Authors: Kyle Mills
Rising Phoenix
RISING
PHOENIX
KYLE MILLS
To my dad
The get-things-done guy
Prologue:
Baltimore, Maryland, August 23, 1985
1
Washington, D.C., October 15, Present Day
2
Greenbelt, Maryland, October 15
3
Baltimore, Maryland, October 16
5
Near Cumberland, Maryland, November 1
7
Above Bogotá, Colombia, November 26
9
Baltimore, Maryland, December 26
11
Near Houston, Texas, January 15
12
Bogotá, Colombia, January, 22
13
Baltimore, Maryland, January 30
14
Washington, D.C., February 7
15
Washington, D.C., February 9
16
Washington, D.C., February 9
17
Near Bogota, Colombia, February
12
18
Washington, D.C., February 14
19
Washington, D.C., February 18
20
Baltimore, Maryland, February 19
22
Near Baltimore, Maryland, February 24
23
Washington, D.C., February 25
25
The White House, Washington, D.C., March 1
26
Baltimore, Maryland
, March 2
29
Baltimore, Maryland, March 6
30
Near Baltimore, Maryland, March 8
32
Baltimore, Maryland, March 10
33
Baltimore, Maryland, March 11
Praise For Kyle Mills and RISING PHOENIX
Baltimore, Maryland,
August 23, 1985
M
ark Beamon jabbed at the air-conditioning button one last time as he eased the car to a stop next to a faded yellow curb. It was pointless, he knew—the mechanic who cared for the FBI’s pool cars hated him. One little practical joke and he was condemned for the rest of his time in Baltimore to driving these subtly sabotaged vehicles. In the summer it was always the air-conditioner. In the winter, of course, it was the heater. Spring and fall usually found the windshield wipers disconnected.
Some people just had no goddam sense of humor.
He stepped from the car and stood motionless on the sidewalk for a moment, enjoying the gentle, salt-scented breeze coming off the water. He wasn’t familiar with the neighborhood, but it didn’t really look any different from most others in this part of town. The endless brick row homes that set Baltimore apart from other major U.S. cities also contributed to a mind-numbing architectural monotony.
Beamon jogged quickly across the street, his sweat-soaked
shirt slapping audibly against his skin. He slowed to a walk when he reached the sidewalk, already slightly out of breath. The house he was looking for was halfway up the block.
He rapped hard on the door. No answer. He tried the knob and, finding it open, entered. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom inside the narrow living room.
John Hobart, the DEA agent he had been temporarily partnered with, was sitting on the sofa at the far right. A younger, painfully thin man was lying on the dirty carpet at Hobart’s feet. Beamon assumed the man on the floor was the informant that Hobart had suggested he meet.
“Nice of you to show up, Mark.”
Beamon pushed at the door behind him. It was warped with age, and took nearly his full weight before it clicked shut. “Yeah, yeah. Too goddam hot to rush.” He nodded toward the figure on the floor. “Is this Peter Manion?”
“That’s Peter.”
Beamon walked over to the young man and peered down at him. “What’s wrong? Didn’t get his fix today?”
Hobart remained silent as Beamon crouched down to get a better look at Manion’s face. He pulled on the young man’s arm, trying to roll him over, but let go when Manion cried out.
“Jesus, John, what happened?” Beamon asked, poking at Manion’s arm again and getting a similar response.
“Peter here was bullshitting me.” Hobart leaned forward on the couch. “Weren’t you, Petey?”
Manion whimpered a noncommittal response as Beamon examined his arm. A delicate-looking bone was protruding from the top of his wrist. The blood drying onto Manion’s hand had a distinct waffle pattern.
“What the fuck’s going on here, John?” Beamon said, tying his handkerchief around Manion’s wrist.
Hobart’s face remained serene. He didn’t reply.
Beamon stood and looked down at his partner. At first glance, he didn’t look like he was capable of this kind of violence. He stood less than five foot eight in stockinged feet and couldn’t have weighed more than one hundred and forty pounds. His size, combined with his sharp features and fine skin, made him look almost feminine. This impression was quickly dispelled, though, by his seething intensity. The little quirks that combined to form a person’s humanity seemed to be lacking in him.
The vague misgivings that Beamon had had about his new partner’s soul, though, had been lost in his admiration for Hobart’s uncanny eye for detail and unwavering dedication to his work.
Until now.
“Take it easy, Mark,” Hobart said finally. “The arm was an accident. He fell into the edge of the table.”
“Then why are your fucking shoe prints all over his hand?”
Hobart shrugged. “His wrist was already broken, Mark. Might as well take advantage of it.”
Beamon opened his mouth to say something but Hobart cut him off. “Come on, Mark. I was there when you slapped Terazzi around, remember? Don’t even think of lecturing me about this.”
“Bullshit! There’s a difference between slapping a mob enforcer a couple of times and this.” He pointed to Manion. “Terazzi was intimidation. This is torture.”
Hobart crossed his legs and stretched his arms across the back of the sofa. “You say tomato …”
Beamon stared at his partner, slack-jawed. He’d seen it before, but usually in cops who had been on the beat for twenty years. Hobart had completely distanced himself from Manion and others like him. He no longer saw them as human, only as problems to be solved.
Beamon stooped down and grabbed Manion by the back of his shirt. The young man cried out in pain as Beamon dragged him to his feet, but managed to stand with minimal support. Beamon wrapped an arm around Manion’s torso and began hobbling for the door.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going, Mark?”
Beamon turned to face his partner. “To the hospital.”
Hobart shook his head slowly. “Manion’s the key to this investigation. You know that. I’m not going to let you blow this bust just because you have a weak stomach.”
Beamon’s eyes narrowed. “Blow this bust? I’m gonna blow your entire career, you sadistic son of a bitch.”
Beamon began to turn back toward the door but stopped when Hobart reached for the gun resting on the coffee table in front of him.
“What are you gonna do? Shoot me?” Beamon had to struggle to keep the nervousness out of his voice.
Hobart put his feet up on the coffee table and rested
his gun hand on his knee. The barrel, and Hobart’s eyes, were pointing directly at Beamon’s chest.
Beamon turned and began moving slowly for the door, pulling Manion’s near deadweight along with him. He held his breath as he reached for the knob.
Washington, D.C.,
October 15, Present Day
T
hings were looking good for Wile E. Coyote. His rocket-propelled roller skates gushed fire as he streaked across the dramatic desert landscape. It didn’t matter, though. In the end he’d lose, left in the dust by that smart-ass Road Runner.
Leroy Marcus understood the coyote. He understood wanting and not having. And, though he had only just turned fifteen, he understood disappointment.
He punched the volume button on the remote, effectively drowning out the loud coughing coming from his mother. It looked like the coyote was about to take another spectacular fall to the earth, and he loved the low whistle that always seemed to accompany The Plunge.
“Leroy, get your mama some sugar.”
He ignored her and stabbed at the volume button a couple more times.
“Leroy. Did you hear me? I need me some sugar!”
The quiet desperation in her voice cut through the screech of ACME rocket skates.
He thought back to the days when his mother used to come home from work and ask for sugar. He and his older brother would run to her and bury their faces in her skirt and she would laugh and pat their heads affectionately.
But his brother had been dead for almost a year, and his mother no longer rushed out the door every morning, fussing that she was late. Now when she asked for some sugar she wanted more than a kiss. She wanted her fix.
“Leroy!”
He turned his head slowly and peered around the overstuffed chair that engulfed him. His mother sat in the kitchen, legs splayed out unnaturally under the table. She stared back at him with watery eyes.
The volume of the television increased again, this time on its own. The cartoons were over, replaced by a small leprechaun extolling the virtues of Lucky Charms. He turned away from his mother and pulled his knees to his chest.
“What you waitin’ on, boy?”
Reluctantly he lowered his feet to the floor and maneuvered through the worn and broken toys that his five-year-old sister had scattered across the room. He paused for a moment to look down at his mother. She turned away and reached for a pack of cigarettes.
His sister appeared in the doorway of their mother’s bedroom and ran to him. He knelt down and ran a hand through her hair.
“What you been up to, Diedre? Your braid’s already
falling out. Took me a half an hour this morning to make you all pretty.”
She giggled and chewed on her knuckle.
“I gotta go out for a little while, okay? You gonna be good for Mama?”
She nodded. Her smile had a way of making him forget who he was. He took care of her—and that made him as important as any rich white man. Maybe even more important.
“Okay. I’ll be back in an hour. If you’re good, I fix that braid. If not, you have to walk around all lopsided for the rest of the day.”
She turned and ran back to their mother’s bedroom. He watched her until she disappeared, and then he punched the redial button on his cellular phone.
The wind that had been flowing through the streets like a river for the past two days had finally blown itself out, leaving Washington blanketed in a cold mist. Leroy surveyed the dark sky from the doorway of the housing project that had been his home since he was born. His ’hood was particularly depressing in the rain. It was true that the sun accentuated peeling paint and cracked sidewalks, but it also spurred activity. Children ran across asphalt-covered playgrounds. Teenagers smoked and drank on street corners. Even the foul smell that the sun wrung from the neighborhood was something. Rain made it all look like a faded black-and-white photograph.
He shoved his hands into baggy jeans and began splashing slowly down the stairs. At the bottom he turned right and started up the street, covering his head with the hood of his sweatshirt. Through the mist, he
could just make out another lone figure framed by a severely leaning doorway. As he approached, the figure came to life and started toward him. “Tek! Whassup?”