The Fury - Jason Pinter [110]
"You really think he exists," I said, a statement. Not
a question.
"Do you think it ended with Scott Callahan and Kyle
Evans?" he retorted.
"No." I said it definitively. Perhaps I'd thought it all
along, but hearing Jack, a man whose instincts had
served him well for nearly seventy years, say it gave me
courage to speak it out loud. I didn't believe Scott and
Kyle were acting of their own volition. I didn't believe
Stephen Gaines was the Noriega of that operation. "I
want to know what 718 Enterprises is. Plus I get the
feeling my brother wasn't as high up as Kyle thought
he was. There was someone else pulling the strings. I'm
sure of it."
"Then we start tomorrow," Jack said. "I want you at
the office at eight-thirty. Every minute you're late, you
owe me ten bucks. That goes as long as we're working
on this. And bring me a triple espresso. As long as I'm
not drinking anymore I can do my best to make up for
it with other stimulants."
The Fury
319
"I'll be there at eight-fifteen," I said. Just then a large
moving van turned onto the street and pulled up in front
of our building. The driver climbed out, looking at a
manifest, and eyed us both.
"One of you Henry Parker?" he said.
"That'd be me."
The driver nodded, went around to the back to start
unloading their gear.
"Looks like you've got a long night ahead of you.
Don't be late tomorrow."
"I won't."
"I know." Jack turned to leave.
"Hey, Jack?" I said.
"Yeah, kid?"
"It's good to have you back."
He smirked at me, said, "I'm not back yet. There's
a whole lot of story out there and we haven't even
started yet."
I watched Jack leave, then went back inside and took
the elevator to my apartment. Amanda let me in.
"So, that was Jack? How is he?"
"He's great," I said, my mind already starting to
think about all the threads that needed pulling. Then I
saw all the boxes waiting for us to pack up, thought
about the movers that would be up here at any moment.
Looking at Amanda, I said, "It's gonna be a long night."
Epilogue
The car pulled up to the chicken-wire fence and slowed
to a stop. The driver lowered the window and waited for
the guard to approach. When he came over, the driver
nodded at him, and received nothing in return but a
stone stare. One hand on the car's hood, the other on his
side, pushing out his hip just enough so the driver could
see the semiautomatic strapped to his side.
The driver did not flinch at this. In fact, he'd seen the
same man carrying the same gun numerous times. They
knew each other by now, and the display was merely a
reminder. Not a threat, just a friendly tap on the shoulder
to let the driver know it was still there.
After a minute, the guard pressed a button on a
remote and the gate began to creak open. When it was
wide enough for the car to pass through, the driver sped
off, gravel spewing out from under the tires.
The gravel soon turned into a dirt road, surrounded
on either side by fencing, and topped by razor wire.
Several trees stood on either side of the fence, numerous
branches caught in the wire. If removed, the wood
would be shredded instantaneously.
The Fury
321
The road went on about two miles before widening
into a small field. Standing in the middle of the field was
a brown warehouse, two stories high and surrounded on
either side by trees and, beyond that, more razorwire-topped fencing. Three cars sat in the entrance in
front of the warehouse, half a dozen large men trolling
about. And unlike the guard out front, these men
weren't shy about hiding their guns.
The driver pulled up behind the last car. Like moths
to a flame, all six men walked toward this new arrival.
The driver shifted into Park, turned the car off and
stepped outside.
The six armed men nodded to him. He returned the
gesture. One of them, a tall, lean Caucasian man with
white hair and a chiseled face, strode up to the driver's
side. He'd heard rumors that this white-haired man had
been on the ground in Panama in December 1989, as a
member of the Green Berets.