Hostage Zero

“Yours is the only office that can do it,” Sjogren interrupted. “After he entered the Army, he disappeared. I’ve got him through basic training and Ranger school, but then he’s gone. Nothing. Then I find out that he doesn’t even have a set of fingerprints on file. Call me crazy, but that sounds like a guy who learned special enough skills in the military that Uncle Sam made him invisible.”

Brandy chose to say nothing.

“That means, Missy, that your office is the only one that can do the research I need done.”

Brandy understood the implications-that this Grave guy was some kind of a spook-but she didn’t understand the urgency. “I can’t do this sort of data mining on my own,” she said. “I’ll have to involve others. It seems to me that the risks posed by expanding the universe of knowledgeable parties outstrips the benefit of gaining a couple more data points.”

Sjogren’s face morphed to a patronizing sneer. “Please tell me you’re faking right now. Tell me that you’re not really that dense.”

Brandy felt heat in her cheeks.

“We’re talking about a man with ties to the mob who also has commando training. On the day when two of my best men disappear, an associate of G.I. Joe goes right to the heart of everything in a Virginia prison. Given all of that, you only see data points? Again, please tell me you’re faking.”

Now I wish I was, she thought.

CHAPTER TWENTY

It was hard for Harvey Rodriguez not to feel at least a little like a prisoner. With his beard shaved and his hair cut-courtesy of a hot black chick named Venice, who turned out to know her way around a pair of clippers-all it took was a hot shower and a change of clothes to make Harvey feel and look like a new man. Officially, he was free to come and go as he pleased, but it’s hard to wander around in the open when people you don’t know are looking to kill you.

Still, he needed fresh air. Blame it on the hundred bucks Jonathan gave him. With no bills to pay and a guaranteed roof over his head-in a mansion, no less-cash in his pocket meant beer in his belly. The way he saw it, dying with a couple of Coronas on board had to be better than dying parched.

Jimmy’s Tavern sat on the water, three blocks downhill from the mansion. At 8:30 in the evening, the parking lot was three-quarters full, a surefire sign of the kind of place where Harvey could enjoy killing some brain cells.

His expectations dimmed, however, as he closed within a few dozen yards of the place and noticed that the pull hardware on the doors was fashioned in the form of fish-a yin and a yang, one sniffing the other’s ass as they swam counterclockwise.

He grabbed the fish belly on the right and pulled, hoping to be greeted by the aroma of booze and stale cigars, but instead was assaulted by the stench of chicken fingers and French fries. He missed real bars. This family-fare shit was for the birds.

If you ignored the left-hand side of the building, where a forest of empty tables awaited the dinner crowd, the smaller right-hand side featured a bar fashioned from pine planking and old seafaring barrels of grog. He knew the barrels were supposed to be grog, because the word was stenciled on every other one. The alternating barrels bore the mark of the ass-sniffing fish from the front door along with the word JIMMY ’ S stenciled in the open circle.

You never judge a bar by its bar, though; you judge it by the number and diversity of bottles stacked against the back mirror, and by the forest of beer taps. Measuring by that yardstick, this place was just fine.

The kid behind the bar didn’t look old enough to be serving liquor. “Welcome to Jimmy’s,” the kid said, sliding a cardboard coaster at him. More of the damn fish. “What can I get you?”

The tap handles advertised an embarrassment of riches. With a hundred unearned bucks in his pocket, he ignored the cheap domestics that he’d normally order and went for a Harp Lager. Three or four of those and he’d be feeling a lot like a leprechaun.

The kid placed a heady pint onto the coaster and extended his hand. “I’m Chris,” he said.

“Harvey.” They shook hands.

“No kiddin’?” Chris said with a chuckle. “You missed a friend of yours by about ten minutes.”

Harvey recoiled, instantly pissed at himself for giving up his name so easily.

“A big guy,” Chris expounded. “Gray hair, mustache. Boston accent.” He mocked the word as Bahston. “He didn’t leave a name, but he asked me to keep an eye out for you. Ring any bells?”

Absolutely. Big guy he’d never heard of. Sounds just like a guy sent to avenge two friends he didn’t kill. “Not a clue,” Harvey said. He took a pull on his beer, but now it tasted like piss. Maybe that was one of the thirty-four flavors of fear. “Did he say why he was looking for me?”

“Something about being an old Army buddy.”

A wiry guy two seats down wearing denim on denim and sporting a close-cropped goatee piped in, “Said you were a war hero.” The unspoken rule of neighborhood bars everywhere: Any conversation with the bartender is open for group participation.