Capitol Crimes. H.L. Katz

off his bat unlike anyone else’s in the sport. No one knew for sure what it was about his firearm that distinguished his rounds from the rest, but when they witnessed it, there was no doubt who was doing the shooting.

      Located just off interstate 95 near Andrews Air Force base, the range was home to the best shooters on the eastern seaboard and Mike Ferguson was, by far, the best of them all. Todd Goodwin, a tall lanky man with a slight limp when he walked, stood uncomfortably behind Mike, watching him unload on the target in front of him.

      “You fuckin’ make me sick,” Goodwin said as Mike checked out his handiwork, six shots within three millimeters of each other, all near the heart.

      “Stop cryin’ and shoot.”

      Todd wandered up to the counter and adjusted his protective glasses before he squeezed off six shots that were near perfect. He pressed the button drawing the target in his direction, eager with anticipation that this time he had maybe beaten his partner. Both men looked closely at the human silhouette laid out on white paper, six bullet holes neatly placed near one another.

      “Shit,” Todd said. Five shots near the heart, one to the left of it. Mike stepped back up to the counter and stuck six more shots, one right next to the other, creating a large hole in the forehead of the target.

      “I mean, what the fuck? Why do I let you talk me into these stupid ass bets?”

      Todd pulled up and ripped six shots into the target’s forehead. Four dead center, one to the right and one missing completely. He grabbed two twenty dollars bills from his wallet and handed them to Mike. “You should fuckin’ name your savings account after me, you piece of shit.”

      “Thank you for your weekly deposit,” Mike said. He kissed the twenties and stuffed them into his pants pocket. “We gotta get to Langley by ten, so quit your whining and pack up.”

      Todd raised his middle finger at Mike, then turned to grab the gym bag he’d brought with him. “Hey you gonna be around this weekend?”

      “Yeah, Why?”

      “‘Cuz I wanted you to meet this girl I’m seein’ kinda’ tell me what ya’ think.”

      “Should be,” Mike said as he placed his Beretta into the holster strapped to the left side of his belt. “She the one from last month with the Honda Civic?”

      “Naw, I’m with this girl a couple weeks. Talks a bit too much, but I got ways to keep her mouth busy.”

      Mike shook his head and chuckled, “You like her?”

      “I think I do, but she gotta’ pass the friends test, know what I mean?”

      “I know what you mean.”

      “Yo’ lookie here.” Todd reached into his bag and pulled out a small key that looked like it came from an old bus station locker. “Found it under the couch last night looking for the TV remote. Remember this?”

      Mike peeked at Todd and recognized the key instantly. His mind raced back to 1996. Mike, only twenty-one years old, had settled into his second field assignment since leaving ‘The Farm’. He spent a few months in Egypt and Lebanon doing some routine information gathering. Mike hung out each day at some of the local hot spots and cafes and when he tired of that, he walked the streets listening for anything that might be of interest to his country. The life he carved out for himself in the Middle East became rather mundane and unassuming until he happened upon a group of Islamists who were talking a little too much out of turn. Mike made all his superiors aware that something big was going to go down in Saudi Arabia and repeatedly sent messages to his handlers that the Kohbar Towers had been under serious surveillance for several months. His warnings went ignored.

      The last message he sent was dated June 24, 1996. He urged the CIA offices in Langley to alert the government of an imminent threat to the buildings housing American military personnel. Less than twenty-four hours later, nineteen Americans were dead and another 372 were injured. Mike was furious. He had reported back to the agency all the information he thought they needed to know in order for them to take the necessary precautions. In his report, Mike made a very specific mention to his handlers in Virginia about the orchestrator of the entire operation, a man they knew of, but had never seen, named Ibrahim Hakef.

      The intelligence failure was massive. In the aftermath, the CIA was excoriated. Soon to be outgoing President Watkins was not happy, but chose to take no action, fearing that any mishaps would sully his legacy. The CIA had its own ideas. Director Sam Miller, who despised Watkins, ordered a covert action, but let it be known that he would deny any knowledge of the operation if plans went awry. Mike was not a part of the hit-squad that Miller sent to Canada to find those responsible and eliminate them. Ted Biggs, Mike’s direct supervisor at the agency, was in his office when Mike showed up unannounced.

      “Aren’t you in Lebanon?” Biggs asked when he saw Mike standing in front of his desk.

      “I was, sir, but what is happening here ain’t right.”

      “What do you mean, son?”

      “Sir, I told you about the towers. I did my job on this one and you know it, but now they’re talking like I’m part of the problem.”

      Biggs took a sip of the cup of coffee that was on his desk, then licked his lips before wiping them with a Dunkin Donuts napkin that was on top of his daily planner. “Who’s they?”

      “Everyone…the politicians…the media…”

      “They named you specifically?” Biggs asked with a giggle, trying to loosen up his tightly-wound protege’.

      Mike refused to take the bait and ignored the question. “This is wrong, sir. I should be out there fixing it.”

      “Mike, we think you’re a great asset, one of our up-and-coming stars, but this is just way too big for you.”

      Mike was having none of it. “Too big for me?”

      Biggs picked up his coffee, but did not drink from it. “We can’t afford any screw ups on this.”

      “With all due respect, sir, it was never me who was not up for the job. The politicians in Washington and Virginia, more concerned with covering their own asses, were the ones not up for the job.”

      Biggs took another sip from the cup in his hand, then placed it on his desk. “And you’re telling me this because…?”

      “We know who did it and I want ‘em. It kills me that I knew about this and was helpless to do anything to stop it.”

      Biggs shook his head, “Sorry, Mike, I can’t.”

      “Bullshit, you can’t…you won’t…”

      “Damn right, I won’t.” Biggs jumped on Mike’s last comment as soon as the words left his mouth.

      “I knew it...”

      “You know shit. I’m not sending in some greenhorn to do a job that needs a seasoned professional.”

      Mike slammed his fist on the desk startling Biggs, “Fuck that shit, Ted. I need to go to Canada because I got this right and y’all back here messed up big time.”

      Biggs stood up behind his desk and leaned over it in a feeble attempt at intimidation. He knew it wasn’t going to work, but felt the need to regain some control. “Who the hell do you think you are, talking to me like that?”

      “Am I wrong?”

      “It don’t matter who’s wrong.”

      Mike waved his hand at Ted and turned his head away. “Man…I thought you were different.”

      “Fuck you, Mike.” Biggs said, jumping on his words again. “I don’t need some snot-nosed little shit coming in here and telling me what I can and cannot do.”

      “But you know I can fix this, Ted.”

      Biggs hesitated before he answered. As much