Veil of Civility: A Black Shuck Thriller (Declan McIver Series) (43 page)

Now, looking down at the image of a suspect in an international crime, he cursed himself for not paying more attention to the national media and realized all he'd been was a convenient patsy in the right geographic location.
In the right place at the right time,
he thought.

With the help of some other veterans he knew from the VA, Nate had identified four likely areas for a hideout. With the promise of good money and the excitement of reliving the old days, they'd fanned out and watched the areas until the man they were looking for had shown up. Then, together with Lynch, Nate had cornered the suspect, whom Lynch had assured him was extremely dangerous, and they'd managed to take him down without firing a shot, a fact that Nate wasn't all that happy about. He'd just as soon have had the whole thing hit the fan and just maybe he'd have caught a bullet and gone down shooting.

He would certainly have preferred that to feeling like he'd betrayed his country and realizing that he'd been used by a man he'd thought was his friend. Now a man that the newspaper said was guilty of countless murders on U.S. soil was safe in the air, having been hustled away in the middle of the night by Lynch at the behest of some bigwig whose name Nate had never been given and whom he'd never been allowed to see.

I should've known better. That limey bastard better never show his face near me again. I'll kill him and display his decapitated head
. Nate's face flushed two shades of red and he unscrewed the cap on the bottle of Jack, taking a long swig directly from the bottle and exhaling loudly as it burned all the way down into his stomach.
I can still fix this
, he thought, looking at the Washington D.C. phone number listed at the end of the article. The paper identified the number as that of a taskforce that had been setup to find and arrest the suspect, a man named Declan McIver. Surely the FBI could make contact with the authorities in other countries and they could intercept the plane when it landed, wherever it landed.

Why Lynch's employer had cared so much about the fate of an Irish terrorist was beyond him. Who knew why the micks did anything? All Nate Crickard cared about was setting things right and maybe, just maybe, he could salvage some of his former honor in the process. He took another sip from the bottle and screwed on the lid before picking up the phone and dialing the number.

7:23 a.m. Eastern Time – Thursday

Van Deman Industrial Park

Dundalk, Maryland

"The boy is a danger, Abu," Anzor Kasparov said. "All he has done for the last two days is stare at his brother's body. He is making the others nervous."

"Vakha was a good soldier. But Sharpuddin, he is no longer one of us," Ruslan Baktayev said, as he stood at the back door of the abandoned welding service with Kasparov and looked into the fenced-in lot behind the building. Baktayev assumed that at some point in the past valuable equipment had been stored on the lot because wooden pallets had been hung across the entire fence to keep anyone from seeing what was inside. Rusted strands of barbed wire prevented people from climbing over and signs reading b
eware of dogs
had been placed throughout the property. Whatever had once been there was now long gone. Only three empty sea containers and stacks of rusted junk remained. At the mouth of one of the sea containers, Sharpuddin Daudov knelt, looking mournfully into the trailer where the bodies of his brother and two other men lay.

"I will talk to him," Kasparov said, and started forward.

"No," Baktayev said, holding up his arm to stop Kasparov. "We don't have time for this. I will deal with him myself, but later."

Kasparov nodded. Baktayev turned back inside. "Albek," he said to a bearded man who sat near a workbench covered with Kalashnikov rifles. The man looked up. "Anzor and I are leaving now. We will be gone for most of the day. Do not let Sharpuddin leave under any circumstances."

"What do I do if he tries?"

"Stop him. Any way you can."

Albek nodded. "I will take care of it, General. Where are you going?"

"To do some reconnaissance."

11:34 a.m. Eastern Time

Southbound on Rt. 40 – Main St.

Victoria, Virginia

Baktayev craned his neck as Kasparov drove through a small, desperate-looking town made up of empty brick storefronts with haphazardly hung
out of business
banners, sidewalks with clumps of weeds growing between joints in the concrete, and medians with tall, uncut grass. Every building in the one mile stretch of real estate that was marked as
Main Street
had an antiquated and uncared for appearance, even the court-like building marked
City Hall
. Overall, Baktayev was surprised. This was the kind of place that he was used to seeing in cities throughout Russia, not the kind of place he had expected to encounter in the United States of America, a country as famous for its wealth as it was infamous for its military excursions around the world. "What happened here?" he asked.

Kasparov shrugged. "A drug called meth, General. The Americans are their own worst enemies. The manufacturing jobs that supported areas like this left for places in other countries with cheaper workers and the idle minds and hands of those who lived here found solace in drugs and alcohol."

"Hmm."

Kasparov turned left and entered a residential area as the town itself came to an end. Here the situation seemed much the same. Small houses with unkempt yards and broken down cars dotted the ill-maintained streets. "This is where I live."

Baktayev sat forward and looked at a one-floor, wood-sided house that appeared to be no bigger than two, maybe three rooms at the most. Tall trees that loomed over the property had covered the exterior of the house in a brownish dust, and a cracked concrete porch with two plastic lawn chairs led to a badly dented screen door.

Kasparov pulled the white cargo van he was driving into the property's pine needle covered driveway and shifted the vehicle into reverse. Backing out, he returned in the direction they had come and said, "I moved here five years ago. I knew that I had chosen the perfect place when I received your first letter from Sheikh Kahraman."

Baktayev nodded. "You've done well, Anzor."

A mile after making a right back onto the main road through the town of Victoria, Kasparov pulled the vehicle to the side of the road a few dozen yards away from a one-story brick building with narrow, metal-rimmed windows. It was clear from the obvious disrepair of the exterior that it suffered from the same blight as the rest of the town. Baktayev smiled as he read the sign that stood in the building's foreground.

"W.N. Page Junior High School," he said aloud. "Praise be to Allah and his servant Sheikh Kahraman. It is perfect."

"Wait until you see the inside."

2:49 p.m. Local Time – Thursday

Over The Atlantic Ocean

500 Miles from Waterford Airport – Ireland

Constance gripped the upholstered armrest tighter, her face as white as her knuckles, as turbulence bumped the Embraer Legacy 500. She had never been comfortable on airplanes, but had finally gotten used to the large commercial jetliners they'd frequented in their travels. The smaller business class jet they were currently on seemed to have reawakened her fear. Declan smiled at her. "It'll be grand," he mouthed.

Compared to the average commercial airliner the plane belonging to Fintan's company, McGuire & Lyons Industries, was testimony to the expense of private aviation. Its interior was a palette of soft shades of gray and featured plush leather seating, multiple LED monitors for both in-flight entertainment and corporate duties, lay-flat accommodations for overnight trips, and a generous number of windows big enough to give the cabin an open and airy feeling. It was easily the most comfortable and well-equipped aircraft Declan had ever seen.

"We should be in Waterford within the hour," he said, looking across at his wife, trying to be reassuring. She managed a smile but said nothing. On top of her fear of flying and everything else that had happened, she hadn't slept since the previous day. He knew that she had to be near rock bottom both emotionally and physically. Even once they landed in Waterford, there was still a three hour drive north to County Monaghan before she'd be able to rest. The jet lurched violently, causing their drinks to turn over, spilling liquor and water across the lavish wooden surface of the collapsible table standing in between their seats. Constance hurriedly unbuckled her seat belt and rushed towards the lavatory at the rear of the cabin.

Fintan opened his eyes and looked over from the seat across the aisle as the door slammed closed. "Will she be alright?"

"Aye," Declan said vacantly. "It's been a rough couple of days, so."

"Aye, sounds like it."

Declan had told Fintan and his assistant Dean Lynch about everything that had happened, on the first leg of their flight. They'd left the U.S. at 3 a.m. Eastern time via a small airport located in Bath County, Virginia, just over the state line from Declan's cabin, and had traveled six hours to the Azores, where they had refueled the plane before leaving again for Ireland.

The lavatory door opened and Constance came out, retaking her seat shyly. "Sorry. I thought I was going to be sick."

Fintan spoke first. "It's alright, love. Soon enough you'll be in the care of the staff at the McGuire family's country home. You'll be back to tip top in a matter of hours. You can put all of this mess behind you for a while."

"Thank you for your hospitality," she said, without making eye contact. "I think I'd just like to get some sleep."

"Understood. You'll have your choice of seven bedrooms all with warm sheets right out of the dryer."

Declan leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. He still felt bad about her being involved, but he tried to keep self-doubt from overtaking him. Maybe she'd have been happier if she'd married someone else. Maybe he should have known better than to think that his life could ever be normal. Maybe the Beatles wouldn't have broken up if he hadn't joined the IRA when he was fourteen. That line of thinking was absurd given their current situation and he banished the thoughts from his head. They were counterproductive and would do nothing to help. He was determined to identify the leaders of the forces against them, and once he found them, he would find a way to exploit their weaknesses and bring them down.

While he would never say that his years in the IRA were good times–he certainly carried the scars and the guilt of the wrong he'd done–he couldn't say that in some ways he wasn't thankful for them. It was those formative years that had made him the man he was today, the kind of man who could survive the situation he currently found himself in. It was what he had been trained to do. Kidnappings, assassinations, bombings, any means necessary to bring his target crashing down from the bottom up. It was state-sponsored terrorism, Soviet style.

His thoughts were interrupted when the door to the pilot compartment swung open and banged loudly against the wall. He opened his eyes to see Dean Lynch stride towards them, his expression serious.

"We have a problem, governor."

All eyes were on the former British paratrooper and retired Irish Garda as he took a seat in front of Fintan, across the aisle from Declan.

"Captain Cummings just received word from ground support that we're to be boarded as soon as we land. Apparently your situation has gone public and someone in the States has informed the authorities in Ireland. It seems our aircraft being registered in Ireland and having taken off near locations associated with you was enough to attract someone's attention," he finished, looking at Declan.

Fintan tapped the screen of his smartphone. "I dare say it has gone public, old son," he said, handing the phone to Declan. "It looks like your friends have decided to enlist the aid of the public at large in their search for you even more so than they already have."