Chip rolled his eyes at him. “What are you saying, Tom? Do you actually think I’m the letter-writing terrorist?”
“No, but I’m beginning to believe you’re the person he’s been sending the messages to.” He stared at the older man intensely. “Those letters have been meant for you all along, haven’t they?”
Chip laughed. “Listen to yourself! A minute ago you were sitting here drinking a beer with me, and now you’re accusing me of being a terrorist? An old man who spends his day drinking at the bar… is that Homeland Security’s new profile for bad guys, Tom?”
“You didn’t answer my question,” Tom said calmly.
Chip took a swallow of his beer and ran a hand through his wavy, salt-and-pepper hair in agitation. “Put yourself in my position, Tom. If you were innocent of these accusations, what would you say?”
“First I’d say I was innocent. Then I’d explain how I managed to have information that only our terrorist would know.”
“And if you were guilty?”
Tom leaned back and studied the older man suspiciously.
“I’d kill my accuser and immediately flee the scene.”
“I’m an old man, Tom. Do you really think I’d try that on my own?”
Tom shook his head. “No, I suppose not.”
Chip smiled and nudged him playfully with his elbow. “Of course I wouldn’t.” He glanced over at the large man seated next to Tom.
“Max, would you do me the honors?”
Tom looked curiously at Chip before the meaning of his remark struck him, but by then it was too late. Max suddenly stood and wrapped his massive arm around Tom’s neck before he could turn and confront him. Pinned from behind against his attacker’s chest, Tom frantically tried to punch at Max’s face but was quickly subdued in the vise-like grip of the larger man’s free hand. Max then tightened his grip around his neck. Tom’s eyes searched around wildly as he fought for breath, straining to free himself from the pillar of muscle now suffocating him. His eyes locked on Jeri, who stood in her corner behind the counter staring back at him, too shocked to move. He tried calling out to her, but only produced a muffled gasp.
“Don’t fight it, Tom,” Chip said calmly. “It’s much better if you don’t fight.”
From her corner behind the counter, Jeri watched in horror as Tom’s eyes slowly glazed over and his body went limp. A moment later, at the command of a brief nod from Chip, Max unwrapped his arm from Tom’s neck and gently laid his lifeless body on the floor. The two men spoke briefly before the large man spun and marched out the front door.
Chip then turned and gazed at Jeri, his pale blue eyes shining lucidly.
“I’m sorry, Jeri, but I think I just ruined your last day at Joe’s.”
55.
Alex Murstead ran through the private hanger inside Reagan National Airport towards the sleek white Bombardier Challenger powering up outside. Waiting for him at the doorway to the tarmac were two of his SOG operatives, both of the powerfully-built men dressed in plain clothes. Like Alex, the only indication of their paramilitary status was the handgun holstered to their belts.
“Let’s go. I’ll explain on the way,” he said as they marched out across the tarmac and boarded the 8-seater jet. A few minutes later, as the plane’s wheels lifted off the runway, Alex excused himself and called the office of the Deputy Secretary.
“What have you got?” McCarthy asked impatiently.
“I’m in route to Flagstaff.”
“And why would you be doing that?”
Alex quickly explained the letters to Jeri Halston and summarized his conversation with Preston and Connolly earlier that morning. “Based on Connolly’s interpretation of the statements in the letters,” he concluded, “I believe our terrorist is on his way to Flagstaff to kill the woman he’s been writing. I intend to be there when he arrives.”
“So after killing several top scientists employed by a major energy company, you actually believe this man is going to fly onto US soil and risk his life to kill a bartender?” McCarthy asked skeptically.
“Yes ma’am.”
“And just what exactly has this young woman done to deserve that kind of attention?”
Alex hesitated before speaking. “I don’t know, Deputy Secretary, but you’re presuming this guy needs a reason in the first place.”
“He didn’t just pick that girl out of the blue, Agent Murstead,” McCarthy replied reproachfully. “Nothing this man has done so far appears to be random. I doubt his choice with this bartender is any different. What time will you be landing in Flagstaff?”