Murdock's Last Stand

“I’ll provide the money, Mr. Burdett, but I will not take the money to Zaraza.” Lanny McCroskey was her father, she reminded herself, and she’d never miss the hundred thousand, which was only a pittance in comparison to the ten million Rodney had left her. But she didn’t really owe her father anything. And she certainly wasn’t ready to risk her life entering a South American country embroiled in a twenty-year civil war. “Surely you can send a female agent into Zaraza. Someone who can pose as Lanny’s daughter.”

“Ms. Price, if General Ramos knows you exist, knows your name, then our guess is he has a way to identify you. Perhaps recent pictures of you.”

Catherine shuddered. The thought that some stranger working for the Zarazaian government might have snapped her picture without her being aware of it both frightened and outraged her.

“Are you saying that the only way I can save my father is by actually going to Zaraza?”

“Yes, I’m afraid that’s exactly what I’m saying,” Burdett told her. “Of course, it’s your call, Ms. Price. We can’t force you to rescue your father. However, if you decide to go, I can guarantee you a professional bodyguard to accompany you on the trip.”

“A professional. Do you mean a government agent?”

“No. As I told you, the government can’t become involved in this.” Burdett cleared his throat. “The man I have in mind has worked for Dundee Private Security and Investigation for over a year now, but before that he was one of the best mercenaries around. If anyone can get you in and out of Zaraza safe and sound, it’s Murdock.”

“Murdock? Aloysius Murdock?” Catherine asked.

A hint of a smile curved Burdett’s lips. “No one calls him Aloysius and lives.”

“This Murdock was in Vietnam with my father, wasn’t he? And he was in Zaraza with him twenty years ago, too! I vaguely remember my mother mentioning once that Mr. Murdock paid her a visit after my father was killed.”

“Will you go to San Carlos and deliver the money to General Ramos?” Burdett asked. “Remember, you’ll have Murdock at your side the whole time.”

“If Mr. Murdock is a contemporary of my father, then he must be at least in his early sixties. Do you honestly think he’s physically capable of—”

“Murdock’s forty-six. He was just a green kid in Nam, not a career soldier like your dad. And believe me, I doubt any man half his age is in as good a shape as Murdock. Take my word for it, he’s a man of steel.”

The last thing on earth Catherine wanted to do was travel to a third world, war-torn country to rescue the father who had deserted her and her mother long before he’d been reported killed. Why should she risk her life for a man who’d walked out on her without a backward glance? Christmas and birthday presents didn’t really count as far as she was concerned. The fact that he’d sent gifts up until he’d supposedly died in Zaraza hardly made up for his absence.

“I can withdraw the money from my bank this afternoon,” Catherine heard herself saying, despite her uncertainty. “When can you arrange for me to meet Mr. Murdock?”

Dinner had been on the Dundee Agency tonight. Once a year, Sam Dundee dragged himself away from Le Bijou Bleu, his island retreat in the Gulf Coast, to come to Atlanta and inspect the troops. Or, at least, that was the way Murdock thought of the big boss’s visit. The rest of the time, Ellen Denby, Dundee’s CEO, was in charge. Ellen had been the one who had hired Murdock, as well as most of the other current employees, and she was the one who made the decisions. But Sam still owned the agency, despite his retirement several years ago.

A private room at Peaches, a local downtown Atlanta bar and grill, had hosted the cr?me de la cr?me of private security agents. Murdock glanced around the table as Sam handed his credit card to the waitress. Over a year ago, after deciding he was getting too old for a life of constant danger, Murdock had retired from his career as a soldier of fortune and come to work for Dundee. The men congregated here tonight were cut from the same cloth as he. Former mercenaries, special forces members, lawmen and government agents. And not a guy under thirty-five in the bunch.

One man—Egan Cassidy—was Murdock’s age and a former Nam vet. Their paths had crossed more than once in the years they’d both been mercenaries. The youngest of the bunch was Joe Ornelas, a former Navajo policeman who had just turned thirty-five.

Murdock had a passing acquaintance with all the Dundee employees, but Cassidy, Ornelas and four others were men whose expertise Murdock knew firsthand and for whom he had the greatest respect. Matt O’Brien, a pretty boy with a mind like a computer. Hunter White-law, the silent, deadly type. Jack Parker, a deceptive charmer. And David Wolfe, a mystery man, who’d been hired personally by Sam Dundee.

And of course, there was Ellen, who was an enigma. Ultra feminine. Beautiful face. Built like a brick out-house. Yet tough, shrewd and a match for any man.

When Jack proposed a final toast, this one to the lovely Ellen, Murdock lifted his beer mug and joined in the good-natured fun. Despite her knockout good looks, Ellen fit in with the crowd of macho men as if she were one of them. She could outdrink, outcuss and outsmart every last one of them and they all knew it.

Murdock had learned about Dundee’s from an old buddy, Gabriel Hawk, who had once been a freelance CIA operative and with whom Murdock had occasionally worked on assignments, especially in the Caribbean and Central and South America. He and Hawk spoke Spanish like natives.

Hawk had left the agency after marrying his last assignment, a former missionary who had tamed one of the baddest of the bad boys when she landed Hawk. Murdock never thought he’d live to see the day a woman would be able to wrap Hawk around her little finger. He’d been wrong.

Murdock had been kicked more than once where it hurt, the first time as a teenager, the last time as a grown man who should have known better. After Barbara, a society beauty who’d used him for “a walk on the wild side”, he’d sworn off relationships.

With the check paid and the last round of beers drunk, the agents began milling around the room, shaking hands and saying their good-nights. Murdock enjoyed a social occasion from time to time, but usually he preferred the solitude of his loft apartment in an old renovated building. Sometimes Cassidy would drop by for a game of pool or several of the guys would come over for poker, but the rest of his free nights, Murdock spent alone. He liked to read, a passion of his since childhood. And sometimes, when he had the urge, he’d find himself a willing woman. One who didn’t mind that he’d leave afterward, long before daylight, and probably wouldn’t call her for a second date.

As they headed out the door, Murdock laid his hand on Cassidy’s back. “I hear you got stuck with teaching the ropes to the new Dundee recruits.”

“Yeah, I drew the short straw.”

Cassidy grinned, something Murdock had seldom seen the man do in all the years he’d known him. Cassidy was a somber man, with some sort of demon chasing him.

“You on for pool tonight?” Murdock asked.

“Not tonight,” Cassidy replied, the smile still in place. “I have all-night plans with a lady.”

“A lady, huh? Well, be careful, Bubba. Ladies are the most dangerous kind of female known to man.”

“Speaking from experience?”

“A gentleman never gets kicked where it hurts and tells.” Murdock slapped Cassidy on the back as the two men chuckled.

The cool autumn air hit Murdock the minute he stepped out onto the Atlanta street. He threw up his hand to wave goodbye to Cassidy and the others, then headed for his Camaro.

The drive home to Locklin Street took less than fifteen minutes. He parked the Z28 in the tenants’ garage that took up the entire ground level of the old building. Besides his loft apartment, there were four other apartments below him, two each on the second and third floors. Using the service elevator, which none of the other residents used, Murdock headed upward. The moment he emerged from the elevator, a sense of unease hit him square in the gut. He lifted his jacket back over the hip holster and unbuckled the flap. He hadn’t lived forty-six years, most of it in life-threatening situations, without acquiring a keen instinct for danger.

“No need to draw your weapon,” the familiar voice said.

Recognizing the voice, Murdock released a tightly in-drawn breath and turned to face his former CIA contact. “What the hell are you doing here, Burdett?”

After glancing around at the darkened corridor, Burdett nodded toward the door of Murdock’s apartment. “I just drove over from Huntington, Tennessee, and I’ve been waiting for you here nearly an hour. Before we talk, I need to see a man about a dog and then I wouldn’t object to a drink or two.”

Murdock chuckled as he unlocked the door and ushered Burdett inside the open expanse of his private domain. After flipping a light switch that controlled the recessed wall fixtures and illuminating the huge living room, he locked the door behind them.

“Bathroom’s through those double louvered doors.” Murdock used his thumb to point the direction. “Jack Daniel’s is all I’m drinking these days.”

“Fine with me. Make mine neat.”

While he prepared the drinks and waited for Burdett to emerge from the john, Murdock wondered why a CIA Deputy Director was paying him a nighttime visit. He hadn’t seen or heard from Rick Burdett in nearly two years.

When Burdett came out of the bathroom, he glanced around the apartment, his gaze taking leisurely note of everything from floor to ceiling. “Don’t tell me you decorated this place yourself.”

“All right, I won’t tell you.” Murdock handed Burdett his whiskey. “So, are you going to tell me what you’re doing here or are we going to play nice-nice all night?”

Burdett took a sip of the liquor, then without invitation, sat on the tan leather sofa that rested on the wooden floor, squarely in the middle of the large room.

“Lanny McCroskey is alive.”

“What?” Murdock felt as if he’d been hit on the head with a sledgehammer.

“Lanny didn’t die twenty years ago the way we thought he did, the way you said he did.” Burdett took another sip of whiskey. “We figure he was wounded. Hurt pretty bad. But he lived, God bless his damned soul. He’s spent the past twenty years in a Zarazaian prison.”

“How do you know? Hell, don’t answer that! Just tell me if you’re sure. One hundred percent sure.”

Rick Burdett pulled a photograph from his coat pocket and handed it to Murdock. “This was taken less than a week ago.”