Without Remorse (John Clark, #1; Jack Ryan Universe, #1)

by Tom Clancy

He looked over at his son and decided to comment on a decision his son recently made. “Marines, eh?”

The case was solved, Ryan thought. He knew. But he had nothing for it but the knowledge that something was going to happen.

While waiting, Kelly got out a can of spray paint and put green stripes on his dinghy. The inside he painted black.

Poisoned Charm

Well, Tony and Henry were setting up a proper lab. Travel wouldn’t be such a pain in the ass.

“Hey, who are you? Maybe we can talk,” Burt suggested. “We’re going to do that. Tell me about the drugs,” Kelly started off.

Kelly peeled off the bills and announced that he’d be sleeping aboard this night. He didn’t say what would be happening the next day.

Stalking

“I suppose you could call this progress, Em. Now we’re sure. There has to be a leak inside the Department.”

“We have three bodies up here, and a hell of a large quantity of what looks like heroin. Call your boat, have them tell my barracks that we need crime lab. Sailor, you just started running a ferry service.” “Sir, fish-and-game has better boats for this. Want me to call them to support you?” “Good idea. You might want to circle around this area some. The water looks pretty clear, and she told us that they’ve dumped some bodies hereabouts. See the stuff in the fishing boat?” Oreza looked, noticing the fishnet and blocks for the first time.

So that’s Henry Tucker. That’s the one who killed Pam He didn’t look like a monster. Monsters rarely did. To Kelly he looked like a target, and his particulars went into Kelly’s memory, alongside Tony Piaggi’s. He was surprised when he looked down and saw that the fork in his hands was bent.

“You know a Lieutenant Ryan?” “Yeah, he works downtown, too.” “He wanted me to check up a guy for him, fellow named Kelly. Oh, yeah! You’ve seen him, remember?”

Anyway, this Ryan guy wanted me to find him for him, okay? He’s back, sir, probably up in Baltimore right now. I tried calling, sir, but he was out, and I’ve been running my ass off all day. Could you pass that one along, please?”

Rite of Passage

“Burt and his friends are dead,” Charon announced. “What’s that?” said a voice that was fully waking up. “You heard me. The State Police in Somerset have them bagged. Angelo, too, what’s left of him. The lab is gone, Henry. The drugs are gone, and they have Xantha in custody.” There was actually some satisfaction in this. Charon was still enough of a cop that the demise of a criminal operation was not yet a matter of grief for him. “What the fuck is going on?” a shrill voice inquired. “I think I can tell you that, too. We need to meet.”

This was treason of the worst sort. Hicks had known what he did would hurt fellow citizens, one of whom he knew by name.

“I can’t fault you for taking him into your office, Roger, but the boy’s guilty of espionage.”

It’s got to be him, the Lieutenant thought. Who else would leave “a large quantity” of drugs behind, along with three bodies?

The brother of one of her patients was reading something or other, but right there on the lower-right side of the front page was the headline: DRUG MURDER in SOMERSET.

“I told you on the airplane. It may turn out that your action bringing that Russian out might save our people yet. We need people who can think on their feet. You can. I’m offering you a job in my part of the house.” “Doing what?” “Whatever we tell you to do,” Ritter answered. He already had something in mind.

“There’s a problem, gentlemen.” “What’s that?” Ritter asked. Kelly reached across the desk and tapped the article on the front page of the paper. “You might want to read that.”

“Keep talking, Mr. Clark.” “That’s me, sir.”

36

Dangerous Drugs

The police had his name. They might soon have his face, which would mean that every police car—there seemed an awful lot of them now—would have people in it who might spot him, just like that. Worse still, he couldn’t defend himself against them, he could not allow himself to kill a police officer.

Maybe it would have been better if he had never begun, just accepted Pam’s death and gone on, waiting patiently for the police to break the case. But no, they would never have broken it, would never have devoted the time and manpower to the death of a whore. Kelly’s hands squeezed the wheel. And her murder would never have been truly avenged. Could I have lived the rest of my life with that?

“You’re Walter Hicks?” “Yeah, who are you?” The man was about his age, if somewhat less polished-looking. “John Clark.”

He was working for the Agency now, so Clark was his name. It made it easier, somehow.

“I thought we had the camp commander, too, didn’t we?” “No, I killed him myself. That bit of information was given to your boss so that we could identify the name of the guy who leaked the mission.” Clark leaned forward. “That was you, Mr. Hicks. I was there. We had it wired. Those prisoners ought to be with their families right now—all twenty of them.”

Hicks brushed it aside. “I didn’t want them to die. Look, like I said, people take chances. Don’t you understand, it just wasn’t worth it. So what are you going to do, arrest me? For what? You think I’m dumb? That was a black operation. You can’t reveal it or you run the risk of fucking up the talks, and the White House will never let you do that.” “That’s correct. I’m here to kill you.”

Hicks looked around the room, hoping to see something that might change the moment. The clock on the mantel seemed to freeze as he considered what was happening. He’d faced the prospect of death in a theoretical way at Andover in 1962, and subsequently lived his life in accordance with the same theoretical picture. The world had been an equation for Walter Hicks, something to be managed and adjusted. He saw now, knowing it was too late, that he was merely one more variable in it, not the guy with the chalk looking at the blackboard.

Henderson pushed the door open, ready to reprove his friend, until he saw him there, sitting in the chair. Hicks had his left sleeve rolled up. His right hand had caught on his collar, as though to help himself breathe, but the real reason was on the inside of his left elbow. Peter didn’t approach the body. For a moment, he didn’t do anything. Then he knew he had to get out of here. He removed a handkerchief and wiped the doorknob, closed the door, and walked away, trying to keep his stomach under control.

Kelly packed his clothing into the suitcase, which was large enough to contain it all, and carried it out to the rented car, and with that his residence in the apartment ended. It was after midnight when he drove south again, into the center of the danger zone, ready to act one last time.

“I didn’t ask for that, did I?” Kelly had an overwhelming urge to apologize for embarrassing the man. “You made it easy for me. Next time be more careful, Officer Monroe.”

Kelly could hear noise upstairs, and he went up, his .45 leading the way.

“How many?” Kelly snapped at her. “Just these two, they’re going to—” “I don’t think so,” Kelly told her, standing. “Which one are you?” “Paula.” He was covering his target. “Where are Maria and Roberta?” “They’re in the front room,” Paula told him, still too disoriented to wonder how he knew the names. The other man spoke for her.

“Ever been to Pittsburgh, Frank?” Somehow the question just popped out. Molinari took his best guess. It was not a good one. “How did you know that? Who you working for?” “Killed Doris and her father, right?” “It was a job, man, ever do a job?” Kelly gave him the only possible answer, and there was another scream from the front as he brought the gun back in close to his chest.

“Officer Monroe, these ladies will be driving you to your station. I have instructions for you. You ready to listen?” “I got a choice, asshole?”

“Sergeant Tom Douglas is the man you want to talk to—nobody else, just him. These ladies are in some really deep shit. They can help you break some major cases. Nobody but him—that’s important, okay?” You fuck that up and we’ll meet again, Kelly’s eyes told him.

Kelly took a deep breath, turning back to where his own auto was. He hadn’t saved Pam. He hadn’t saved Doris. But he had saved these three, and Xantha, at a peril to his life that had at turns been both unintentional and necessary. It was almost enough. But not quite.

“Did you hear something?” Piaggi asked tiredly. “What’s that?” Tucker looked up from his task.

“What’d you say?” Henry asked tiredly. “Forget it.” Piaggi concentrated on his task. Where the hell were Albert and Frank? They were supposed to be here a couple hours ago. Thought they were special because they whacked people, like that stuff really mattered.

“I need to check the numbers on the drugs I brought in last week,” Charon told him. “I think there might be a mixup on the tags. Anyway”—he shrugged—“I have to check it out.”

Official policy was that nobody wandered around in this room without an official escort, but Charon was a lieutenant, and Harry was short one leg, and his prosthesis was giving him trouble, as it usually did.

The ten kilos he had taken from Eddie Morello’s car were in a labeled cardboard box, sitting on the third shelf, right where they were supposed to be. He took the box down and looked to be sure. Each of the ten one-kilo bags had to be opened, tested, and resealed. The lab technician who’d done it had just initialed the tags, and his initials were easy to fake. Charon reached into his shirt and pants, pulling out plastic bags of Four-X sugar, which was of the same color and consistency as the heroin. Only his office would ever touch this evidence, and he could control that. In a month he’d send a memo recommending destruction of the evidence, since the case on it was closed. His captain would approve. He’d dump it down the drain with several other people watching, and the plastic bags would be burned, and nobody would ever know. It certainly seemed simple enough. Within three minutes he was walking away from the evidence racks.

“Yeah?” The man turned. “Henry, it’s for you.” “What the hell?” Tucker walked over. “Hi, Henry,” Kelly said. He’d wired a field phone into the building’s telephone line, cutting it off from the outside world. He

“Who’s this?” “The name’s Kelly, John Kelly,” he told him. “So who’s John Kelly?” “Four of you killed Pam. You’re the only one left, Henry,” the voice said. “I got the rest. Now it’s your turn.”

Henry handed him the phone. “Who’s this?” “Those two guys on the boat, the ones you gave to Henry? I got ’em. I got the other two this morning, too.”

Kelly shouldered the rifle, but kept his head up, sweeping left and right in an even, patient way.

“Let’s try something.” Piaggi walked to the phone and lifted it. There wasn’t a dial tone, just a buzz.…