41
Grant Breedlove stared at his computer, the thoughts coalescing in his head but not reaching his fingertips. His editor had given him a leash, but it was running out, and he still didn’t have a story. Although he knew one was here. A big one.
He’d worked his way through a multitude of emails and had received responses from most but had nothing for a glaring few. Unfortunately, he had no way of knowing if the service members had simply ignored the email. Given military members’ normal hatred of the press, he couldn’t dismiss the possibility that their lack of response meant they were telling him to stuff it. And there was no way he could print a story on an absence of email contact alone.
But there was something here. He had contacts all over DC, in the highest echelons of government, and whenever he probed on this story he got two responses: One, a blank stare as if he were crazy. Or two, like the secretary of Homeland Security, a spooked expression and a complete retreat.
He needed time. A bit of news to get his editor on board, no matter how small. A nugget to continue the hunt.
He felt the presence of someone and turned to find Kincaid Butler staring over his shoulder. He blanked the laptop and said, “What do you want?”
“Nothing. Just checking out what you’re working on. Word on the street is you’re onto a Lewinsky/Watergate type thing.”
Disgusted, Grant said, “Get out of my cubicle. Find your own damn story.”
Kincaid said, “Hey, even Woodward needed a Bernstein. I’m just offering to help.”
“I don’t need the help. And I don’t have a story. If I do, maybe I’ll ask.”
Kincaid repulsed him. A young up-and-comer, he’d achieved the appropriate check marks—degree from Georgetown, internship at the White House, a battlefield press tour in Afghanistan—but he’d never once done anything on his own. Always snatching the last bit of fabric from the coattail ahead of him.
His report on the crisis of Afghan interpreters—men who’d given all to help the US effort and were now abandoned to the Taliban—had garnered worldwide attention, but Grant knew the truth. The person who’d written it had been killed by a suicide bomber in a Kabul restaurant before it was published, and Kincaid, as the “man on the ground,” had snaked it as his own. Ostensibly as a tribute to the fallen reporter.
Having braved hostile fire in Libya for a story, Grant had little time for an asshole who sat in the rear collating reports and then received the accolades over another’s dead body.
Kincaid said, “Hey, everyone knows you’re working on something. And that Brittle is done with letting you run amok. No time for that in the Internet day. You let me help, and we could cut your leads in half. Get somewhere.”
Grant said, “Get the hell out of here. I have nothing, and if I needed help, it wouldn’t be from some remora.”
Stung, Kincaid wandered away. Grant rubbed his eyes, thinking of what else he could do to drag out the timeline. He stood, pulling his sport coat off the chair. One cubicle over, he heard his friend Dwight say, “Fuck that guy. And screw Brittle too. I’m sick of this instant news shit. You got a story, you follow it.”
Dwight was old-school. A man who believed in the fifth estate, with all the due diligence that entailed. Saddened to see it crushed by bloggers and the Internet, he was Grant’s biggest cheerleader. He wanted the world to return to normal, but that time had passed long ago.
Grant said, “I hear you, man. But this story is about to—”
His phone rang. He looked at his watch, seeing it was nine at night. He snatched it up.
“Grant Breedlove.”
“The reporter?”
Grant heard an accent but couldn’t place it. “Yes.”
“I have the information you’re looking for.”
Irish. Why on earth would an Irishman be calling him?
Feeling circumspect, Grant said, “Okay. What, exactly, do you have? What story do you think I’m working?”
The next words slammed into him like a freight train. The break he’d been waiting for.
“Nicholas Seacrest. Aka Hannister. The vice president’s son. Now missing, although nobody knows it. I know what’s happened to him. And I’ve said enough on your recording devices. Good-bye.”
“Wait, wait, we don’t record things here. That’s the NSA.”
“Bullshit. Give me a cell number, or always wonder.”
Rattled, Grant gave him his personal cell, then said, “When will I hear from you?”
“When I’m ready.”
The line went dead, and Grant looked at Dwight.
He said, “A break?”
“Yeah. I think so. Hard to tell.”
He rushed out of the office, Kincaid following his every move with his eyes.
Grant reached his car before the cell rang. There was no preamble. “You know the C-and-O Canal run?”
“Yes. I’ve been on it.”
“Meet me at Fletcher’s Cove in twenty minutes. Park your car and wait. I’ll find you.”
“How?”
“I know what you drive.”
The phone went dead, Grant staring at it as if it could give him a secret he dearly wanted. He entered his car and began to drive.
Winding through the DC streets, he tried to collate the various questions he should ask. The story was the vice president’s son in the hands of terrorists or someone else, but the devil was in the details. A true story wasn’t just the meat. It was fleshed out all around with sinew and bone. He needed to know the why, when, and how, and he began rehearsing his questions. Trembling at the anticipation of his success.
He eventually reached Georgetown, the streets filled with college kids debating the worth of the world over a beer. He saw the women, bundled up in coats, yoga pants underneath, showing their wares to the leering college boys, and wondered if he’d ever been so vain. He knew he had been, of course, but he’d grown beyond that. At least that’s what he told himself.
The truth was he would like to shout at them, tell them what he was doing. Eradicate his college memories of debate with males only and join the fraternity of men who courted such women. It would never happen, and he would have to be content with his life now. Superior in what he was doing, a cut different from the men walking arm in arm with women above their worth. Even if they didn’t know it.
He exited on Canal Road, the traffic much sparser, a two-lane affair that led to Fletcher’s Cove. He passed two cars, continuing the rest of the drive in the dark, his headlights spearing the night. He slowed, now peering out the windshield for the turnoff. It sprang up before he was ready, and he whipped the wheel, swerving into the lane that led down to the canal. He entered the parking lot, seeing two cars but little else. He pulled to the far side and parked, turning off the lights.
He sat for ten minutes, waiting, for the first time realizing that he was out here on his own and dealing with dangerous forces. He considered going back and forcing the man to call him again, but the story was too great. He couldn’t afford to lose this lead.
He waited another five minutes and then considered leaving out of boredom. He reached for the keys in the ignition and heard a knock on his window. The interruption was so stark he literally jumped. He stared for a minute, seeing a shadowy figure in a Washington Nationals hoodie. He cracked the window.
“Open the passenger door.”
He did so, and the man circled the car, taking a seat.
He waited. The man said, “You’re working on a story, but you don’t know the true implications.”
The Irish accent came out again, a lyrical hymn that gave comfort to what was being said.
Wanting to build trust, Grant said, “I am, and I’m here. I can promise you complete anonymity. Nobody will know what you tell me.”
The man chuckled and said, “Trust me, I understand that.”
The words were sinister, but Grant had heard worse. He said, “What do you have?”
“You are on the right trail. There are people missing, but it’s much more than you think.”
Grant said, “How many more? What do you mean?”
The hood turned toward him. “First, who else knows about this? Who else is in the hunt for the story?”
Seeing competition, worried about losing the source to someone else, Grant said, “Nobody. If you mean you want credit, it’s just me. Nobody believes this story for a minute. They all think I’m crazy.”
And his words sealed his fate.
The man raised a pistol, the suppressor looking as large as a drainage pipe. He said, “Then I guess they’ll all wonder why you’re dead.”
Grant raised his hands and got out a single scream, cut short by the bullet splitting his head open.