“I’m the one you want.” He glared at the man with the red diamond tooth. “Isn’t that right?”
The uniformed men surged into the cabin. Nhial heard screams from inside. One man dragged out a struggling Aya and a slim young boy.
“Buri! Don’t you hurt him or—”
“Why you come here?” the boy cried out. “Why you take him? He help us, he bring medicine, from America.”
The other soldier emerged from the shack carrying a canvas rucksack. He handed the bag to the man with the diamond tooth.
“His things, Commander.”
The man took the bag. He stepped over to the boy and rubbed his head with rough, calloused fingers.
“This stranger is not who he seems to be, young one,” he said, nodding toward the injured man. “He is no angel. He is a demon, an evil spirit. His kind do not care about you. They care only for what they can take … what they can steal from our home. Isn’t that right, Mr. Galloway?”
The white man shrugged. “You must have me confused with someone else. My name’s Carter. I work for the World Health Organization. You and your dogs are the only demons I see around here.”
The man with the diamond tooth rummaged through the rucksack and pulled out a small, silver metal case. He dropped the bag and flipped open the case. An icy white mist crept out, evaporating in the morning heat. He peered inside the case for a moment, his eyes wide and searching. Then he snapped it shut and handed it to one of his men.
“Your name is Josh Galloway, and you work for the American CIA,” he said in a sing song voice. He tapped the side of his skull, next to his left eye. “You see, I have my own demons, my own spirits. They serve me, and they see through your lies. You stole two of these cases from me. Where is the other one?”
“I told you, I don’t know what you’re talking about! I was carrying medicine samples, and—”
“You anger the spirits, Mr. Galloway. Soon enough, they show us both the truth, I think. Yes, you will be begging to tell me the truth, once they start to whisper in your ear. Put him on the truck.”
One of the guards prodded the man called Galloway with the butt of his rifle. Josh winced in pain. He glared at the two soldiers for a second, then allowed himself to be led to the back of the truck.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered as he stumbled past Nhial. The men shoved him into the back of the idling vehicle.
“Very good, very good,” the man in the suit said, clapping his hands. “Now, Nhial my friend, you have taken two things from me. This man, Mr. Galloway. And the property he has stolen from me. So I will take two things from you. First, I take your family.”
“No, please, I give you anything, take me, take—”
The man in the suit held up his hand and looked away. Two more men grabbed Nhial. They kicked and pummeled him, forcing him to the ground.
“Have no fear, they will help us in our glorious purpose. They will serve us, just as we serve Almighty God.”
The second soldier dragged Aya and Buri, kicking and screaming, towards the truck.
Two of the other men grabbed Nhial’s right arm and held it over the wood table. The man in the suit slipped open his blazer, revealing a long, silver machete hanging from a leather sheath under his arm. He slid out the blade and held it up in the morning sun, admiring the way the light glinted off the sharp edge.
“Please,” Nhial moaned. “Please, you can kill me, do whatever you want to me, just leave my son.”
The man smiled again. His tooth reflected red beams of light, like lasers dancing across the interior of the shack.
“Don’t worry, good sir. I’m not gonna kill you. You take from me, so I take from you. You take this man, so I take your family. But this man, this Mr. Galloway, he also takes a great treasure from me. So I must take more from you. Otherwise, people everywhere, they think they can steal from me. They think they can steal from our glorious cause, and nothing will happen to them. And our country, our home … We have enough thieves here, don’t you think? Thieves from outside, and thieves from within. But now, maybe all these thieves see men like you, and they know better.”
Nhial looked up as the man raised the blade. He stared into his eyes, expecting to see the same hate and cruelty he had seen in the men who raided his village. But instead, he saw nothing but pale, white orbs. The man’s eyes had rolled back into his head. They seemed to flutter back and forth, as if he was having a spasm or seizure of some kind.
Then the blade descended. Nhial screamed as it tore into his flesh.
Chapter Two
A hot breeze cut across the waters of the Louisiana bayou, and the late afternoon sun cast dappled waves of golden light over its choppy surface. Rows of black cypress trees lined the banks on either side of the wide expanse of water. Long trails of Spanish moss hung from their lower branches, kissing the dark water’s surface.
John Blayne eyed the thick vegetation from the rear seat of the airboat as it roared across the water. A flash of motion caught his eye. He turned his head and spotted a lumbering six-foot alligator slide down the muddy bank into the water. The huge reptile disappeared beneath the rippling surface.
Predators, Blayne thought.
In the world outside, Blayne considered himself a powerful man. He was the Director of National Intelligence. He served as the head of the sixteen-member United States Intelligence Community. He coordinated and assessed intel from the CIA, NSA, FBI, and others. Operations, personnel, budgets, planning, and execution … all aspects of America’s vast intelligence apparatus felt his influence. And in addition to his personal status, he had the ear of the most powerful man in the world … the President of the United States. It was his job to brief the President on all intelligence matters relating to national security. His recommendations held tremendous sway in the White House.
But that was back in Washington, back among the secure, tree-lined streets and pristine white government buildings. Great Falls, McClean, Arlington … the high-priced suburbs with their malls, mansions, and five-star restaurants. As DNI, his actions affected the entire world. But the further he ventured from the capital, the more he felt his own sense of personal power begin to crumble.
Out here, he found himself surrounded by an endless expanse of black water and dense groves of gnarled trees. A beautiful but lonely sunset burned across the sky above. Here, he could sense that he had fallen even lower on the food chain.
You’re not a predator, he thought as the airboat drifted around another bend in the river. Predators are pure, of single mind and purpose. You’re not pure.
You’re compromised.
How had he allowed this to happen? How had he fallen so far?
He sighed and lifted the tan baseball cap off his head. Bowing down, he wiped a thick sheen of oily sweat from his bald, sunburned scalp. He replaced the hat, then squinted as he looked out over the shimmering water.
Up ahead, a massive bird exploded from the vegetation and took flight. Blayne watched, stunned, as a pair of four-foot white wings flapped through the air, their powerful beating driving the large bird up and over the air boat. The creature appeared startled by the buzzing growl of the boat’s rear-mounted fan. It screeched and swooped low over the deck. As Blayne ducked, he spotted a patch of red pigment decorating the black skin of the animal’s throat.
Then the bird spiraled up into the sunburst sky. It beat its wings, then disappeared into the shadowed canopy of gnarled trees and moss.
“Big fucking bird, right?” the pilot shouted behind him. Blayne turned around and looked up. The pilot sat in an elevated seat that gave him a better view of the waterline and floating vegetation. A sly grin was plastered across his lean, hawkish face. “I couldn’t believe it when I first saw one of those things myself. It’s called a Jabiru. South American crane, believe it or not. Been spotted around these parts recently.”
“Fascinating,” Blayne snapped back. He raised his voice, shouting over the deafening engine noise. “But I’m not here for the swamp tour. How m
uch farther are we going? I can’t be gone all day. Sooner or later, I’ll be missed.”
The other man, a beefier, taciturn hunk of sinew and muscle, pointed ahead. “Don’t worry. We’re only five minutes out. Right around the next bend, sir.”
“And how long is this ridiculous rendezvous expected to take?” Blayne asked. He hoped the roar of the engine would cover the quiver of fear hiding behind his words.
The bigger man shook his head. “No idea, sir. Our orders are to bring you to the meeting, but we’ll wait outside while you have your conference.”
Blayne nodded. “Very good.”
Although they acted as bodyguards, Blayne knew these men were not loyal to him. They were handlers, assigned to make sure he followed instructions with a minimum of fuss. If he made things difficult, if he refused to obey his summons … they, in turn, would make things difficult for him.
But the fact that basic security protocols were still being observed was encouraging. Perhaps the situation had not deteriorated as much as he thought. Maybe there was still a chance things could work out for all parties involved. Himself included.
If not, then his position in the food chain might become even more precarious. And Blayne knew if that happened, the predators above him would smell blood in the water.
His blood.
The pilot reached down from his perch and manipulated the twin control sticks mounted to the boat’s deck. The left stick tilted the rudders behind the massive aircraft prop at the rear of the boat. The right stick controlled the throttle. The pilot pushed forward, increasing their speed across the water. He powered the boat into a long, graceful turn. The small craft circled around a lump of forested land that emerged from the swamp ahead.
Blayne squinted. In the distance, a tiny shack came into view, nestled between the drooping branches of a cypress grove. The dense foliage blocked out what little sun was left, hiding most of the shack in shadow.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” he shouted over the noise of the propeller. “Here? He wants to meet here?”
The pilot eased back on the throttle. The propeller slowed. The boat drifted towards a rickety dock that extended from the shack.
The lean man shrugged. His eyes were impossible to read behind his mirrored aviator sunglasses.
“Can’t put a price on privacy, I guess. If I were you, I’d head on in, sir. Not wise to keep him waiting.”
The beefier man stepped out of the boat and lashed it to the dock with a yellow, frayed nylon cord. He extended his hand, but Blayne ignored it. He stumbled a bit but managed to step out of the listing boat and onto the dock. The wood creaked beneath his weight.
The man nodded towards the shack. “Better get on with it. We’ll wait out here to take you back when it’s over. Shouldn’t be long.”
Blayne grimaced. “It’s already been too long.”
He forced himself to turn his back on the men and took a few steps toward the shack. Behind him, the sun dipped lower on the horizon. The patches of light on the water shifted to orange and blood-red, mirroring the thick, painted clouds in the sky.
The door to the shack creaked open. Inside, Blayne found a tiny room with rotted wood flooring and boarded-up windows on each wall. The roof sagged in the middle, warping the room like a circus funhouse mirror. No line in the structure seemed to be straight. A small wooden desk sat at the rear of the room, but there was no other furniture in the dark, cramped space.
Blayne turned and gave one last look at the two men waiting for him on the dock. They stood motionless, staring back at him. Blayne exhaled and shut the door, cutting off the sliver of sunlight from outside.
The glowing screen of a laptop computer cast a square of light on the rear wall. Blayne spotted a thick, orange power cable running from under the desk. It snaked through a hole in the wall. Probably to a generator outside, he thought. They were miles from civilization and any source of power.
Blayne walked around to the other side of the desk and sat down. A logo filled the screen: Delta Blue Security. No other information was displayed on the monitor. He picked up a small Bluetooth headset and slipped it into his ear. Then, he removed the tiny USB key from the pocket of his khaki pants. He inserted it into the computer.
The screensaver dissolved, replaced with a video conference panel. The screen split into three windows. Three faces stared back at him, each one masked by shadow and distortion filters. The secure conference software masked their identities in case the signal was intercepted.
But Blayne knew each of the men behind those blurred faces… he knew how dangerous they could be.
“Christ, Blayne, can’t you ever be on time?” The voice distortion could not mask the impatient, arrogant tone, nor the thick Southern accent of the man in the center window.
“Blame your men. They were my chauffeurs for this meeting. I’m all for security, but isn’t this taking privacy a bit far? When I told you I would be available to meet in New Orleans, I didn’t think you meant the middle of the swamp. You know who I am, I can’t just disappear for hours at a time.”
“Watch your tone, son. It’s thanks to your fuck-up that this level of security is necessary.”
Blayne narrowed his eyes. “How do you figure that? Lapinski was your asset. I warned you that running ops in China in the middle of the President’s talks could blow up in your face. And I also warned you—”
“You an Elvis fan?”
Blayne blinked. “What?”
“Elvis. The King? He’s got a song that's apropos in this situation. ‘Little less conversation, a little more action please.’”
“I don’t—”
The voice interrupted him again. “Warnings are well and good, but it doesn’t take much to cry that the sky is falling. Hell, even a broken watch is right twice a day. Question is, what are you going to do to fix it?”
Blayne swallowed. “Fix it? There’s no fixing things! Lapinski is in FBI custody with CIA oversight. He’s set to testify before a senate committee in Washington.”
“Lapinski was NSA. Last time I checked, you were the DNI, correct? You coordinate intel from the alphabet soup that serves our great nation’s intelligence community. Oxymoron if ever I heard one. Now, I know I’m an ignorant yokel compared to a fancy DC suit like yourself. But that is your job description, yes?”
“Yes, but—”
“So there’s a question on my mind, John. How the hell did you coordinate this into such a colossal goddamn shit-show on wheels?”
Blayne could see no features on the shadowy figure’s blurred face, but he could feel the man’s eyes burning into him, observing his powerlessness, his fear.
“Rebecca Freeling, the new D/NCS, she had an asset in China,” he stammered. “Someone the CIA didn’t know about, someone who—”
“I know all about her asset.” Another voice this time. The head on the right. Blayne could make out the shape of wire-rim glasses resting across the blurred, gaunt face. “A mistake,” the man said. “One that should have been rectified long ago.”
The man in the center grunted. “Mistakes. Well, we’ve all made ‘em. Lapinski, did he know you were involved?”
Blayne’s words tumbled from his mouth as he struggled to regain control of the conversation. “No, he never knew. I made sure to push him in the right direction, but I played dumb about his China asset, about you, about everything!”
The man laughed, a deep, low guffaw. “Played dumb, huh? Yeah, you got that down for sure. Okay, I think we can get this under control.”
The man on the right nodded. “I agree. I can handle Freeling’s asset. In fact, he may even prove useful to us.”
The man on the left finally spoke. His voice was higher-pitched than the other two men, with a lilting accent. “What about the operation? We’ve already set things in motion, committed manpower, acquired the necessary materials.”
The center figure's voice was firm and held the snap of a man used to being obeyed. “The operation moves
forward. We all have too much invested at this point. I’m not gonna let some pansy ass NSA rat take us down now. Even if he doesn’t know anything, I don’t want Lapinski to take the stand. I want a total blackout on this, understood?”
“Understood.” The man on the right again. “We have an asset of our own who can take care of that problem for us.”
“Good. No more mistakes.”
Blayne stared at the screen and drummed his fingers on the desk. He realized he was no longer an active part of the conversation. He had been left out of their plans.
He was not part of the solution.
“And what about me?” he asked. “I take it I’m free to return to New Orleans for my lecture?”
“Gentlemen, why don’t you give Mr. Blayne and myself some privacy here.”
The two other faces disappeared, and the center face swelled to fill the screen. Blayne leaned back in his chair as the face loomed before him. Once again, he could feel the man’s unseen eyes burrowing into him. He knew the man could sense his weakness, his fear, even from across the digital gap that separated them.
“John, maybe I’ve been too hard on you. Hell, like I said, we all make mistakes. I’ve made my share as well. I should have ridden you harder. Made sure your head was in the game. Let’s face it … you’re a pencil pusher. A suit. You were a lawyer, right?”
“Now wait a minute here, I’ve served my country same as you, I—”
The man on the screen waved a hazy, shadowed hand and his voice softened. “Now now, calm down. I don’t mean offense. Just telling it like it is. Smarts, intelligence, political savvy … those qualities have value in the right circumstances. But I’m afraid we’ve gone beyond those circumstances now. Do me a favor, John. Open that drawer to your left. The little one on top.”
Blayne slid open the drawer. He reached inside and his eyes widened.
Inside the drawer, his fingers wrapped around the butt of a pistol.
He lifted the gun up and examined it. It was a smooth, nickel-plated Ruger SR 1911, chambered in .45 ACP. The walnut grips were polished to a high sheen, but a single scratch marred the wood on the right side. Blayne recognized the mark. He had caused it when he had dropped the gun once, during cleaning.
Thomas Caine series Boxset Page 68
