Thrill Ride (Black Knights Inc. #4)(70)
“The better question would be, what didn’t they confess to,” he said, trying to push away the memories of some of those confessions, of hearing the filth that spewed from the men’s mouths, of seeing their utterly inhuman lack of remorse for what they’d done.
Until they’d been caught, of course.
They’d always been sorry as hell to have been caught.
“Drug traffickin’, weapons deals, slave trade, child prostitution, murder, rape, extortion, money launderin’, the selling of military secrets.” The list went on and on. “You name it; these men did it. But in order to get a visit from me, they had to have knowingly participated in, or ordered the murder of, an innocent. That was a rule.”
Boss turned a page in the dossier in front of him. The one that listed all ten of the men Rock was accused of killing. And, oh yeah, there was the added benefit of having the guys’ pictures printed there as well.
Like Rock really needed any reminders…
The name, date of birth, face, and list of crimes of each of those men had been etched on the back of his brain with a dull knife.
“Nothing in the files suggests these men were involved in anything illegal,” Boss muttered, slowly flipping pages.
“Of course not,” Rock snorted derisively. “And that’s because the world’s greatest crooks are nearly impossible to catch and prosecute.” He looked around the conference table at the people he’d come to think of as family. The people who’d never stopped believing in him and who’d put their lives on the line, who’d gambled their reputations—who were still putting their lives on the line and gambling their reputations—to help him clear his name, and hoped like hell they’d be able to understand why he’d done what he’d done. “Connards like these men, men with connections and money and power, cloak themselves behind dummy corporations and under layers of cover. It’s the middlemen who get caught in sting operations. But these guys at the top? They almost always get away to either start another racket or simply amp up their current ones.”
“Seriously,” Ozzie concurred, nodding sagely. “You guys watched The Wire, right? The head honcho always seemed to slip away and—”
“Must it always come down to music, movies, or television with you?” Boss interrupted exasperatedly. “I mean, not all of life’s problems can be boiled down to pithy lyrics or witty dialogue.”
“Says you,” Ozzie snorted, shaking his head. “From an anthropological point of view, pop culture is a way to express the—”
“Ozzie’s right about the head honchos,” Rock cut in before the conversation digressed any further—as it had the tendency to do when Ozzie was in the room. “And because our justice system is both righteous on the one hand and flawed on the other, these guys are left to go about their business, killin’ and maimin’ and generally wreakin’ havoc on humanity. These men were domestic terrorists in every form of the word. And it was my job to apprehend them and get them to confess to their crimes, to make them spill their vile guts, catching the filth they spewed on tape.”
“And after the confessions?” Boss asked.
“I let them go,” Rock shrugged. “But not before I sent the tape to Rwanda Don. And from there I washed my hands of it.”
“What do you mean?” Ozzie asked. “You didn’t know they were being killed?”
“Oh, I read in the paper how a couple of them died, seemingly of natural causes, but I didn’t know the rest were six feet under until I got tagged for killing them and started doing my own investigations. Up ’til that point, I just assumed my interrogation tapes were being used in open and ongoing cases to bring the sonsofbitches to justice.”
“And you don’t know who killed them? If it was this Rwanda Don person or—”
“Non.” Rock shook his head. “Don was the brains behind The Project, not the muscle. Maybe he was the one who did the research on the men, found the ties to black market operations or murders…I don’t really know. All I know is, I was given a thorough, incredibly thorough file on each man. These files would not only document what information could be gleaned about this individual’s nefarious activities, but also his personal habits. His likes, his dislikes, his familial ties. Everything. And that’s what I’d use to get inside his head.”
“These were the same files The Company found in your PO box?” Boss asked. “The ones that implicated you in the men’s deaths?”
Rock shook his head. “Merde. I don’t know why I kept them. It’s almost like I wanted them for proof. Proof of what I’d managed to get those monsters to admit to. Proof that The Project was working. But you take those files and the fact that all those men are dead, some later proven by foul means, and it’s pretty damnin’ evidence, even if I do say so myself. Somehow, Rwanda Don knew about the PO box. Knew just where to point the CIA so I’d get fingered for it all.”
Boss sat back in his chair, his eyes narrowed on Rock’s face. “Why do I get the impression the word project is capitalized?”
Rock lifted a shoulder, his lips twisting. “Probably because you’ve been in the spec-ops community long enough to smell the stench of a hush-hush, backdoor operation when it’s sitting in the same room with you…”