Big Daddy Sinatra_Bringing Down the Hammer Page 3

  But those memories wouldn’t go away. Those memories were still there: vivid and in living color. And those damn flashbacks.

  “What do we do, Mister Reese?”

  He remembered it as if it happened that morning. His private jet had taxied up to that airport hangar. He remembered looking up from the documents he had been reviewing and seeing his men, those proud agency men, anxiously awaiting his arrival. Some he recognized. Most he only knew from their photographs when the group was being assembled.

  But they were ready to go. The sooner they went in, the sooner they knew they could get out and get paid. If things went wrong, it was their asses, and they knew that too. The government wouldn’t claim them. Hammer wouldn’t claim them. They knew the drill. But they weren’t new to the game either. They knew what they were signing up for.

  But damn, Hammer thought as he grimaced and sipped more wine. Who in their right mind would have signed up for that?

  And it happened right there. Not on any battlefield. Not at the rescue site where the fight was supposed to take place. But right in that airport hangar!

  Hammer was about to get off of the plane. The landing crew on the ground had already placed the massive removable steps up to the big jet’s door, and his pilot was making preparations for his exit. It was his job to give the men their sendoff and then get back on his plane and get on with his life. It was routine.

  He was going to stand in front of those men, all fifty-four strong, and site chapter and verse the company line. How their government appreciated their service. How the world couldn’t function without the sacrifice of special ops veterans like them. How their families should be proud of such brave, courageous men.

  But before he could utter a word, or even unbuckle his seatbelt to make his way off of the plane, it happened.

  Boom!

  Hammer couldn’t help but feel it, because it rocked the plane, but it sounded distant.

  Another boom!

  The men inside the airport hangar were scrambling and trying to pull their weapons, to fire back, but they were already under siege.

  And then rapid boom after boom after boom!

  Hammer had unbuckled his seatbelt, had pulled out his own weapon, and was running like a bulldog up the aisle toward the front of the plane. “What is it?” he yelled to his flight crew as he ran. “What’s going on? What is it?”

  Then rocket-propelled grenades began launching from wherever the hell they were launching from, one after the other one, and his men were surrounded. Those poor boys were like sitting ducks being offered for the slaughter, and Hammer knew he had to get them out.

  “Open this fucking door!” he yelled to the pilot. He had to get to his men. He had to defend his men!

  The door to the plane opened quickly, and Hammer was about to step out.

  And the first words that met him would haunt him forever.

  “What do we do, Mister Reese?!”

  It was his mission chief, screaming out to him for direction. The mission chief was with the men inside the hangar, and they were all within feet of the plane’s long steps, and they needed direction.

  “What do we do, Mister Reese?!” he yelled again.

  His men were dropping like flies. They either had to engage with great exposure, or they had to abort with what could be even greater exposure.

  Hammer made the split-second decision. He didn’t see where there was any other answer! “Abort!” he ordered.

  “Do we have permission to leave this post and come onboard, sir?” the mission chief asked desperately, as was his training.

  “Yes!” yelled Hammer. “You have permission. Come onboard now! Come now!”

  And they did as they were told. On Hammer’s orders they quickly, and in a split-second too, left the hangar. And made a run for it. All of the men that hadn’t already fallen ran like hell up those long flight of stairs. They ran toward the outstretched hand of Hammer, the leader they respected, as he stood at the top of the steps that led inside the plane.

  They ran. They ran because their lives depended on it. Hammer could see the fear in their eyes as they ran to him. He could see the desperation in their trembling bodies as they ran to him. He could feel their terror!

  But the trajectory changed. It changed as soon as all of the men were exposed. As soon as all of the men had run out of that hangar and were running up those steps that led up to the plane’s entrance, obeying the order of their leader, those rocket-propelled grenades became rocket-propelled bombs that detonated right through those men! As if they were waiting for that very moment of complete exposure.

  Hammer was knocked backwards, but he still saw the flying body parts.

  He still saw how human beings were rocked and then, like confetti in a parade, blown to smithereens.

  Hammer still remembered his men inside the plane pulling him back, and the pilot taxying away. Protect Director Reese at all costs. No matter who was left behind. Those were the standing orders from the president of the United States himself. That was always the mission. Protect the director first. Even though he was no longer the director. Even though the program he ran, a special ops division of the CIA, didn’t even officially exist.

  But a former director, especially one of Hammer’s fame, was still the director. And he had to be protected above the men. Above the mission. Above all else.

  Hammer closed his eyes and sipped more wine. His face could not mask his distress. Fifty-four elite men were at that airstrip that day. Not one of those men made it out alive. It was the worse casualty count he had ever overseen.

  Then the door to the parlor opened, and the assistant walked in. “The president will see you now, Mr. Reese,” he said.

  Hammer sat down his glass of wine and followed the assistant out of the parlor. The president was no longer the president either. He was a former president. But he would always carry that burden of title too.

  Hammer saw the ball fall in the corner right pocket when he was escorted into the billiards room, and he smiled. “Don’t you dare let him win, Gina,” he said as he walked in and the assistant, still on the outside, closed the door behind him.

  Regina “Gina” Harber, the former first lady of the United States, smiled and chalked her cue stick. “Dutch beat me?” she asked. “Not on your life!”

  Hammer grinned, and she leaned over the pool table, aimed her stick, and sunk three balls in one pocket. One, two, three. Hammer and Gina high-fived and laughed.

  “I fail to see the humor,” her husband said, although he was smiling too.

  “Anyway,” Gina said, sitting her stick down, “we can finish later.” She and Hammer kissed and hugged. “How are you doing?” she asked him.

  What Hammer always loved about Gina was the fact that she never had throwaway greetings. She looked you in the eye when she asked how you were doing, as if she genuinely cared about the answer.

  “I’m good, thanks,” he said.

  “Don’t let him rope you in,” Gina replied.

  “So that’s what this is about? Another mission?” Hammer asked with a smile, although he dreaded another one.

  “I don’t know,” Gina admitted, “but isn’t that what it’s always about? Anyway, chow,” she said, and left.

  Walter “Dutch” Harber, the former president of the United States, and Hamilton “Hammer” Reese, his former CIA Director, were alone.

  “I still have it,” Dutch said with a smile, “and then some.”

  Hammer walked around the table: his hand extended. “How are you, Mr. President?”

  Dutch shook his hand. “I’m very well, thank you, Hamilton. How are you?”

  “I’m good,” Hammer responded.

  But Dutch saw his eyes. “I heard what happened.”

  Hammer assumed that was why he’d been summoned to the president’s estate at Kennebunkport in the first place. “Yes, sir.”

  “Fifty-four men dead? Damn shame.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Then Dutch
exhaled. “But it happens. It’s unfortunate when it does. But it happens. You know that.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Dutch could still see Hammer’s eyes. He tossed the cue stick onto the pool table. “Let’s sit down.”

  Both men, both of whom were big, tall men, walked over to the wingback chairs that fronted the fireplace. They sat down.

  “Where’s your boy?” Hammer asked.

  “In Miami of all places. On some sort of field trip. Gina and I will be joining him tomorrow.” Then Dutch leaned forward, with his arms on his thighs. “But Crader wanted me to talk to you first.”

  Crader McKenzie was the current U.S. President, and Dutch’s best friend. Although Crader and Hammer weren’t particularly close, they knew each other. “Talk to me about what, sir?” Hammer asked.

  “Our second-term president wants fresh blood at CIA. He wants to put you up as his new CIA Director.”

  It was news to Hammer. Who said he even wanted to go down that road again?

  “That is,” Dutch said, “after he fires his current Director. Which is going to be messy. But the guy is a problem all around. Morale is down. No sense of direction exists. And the public thinks it’s his State Department that’s in tatters. There are issues at State, that’s for sure. But mainly of the CIA’s doing. A change has to happen. But Crader wanted me to talk to you about it first.”

  Hammer leaned back. “I don’t know if I want to go back in, sir,” he said honestly.

  “I don’t think you have a choice,” Dutch said, with even more honesty.

  Hammer knew that too. Once a president. Always a president. Once a director. Always a director. Whether either one of them liked it or not. “Yes, sir,” Hammer said.

  “Crader wanted me to talk to you,” Dutch said, “because your position requires a confirmation hearing, of course. He wants to do both the firing of the old director, and the hiring of you at the same time. Pending congressional approval, that is.”

  “Of course.”

  Dutch leaned back and smiled. “It’s not just that you don’t want it,” he said, “but you hate the idea. Don’t you?”

  “I’m not fond of it, that’s for sure,” Hammer said. “But as you said, I don’t exactly have a choice.”

  “No, you do not.” Then Dutch exhaled. “Crader needs you to get your affairs in order before he places your name in nomination, if he so choses to go that route. That’s the truth of it, Hamilton.”

  “I would have thought that failed mission at that airport hangar precluded me from any chance at service in anybody’s administration, let alone Crader’s.”

  “What failed mission?” Dutch asked.

  Hammer’s chest squeezed. Because that was the thing. That failed government mission would be declared a drug deal gone wrong, or some other affront to human decency, that had nothing to do with the government. All in the service of their country. A country that would just as soon call them criminals rather than the patriots they were, and then move on to the next scapegoat.

  “By getting your affairs in order,” Dutch said, “I’m not talking about any failed missions that may or may not have taken place. I’m talking about your life. Clean up your act. Which includes,” Dutch added, looking up at Hammer, “that girlfriend of yours.”

  “She’s closing it down,” Hammer said.

  “See to it. Or we will have to close her down. You know how it works.”

  Hammer nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Don’t let a nice piece of ass stop you from serving your country.”

  Hammer fired back. “It stopped you, sir,” he said boldly. He remembered when Dutch Harber left the presidency because of the badgering and racism surrounding the president’s girlfriend, Gina, at the time. She became Dutch’s wife before he resigned, but it was still a major deal. He abdicated his throne for his woman. For the first African-American first lady.

  It was love, not just a nice piece of ass, that made him do what he did for Gina, but Dutch didn’t take offense. Because this was different. “I was President of the United States,” he said. “You’ve been CIA Director, which made you more powerful. You knew the country’s secrets. I only heard about them.” He and Hammer smiled.

  And then Dutch turned serious again. “Now your country needs you, Hamilton. Clean that shit up. Nobody, and especially not a woman with a dubious reputation, can stand in your way.”

  Amelia would be described as dubious to somebody who didn’t know her, Hammer thought. Her profession, before she decided to call it quits, would be described that way certainly. Especially by a man like Dutch Harber. Hammer knew it too.

  “Yes, sir,” he said.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The interstate was quiet as the Jaguar pulled into the lot of the We Got It convenience store and stopped at the pump. Charles got out and stretched. His suit well-worn, his expensive shoes dusty from all of the filthy houses he had to maneuver through: it had been a long day. There were eight evictions he had to oversee on eight of his tenants, all of which put up resistance as if they were entitled to live on his property for free, and he was bone tired. All he wanted was to crawl in bed behind Jenay, make long, passionate love to her, and then sleep in her arms undisturbed for hours.

  But he was running on empty. And not just his body. His car needed fuel too. He went inside.

  Donald Sinatra, his youngest son, was behind the counter eating a burrito. When Charles walked in, Donald stood up from the stool he was sitting on and smiled. “Hey, Pop, what’s up?”

  “Fifty on two,” Charles said, looking around. Then he frowned. “Why is it so dark in here?”

  “You like it? Me and Ash felt it gave our place a certain ambiance. It works better during the day, though. Not so great at night, that’s why you aren’t digging it. But it saves on the light bill.”

  Charles smiled and began pulling out his wallet. “Ambiance my ass,” he said. “More like being cheap.”

  Donald laughed. “That too,” he said. “But seriously, Pop, how do you like how we did the place? Other than the light issue, that is.”

  “How do you like it?” Charles asked instead. “You’re the one who needs to like it.”

  “I love it, are you kidding?” Donald had a big grin on his face. “I’ve never owned anything before in my life. I was working for Ma at the hotel and had already gotten demoted there. Now I own a whole store!”

  It was a tiny convenience store, a kind of a miniature Walmart with a gas pump just off the interstate. Charles had acquired it in a land deal and was going to tear it down and build a duplex, but Donald and Ashley begged him to give it to them and let them see if they could revive it. Charles was amazed and pleased that they were actually making it work.

  “The only bad part,” Donald added, “is that I had to come and work tonight when I planned to be off.”

  “What happened?” Charles pulled a fifty out of his wallet.

  “Big Joe called in sick. I said yeah, right. It’s Thursday night and he’s probably out partying too. Weekends begin early in Jericho, and he’s already getting started. I’ll bet you any amount of money on that.” Then Donald grinned. “I was getting started too. But he called in so I had to come in and work his shift.”

  “Expect this all the time, son,” Charles said as he tossed the fifty onto the counter. “When I was young like you I thought I could open a business and take my ease too. Ain’t gonna happen. Not now. Not ever.”

  “But it’s lonely at night,” Donald said as he grabbed the fifty and rang up his father’s order on the cash register. “I was hoping Ash would be here by now and we could talk the time away. I did it for her when she had to work. And she said she’d be here, especially since the party was getting so rowdy. But she’s apparently still there.”

  “What do you mean apparently? You didn’t phone her?”

  “I called her. I text her. But she won’t respond.”

  Charles was immediately concerned. Whenever any of his children weren’t reach
able, given his enemies list, and especially his brother’s, he was concerned. “Did you phone her again?”

  “Yes. Many times. But she won’t respond.”

  Charles frowned. “And you didn’t take your ass back over there to get her?”

  Donald stared at his father as if such a question was a novel concept to him. He was in his twenties and was maturing at a faster clip than had previously been the case, but not nearly as fast as a strong man like Charles would have liked. “Why would I have to do that?” Donald asked him.

  “You said the party was getting rowdy and now you can’t reach her, Donald. Why do you think?”

  Donald didn’t have an answer for that. He just stared at his father again.

  Charles exhaled, pulled out his own cell phone, and tried to reach Ashley himself. Her phone went to Voice Mail. “Where’s the party?” Charles asked.

  “In Murphy Park. Number ninety-three.”

  Charles couldn’t believe that either. “That trashy-ass trailer park? What were you and Ash partying over there for?”

  “That’s where the best parties are,” Donald said with a smile. “This is Jericho, Pop. This is Maine. We don’t have hoods. We have woods and trailer parks!”

  “And what did you mean by rowdy?” Charles asked.

  “Rowdy. Loud music. Lots of arguments. Lots of drugs, alcohol, and sex. Rowdy.”

  Charles shook his head. “And you just left her there?”

  “She’s not a baby, Dad! Besides, she’s with Steeny.”

  Charles was confused. “Who the hell is Steeny?”

  “Her latest boyfriend. Or at least they hang out together. Although they were arguing when I was leaving.”

  Charles pointed his thick wallet at his clueless son. “If anything happens to her I’m gonna kick your ass,” he said. “Got it?”

  But Donald was puzzled. “What did I do wrong?”

  “You left your sister. That’s what! She’s your sister, Donald. You look out for her no matter what! If a party is getting rowdy you don’t leave it to some boyfriend of the week to look out for her, especially not those losers she dates. That’s your responsibility as a man. You look out for your sister!”