The Butcher's Bill (The Linus Schag, NCIS, Thrillers Book 2) Read online

  The

  Butcher's

  Bill

  MARTIN ROY HILL

  THE BUTCHER'S BILL

  Copyright © 2017 by Martin Roy Hill.

  All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations used in critical articles or reviews.

  Published by

  An imprint of

  M. R. Hill Publishing

  San Diego, California

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN-0692802932

  ISBN-978-0692802939

  For information contact

  www.martinroyhill.com

  Cover photograph by Canva

  Books by Martin Roy Hill

  Duty: Stories of Mystery and Suspense from the Cold War and Beyond (2012)

  The Killing Depths (2012)

  Empty Places (2013)

  Eden: A Sci-Fi Novella (2014)

  The Last Refuge (2016)

  Butcher's Bill: Old naval slang term for the dead and wounded on board after battle.

  — The Oxford Companion to Ships and the Sea (1976)

  Chapter 1

  Sunday

  Gideon Security International

  Training Compound

  San Diego County, California

  2345 Hours

  HE STAYED IN THE THICK growth of the hillside, hidden by the shadows of its trees, and looked down on the training camp. A good twenty yards lay between him and the cyclone fence of the compound. The cleared area would give the guards an unobstructed view of anyone approaching during the day. At night, however, the poor positioning of the security lighting left deep shadows that extended from the fence to the trees. The bright lighting inside the compound also compromised the guards' night vision, making those shadows even darker.

  Bill Butcher raised the small set of binoculars to his eyes and scanned the camp again, just as he had for the past four hours. There were four guards on duty—one at the gate, two walking the fence line, and one inside the main building manning a radio. Every hour on the hour, the guard in the building would relieve one of the guards outside and they would rotate positions. It was a good routine for watch standers on a ship at sea, but it was a terrible routine for compound security.

  "Amateurs," Butcher muttered. He shook the rucksack next to him as if trying to wake someone. "And you guys call yourselves professionals."

  The guard nearest him paused and lit a cigarette. The flame lit up a dark Hispanic face framed by a thick, black beard, and topped with a khaki baseball cap. Butcher couldn't see it, but he knew the front of the cap bore the logo of Gideon Security International, the so-called contract security company that ran this training site. Far beyond the security lighting, Butcher knew the compound extended another twenty acres. Built on that acreage were training areas used by Gideon to train its own security operators—mercenaries, really—as well as legitimate law enforcement and military personnel, a bunch of wannabes, and the occasional drug cartel member, though Gideon would never confess to the latter.

  The guard took a drag, blew smoke, and carelessly tossed the match into a clump of bushes at his feet. He continued walking toward Butcher's left, never looking outside the fence. Butcher knew the guard would walk on for five more minutes, turn, and walk for ten minutes to Butcher's right. Fifteen minutes to complete the length of his part of the fence; thirty minutes for a complete lap.

  Butcher timed it that way. Five minutes from that clump of bushes to one side, ten minutes on the other side. The innocuous bushes were a major factor in Butcher's plan. They grew close to the fence, their branches poking through the links from the inside. Their presence so close to the fence violated the most basic security precautions. It cast a shadow along the fence and the ground beyond, and offered a prowler concealment. There, as the guard made his ten-minute trek to the right, Butcher would cut his way into the compound.

  The guard came back. He passed the bushes and flicked his finished cigarette over the fence. It arced through the night like a small meteoroid, a flash then gone. Butcher shrugged into the rucksack and began his crawl across the clearing. He moved slowly, carefully, the way he was trained, his dark clothes and rucksack blending into the shadows. The guard retraced his steps and, as he neared the bushes, Butcher stopped entirely, lying still. The guard marched on to the right, onto the long leg of his route.

  It was winter and cold in the rural backcountry of San Diego County. Without the nighttime warmth of the Pacific Ocean felt by coastal Southern California, the backcountry would often see snow this time of year. Despite the cold, Butcher felt sweat drip down his face and soak into his black balaclava. He felt it dampen his black, long-sleeved sweater. He ignored it and crawled on.

  When he reached the fence, his breathing was heavy from exertion. He drew a pair of wire cutters from the cargo pocket of his dark trousers and snipped the links, covering each one he cut with a gloved hand to muffle the noise. He snipped six up, ten over, and six down, removed the freed section of fence and hid it beneath the bushes. It left a hole twelve inches high and twenty inches wide, enough to let him crawl through without snagging his clothes or gear.

  Butcher crawled through, pulling the ruck after him. Concealed by the bushes he listened for the guard's footsteps. They were still at a distance and diminishing, moving away from him. Butcher rose and glanced over the top of the bushes. Other than the guards, the compound was empty, the students having left for the day. In front of him was the main building that held the administration offices. That's where Cavendish would be.

  The main entrance was at the front of the building. It was well lit and in direct view of the both the gate guard and the man on the radio. There was a back entrance, too; a large, solid utility door Butcher knew was unlocked so the guards could enter the building to use the toilet. Butcher considered that another sign of their lack of professionalism.

  The guard's footsteps grew louder. The guard was on his way back. Butcher lowered himself and waited for the man to pass. When the guard was a safe distance away, Butcher stood and, gripping the ruck in his hand, trotted to the building, his soft-soled boots barely making a crunch on the gravel. He reached the side of the building and slid against the wall toward the rear. A quick glance around the corner showed him the guard on the other side of the building was out of sight. He slipped around the corner and tested the door. As he expected, it was unlocked. He opened it, and slipped in.

  The compound had once been a military camp, a relic from some long-forgotten war. The buildings were of simple, practical design; a hallway ran the length of the building, with rooms or offices on either side. The hallway was dark, the only light coming from the front of the building where the guard sat with the radio, and from under the door of a room in the middle of the hallway to Butcher's right.

  That had to be Cavendish's office.

  Butcher knew Cavendish was in. He had watched him walking the grounds a few hours earlier, saw him enter the building, and never saw him leave. He stepped closer to the door and listened. A television was playing, and he heard a grunt of laughter. One live voice. No others.

  Butcher shouldered the rucksack, drew a KaBar knife from a sheath on his belt, and entered the room.

  Charlie Cavendish sat at his desk, h
is feet up on the desk. A half-empty bottle of whiskey sat on the desk, and he held a glass of whiskey and ice in his hand. He didn't turn from the television.

  "Yeah," he grunted, "What is it?"

  "Special delivery, Cavendish," Butcher said, closing the door behind him.

  Cavendish turned and froze.

  Butcher's beefy six-foot frame crowded the doorway. He pulled the balaclava from his head, revealing a deeply tanned face with a wide mouth, a prominent nose, and cold gray eyes. A cleanly shaved head glinted in the lamp light. Cavendish let the drink fall from his hand and shatter on the floor.

  "You? But—"

  Cavendish tried to stand, but Butcher was across the room in two steps and had him by the throat. Cavendish's face went red. His eyes bulged. He tried to yell but only a small screech came out.

  "Why?" Butcher demanded. Cavendish shook his head. Butcher squeezed tighter. "Don't lie."

  When Cavendish still feigned ignorance, Butcher shrugged off the rucksack and held it out. The top flap straps hung loose. Butcher smiled.

  "I know," he said. "I know you sent them after me. I have a snitch." Butcher flipped open the ruck. "Meet my little friend."

  Butcher let the ruck fall. It hit the wooden floor with a thump, and Butcher kicked it over. A man's severed head rolled out, wobbled, then steadied. Opened eyes stared blankly at the ceiling, and the mouth stood agape. Butcher let go of Cavendish's throat, but the man didn't move. He stared at the head and gasped for air.

  "We have a little talking to do, Cavendish."

  ☼

  When he had finished a few minutes later, Butcher studied his work. Cavendish sat dead in his chair, his throat slit and gaping like a second mouth. Butcher quickly searched Cavendish's office, finding nothing. That was okay. Cavendish had told him what he needed.

  Butcher picked up his ruck, leaving the severed head on the floor, and started for the door. Then he stopped. His mouth puckered in thought. He turned back to the dead man, dipped a gloved finger into the pool of blood, and began writing on the wall. When he finished, he stepped back, admiring his work. A grin stretched across his face. The message read:

  BRING ME LINUS SCHAG

  Replacing the balaclava, Butcher retraced his steps and left the building. When the guard walking inside the fence line turned away, Butcher trotted back to the bushes and slipped through the hole he had made in the fence. Then he disappeared into the dark.

  CHAPTER 2

  Monday

  Naval Air Station China Lake

  California

  0700 Hours

  THE DRIVER-SIDE WINDOW ROLLED down and a blast of chilled morning air slapped Linus Schag's face, ruffled his gray-flecked, light-brown hair, and fogged his silver-rimmed aviator eyeglasses. It was winter and the temperature at China Lake had dropped to thirty degrees during the night. With the sunrise, the temperature rose somewhat, but it still had some ways to go, and the wind-chill factor made it seem colder than it was.

  Schag pulled the sedan up to the gate guard and held out his identification. The guard, dressed in the Navy's dark-blue camouflage uniform and a black foul-weather coat, stooped and studied the ID a moment, straightened, and waved him through.

  "Welcome to Naval Air Weapons Station China Lake," the guard said. "Have a nice day."

  Schag nodded his thanks and drove onto the base, passing several decommissioned Navy jets on static display.

  China Lake was a two-hour drive to the east of Los Angeles, just outside the city of Ridgecrest in California's high desert. It was a desolate swath of scrubland suited for nothing more than what the Navy used it for—a sophisticated, high-tech bombing range. There the Navy tested its latest means of destroying enemy aircraft and ships. In fact, every airborne weapons system developed since World War II experienced its explosive birth in the hundreds of acres of desert wasteland surrounding the main area of the base and its airfield.

  Schag parked the sedan outside of a squat, whitewashed structure built two or three wars before. Inside, in what the Navy called the quarterdeck, Schag used his proximity card to unlock the security door and walked up the stairwell to the second deck. In the Navy, all floors were decks, even those located two hundred miles from the nearest hint of salt water. On the first door to the left, a sign read in large block letters: NAVAL CRIMINAL INVESTIGATIVE SERVICE. Smaller letters below read: Special Agent Linus Schag, Resident Agent.

  Schag unlocked his office door and entered, closing the door behind him. He removed his sports coat and hung it on a hook. Then, just as he had done for the past five months, he unlocked a file cabinet, removed his Glock 40 and holster from his belt, placed them inside, and locked the cabinet again. If this day was like any other day in the past five months, in another eight hours he would unlock the file cabinet, take out the gun and clip it to his belt, retrace his steps to his car, and drive back to his motel with little to show for the day.

  Schag's assignment to China Lake began five months earlier. As the resident NCIS agent, he was a civilian investigator responsible for investigating major crimes like murder, fraud, and espionage involving Navy and Marine Corps personnel or assets. The biggest crime wave to hit the base since Schag reported aboard, however, was a series of minor infractions by sailors that were in the purview of the base's uniformed master-at-arms police force, not his. For Schag—who preferred duty as an agent afloat investigating crimes at sea with the fleet—this temporary assignment was nothing less than exile.

  Schag's duty aboard the aircraft carrier USS Halsey ended when he was called to testify before a board of inquiry about the crew member deaths and near loss of the attack submarine USS Encinitas a year before. Schag went aboard the sub to investigate an apparent suicide of a crewmember, only to discover it was a murder and only the first of several more to come. He blamed himself for that. If he'd been a little more alert, he might have discovered the suspect's identity before the killer's rampage almost destroyed the sub.

  It is naval tradition that a ship's captain answer to a board of inquiry for any untoward incident aboard his vessel. The inquiry board correctly determined that the submarine's skipper was not culpable for the deaths aboard his ship, but it mattered little. The officer's career was over. He was "on the beach," as he had put it, and he retired from the service. Schag's impatience with the members of the board—it was rare when he was not impatient with authority—had a similar effect on his career. Banished to China Lake, he would cool his heels until the Navy brass determined he'd suffered enough.

  The desk phone issued a strange, tinny warble, and Schag answered it.

  "NCIS. Special Agent Schag speaking," he said.

  "Lin, it's Tom Riley."

  Tom Riley was the special agent in charge of the NCIS Southwest Regional office in San Diego. Despite a popular TV show's claim otherwise, there was no NCIS office in Los Angeles County for the simple reason there hadn't been any Navy presence in that area since the Long Beach Naval Ship Yard closed in the mid-1990s. San Diego, however, was homeport for the Third Fleet and boasted one of the largest concentrations of Navy and Marine Corps personnel and assets in the world.

  "Tom," Schag said cautiously. Riley was Schag's boss, and getting a call from him was unusual enough to raise suspicion. "To what do I owe this honor?"

  "We need you down here," Riley said. "Can you break free?"

  "Let me check my calendar," Schag said. If Riley noted the sarcasm, he didn't mention it. Schag didn't even bother to check his calendar. "I think I can squeeze you in. What's up?"

  "I don't want to go into details over the phone," Riley said, his voice almost hushed. "Don't know if those pricks at NSA are listening in." Schag smiled at Riley's comment. Then Tom said more softly, "We may have a rogue agent."

  Schag straightened. "What? Who?"

  "What part of 'I don't want to go into details over the phone' did you not understand?" Riley answered.

  "Come on, Tom," Schag said. "No games."

  "Okay, but sit down, Lin.
It's Bill Butcher."

  Schag's brain sputtered to a halt. He stared at a blank spot on the wall and said nothing. Did he hear right? Bill Butcher?

  He heard Tom Riley's voice again. "Lin, you still there?"

  "Ah, yeah," Schag said. "Yeah. Did you say Bill Butcher?"

  "I'm afraid so," Riley said. "The Butcher himself."

  "Can't be," Schag insisted. "Not Bill Butcher."

  “It’s Butcher," Riley said. "Look, when can you get down here?"

  "Three, four hours," Schag said, "depending on traffic." He paused a moment before asking, "Tom, you sure you want me on this? I mean, Bill Butcher and I are close friends. You don't want to taint the investigation by having a conflicted agent on your team."

  "We don't have a choice, Lin," Riley said. "Butcher asked for you."

  ☼

  Schag drove through the main gate a half hour later, right after notifying the command of his absence. He was heading south on the freeway only a few minutes later. He didn't need to stop at his hotel. Everything he needed was already packed in his trunk—a go-bag with a couple of changes of clothing and a spit kit, an evidence kit, and a locked box with two spare magazines and extra ammo for his service Glock and his backup weapon. His weathered flight jacket, which he won from an inebriated pilot in a poker game, lay neatly in the back seat next to his carelessly tossed sports jacket.

  The news station on the radio reported the San Diego Sheriff's Department was investigating a murder of a man at a rural training center operated by Gideon Security International, a company that provided tactical training and security services to law enforcement agencies and militaries around the world. Hearing the company's name, Schag reached over and turned up the sound, but there wasn't much more information, only that deputies still had no suspects and the name of the victim was being withheld pending notification of relatives.