Bishop's War (Bishop Series Book 1) (29 page)

John and Bear hopped off their perch, landing on either side of the two men who were now on their hands and knees.

“These guys are hard core Afghan fighters for sure. Can’t tell which one was the shooter,” John said, carefully looking them over.

Bear shrugged and stomped hard, first on the right hand and then on the left of the Afghan closest to him. The heavy soled jump boot easily shattered and splintered the bones beneath it, but he ground down even further to make sure the hands could never again be used for accurately aiming and firing a rifle.

The second terrorist knew what was coming and tried to protect his hands by hugging them against his body. Bear kicked him hard in the side, then knelt on his back to pin him down. He held the man’s arms out, forcing his hands palm down on the floor. John picked up the sniper rifle and repeatedly smashed each hand with the butt of the heavy weapon. Ignoring the screams, he kept pounding away until they weren’t hands anymore. Just two bloody misshapen lumps of torn flesh and crushed bone.

During the fire fight inside the cargo bay Colonel Masters had patched in the medic en route on the Special Ops ship. John and Bear had been busy taking out the four terrorists, but they still heard Bunny describing Able’s wound in detail. They all knew he was critical and needed immediate surgery.

They quickly hogtied the two Afghans, putting plastic zip cuffs around their ankles, then cuffed their ruined hands behind their backs before tying their hands and feet together. They put black sacks over each of the soldier’s heads and then ran out to help with Able.

“Get those lights back on!” Bunny shouted. When they came on it was a shock to see how pale and frail his friend was.

“Take me topside,” Able said softly. His voice was so weak Bunny had to read his lips to understand what he said. Despite Bunny’s efforts to stop the blood flow he was squatting in a wide red puddle as Able bled out.

“Medic’s on the way brotha. You hold on. Hold on Able. You hear me?! Hold on!”

Running through the doorway, John reached them first. “Bear, grab his legs! Come on Bun, pick him up! Let’s go, let’s go!”

They made their way to the stairs and carefully brought Able up on deck.

“I can taste the salt in the air,” Able whispered, slowly licking his lips. “Lay me down next to Bobby.”

“There’s the ship!” Mace said over the radio. “Medic on board in two minutes.”

John kept pressure on the wound while they laid Able down on the make-shift bed next to his best friend Bobby, who was on his back with his arms spread wide. Bobby stirred, moving his head gently from side to side. He opened his eyes and blinked slowly, trying to clear away the cobwebs. Staring up at the night sky he said, “Man, my brains are scrambled. Where are we?”

“On a cruise,” Able said.

“Did we get hurt?”

“Yeah, but you’re gonna be fine.”

“You too?”

“Me? Nah, I’m gone, man.”

“But you’re my brother.”

“Always will be, partner. Gimme a squeeze.”

Bobby bent his left elbow and wrapped his arm around Able.

“I’m going back to sleep,” Bobby said.

“Adios, hermano,” Able said.

Bobby closed his eyes and fell back into unconsciousness. Able closed his eyes and died. Still on their knees in a semi-circle around the two brothers, John, Bear, and Bunny sat there in silence. Finally, John spoke softly into his mic.

“Able’s dead. Bobby needs evac for head trauma.”

They all heard Mace scream out into the night. John looked towards the tower, shook his head, and exhaled deeply. He stood up and placed his hand on Bunny’s shoulder. “Come on Bun, we still have to get the weapons and the prisoners offloaded. Let’s get the torch and start cutting these deck plates open.”

Bunny dried his eyes, gently touched his bloody hand to Able’s cheek, and then hopped up and followed after John. Bear stayed on his knees speaking quietly to Able. After a few moments he got up and walked to the rail. He stood there alone staring into the night. He never looked at the twelve Navy SEALs when they boarded and they knew instinctively to keep their distance.

In the C-130 five miles overhead General Palmer smashed his fist down over and over again onto the desk in front of him.

“How many more good men have to die before we get Aziz Khan?”

“I don’t know General… I just don’t know,” Colonel Masters said.

Chapter 35

Witness for the Prosecution

Manhattan Court District
District Attorney Joshua Fishman’s Office

Don’t let this
fool get you shook. He don’t know you. Be cool BD. You just be cool and we’re home free,
Brendan Donahue said to himself.

He’d been ready to answer questions, but the DA just sat there looking at him, not saying a word. Brendan gave up trying to hold his stare and kept glancing nervously over at Mike Meecham for support. Brendan and Meecham sat next to each other in matching high-backed leather chairs in front of Fishman’s huge mahogany desk. Meecham nodded, smiled easily and placed a hand on Brendan’s knee to get him to stop furiously pumping his leg up and down.

“You need a towel?” Fishman asked, still gazing upon the scrawny, scabby, cadaverous human being who was sweating so heavily that drops fell from his stringy black hair and dripped from his thin fingers down onto the grey carpet. Fishman made a mental note to have the carpet steam cleaned. Meecham handed Donahue a handkerchief and Fishman watched his star witness pat his face, neck and wrist with quick, jerky motions. Fishman finally looked away in disgust while he weighed his options.

Brendan Donahue’s life had been marked by a series of wrong turns, poor decisions and according to him, “Just a shit load of bad luck,” since his glory days at Yale almost two decades ago. He came from a wealthy New England family who tolerated his drunken playboy lifestyle until the day he’d graduated with a solid 2.0. He thought he was headed for a cushy job in the family business, but his father quickly closed that door. He told his son that if he made something of himself in the world he would find a place for him. Until then he was on his own.

Thus began the freefall. He’d been fired from every job he ever held until he was finally deemed unhireable. It was just his bad luck that every boss he’d ever worked for had been a complete asshole and every person he’d ever worked with had been a jealous backstabber.

Throughout his steady downward spiral he’d briefly taken three different Mrs. Donahue’s along for the ride. Once again, it was just his bad luck that he happened to marry “The three most cold-hearted bitches that ever lived.”

He partied hard through it all, drinking socially from noon to 4AM. He dabbled with the coke at first, gradually increasing his consumption until he became a daily, but still functional user. He stopped functioning after his father died and completely cut him out of the will. In the last five years since his old man gave him a final “fuck you” from the grave he’d become a full blown junkie, mixing crack, heroin, and anything else he could get his hands on. He’d been shacked up with an equally addicted and emaciated hooker in Atlantic City when Meecham’s men dragged him out and cleaned him up two days ago.

He had completely forgotten about the fight that left his college bud from London dead on the street in Manhattan all those years ago. Meecham himself had gone over everything. Brendan recognized his own handwriting in his signed statement, but he’d been cooking his brain for so long that large segments of his life were completely erased.

Hugh’s death had actually been far less traumatic than his father humiliating him in front of his friends and the cops by calling him a total loser unworthy of the Donahue name. As if that night was somehow all his fault.

Meecham kept reminding him about the kid he’d described in his statement and showed him some pictures. He pointed to the one guy that had a scar on his face. He remembered the kid who hit Hugh had a scar, but not much else. He worked for hours and hours with Meecham going over it time and time again until he could recite the story like it happened yesterday.

Now you’re sitting here with this asshole eyeballing you. Thinking he’s better than you? Better than you? You’re the man! You’re the
king!

God damn right I am. I’m the king that’s about to get paid. Cha ching bitch. Meecham money motherfucka. That’s real chedda you broke ass DA. When I get my paper I’m gonna come back here and take a shit on your fuckin’ desk. Have you wipe my ass while your secretary’s sucking my fat dick. I’m Brendan Donahue. You’re gonna remember that name for the rest of your life you grey haired
punk!

He’s scared a
you.

He fuckin’ should
be.

Fishman didn’t know what was going on inside Donahue’s head, but he knew from the crazy look in his eyes that it wasn’t good. He didn’t want a psychotic skeleton having a fit in his office so he reluctantly broke the silence to give Meecham the bad news.

“Mike, this just won’t work.”

“Make it work, Fish,” Meecham said venomously.

“How? John Bishop has more medals than Audie Murphy. Last week he became a national hero after what he did to those terrorists and now it seems he’s a personal friend of the president of the United States. You think we can put this skel on the stand to testify against him in open court? Come on.”

“Who you callin’ a skel?”

“I’m talking about you, junkie, and if you say another word without being asked a direct question I’ll have the two officers outside that door haul you down to the Tombs.”

Donahue was about to stand up in protest, but Fishman kept him in his seat by raising his palm like a stop sign. “Asshole, I’ve seen your sheet. Fifteen arrests and two outstanding warrants. It’ll be ninety days before you even see a judge. You sure you want to kick dope in city jail?”

Donahue slumped back down with a sigh. He pantomimed pulling a zipper across his mouth and then dramatically throwing away a key, which would have been funny if it hadn’t revealed more about the depths of his dementia.

He can’t talk to us like that! Don’t just sit there! Do
something!

I’m just waiting for my moment. He’s about to get
his.

That’s why you’re the king. Cause you’re smarter than everyone else. You’re right BD. Be patient. Then bam! He won’t know what hit
him.

He’s gonna be on his ass lookin’ up at my
dick.

Spit on him when he’s down. No, no! Piss on him, yeah piss on
him!

That’s the
plan.

“Come on Mike, what do you expect me to do here?”

“I expect you do what you’re told. First, we get his statement on the record. Do the deposition now and then I’ll get him straight for the Grand Jury.”

“Mike, let me state this clearly so there’s no misunderstanding here. There is no way we can depose Mr. Donahue in his current condition, so today is out of the question. First we’ll get him detoxed and then we’ll determine how stable he is in a few weeks.”

“A few weeks? Don’t be ridiculous. We’re on a schedule here and Bishop’s indictment is just one component of a much broader plan. I need this to happen now.”

“What is your grand plan for Bishop and his family?”

“That’s above your pay grade Fish.”

“I’m hearing some disturbing things.”

“I have always embraced the nasty rumors that surround me and used them to my advantage. In any event, what you may have heard is irrelevant and what you think about what you heard is meaningless to me,” Meecham said, waving his hand dismissively.

“Meaningless. Hmmm. Why’s that?”

“Look at me as the CEO of a multi-billion dollar corporation and yourself as a low level employee in the mailroom or mopping floors.”

“Well thanks for clarifying things for me. Never realized that you had such little respect for me or this office.”

“The DA’s office I respect. You I don’t. It’s only my benevolence that lets you sit behind that desk and keeps you out of jail. And let me assure you, the moment you stop being useful to me you’ll be headline news. Neither of us wants that, so I suggest you keep me happy Little Fish.”

Josh Fishman’s eyes watered and he turned away. Meecham’s triumphant stare and condescending tone sliced him to the bone. The fact that Meecham had spoken to him like this in front of a low bottom junkie made the wound that much deeper.

“No pouting now. And it’s time you expressed some gratitude. Who would you rather have own you? Me, or the sexual predators in state prison?… Well?”

Meecham sat there waiting for the DA to compose himself while Donahue pretended to smoke a cigarette, blowing imaginary smoke rings towards the ceiling.

“You,” Fishman said.

“Say it,” Meecham said.

“What?”

“As I said, an expression of gratitude.”

“Uh, thank you?”

“Was that a question?”

“No. I mean yes. Thank you, Mr. Meecham.”

“Good. I’m glad we’re friends again. And since we’re friends you can call me Mike.”

“Thanks Mike,” Fishman said while he contemplated the best way to kill himself.

“Look, we’ve got work to do and you understandably missed the big picture here. Mr. Donahue is another victim of Bishop’s homicidal behavior. Poor Brendan was so traumatized by witnessing his best friend’s murder that he fell deeper and deeper into depression and a pattern of self-destructive behavior that ultimately manifested itself in his drug addiction… I’m just free forming here, but that had a nice flow to it. You should be writing this stuff down.”

Fishman picked up a pen and started writing the word ASSHOLE over and over again on his desk pad.

“What about the other three witnesses? I understand they haven’t been as co-operative as Mr. Donahue here.”

“That’s not your concern. Don’t worry about them, they won’t be a problem. Just focus on Brendan’s statement and getting the indictment.”

“Okay. But, you agree that we can’t take his official statement today. Let me work with him overnight and hopefully his condition will improve by the morning.”

“Very well. I leave him in your hands, but you stay with him at all times. He doesn’t leave your sight. Understood?”

“Don’t worry. There are two beds in the main bedroom of the safe house. I’ll bunk with him and we’ll have a SWAT team in the living room.”

“Good. You keep him protected and guard him as if your life depends on it. Because in reality… it really does.”

Meecham gave Brendan a reassuring pat on the shoulder and told him he’d see him in the morning. He nodded at Fishman on his way out and the three men from his private security detail were on their feet and ready to move when he came through the door.

After Meecham’s departure Brendan sat there beaming with a big grin on his face.

“You have something to say?” Fishman asked.

“Yeah I do. Watching you get bitch slapped like that made me hungry. Order me up a ribeye, medium rare, with mashed potatas and a couple a Heinekens.”

“That it?”

“I like your attitude man. I was gonna kick your ass a few minutes ago, but now I see we’re on the same team here. Tell you the truth, this whole deal’s got me stressin’. Get me a chick with some big titties. A redhead if you’ve got one handy, but I’ll settle for dark hair. I need to plug a wet hole so I can get my mind right for tomorrow.”

“You want a date?”

“Yeah man. Companionship asshole. Set it up!” Brendan said snapping his fingers.

“My pleasure.” Fishman leaned back in his chair and said, “Come on in.” Looking back at Brendan he said, “Here comes your companionship dipshit.”

Clayton Unser, the CIA Deputy Director and Valdez family friend, came in through a side door. He was followed by two linebacker sized CIA leg breakers in dark suits with flat dead eyes.

“He’s all yours,” Fishman said.

“Let’s go turd,” one of the CIA muscle men said as he effortlessly dragged Brendan out of his seat, threw him up against the wall, and cuffed him.

“You fuck! You can’t do this to me! You heard what Meecham saaiiidd!” Brendan’s shouting was cut short by the liquid contents of a tiny needle injected into his neck that instantly slumped him down to his knees. The two goons picked up his limp body and carried him out.

Clayton waited for his men to leave and the door to close before he began speaking: “Great performance Mr. Fishman. Really well done.”

“Yeah, well, if I hadn’t fought him on this he would have known something was wrong.”

“You sold it.”

“Do you really think Meecham’s going to kill the other witnesses?”

“I think he’s going to try,” Clayton said.

“And then blame it on the Valdez mob…”

“Exactly. Contrary to what that sociopath thinks you do see the big picture quite clearly.”

“I guess. Just hard to think of the Valdez family as allies, even with the war on terror and all that.”

“The ironies and complexities of life are a wonder to behold,” Clayton said, then pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number.

“We’re all set here. The package is secure…” Looking at Fishman as he spoke, he continued the conversation. “Yes, I’m here with him now. I will share your concerns, but I believe Mr. Fishman understands the gravity of the situation and the National Security issues involved here… Yes sir.” Carefully placing the phone back in the inside pocket of his suit jacket he asked, “Do you?”

“Do I what?” Fishman replied.

“Understand the gravity of the situation.”

“I understand I’m between a rock and a hard place and when I get thrown under the bus, which I definitely will, it won’t be a soft landing. But I gave you Donahue didn’t I? And you’ve got Meecham on tape. I’m probably going to end up in prison, but I’ve done everything you asked me to, haven’t I?”

“You have and if it comes to that I see a presidential pardon in your future or worst case a short visit to a minimum security facility. More like a fat farm. Lift weights and jog for six months and sell your book for a million bucks when you get out.”

“It’s still prison pal.”

“There are worse things.”

“What could possibly be worse than a disgraced DA walking the yard?”

“Death my friend. Painful and violent death,” Clayton said with a pleasant smile.

The Hudson River

Meecham didn’t consider himself a short man, but because of his lack of height he liked it better standing up. It gave him more leverage. He made her stay on her hands and knees while she frantically stroked him with her hands, desperate to end it. She even tried to take him in her mouth to get him to come faster, but he didn’t want contact with any of her bodily fluids so he gave her a crisp slap that made her back off. Although his right arm was tiring from the effort, he hit her again and again and again with the hand crafted leather belt. Each satisfying crack of the belt drove him into a frenzy that engorged him further. His eyes wild, he finally he spasmed and groaned with pleasure, releasing onto her face and breasts.