on this trip, but in the future as well, since the Los Angeles was scheduled to stay docked at Norfolk for at least two months.

  Even the excitement of the upcoming reunion could not shake off the terrible images left over from the dream that Del Rio struggled to understand. It had come to him again during the night. He knew that sometimes a dream — or nightmare — was just a dream, but more often than not it was the subconscious trying to get the conscious mind’s attention.

  So what is mine trying to tell me, Del Rio mused as he made his customary light breakfast, if it really is trying to say anything in the first place.

  Her hair color, length and style didn’t match any woman he knew that well. The fleeing woman wasn’t Laura. How much that name still pained him despite their parting six months ago in London. He and Sara had only dated twice since meeting here in D.C., just two weeks ago, so he doubted it was her in the dream.

  What was the significance of the animal — wolf, dog, coyote or whatever it was — chasing her? He felt the scene had taken place somewhere in the mountains out west; which range it was he didn’t know. He’d never actually traveled west and seen any of them in person.

  More importantly, why had she been calling out for him? Why was he the one expected to save her from that grisly end?

  After a few minutes of compiling many questions, and absolutely no answers, Del Rio decided to file the dream away for the time being. If it didn’t repeat, then it was just an overactive subconscious. If it did, he mused as he rinsed off the breakfast dishes and placed them in the dishwasher, then he knew someone in the Bureau who was pretty damn good at dream interpretation. Maybe she could sort out what the dream meant without calling in the guys in the white coats carrying a straightjacket with his name on it.

  It wasn’t exactly the pleasant thought Del Rio wanted to start out the day. With a mental shrug, he headed for the enclosed shower, which had required some special plumbing magic to install and keep from flooding the flat when operating, and focused on what promised to be a pretty good day.

  He could have easily flown down to Norfolk in less than an hour, but that would have denied him the pleasure of rolling one of his parent’s 1965 Mustangs out of his apartment building’s basement parking garage for the three-hour drive.

  Sam and Jackie Del Rio had loved both cars. They had been originally purchased by Sam’s father fresh out of the dealership. The couple often drove them both when travelling. The only pastime they’d enjoyed more than driving the cars was sailing out in the Atlantic in a sailboat that was Sam’s biggest pride and joy after his family.

  They were out on the boat one day during Jack’s senior year at Baltimore High, just a week before Steve graduated from the Naval Academy, when they’d been caught in a sudden squall. Sam got off one quick mayday over the radio, then there was nothing but silence.

  By the time the boat had been found by the coast guard the following morning it was far too late. At some point the boat had capsized and was fl
oating with the keel in the air, dragging Sam’s lifeless body — still tied to a safety line on the deck — in its wake. The elder Del Rio had struck his head, probably as the boat had rolled over into the water; the blow was what had killed him since the coroner had found no water in his lungs during the autopsy.

  Jackie had been found in a very small pocket of what had been air below decks, pinned under debris. She had lain there waiting for rescue until there was no more air to breathe.

  The couple, both only children that barely outlived their respective parents, had made sure their sons were taken care of should something happen to either of them. By the time probate had closed on the estate, both boys had enough money and property in their names that they easily could have been very comfortable without working another day in their lives.

  Both were too much their father’s sons for that. Steve had gone on with his career in the Navy’s submarine service. Jack had gone on to college on a lacrosse scholarship in Virginia, where both boys had been born before the family had relocated to Maryland, and got his bachelor’s degree in criminal justice. Thanks to one of Sam’s friends, a retired FBI agent that Jack had stayed with during his last few weeks of high school, Jack was invited to the FBI’s Academy at Quantico with the provision that he’d spend two years working with the Ablemarle County Sheriff’s Department.

  It had been hard work, especially during his senior year as he juggled class work, lacrosse and his first year as a deputy sheriff, but on his twenty-third birthday, he received the official invitation to come to Quantico. It was there that his aptitude in counter-terrorism was discovered and honed. By his twenty-fifth birthday, he was assigned to London to work with the British Intelligence services and learn all he could from them before coming home to apply it to the Bureau’s fight against domestic terror.

  He had enjoyed every single day of the six-year assignment, but he was just as happy to be back once again on his home soil. He was even happier this morning to be on his way to spend some time with his brother. Steve had claimed his father’s black hardtop Mustang and Jack had been perfectly happy with his mother’s white convertible — even with the extra work needed to keep the red interior pristine.

  Jack had been tempted to stop by Quantico on his way to Norfolk and look up the old Gunny Sergeant at the Marine Base that he used to shoot with every morning. By the time Jack had graduated from Quantico, the pair had been putting on legendary shooting contests. Jack had been a good natural shot with any weapon; Gunny Johnson had made him even better. More important to Jack was the lessons on when not to shoot; how to slow everything down in his mind to make sure every shot counted and no innocent bystander caught a bullet by mistake.

  Even though it was very early and Jack knew the old man would already be out on the range checking all of the weapons slated to be used that day, he decided to keep on going to Norfolk and his reunion with Steve. He’d stop by on the way back and share a few stories from his time in London the Gunny would appreciate; maybe even squeeze off a few on the range just to see how sharp the old man still was.

  He pulled into the naval station in Norfolk two hours early and found that the Los Angeles was just pulling in to the docks ahead of schedule itself. Being careful to stay out of the way, Jack watched as sailors caught the mooring lines and tied the submarine off. A ramp was extended and secured to the sub. Within minutes a steady stream of sailors, carrying their gear, poured out of the sub and headed for the area set aside for their waiting families.

  One of the officers, a lieutenant, briskly walked across the ramp and made a beeline for Jack.

  “Agent Del Rio?” he asked, continuing after Jack nodded his head. “Sir, the Captain instructed me to, in his words, ‘go bring that scruffy-looking landlubber aboard and make sure he doesn’t fall off the boat before he gets to the bridge’, sir.”

  “No need to call me sir, Lieutenant,” Jack said with a slight smile at his brother’s jibe. Even before their parent’s death, Jack had never liked going out on the water. “And don’t worry, I do know how to swim, I just prefer staying as firmly connected to terra firma as possible.”

  “Does that mean…?”

  “Yep, I try to avoid flying as much as I can too. I intend to die a very old man of very boring, natural causes,” Jack replied as they made their way across the ramp and onto the sub. “Speaking of, if my brother Captain Nemo is in need of a good mutiny, let me know. We have a nice body farm at the FBI.”

  “No thanks, sir,” Jack’s escort said with a chuckle. “The Captain’s good people, sir. He’s one of the best I’ve sailed with.”

  Jack had a pretty good sense of direction, but by the time they emerged at the sub’s command deck, he was hopelessly lost. The young officer presented his charge to his Captain, snapped off a sharp salute, and quickly disappeared into the sub.

  “Really?” Jack said. “Landlubber?”

  Steve, the bigger and burlier of the two brothers, threw back his head and roared with laughter. The elder brother was the more gregarious of the pair as well, a stark contrast to his always more serious younger sibling. Clapping Jack on the shoulder he drew him in for a spine-cracking hug.

  “Good to see you little brother,” Steve said, turning away to introduce Jack to his command staff. “Gentlemen, I give you only the second man in all of recorded history to walk across water unassisted. Now Jack don’t deny it, I know what I saw that day. You went from the ship to the shore and not once did your feet break the surface of the water. You must be part cat the way you avoid open water.”

  Jack resigned himself to his brother’s teasing and good-naturedly accepted the chuckles from the officers on the deck as he shook hands with each of them.

  “Remind me to tell you all about the first time our father let him steer our boat,” Jack said as he shook the XO’s hand, igniting another round of chuckles.

  “Hmmm,” Steve said in mock seriousness. His green eyes shining in delight at the back and forth with his younger sibling. “Maybe I should take you on that tour of the boat before you slander the Captain’s good name. XO, you have the boat. We’ll be going ashore after I show her off to my disrespectful kid brother.”

  “Aye, sir,” The XO replied. “Enjoy your tour, sirs.”

  Steve showed off the sub with obvious, well-deserved, pride. Jack was duly impressed with the size and capabilities of the sub by the time their two-hour tour concluded.

  “Mom and Dad would be proud,” Jack said as they exited the conning tower and headed for the ramp to leave the sub.

  “They’d be proud of us both,” Steve replied. “Especially you, after what you did in London for the Queen.”

  Jack quickly glanced around to make sure no one was within earshot. Very few people on this side of the Atlantic Ocean officially knew what he’d done and, as far as he knew, his older brother wasn’t anywhere on that list.

  “Jack,” Steve said with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “I am the Commanding Officer of a nuclear submarine in the U.S. Navy. My CO on this boat when I was the XO is now an Admiral at the Pentagon and I am very good friends with another Admiral who just happens to be head of the CIA right now.

  “So after two ports of call where our money was no good at any of the local pubs, no matter how much we drank, and every Brit sailor in their entire fleet was lining up to buy me and any member of my crew drinks, I started asking around. All I know is that you are a very big reason why there is still a Queen of England today, and right now you and I are heading over to the Officer’s Club for lunch where you will tell me the whole story. I’ll even buy.”

  Jack hesitated, not so much from humility or even for security concerns, but the telling of the story would involve opening a wound that still hadn’t quite healed. Laura Cassidy was a living ghost that would haunt his memory for a very long time no matter how well they had parted, or how logical the reasons for their parting had been. Steve of course couldn’t know that; Jack hadn’t had the chance to tell him that story eith
er. Well, Jack thought, perhaps today is the day to clear the decks, as Steve would say.

  “Okay, you win,” Jack said, “but I’m not ordering from the lunch specials menu you cheapskate. Say, this place does have a senior’s menu right? Wouldn’t want you to go hungry…”

  The brothers burst out laughing as they made their way toward the club. After they’d been seated and ordered, Jack finally told his brother about the day a young FBI agent saved the life of England’s Queen.

  EIGHT

  Jack Del Rio hadn’t known it at the time, but a certain division of the FBI had been tracking him as a potential candidate from the moment he’d been brought to their attention by the same former agent that had steered his path toward the Bureau. Baker Collins had just taken over the Bureau’s Counter-Terrorism Division and was looking for fresh talent. Collins immediately liked what he saw in Del Rio.

  Even before Del Rio had worked his way through Quantico, Collins had officially staked his claim on the recruit. Collins had monitored Del Rio’s progress in Virginia and then ran him through some extra exercises at the Academy the other recruits were not given — exercises he passed with flying colors -- and had only further convinced Collins that he had his man.

  The only question mark that hung over Del Rio’s head through the entire process was his bank account. Many of his instructors wondered if Del Rio was just a rich boy who wanted to play at being a cop. Others wondered if he would quit when the going got rough, but Collins was never one of the doubters. It took less than five minutes of conversation between the two just before graduation to confirm it.