macho-shit work with the ladies? ‘Cause let me tell you, it’s bullshit here.”
Stern ignored the comment as an idea quickly dawned on him. He looked at Wolfe.
“That’s it.” He said.
“That’s what?” Wolfe asked.
“Why don’t we pay them? Coalition’s got the scratch. Shit, it worked in Iraq.” Stern offered.
“Because this isn’t Iraq. It’s the United fucking States. And if shit like that got out, and it would, that the Fed was allowing a private security company to pay informants to chase down a suspected terrorist who escaped a CIA interrogator while on American soil, three years ago, who was still on the loose, you know, people just might start asking questions. The wrong people. And that just might blow the lid off of a whole lot of things, things that could create way more problems than they solve. Jesus, don’t you remember the cocaine fiasco in the eighties?” Wolfe responded, the last part alluding to alleged CIA drug trafficking in Southern California during the Reagan era.
“No. I don’t remember the eighties. I’m twenty-fucking-six.” Stern answered.
Wolfe just looked at his partner, and shook his head in disbelief.
They stood in silence a moment, both men looking over the hordes of people, of all social and economic classes, stop and start along the sidewalks and intersections.
“We’re never gonna find him like this.” Stern vented. He turned to his partner.
“Brown’s really got a hard on for this guy?” He asked.
“I think Brown’s upset he got burned.”
“Then why won’t he give us the tools? He won’t even let us look at the transcript from the interrogation. What does he expect?”
“He expects us to figure it out.”
“How many times you looked for this guy?”
“Third time in L.A. It’s usually the gig you get between real ops. Personally, I think he’s dead. That’s why I think Brown likes to rotate in the new guys, use it as a training op. Although he won’t admit it, I think he suspects Luthecker might be dead too.”
Stern mulled over the information Wolfe had just shared with him. A smile crept across his face. He looked back at Wolfe.
“No. He doesn’t. How old is this Luthecker cat?” He asked.
“He’d be twenty-five.” Wolfe responded.
“And how old are you?”
“Thirty-eight, and don’t fucking ask again, it’s rude.”
“What’re you, a girl?”
“What’s your fucking point?”
“My point is we’re doing this wrong.” Stern said, as he took one last look over the city streets.
“What do you mean?”
“Let’s get in the car. I’ll explain what I mean.”
“Try me now.”
“No.”
“Why the fuck not?”
“Cause you’re gonna get me a cup of coffee first.”
Stern threw a “fuck you” smirk his partner’s way before walking back to the car.
SEVEN
TRAINING
A lex carefully made his way up the rectangular web of enormous steel girders, the moonlight reflecting off the freshly welded metal in an uneven pattern. Sweat poured down his face as he gripped his thighs around the edges of the thick vertical I- beam as tightly as he could, using one of the massive bolts that held the ninety-six-story skeletal frame work that would soon be a luxury private apartment complex together as a foothold. He pushed off the bolt with his left foot and simultaneously reached up with his right hand to grab onto the top lip of the horizontal beam above his head, the one that would someday be the sixty-first floor of the planned one hundred-story building, when complete. He took a deep breath for energy as he then latched his left hand onto the steel rail above and pulled himself up and onto the beam, crawling onto its narrow flat surface and slowly standing upright. He held steady on the continuous vertical girder a moment as he caught his breath. He tried not to look down to the ground, hundreds of feet below. He was reminded of the black and white photos taken during the construction of the Empire State
Stern ignored the comment as an idea quickly dawned on him. He looked at Wolfe.
“That’s it.” He said.
“That’s what?” Wolfe asked.
“Why don’t we pay them? Coalition’s got the scratch. Shit, it worked in Iraq.” Stern offered.
“Because this isn’t Iraq. It’s the United fucking States. And if shit like that got out, and it would, that the Fed was allowing a private security company to pay informants to chase down a suspected terrorist who escaped a CIA interrogator while on American soil, three years ago, who was still on the loose, you know, people just might start asking questions. The wrong people. And that just might blow the lid off of a whole lot of things, things that could create way more problems than they solve. Jesus, don’t you remember the cocaine fiasco in the eighties?” Wolfe responded, the last part alluding to alleged CIA drug trafficking in Southern California during the Reagan era.
“No. I don’t remember the eighties. I’m twenty-fucking-six.” Stern answered.
Wolfe just looked at his partner, and shook his head in disbelief.
They stood in silence a moment, both men looking over the hordes of people, of all social and economic classes, stop and start along the sidewalks and intersections.
“We’re never gonna find him like this.” Stern vented. He turned to his partner.
“Brown’s really got a hard on for this guy?” He asked.
“I think Brown’s upset he got burned.”
“Then why won’t he give us the tools? He won’t even let us look at the transcript from the interrogation. What does he expect?”
“He expects us to figure it out.”
“How many times you looked for this guy?”
“Third time in L.A. It’s usually the gig you get between real ops. Personally, I think he’s dead. That’s why I think Brown likes to rotate in the new guys, use it as a training op. Although he won’t admit it, I think he suspects Luthecker might be dead too.”
Stern mulled over the information Wolfe had just shared with him. A smile crept across his face. He looked back at Wolfe.
“No. He doesn’t. How old is this Luthecker cat?” He asked.
“He’d be twenty-five.” Wolfe responded.
“And how old are you?”
“Thirty-eight, and don’t fucking ask again, it’s rude.”
“What’re you, a girl?”
“What’s your fucking point?”
“My point is we’re doing this wrong.” Stern said, as he took one last look over the city streets.
“What do you mean?”
“Let’s get in the car. I’ll explain what I mean.”
“Try me now.”
“No.”
“Why the fuck not?”
“Cause you’re gonna get me a cup of coffee first.”
Stern threw a “fuck you” smirk his partner’s way before walking back to the car.
SEVEN
TRAINING
A lex carefully made his way up the rectangular web of enormous steel girders, the moonlight reflecting off the freshly welded metal in an uneven pattern. Sweat poured down his face as he gripped his thighs around the edges of the thick vertical I- beam as tightly as he could, using one of the massive bolts that held the ninety-six-story skeletal frame work that would soon be a luxury private apartment complex together as a foothold. He pushed off the bolt with his left foot and simultaneously reached up with his right hand to grab onto the top lip of the horizontal beam above his head, the one that would someday be the sixty-first floor of the planned one hundred-story building, when complete. He took a deep breath for energy as he then latched his left hand onto the steel rail above and pulled himself up and onto the beam, crawling onto its narrow flat surface and slowly standing upright. He held steady on the continuous vertical girder a moment as he caught his breath. He tried not to look down to the ground, hundreds of feet below. He was reminded of the black and white photos taken during the construction of the Empire State
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