Diminished Capacity Pt. 02

by G. Lawrence

Jack escapes from prison

This is a crime novel originally published in 2017 and is now being revised. The story ultimately turns into a romance of sorts, but there are strange plots and fantastic adventures before it gets there. Though portions of the book do cross into nudity and sex, this is not intended as an erotic novel. If someone compares this to pulp fiction stories, they are not wrong. All characters are over 18 years old.

Recap: John Lawrence, a combat veteran of the 2nd Afghan War, woke up in a Maryland police station accused of assassinating President Edward Blair. He has no memory of that, but thinks the evidence may be convincing. Now he's seeking to navigate the legal process without doing harm to the country.

* * * * * *

Mrs. Patricia Blair

Blair House

New Haven, Connecticut

Dear Mrs. Blair,

Thank you for letting me preview Jack's manuscript. I never thought he would write a book, let alone one so revealing. His recounting of our consultation at Cumberland is accurate, so far as it goes. It wasn't until later that we discovered he was playing a far deeper game. Best wishes to the family, Alberto Ruiz

* * * * * *

Chapter Two

THE ESCAPE

With a trial now pending, I was transferred to the Federal Detention Center in Cumberland, just outside the walls of the minimum-security prison. I had a private cell on an empty floor, for the government did not want me Oswalded before presenting their case. Six guards rotated on eight-hour shifts. As I was quiet and obedient, the guards were generally tolerant. The red jumpsuit had been downgraded to orange.

My accommodations bordered on luxurious. With no other prisoners to worry about, my cell door was left unlocked. I could go down the hall to the shower area anytime I wanted, and a gym was at my disposal. After the cast came off my wrist, I started lifting weights again.

The floor supervisor was Officer Sandra Livingston, a sleek brunette in her mid-thirties who wore silver sequins on her light blue uniform. She encountered me the first night. In the shower.

"Marla is right. You've got more tracks than a tank," she said, standing in the doorway. She seemed more amused than aroused.

I was not overly surprised by the lack of privacy, but we were alone late in the evening, and that was unusual. I rinsed off and found my towel. Displaying my naked body to a female voyeur was not high on my list. The tracks she referred to were old war wounds. Gunshots and shrapnel. I had falsely claimed they were injuries from a helicopter crash.

"Thank you for not keeping me under lock and key," I said.

"Marla Peeples gives you a good recommendation," she replied. "You won't try to escape, will you?"

"I'm the most famous criminal in America. Where would I escape to?"

"You're not a criminal yet. You need to be convicted in a court of law for that. And if half the conspiracy theories are true, you're not even guilty."

"I'm probably guilty," I said, reaching for a robe. "You're not trying to seduce me, are you?"

"I'm gay," she answered.

I put the robe back on the hook and finished showering, taking my time. Sandra laughed.

"Marla is right about you," she observed.

"Right about me?"

"She says you have no patience for petty bullshit."

I supposed that was true.

Technicians brought in my new computer the next day and activated the internet. It was a basic design, but adequate for my needs.

"You understand, this will only access the Folger Law Library and notices from the court," the tech explained. "It has no wider access."

"Not a problem," I said.

That afternoon, I sat down at the desk in my cell and took a look at the legal briefs for my case. I had been very naïve to think Judge Smart would approve my guilty plea. What the reaction was by the media and public was a mystery, as I refused to read any story with my name in it. Requests by the press for interviews were ignored.

As for my approaching trial, I didn't know how to proceed. Other than be arrogant and dare them to convict me. The jury shouldn't need much more motivation to reach the proper conclusion. By dinner, I'd learned all I needed to about the United States v John Henry Lawrence.

For security reasons, they wouldn't let me take meals in the cafeteria with the general population, but the menu looked good. I chose a cheeseburger and chili fries on my second night, eating in the adjoining cell that I decided to use as my dining room. I considered using still another cell as my reading room, but thought that might be excessive. The guards generally left me alone unless I asked for something, which was rare.

The exception was Officer Livingston, who came in for an hour or two every day but Monday. Sandra was always full of questions, cloaked in casual conversation. It didn't take long to figure out she was not a prison supervisor at all, but a profiler. Probably FBI. As she was pleasant company, and a very sexy woman, I didn't mind. I let the game go on for several weeks.

"Your childhood is such a mystery," Sandra said, and not for the first time. "There are three books out about you, and none of them have a clue where you were born or where you lived before the Catholic brothers adopted you. One says you are the child of an eccentric millionaire who ran away from home."

"That's silly. I would never run away from a million dollars," I replied.

We were drinking a fruity Merlot, which was permissible because I wasn't actually a convicted felon yet and she was on her dinner break.

"An AP writer speculated the other day you might have shot the President for money," she hinted.

"If I buy a Lamborghini, can we park it in the next cell?" I asked.

"You must have had some reason."

"I suppose. Are you sure you're gay?"

"Yes, I'm sure."

"See? There are some things money can't buy."

"You're a nut," she said with a laugh.

"Don't say that too loud. Mr. Harlan will call you as a witness at my trial."

"What if you are crazy?" she asked.

"You think I'm crazy?"

"You did ask for the death penalty, which speaks of a death wish. You must have had a terrible childhood to keep it such a secret. It's been reported you have awful nightmares. And there are things in your background that just don't add up. It's enough to make someone wonder."

"What would be your diagnosis, doctor?" I asked, trying to keep it light.

"I need more to go on, but my guess is severe post-traumatic stress," she said.

I took a sip of the wine and tried to remain calm, glancing up at her without making eye contact.

"Is that what you're going to write in your report?" I asked.

"Among other things. Jack, I know you made me as a profiler early on. It's been fun."

"Tell the FBI no gay girls next time. If I'm going to talk, I want it to be between the sheets."

"You say more than you think without being between the sheets."

"Guess I'll have to be more careful."

She finished her wine, and we both knew her assignment was over. She wouldn't be back tomorrow.

"Jack, you're a good man," she whispered. "Please stop doing whatever it is you're doing. Stop before it's too late."

"I appreciate your concern," I said, giving her a kiss on the forehead.

With Sandra gone, I returned to my regular routine. And the project that was really occupying my time. As I was supposed to be researching case law for my trial, the government wasn't allowed to monitor my computer activity. Though I assumed they wanted to. Starting in the early evenings and working until well after midnight, I would sign on, run a generic background program, and then access the Black Web using my NIA security authorization.

My first experience with the Black Web was in Army Intelligence tracking terrorist communications, facilitated by my knowledge of Persian, Dari, and Arabic. But many threats aren't transmitted through standard networks. It can be social media, extremist websites, and even ordinary email. After leaving the Army, I had continued intelligence research as an independent contractor. I didn't do it for the money, which was good, because it didn't pay very much. I enjoyed the work, and it provided a valuable distraction from my National First Responder duties, which were often grim.

Since coming to Cumberland, my mission had been to search for threats to the new president. I was concerned a copycat might try to replicate my glorious deed and didn't want that guilt added to my existing burdens. Where Blair had been a war hawk who was popular with the victory or death crowd, President Markham was getting the unfortunate reputation as a weak sister. He had halted the Remobilization, as many thought he would, and cut back the country's commitment to regional hotspots.

Protecting presidents is the job of the Secret Service, while the FBI looks for domestic dangers. They are bound by strict laws. The National Intelligence Agency, a clandestine branch of the United States Army, isn't concerned about such boundaries, and I never was, either. The hard part is separating wannabes from serious players, and that takes experience. I would spend hours every night trolling the dark underbelly of the violent fringe, following leads that often led nowhere. But one night I stumbled on a strong prospect, a delusional Oklahoma hillbilly with the means to carry out his boasting. The miscreant had no family, no friends, and a desire for immortality. He fit the profile.

Each morning, I made a point of running for an hour in the exercise yard and having a modest breakfast. I cut back on fatty foods, not wanting prison life to make me soft. I would work out in the gym, have a light lunch, and then take a nap. My guards thought me the most boring prisoner of all time, little suspecting I was spending my nights as a spy.

Though I kept an eye on the Okie Hillbilly, I monitored other suspects as well, gradually developing a potential rogues' gallery. Not all would prove real threats, but they required more investigation than I could do from a cell. It became necessary to contact the Secret Service about my research, but I wasn't sure how. I could hardly say John Henry Lawrence is trying to do your job for you. And if word got out to the press, it would cause all kinds of trouble.

One morning, under the pretense of asking Federal prosecutor Sheila Rosenberg a legal question, I asked her to contact Harold Rasmussen, the FBI agent I'd met at my hearing. An hour later, I had two visitors on my doorstep.

"Mr. Lawrence, we've met previously," Alex McGuire said, standing at the gate. "Do you remember Alberto Ruiz of the FBI?"

Quite the surprise. They were the two kids who'd questioned me shortly after my arrest in Baltimore. A curious choice.

"Of course, Missy and Dragon," I said, granting them access to my luxury cellblock.

"Deputy Director Rasmussen says you want to see us," Ruiz informed.

"I asked Mr. Rasmussen for a Secret Service agent. Is the FBI providing escort?" I asked.

"Covering all the bases," Ruiz explained, sounding more South Chicago than he had before.

I shook hands, trying to make them comfortable. McGuire was still lithe and round in the right places, the flowing brown hair now tinged with sandy blond streaks. The high eyebrows set off her wide round face. Having little opportunity for seduction, I hoped she wasn't gay.

Ruiz had grown his hair out a bit, his dark blue suit hanging on his tall thin frame. We were of similar age, though he lacked the outward toughness most FBI agents give off. Or maybe he was lying back, wanting me to underestimate him.

"Are you ready to explain the Boyd Confession?" McGuire asked.

"The what?" I said, stopping in the gray corridor.

"The flawed confession you gave to Officer William Boyd. You got several details wrong," McGuire said.

"Actually, you got a lot of details wrong. Did you plan it that way?" Ruiz asked. "Are you trying to undermine the investigation?"

"It was the best I could do at the time," I apologized.

"What rabbit hole are you taking us down this time?" Ruiz inquired.

I was beginning not to like him. McGuire remained quiet. Good cop, bad cop?

"The kitchen is serving lasagna for lunch," I said. "Care to be my food taster?"

"You weren't funny last spring, and you still aren't," Ruiz complained.

"I need to show Agent McGuire something important. It's for the Secret Service, and I don't give a rat's ass what the FBI thinks."

I waved for McGuire to follow me back to my cell. She hesitated, looking to Ruiz.

"Maybe your agency should have sent someone else? Someone who isn't a girl?" I challenged.

McGuire took a step forward, but Ruiz grabbed her arm. I saw a.380 Beretta under his jacket in a shoulder holster.

"You've got to be kidding? They let you bring a pistol into a prison?" I said.

"It's not a prison, only a detention center. A deserted detention center," Ruiz defended, pulling his jacket closed.

"It's not deserted. It houses a dangerous criminal," I protested.

"Yes, we saw your military record. Showing up late. Constantly reprimanded. Losing files. Are you going to bury us in paper cuts?" Ruiz sneered.

Now I really didn't like him.

"Last chance, Agent McGuire. Come with me or go home," I demanded.

She shook free of Ruiz's grip and entered my cell. I glanced down the corridor to make sure Ruiz was hanging back. His hand kept floating near the sidearm should he need to perform a rescue. He was lucky I didn't take it away from him.

Thanks to Sandra, my cell had two folding chairs. I kept the computer turned off and produced a folder of handwritten notes. McGuire was curious and didn't appear afraid of me. I tried to keep my posture relaxed.

"Missy, I've acquired some information that may be of use to the Secret Service, but it comes with conditions," I said.

"I'm not authorized to offer you anything," she quickly responded.

"I know. You'll need to take my proposal back to your supervisor, but it must be kept within a tight circle. If I hear rumors of anything by anyone, you'll get no more cooperation from me."

I handed her the folder, giving her a few minutes to review the contents. I'd written enough field reports to make it clear and to the point.

"This is interesting. How did you get it?" she asked.

"First, my conditions. The only source that will appear on these files is Agent #5. John Lawrence will never be associated with Agent #5 in any way. I want an agreement stating that any information provided by Agent #5 will remain classified."

"Who is Agent #5?"

"Agent #5 will remain unidentified," I insisted.

"It's a lot to ask," McGuire said.

"Take the file. Have it checked out. If it's valuable, I can get more."

"I guess that's fair. How much do you want?"

"How much what?"

"Money," she said.

"I really don't have much use for money here. But now that you mention it, I would like a guitar. A Yamaha would be nice, but I'll settle for anything made of wood."

That afternoon, a technician came to check my computer. Routine maintenance, he said. He wore plain coveralls and flashed a fake business card. He was probably FBI, though Homeland Security was a possibility. He checked my search history and looked for deleted files, finding nothing unusual. My 029 protocol didn't leave any trails. He thanked me for my patience and shared a root beer before leaving.

McGuire and Ruiz returned Friday morning with a vintage Jack Wood guitar. A good choice.

"Your contract," McGuire said, handing me an envelope.

I invited them to my dining room and read the agreement carefully, for I didn't want any loopholes. As I had demanded, any information received would be classified under Agent #5, not John Lawrence.

"Satisfactory," I said.

"DeWitt Leeson, the Deputy Director of the Secret Service, personally signed off," McGuire said. "Your Oklahoma suspect was stalking President Markham during his trip to New Orleans. He was arrested outside the hotel with a Glock 21 in his pocket."

"Your Bronx suspect had enough explosives in his basement to blow up Yankee Stadium," Ruiz added, more contrite than he'd been two days before. "Mr. Rasmussen says to give you our full cooperation."

"You should know there is an entrepreneur in El Paso modifying semi-automatic rifles. A militia group sells them in Juarez," I reported, giving Ruiz my notes.

Ruiz looked around the empty cells. There was only one guard on duty, beyond the steel gate at the end of the hall.

"Where are you getting this information?" he asked.

"Revealing my sources is not part of our contract," I answered, for the official record said I had been a file clerk during the 2nd Afghan War, not a medic and later an intelligence officer. "I know you checked my computer. Don't bother checking again, you won't find anything."

"You owe us an explanation," McGuire said.

"My trial isn't for another ten weeks. Let's give this a little time. Prove to me I can trust you, and maybe I'll reveal my sources," I offered.

"What else do you have?" McGuire asked.

The kids started visiting me several times a week, and I looked forward to it. I don't know why I called them kids. At 27, Dragon and I were the same age, and Missy was only a year younger. Maybe it was because their life experience didn't match mine, and they were lucky for that. But their lives hadn't been without challenges, so I couldn't be too dismissive.

I found myself getting especially close to Alex. She was beautiful, smart, a bit irreverent, and eager for adventure. Unfortunately, I began thinking of her more as a little sister than a bed partner, but circumstances would have made an affair difficult anyway. If she was gay, she didn't say anything, and I never asked.

Dragon kept bringing me beer and whisky, hoping I'd get drunk and say more than I should. The scheme wasn't entirely unsuccessful.

"Give us something, Jack. Something personal," Alex urged.

I had the guitar in my lap, occasionally strumming. It brought back old memories as the three of us sat on the gym floor. It was a late Saturday night, the Jack Daniels nearly gone. I was not accustomed to drinking so much, but life in prison can get monotonous.

"I don't talk about the President's murder. Not to anyone," I said.

"Everybody knows that. Something about you," Alex pressed.

"Tidbits that will appear in the next conspiracy book?" I asked.

"You know us better than that. At least, you should know us better," Alex said.

"Who really knows anyone?" I replied.

"I'll share something first, if it helps," Alex continued.

"What would that be?" I asked, not taking her seriously. For such offers were usually part of an interrogation technique.

Alex grew very reserved. She looked over her shoulder to see if anyone else was listening, then stared down at the floor.

"I was molested," she suddenly said.

"Molested?" Alberto questioned.

"My step-uncle took my cousin and I on a camping trip. When Sammy went fishing, Uncle Felix cornered me in the tent," she explained.

"Did you tell anybody?" Alberto asked.

"Told my mother. Uncle Felix went to jail," Alex said with subdued satisfaction. "But his side of the family wasn't happy about it. Some of them thought I was lying. We don't have holidays together anymore."

It had been a hard story to tell, and I appreciated her courage. Alex did not strike me as a particularly good liar. A trait we had in common.

"I've been molested, too," I admitted.

"My God, Jack. Who? How?" Alex asked, clutching my arm.

"In a foster home outside Dallas," I remembered. "I'd been bounced from one orphanage to another. They called me Jimmie back then. I didn't have a last name. One day, Mr. Whitaker took me out to the woodshed and did things he shouldn't."

"What did you do?" Alberto asked.

"A few nights later, I crawled out a window, went over the brick wall, and never looked back," I answered.

"But that can't be it. What did you tell the police when they found you?" Alex wondered. She seemed upset but was working to stay composed. Good discipline.

"I never got caught by the police," I answered. "Made my way to Memphis, then upriver to St. Louis. I met an old black hobo there called Old Da. Old Da taught me his songs. We'd go to the Arch, where he'd play guitar. I'd sing and dance while tourists threw money in a hat. Those were good days. Then one morning I woke up and Old Da was gone. So was the money. I think taking care of me was too much for him. I moved on to Chicago and lived there for a while with a colored family."

"Colored?" Alberto said, frowning.

"That's what Mr. Whitaker called them in Texas, when he was being polite. The Samuels family was nice. Peter Junior found me in an alley after I'd been beaten up and taught me how to defend myself. The Samuels let me stay in their storage room for almost a year. After the cops shot Peter Senior, they moved to Detroit but couldn't take me with them."

"Is that when you met the brothers at St. Mary's?" Alex asked.

"Oh God, no. That wouldn't happen for another five years," I said.

"Let me understand this," Alex said. "You lived mostly on the streets from age five until you were fourteen? How did you survive?"

"I managed," I replied, strumming the guitar while resting my head back against the wall. I'd really had too much to drink.

"My parents came into the country illegally," Alberto admitted. "When they were deported, I was allowed to stay because I was born in Pilsen. My uncle raised me. Got me a scholarship to the University of Chicago."

"What schooling did you get?" Alex asked me.

"Nothing formal until the Catholic brothers took me in, but I had a reader. Found it on a park bench. Probably read hundreds of books over the years," I boasted. "The reader worked good as a flashlight, too."

"How did the brothers find you?" Alberto inquired, for I could see him taking mental notes. My history with the brothers of St. Mary's wasn't much of a secret, though they were good at keeping confidences.

"They found me in a gutter with my head cracked open," I recalled. "I was finding work cleaning saloons at night near the docks. Played some poker. I was fighting a lot, and I liked it. One day I found three bullies beating up this young kid. A kid no different than I had once been. They beat me up instead, but I made them pay. Father Ramirez took me in, helped mend my evil ways, and made me go to school. That's when I became John Lawrence."

"What name did you use before that?" Alex asked.

"I used a hundred names before that. Whatever suited the occasion. I was glad to become John, though. They never would have let me in the Army otherwise."

"Too bad you didn't do so well there," Alberto said.

"Yes, too bad," I conceded.

"Play us a song," Alex requested.

"It's been a while," I said, though it didn't stop me. I sang Old Da's favorite, Big Rock Candy Mountain, doing my best to remember the strings.

"Another," Alex said, clapping with enthusiasm. Her big brown eyes were bright, her posture excited. I considered putting aside the little sister thoughts and trying for something more.

"Yes, another," Alberto agreed, offering a rare grin.

I sang Viva La Vida, then another of Da's favorites, New York, New York. The song that inspired me to visit the Big Apple after I left Chicago.

"Wow, Jack, you are good," Alex praised.

"Not that good. Decent for a street performer, but my voice is only fair, and my playing is adequate at best."

"I don't know," Alex disagreed, giving my arm a hug. "You've got something there. I could feel it."

"I think you missed your calling," Alberto agreed.

"It would be better than the one I have now," I wished.

They both became quiet. It was another stupid, self-indulgent remark on my part. I was sorry to have spoiled the mood.

* * * * * *

The kids missed two weeks, something about a big investigation, then returned in early October. I was tracking a new problem by then, something that looked serious, but I didn't have enough information to present a case. And because one of the players had diplomatic immunity, getting a search warrant was unlikely.

"Good news and bad news, Jack. Or should I say Jimmie?" Alex said, taking the spare chair in my cell. Alberto stretched out on my cot, which irked me a bit, for I'd spent time making it up that morning.

"I can't imagine there being any good news about Jimmie," I said.

"Haven't you ever been curious about who you really are?" Alberto asked.

"I know who I really am, Dragon. A name doesn't change that."

"Well, we found out more," Alex said, all happy and bouncy. And we weren't even drinking. "Baby Jimmie, not your real name, was found in Scars Bluff after the Trinity Flood. Baby Jimmie was never claimed, his parent or parents were presumed dead. Baby Jimmie disappeared from a foster home in Fillmore when he was five years old. Wilson Robertson Whitaker, who ran the foster home where Jimmie last lived, was convicted of serious crimes a year later and died in prison."

"Glad to hear it," I said.

"That's all? Glad? Your story checked out," Alex said.

"Why wouldn't it check out? Do you think I'd make something like that up?" I asked.

"You make up a lot of things," Alberto said, sitting up and leaning forward.

"Such as?" I foolishly dared.

"After hearing about your childhood, we had a long talk with Dr. Sandra Livingston. She says hello, by the way," Alberto explained. "She says your official biography is total bullshit. You weren't a C student in high school, you got straight As. We talked to your teachers, but your records have been changed. And we still don't know what you really did in the Army. No one from Fort Bragg remembers you. Or Fort Mims, or Fort Campbell."

"Your profile and your biography are two different people," Alex concluded.

They looked at me with expectations. What was I supposed to say?

"I assume the other agents back at the office are having a field day with this?" I inquired, wondering how bad the damage was.

"For now, we're off the books. If there's a logical explanation, we want to know before looking stupid," Alberto said.

"What if I asked you to keep it off the books, at least for now?"

"We would want to know why," Alex said.

"And we want to know if you really shot President Blair, or if you are a patsy for some conspiracy," Alberto added.

It was a tough question, and I thought of several good lies, but these were smart kids. None of the lies would hold up for very long. I poured myself a shot of Jim Beam and offered them each a glass, which they declined.

"You should know I can shut down your investigation with one phone call," I finally said. "I'd rather not do that. I'd rather be able to trust you."

"Trust goes two ways," Alberto said.

I leaned forward, looking him in the eye.

"Dragon, I'm not part of a conspiracy," I whispered. "By January, I'll be convicted of murder and sitting on death row. Does it really matter what grades I got in school? Or that some waitress in Fayetteville doesn't remember me?"

"Then why have your records been tampered with?" Alex asked.

"Missy, a few years back, I did classified work for the government," I explained. "After the President was shot, it was thought an investigation into my background might compromise several national security organizations. I'm going to pay for what I did. There is no point in putting vital operations at risk. I swear to you, that is the God's honest truth."

"So, others helped in this cover-up?" Alberto asked.

"I can't discuss that. Maybe someday, but not today. In the meantime, there is another promise I intend to keep."

Anxious to change the subject, I turned on my computer and activated the library search program.

"We've seen this," Alberto said.

"You spied on my trial research? Without a court order?" I asked.

"Well, that is. It's not as if ...?" he sputtered.

"Dragon, it's okay. I knew the FBI was watching, but they didn't see this."

I entered the 029 program and my personal authorization code. The Black Web appeared on the screen.

"What the hell is that?" Alex asked, jumping forward.

"A gateway to places you don't want to go," I answered.

For half an hour, I moved from one forbidden site to another, pausing over some of the most egregious locations and highlighting a litany of very bad people. Drug runners. Sex traffickers. Secret prisons. And worse.

"You are Unidentified Agent #5," Alex realized.

"Agent #5," I corrected.

"Everyone knows you as Unidentified Agent #5," Alex said. "Your information is shared with half a dozen agencies. Without your name attached. You're famous, even if they don't know you."

"It's important to keep my secret," I insisted.

"Of course. We understand. We understand completely," Alex said. "Don't we, Dragon?"

"Yeah, I get it," Alberto agreed. "How high is your security clearance?"

"Higher than Mr. Rasmussen's," I answered.

"And they let you keep it? Even after ... even after what you did?" Alberto asked.

"I'm still of use to them. And I will be until the trial is over. Then I'll just be another deleted name on a list that never existed."

"It's not fair," Alex said, her face scrunched in a pout.

"It's more than fair, Missy. It gives me a chance to have a purpose instead of sitting in this cell all day feeling sorry for myself."

"We will keep your secret, for now. But I cannot promise that will not change," Alberto said.

"Thank you, my friend," I acknowledged, reaching to shake hands. "And now that we've got that out of the way, I have more suspects for you. Some really good ones."

* * * * * *

The news from my Black Web research was worse than expected, but there was no practical way to proceed. The one source that might prove useful was untouchable, and the moment he suspected the plot might be uncovered, he'd be on a diplomatic jet back home. The only reason he maintained contact with me, through our private channel, was because of my reputation. I was a hero to those who hated President Blair, and I was using that. Even referring the threat to Colonel Fowler was premature, and it wasn't an Army undertaking in any case. I needed the FBI, but could I trust them with so much at stake?

"Growing a beard? What's that about?" Alex asked, alone with me late on a Friday night. The cellblock was quiet. The lights turned low.

"I hope you never find out," I said, distracted.

"You've had a lot on your mind lately."

"I haven't been getting much sleep either."

"You'll get less sleep with a girl in your bed."

"You're not a real girl."

Alex had decided to sleep over, curling up next to me on my cot. We were not intimate. Not sexually intimate. But we cuddled and whispered. I told her things I'd never told anyone, and she reciprocated.

"My situation makes it hard for you," I hinted.

"It's going to be okay," she answered.

"How can you know that?"

"I just do. God won't abandon you."

"He and I aren't on the best terms."

"Dragon and I were talking. With the holidays coming up, this is going to be a lonely place," she said. "One of us could hang around. Share some good cheer."

"That's okay. I've never been much for the holidays. The last one I shared is full of sad memories."

"That was with Francie? What was she like?"

"Oh, gosh. She was the cutest little thing. Big blue eyes. Button nose. Loved birdwatching. She was a registered nurse at Norfolk Naval Base. I was stationed there with the NFR Rapid Mobilization unit. Her father, Dr. Norton, was teaching a class on forensic pathology. I signed up and met her in the hall one evening."

"It must have been hard when they died in that car accident," Alex said, snuggling closer. She was wearing panties and a loose top. I had standard issue prison shorts and a t-shirt.

"It wasn't an accident, and it was my fault."

"No, that can't be," she protested.

"Dr. Norton was mentally unstable. He'd have outbursts, then sulk for no reason. One night, my team was getting ready to board the helicopters for a hazardous assignment. There was a hurricane coming up from the Gulf. Then Francie called. Her father was having another episode. I told her to hang on and I'd come over. I rushed around to get the team off, but by the time I reached their apartment, they had already left for the clinic. While Francie was driving her father on the causeway, he grabbed the steering wheel and turned the car into oncoming traffic."

"Jack, that wasn't your fault," Alex insisted.

"I knew he was getting worse. Just a week before, Francie took a gun away from him and gave it to me for safekeeping. A gun with one bullet."

I didn't need to explain more about that. The FBI reports spoke of the murder weapon strangely loaded with only one bullet. They just didn't know why. Now Alex did.

"To make matters worse, I gave my seat on the helicopter to young Harrington. A rookie. He shouldn't even have been on that flight."

"And the helicopter crashed. You think Harrington died in your place?"

"Lots of boys have died in my place."

"Jack, you can't carry the problems of the world on your shoulders. No one can. Bad things happen. In the Secret Service, we see it all the time. Dragon has terrible stories. After Francie died, is that when you started acting out at the NFR?"

"If you mean I got suspended, yes. They said I was taking too many chances. Claimed it endangered my team."

"Did it?"

"I don't believe so, but I wasn't thinking too clearly."

"You know, everything you've said comes right out of Sandra's profile," Alex remarked.

"She published it?" I questioned.

"Oh, no. She wouldn't do that. We met for drinks at Clubber's. She worries about you."

"At least she's not a blabbermouth," I said with relief. "More wine?"

We emptied the bottle, sitting quietly for the most part. Alex had her stories, too. Perhaps not so pathetic as mine, but just as meaningful.

"Jack, why in the hell were you taking a class on forensic pathology? That's advanced stuff for a first aid worker," Alex asked.

"I was thinking of going to medical school. I'd already maxed out on the basic courses."

"Three years with NFR and you'd maxed out on their classes?"

"Well, yeah. And four years as a medic before that."

"A medic? Army medic?"

"No. Forget I said anything," I urged, suddenly realizing my mistake. But Alex was too fast for me.

"An Army medic. Your scars. The nightmares. You served in Second Afghan, didn't you? Classified missions?" Alex quickly surmised. "My God, Sandra has you pegged perfectly. And then you joined the NFR. Helpless disaster victims dying while you tried to help them. Francie dying. Harrington. You must have come apart. Is that why you shot Blair? Some sort of PTSD episode?"

"Missy, you've said enough," I angrily objected. "I will never claim to be a crazy vet who shoots presidents, and there's no evidence that I am. Let this drop. Please, for the sake of our friendship, let it drop."

I was truly upset. I loved Alex, but I'd cut her out of my life if she persisted.

Alex stared like she'd never seen me before. And then she smiled.

"Sure, Jack. Whatever you want," she agreed.

* * * * * *

It was Sunday morning, and the problem couldn't be put off any longer. I called Alex and Alberto to meet with me, and I asked Alberto to bring his supervisor. All the evidence I'd acquired was laid out on the table in my dining room cell and extra chairs brought in. My presentation had to be taken seriously.

"Mr. Lawrence, it's been a while," FBI Deputy Director Harold Rasmussen said, bold enough to shake my hand as they entered the complex. I guessed him of Danish ancestry, thickset, with broad shoulders and a wide face. The gray hairline was receding, but there was still enough to comb over.

"I remember you from the hearing, sir," I said, offering a firm grip.

"Yes, the Boyd Confession," Rasmussen said. "He really called you out on that. He's quite the character, isn't he?"

"When he's not humiliating me," I partially agreed, scratching my new beard.

"Father Sebastian?" Alberto asked. Rasmussen grinned in a very annoying way.

"After Judge Smart delayed her decision, I saw Lawrence huddling with the prosecutors. This old friar shows up out of nowhere and says Jack should swear to the Boyd Confession under oath."

"Did he?" Alex asked, looking to me for the answer.

"Come to think of it, he refused," Rasmussen said. "Why was that, Jack? It's okay if I call you Jack, isn't it?"

"I don't discuss the President's murder, and that's not why I've asked you here," I responded.

I brought them back to my cell, finding water bottles for everybody, and stood next to my computer. I was a little nervous. The Black Web was active. It aroused Rasmussen's curiosity.

"I am concerned we may have a serious problem," I started out. "For the past month, I have been in communication with Jek Mahtam. Officially, Mahtam is an attaché for the Rakmanian Embassy. In practice, he is an intelligence operative for Tashad."

"The militia group?" Alex asked. "Don't they operate in Afghanistan?"

"They've been protesting our presence on the Turkmenistan border," Rasmussen said, apparently having been briefed. "Rakmanistan hasn't openly supported them, but there have been rumors."

I produced my first piece of intelligence, which included a photo from the embassy's own security cameras.

"Frac Khanani, Tashad's master of operations, was in the Rakmanian Embassy night before last. He has since disappeared with a team of Tashad lieutenants," I reported. "This morning, Mahtam bragged to me that the Great Satan is about to pay a terrible price."

"What did he mean by that?" Alberto asked.

I picked up my translation sheet, took a deep breath, and handed it to Mr. Rasmussen.

"Chagai's Baby Daughter?" Rasmussen inquired.

"Code name CBD, sir," I said, handing him several more sheets. "It's a modified Mk-54 stolen from a Pakistani laboratory. If Mahtam is telling the truth, and I believe he is, it arrived by cargo container a week ago. It landed at New York Harbor. The shipping container is still there, but it's empty now."

I gave Rasmussen the rest of the file. He read the cover sheet and then walked into the corridor, reading the rest next to the window while rubbing his chin. I was glad to see him taking the threat seriously.

"What does this mean?" Alex asked.

"A Mk-54 is a nuclear device," Alberto said. "Jack, do you have specifications?"

"A rough estimate. The device should be a meter and a half long, a meter in diameter, and weighs about 180 kilograms."

"The yield?" Alberto asked.

"Fifteen kilotons," I guessed, for the intel was sparse.

"Enough to take out a city," Alberto concluded.

Rasmussen returned, walked me all the way down to the gym, and turned with a disturbed glare. His ruddy cheeks had grown redder. He fidgeted, waving my notes back and forth.

"How long have you been accessing the Black Web, Mr. Lawrence?" he asked.

"About four years, sir."

"How?"

"National Intelligence Agency, Section 029, sir," I explained.

"Contact?"

"Colonel Collin Fowler, Intel Adjutant."

"I'll be a son of a bitch," Rasmussen said, stepping back to look me over.

Rasmussen didn't seem as surprised as I would have expected, though he was caught off-guard. He had to wonder who I really was, and if my involvement in Blair's assassination was somehow tied to the intelligence community. It wasn't, as far as I knew, but he was entitled to his suspicions.

"We'll get a team to New York. That container will have a radiation signature," he decided. "Homeland should have eyes on the Rakmanian Embassy. They can review traffic in and out of their gates. How did you get that internal footage? No, never mind. I don't want to know."

He paced in slow, deliberate steps, the papers crinkling in his hand, and then looked at me, assessing the situation. I stood still, arms at my side, head up but shoulders relaxed.

"If this checks out, you know what we're up against?" he asked.

"Yes, sir. That's why I've come to you," I responded.

"This Mahtam is our only contact with Khanani?"

"The only contact I'm aware of."

"Does he know where Khanani is?"

"He claims not to, but he expects to be there for the big event. He's very excited. I think they're planning it for Thanksgiving Day."

"That only gives us four days. Why does Mahtam confide in you?" he asked.

"Because I confessed to killing President Blair, and I've bragged about it. I'm his hero."

Rasmussen huffed. He appreciated the irony.

"You need to make personal contact with Mahtam. Find out where this is going down," Rasmussen said.

"Yes, sir. I realize that. But it's a complicated proposition, isn't it?"

"Son, it's beyond complicated. Suggestions?"

"I've told Mahtam that security here is weak. Which it is. I've hinted that if he had a car waiting, I could be over the wall and gone."

"Could you?"

"I'm not looking to escape, sir."

"But you could?"

"Well, not now that I've told you my plan," I said, trying not to smile.

"Sandra Livingston is right about you. You're fucking crazy," Rasmussen concluded. "We'll need to put a chip in you. Can't have you running off."

"Of course. But there is something else. Something Ruiz and McGuire must agree to."

We returned to my cell, where Alex and Alberto were waiting impatiently. I opened a water bottle and sat down. Rasmussen spoke first.

"Jack is going to escape," he announced.

"Sir?" Alberto said.

"He's going to meet up with this Mahtam fellow and find out where Khanani has taken the weapon," Rasmussen explained.

"Don't you think Jack's escape is going to create a lot of publicity?" Alex asked.

"Christ, McGuire, we're not going to tell the press. This will be a tightly controlled operation. Jack will be back in custody before anyone knows he's gone."

"Sir, you said nothing about returning to custody," I protested, being a pixie.

Rasmussen glared at me, then offered a sly grin. I liked this old guy, and I could tell he liked me. Though I knew he didn't quite trust me.

"There's something else," I said. "This is a classified mission. Everyone involved has to make a promise. John Henry Lawrence is never associated with this. Not in any way. Agent #5 is conducting the operation, not me. And when the press needs to be told, he will be the one you talk about."

"But Jack, if this works ...?" Alex started to say.

"I know what you're thinking, Missy. The answer is no. My trial will proceed as scheduled. Whatever sentence I get, that will be the sentence. No compromises, no excuses."

"Can we ask why?" Alberto inquired.

I punched a key on my computer. A photo came up, one I looked at too often for my own good. It was former First Lady Patricia Blair and her two children. Bobby had just turned seventeen. Little Jenny was fifteen. Fate had not been kind to them. The President left them in debt, and scandalous rumors were emerging about corrupt cabinet members, threatening his legacy.

"I took this nice woman's husband. I took their father," I said, pointing at the screen. "If this plan works, Agent #5 will be a national hero. I don't want the Blair family ever turning on a TV, or picking up a newspaper, or reading a magazine, and seeing John Lawrence called a hero. I owe them too much for that."

* * * * * *

Mahtam was excited. I told him the guards were fighting over the Thanksgiving schedule and weren't paying attention to me. If he could have a car available at exactly 7:15 am Monday morning, I'd be joining him for breakfast. Sunday night was busy.

"Mr. Rasmussen has confirmed the container in New York. The hazmat team says it's hot," Alberto said, sitting at my computer. "Homeland has photos of Khanani going into the embassy. As far as they know, he's still there."

"No one is betting on that," Alex said, receiving a stream of messages on her tablet.

"Nice of the FBI to let you in on this, Missy," I teased.

"Director Leeson wants a piece of the credit, too. You did make the Secret Service look bad," Alex chided. "How did you get a handgun past Jackson Park security that day?"

"I don't know. That is, I must have gotten lucky," I replied.

The kids were doing all the work. I'd taken the codes off my computer, except for my legal files, and they had quickly grasped the fundamentals.

"How's the arm?" Alex asked.

"A little sore, but no redness. Mahtam won't notice the tracking chip under the skin," I replied.

"This came for you. Mr. Rasmussen got it out of evidence," Alex mentioned.

I opened the envelope and smiled. I wasn't sure if the kids had ever seen a wristwatch that wasn't electronic. It had a crystal face and a black leather band.

"Can't afford a new one?" Alberto asked.

"It has sentimental value," I explained, winding the stem. "Friar Sebastian gave me this watch after I won a boxing tournament. Please thank Mr. Rasmussen for retrieving it."

"The command post at Dulles is operational," Alberto announced. "We've got teams ready to take off on a moment's notice. Every office is on full alert."

"On stealth mode, I hope. If Tashad gets a whiff of this, there's no telling what they may do," I said.

I was worried. The last time I'd been in the field, it was on a weed-covered hillside wearing camouflage fatigues carrying an M4 carbine. And I wasn't a particularly good shot. I had no experience as a secret agent.

"You sure look calm," Alex said, which surprised me.

I picked up a yellow pad and went into the next cell, sitting down on the cot. I had a modest pension from the Army, and my life insurance was paid up. I also had $75,000 in my bank account, not having wasted money on lawyers. Writing carefully, I made out a will, designating a beneficiary in such a manner that the funds wouldn't be refused. It occurred to me that the contents of my apartment may have a value someday. Souvenirs of the famous assassin. I had no idea what the FBI had done with my stuff, but it was bound to turn up eventually.

What to do with my combat decorations? Kept in a safety deposit box, the medals were an embarrassment to the army now. I assumed Colonel Fowler had gotten to them first, for the FBI still seemed clueless about my war record. I hated the idea of melting them down. They represented service I was proud of, but maybe it would be for the best. I decided not to mention them in my will.

I went back to my cell a little misty-eyed, washing my face in the sink before anyone noticed. It was getting late. I'd need to be rested for the next day. Alex and Alberto took the hint, wrapping up their projects. Alberto shook my hand. If this went well, it would be good for his career. And if it was a disaster, he was young enough to start over. Alex lingered behind.

"This is amazing," she said. "When you first asked us here to see your rogues' gallery, we never dreamed something like this might happen."

"Me, either. Hunting criminals was just a hobby."

"You're going to be careful, aren't you?"

"I won't get shot on purpose," I replied, not realizing how wrong I was.

"Give me a kiss," she said.

"Alex."

"I know. I'm your little sister. And I like being your little sister. But you're a man, and you need to kiss a woman. So just pretend for a moment and kiss me."

I took her in my arms, looked into those glistening brown eyes, and kissed her slowly on the lips. She felt good.

"Satisfied?" I asked.

"I'm not the one who needs to be satisfied," she replied, poking me in the ribs.

"Don't you carry two phones?"

"Yes. One for me, and one for the Service," she confirmed.

"Give me your personal phone," I requested.

"Jack?"

"I might need to make a phone call."

She fumbled in her purse, finding her phone. I opened the shell and took out the battery.

"Don't worry, Missy. I'll give it back to you. Now go home. We have a big day tomorrow," I encouraged, giving her a pat on the backside.

Alex scrunched her dark eyebrows and smiled. It was the last time I saw her smile for quite some time. She never did get her phone back.

* * * * * *

The next morning, I was up at my usual time. I deleted the Black Web from my computer, took a shower, and combed my month-old beard. Frac Khanani and the Tashad followed a form of Islam that held a beard in high regard. Though I had studied Islam while serving in the war, and knew most of the Qur'an, I was still a Catholic. I wasn't going to tell them otherwise, but I would show respect.

Officer Rogers came to get me for my morning run in the yard. I was unaware if he knew our plans and said nothing to alert him. I did find it strange that a section of barbed wire on the top of the wall was under repair, and the gardener had left his ladder next to the shed. Neither was required, but I appreciated the thoughtfulness.

I ran around the track for a few minutes, glancing at my watch from time to time. It was a blue November day. No hint of rain. The Washington football team would be playing at RFK Stadium on Thursday. I preferred my beloved Philadelphia Eagles, but I hadn't attended a professional game since high school. At 7:14, I stopped to catch my breath, bending over with my hands on my knees. Officer Rogers was sitting on a chair near the cellblock door, as he always did, using his phone to send text messages.

My dash toward the twelve-foot-high cinderblock wall was measured. I jumped with arms extended, gripped the top ledge with my fingers, and swung my leg up. I could have wiggled through a barbed wire barrier, for the strands were not tightly wound, but took advantage of the vacant section. There was no wasted motion. I rolled over the top of the wall and dropped to the other side, landing in a row of boxwood hedges. Roscoe Street was just forty feet away, on the other side of a low brick planter. Parked under a big willow tree was a black limo.

"Jack? Hey, Jack, where the hell are you?" I heard Rogers calling.

He hadn't even seen me go over the wall.

I climbed out of the bushes, brushed myself off, and calmly crossed the recently mowed lawn. The grass was damp, some of it sticking to my canvas shoes. There was no one on the sidewalk, and only a few cars in the street. I heard birds chirp and felt like answering them.

As I walked to the limo, the passenger door opened. I ducked inside, plunked my butt in the seat, and shut the door. The car pulled away from the curb, neither slow nor fast.

"Jek, my old friend. It's good to see you," I greeted.

Mahtam was a skinny little fellow filled with awe. He reached to shake my hand, but I pulled him close for a hug.

"If my Persian was suitable, I would say thank you," I offered.

"It is I who thank you, my friend," Mahtam replied with a Northern Pakistani accent. "Relax, have some tea. By tomorrow, you will be on a jet for Rakmanistan. They have no extradition treaties with Satan's sons. You will never see the inside of a prison again."

* * * * * *

The secret mission continues in chapter three, Thanksgiving Eve.