Monument to Murder - Margaret Truman [114]
Like Silva, his anger at the military and its members festered, fostering visions of lining up the sergeant who’d instigated the charges against him, alongside others who’d reviewed his case, and blowing them away, one after the other, no blindfolds or last wishes. That dream stayed with him every day he was on a civilian firing range, practicing with a variety of weapons he now possessed.
And also like Silva, he’d been recruited in a bar by someone from Dexter’s organization, where after too many drinks he’d verbalized his fantasies to an interested, sympathetic stranger. At the time he was working as a truck driver for a contractor with a sizable government contract with whom he’d had numerous verbal run-ins, someone else to be gunned down by his imagined one-man firing squad.
Brockman had been a troubled teenager. His father, an alcoholic, frequently beat him and his sisters; his mother was a timid soul who also endured beatings at the hand of her drunken husband. Brockman’s enlistment in the marines was his means of escape. His mother died while he was in Iraq; he hadn’t had contact with his father in years. His relationships with women were characterized by sporadic bursts of violent anger toward them; none lasted more than a few months.
Dexter’s kind of guy.
Brockman hadn’t expected to hear from Dexter that quickly. He had received a call on his cell phone the afternoon before to meet with the little man at an I-Hop on the Jefferson Davis Highway in Alexandria. It was there, over plates of chocolate chip pancakes and bacon, that Brockman received his first assignment.
“I think you should know, James, that the person who is your target works with us. I mention that because I do not want you to think that we’re disloyal to our employees. Far from it. This individual has recently behaved in a way that runs counter to our mission. In fact, James, he has done things that not only threaten to undermine us, his actions could potentially put at risk certain important aspects of the security of the United States.”
“What’d he do?” Brockman asked.
“I’m not at liberty to reveal that, James. Do you have any problem with this?”
Brockman shrugged and took a forkful of pancake. “No, I don’t have any problem with it. If this guy’s been causing trouble, he should be taken out. Where will I find him?”
Dexter slid an envelope across the table, saying, “Everything you need to know is in here. He’s currently on his final assignment for us and I want him to successfully conclude that before you undertake your obligation. I want you to stay close to him and be ready to strike when I give the word. I’ll call you on your cell phone when that time comes. I will simply say, ‘The sale is on.’ When you hear that, you’ll know it is time.”
“Okay. How do you want it done?”
“I leave that up to your expertise. Of course, it is vitally important that you not be linked in any way to it. If you should be, we disavow all knowledge of you. We made that clear, as you’ll recall, when we first became acquainted.”
“I understand. Anything else?”
“Not unless you have further questions.”
Brockman shook his head, wiped syrup from his mouth, and grinned. “This is just like in the movies,” he said.
Dexter frowned. “I assure you, James, that this is not a motion picture. This is real life.”
“Okay, forget I said it. Thanks for breakfast.”
“I’ll leave first. Follow in five minutes.”
Brockman watched Dexter walk from the restaurant. “What a fruitcake,” he muttered to himself as he did the same.
CHAPTER 42
Mac and Annabel Smith spent the late afternoon at her gallery, preparing for that evening’s cocktail reception. The guest list was small, only fourteen people—fifteen with the addition of Robert Brixton. Two women from Federal City Caterers arrived and helped set up a small bar. An assortment of finger foods would be passed by the women once guests arrived; the bar would be manned by a professional mixologist, the