New Haven, Connecticut

Two weeks later:

             McCoy turned over in bed as his wife grumbled next to him.  The phone on the nightstand was ringing.  The red numbers on the clock said that it was three in the morning.  Rubbing his eyes, the retired General knew that only a handful of people had the number to the landline in his home.  If he was being called at this time of night, it was for a good reason.  Probably someone needing him to fix a problem in another time zone.

“Hello,” he said answering the phone.

“Come downstairs,” a voice whispered over the phone.

“What?”

Direct Action: Chapter Twenty Three

Read Next: Direct Action: Chapter Twenty Three

“Don’t bother trying to call the police.  You won’t be able too.”

“Who is this?”

The line went dead.  McCoy fiddled with the phone but there was no dial tone.

“What is it?” His wife asked as she turned to him.

“Nothing, just some problem in another timezone that work needs me to fix,” the lie came off the tip of his tongue without even thinking about it.  Occupational hazard.

Walking across the bedroom he retrieved his cell phone from its charger and turned it on.  No bars.  Was the signal jammed?  WiFi was out too.  The voice on the phone said to come downstairs.  It had to be a prank call.  No way was anyone getting through the layers of security around his house.  Just in case, he grabbed his HK USP pistol from the safe in the closet before heading downstairs.

At the bottom of the steps, he saw that the kitchen light was on.  Frowning, he moved forward, holding the pistol out in front of him.  He never heard the sounds of the man coming up from behind him.  He was driven down to his knees and the pistol wrenched from his hands.

“If you want to leave your wife out of this I suggest not screaming for help.”

McCoy looked up at his attacker.

Direct Action: Chapter Forty Four

Read Next: Direct Action: Chapter Forty Four

“What do you want?”

“I want you.  I want Ted Snyder.  I want anyone else involved.”

“Deckard,” the old General hissed his name.

Deckard helped McCoy to his feet and shoved him into one of the dining room chairs.

“How did you even get in here?”

“I’ve got a guy who does breaking and entering.  I’m not half bad myself.  Your two security guards are tied up in the backyard.”

“Everyone thought you died in Syria.”

“Me too.”

“Bill?”

“Sorry for your loss.”

“Look, not in here.  My wife designed the kitchen.  I don’t want her to find my brains plastered on the wall.”

“Have it your way.  Outside,” Deckard motioned towards the door.

He followed McCoy out into the yard.  Still wearing his pajamas, he was freezing cold and began to shiver.

“I know it isn’t just you and Ted in this little cabal,” Deckard said.  “You guys don’t self task.  Not without top cover.  You don’t make a move without protection from powerful people, everyone knows that about you.”

McCoy spilled three names.

Deckard snorted.

“What the fuck?”

“You want Ted too?  I’m as sick of these fucking weasels as you are.  The four of them are meeting in New York in a couple days.  The Others Club.  Their favorite place, for brunch.  I’m supposed to be there as well.”

“Sorry you can’t make it.”

“Feel free to tell those fucks that I sent you.”

“I will.”

Deckard flicked the USP’s selector to safe and tucked it under his jacket.

“What are you doing?”

Reaching in his pocket, he pulled out a small cellophane packet and tossed it to McCoy.  The retired General looked down at the package with a small white pill inside and then back up at Deckard.  The mercenary tapped the face of his wristwatch.

“On you.”