This was his pistol. Taken from his home.
“How did you …” His voice trailed off as he realized his initial fears had been correct. There was blood in the water. His blood.
The predator was moving in for the kill.
“Son,” the man on the screen said, his voice smooth and soft as velvet. “There comes a time in all our lives when we outlive our usefulness. It will come for me, sure enough. But today, it’s come for you. I’m counting on you to do the right thing here.”
Blayne narrowed his eyes at the screen. The tiny red light next to the web camera blinked on and off, as steady and unchanging as a heartbeat.
“Wait, you mean … You can’t expect me to …”
“I can and I do. Life is full of shattered expectations, John, but I warn you, do not let me down here. There’re more lives on the line now than yours.”
Blayne turned his eyes from the screen and stared at the gun in disbelief. He wanted to put it down on the desk, but somehow his arm and fingers refused to comply.
“I can’t … I’m the Director of National Intelligence, I’m—”
“John, do not test me!” Once again, the cold snap of steel filled the man’s voice. “So you’re the DNI, so what? You think that means anything? You think you have power? At the end of the day, you have the same power any man has. Kill or be killed. You botched things with Lapinski. He’s a loose end now. And that makes you a loose end as well. I can’t have that, John. I don’t expect you to like it, but you must understand what has to be done.”
“No! No, I won’t!”
“You do this for me, I’ll make sure your family is taken care of. Just like I promised. Your wife will never have to know the ugliness of need. Of poverty. Of fear. And your daughter will go to that expensive prep school you had your eye on. She’ll live out her charmed life, spend her trust fund on sports cars and vacations with her friends.”
Blayne turned his eyes back to the screen. The voice paused. The shadowed figure leaned closer, filling the webcam’s view with his warped face. Blayne heard the man tapping some keys on the other end of the digital call. The distorted mask disappeared. Blayne found himself staring into a single, enormous blue eye. Craggy peaks and valleys of wrinkled skin surrounded the brilliant iris.
The sudden clarity of the image was unsettling. Blayne was half-aware of a noise outside, some kind of muted commotion. But he paid it no mind. He was unable to tear his attention away from the man on the screen and the single, unblinking orb. The eye rotated in its socket as the man stared at him.
“Blayne, look into my eye. You know what I’ve seen, what I’ve done. I’ve killed men. In war. In peace. Sometimes far away, sometimes up close and personal. I’ve felt hot blood on my hands, John. Do you know what that feels like? To feel a living thing lose that spark, go pale as the blood drains from its body? And then to look into their eyes and watch as that spark goes out for good? Permanent, John. There’s a peace in that, knowing it’s permanent. Their death is forever. And you’re still alive. Have you ever felt that?”
Blayne shook his head. His lips mouthed words, but no sound came out. The commotion outside was louder. He heard wood splinter and crack. He looked up at the door, dragged from his hypnotic trance by the noise outside.
The man on the screen continued speaking. “You deny me now, John, and my men outside will come on in and do the job for me. Won’t look as good. Murder instead of a suicide. But it’s still manageable. But John, if that happens, I swear to you, your family will find out what it feels like to see that spark go. They’ll see it in each other’s eyes. And then they’ll see ugliness. Ugliness like I’ve seen. Decades of it, all compressed into a few short, painful days. And when they go, John, they’ll know. They’ll know it was your cowardice that made them suffer. I’ll make sure of it.”
Blayne looked back at the screen. “You … fuck, Goddamn you!” he whispered.
“Grow up, John. And grow a pair. Let’s get this done. I don’t have all day.”
Blayne swallowed. He imagined his wife and daughter. A family vacation to Disneyland, years earlier. His daughter playing in the pool, learning to swim. His wife smiling at him. Making love in their room, laughing, trying to keep their voices down. That was before. Before he fell.
He raised the gun to his head.
“That’s it, John. You’re doing the right thing, I promise. I thank you. And so will your family.”
Blayne pressed the barrel of the pistol against his temple. “You motherfucking piece of …” He continued to whisper a stream of curses. The man on the screen did not show any reaction, if he even heard them at all.
“Almost there, John. Come on, let’s finish this and move on. No point in drawing things out.” Again, the voice was velvet smooth, like a man speaking to a beloved pet.
Suddenly, the shack’s door crashed open. Blayne jumped out of his seat and took a step back.
A body flew to the floor and rolled to a stop. It was the heavyset man from outside, one of the men who had brought him here. One of his handlers.
A second man charged into the shack. Blayne had never seen him before. He was tall, and his body was lean, taut, and muscular. He darted into the room, moving with the grace of a natural athlete. He kept his shoulders low to present a smaller target to any potential threats inside.
Blayne watched as the heavier man reached down towards his leg. He slipped a tiny Smith & Wesson M&P pistol from a holster strapped above his ankle.
He aimed the weapon, but before he could draw a bead, the other man lashed out with a powerful kick. The tiny pistol fired, but the kick threw the man’s aim off. The bullet thudded into the shack’s wooden roof.
The other man raised a pistol, a Beretta PX4 Storm compact. The gun’s roar was deafening in the tiny space of the shack. He fired twice, sending two bullets into the prone target’s chest.
The man’s body spasmed as the bullets struck his flesh. A third shot opened a brilliant red circle in his forehead. He ceased thrashing.
The shooter looked up at Blayne. A fringe of short brown hair swept above his tan, chiseled face. Streaks of sweat and dirt covered his skin, as if he had crawled through the swamp and surrounding brush. The man was half-hidden by darkness, but Blayne found himself staring into a pair of the greenest eyes he had ever seen. They looked like emeralds blazing out from the man’s shadowy, haunted features.
Blayne yelped as the man swung the gun in a two-handed grip and fired again. The laptop exploded into a shower of sparks and plastic shrapnel.
“Drop the weapon! Do it now!” the man shouted in a commanding voice.
Blayne released his hold on the gun, letting it fall and clatter to the warped wood floorboards.
“Kick it towards me. Gently!” The mysterious shooter kept his distance from Blayne. He held the Beretta in a steady grip. Blayne kicked the pistol towards him. The shooter bent at the knees and picked up the weapon, never taking his eyes off Blayne.
“Whoever you are, we have to get out of here, we have to—" Blayne tried to inject some authority into his voice, but he could barely speak above a terrified whisper.
“Bernatto,” the shooter said in a low, firm voice. “Where is Allan Bernatto?”
Blayne blinked. “What? Listen, who the hell are you?”
The man charged forward, flipping over the desk with one hand. The fragments of computer crashed to the floor as Blayne backed away in fear. Blayne found himself pinned against the wall by the man’s powerful forearm. He snatched and clawed at the vice-like arm, but he could not pry himself from the iron grip.
“I’ve been following you, Blayne. For over a month I’ve been your shadow. Allan Bernatto, former D/NCS. He was one of the people on your little conference call, wasn’t he? Tell me where he is!”
“More men … coming. Have to … get out of here!” Blayne hissed, struggling to form words.
The man cocked his head toward one of the boarded windows and listened.
“Look
, I’m the Director of National Intelligence, I can help you, I—”
“I know who you are. Shut up!”
It was a faint, distant buzzing, almost inaudible against the sounds of the insects and birds in the swamp. But it was growing louder. Closer.
“Airboats. Two or more. Friends of yours?”
Blayne shook his head. “With … them. The men who brought me here. Men you … killed.”
The man released his arm, and Blayne slumped to the floor.
“Then you have a choice to make. My name is Thomas Caine. You can come with me, and tell me everything I want to know. Or I can leave you for them.”
The DNI stumbled to his feet. “Caine? Wait, I remember the reports. You … you’re supposed to be dead.”
The man named Caine glared at him with his emerald-green eyes. To Blayne, he looked like a tiger, guarding a fresh kill.
This was a true predator.
Blayne swallowed, then nodded.
“Get me out of here and you have a deal.”
“You hold out on me, and I swear, Blayne, I’ll make you wish you pulled that trigger yourself.”
“I’ll tell you everything. Bernatto, the others … all of it.”
Caine stared at him for a second, then slid his Beretta into his waistband. The buzzing grew louder. He stalked towards the door, thumbing the safety on Blayne’s Ruger as he moved. He racked the weapon’s slide a quarter inch, checked the load, and then released the slide with a soft, metallic clack.
“Good choice. I came here on a fishing boat; my ride’s long gone now. We take the airboat on the dock. I’ll cover you. Move, now!”
The two men exited the shack and charged towards the docked boat. The noise of the motors echoed between the dark groves of trees.
Chapter Three
As they ran down the dock, Caine reached into his pocket and grabbed the key he had removed from the pilot’s corpse. He leapt onto the bobbing, flat deck of the boat and took a seat at the controls. He made sure to keep Blayne in the corner of his eye.
“The mooring ropes, cast them off, now!" He slid the key into a yellow plastic ignition socket.
Blayne hurried to untie the frayed nylon ropes at the stern and bow of the long, flat craft. “What happened to the pilot?” he asked as the loose cords slipped off the dock and into the boat's hull.
“I left him for the gators,” Caine said. “Same thing that will happen to you if you hold out on me. Now sit down!”
The noise of other airboats grew louder. Caine turned the key to the ON position and the rear-mounted propeller sputtered to life. Caine steered the boat away from the dock and pressed the throttle stick forward. As the engine roared, two shimmering metal boats sped into view from around the river bank.
The airboats were unmarked, but they looked brand new. They were long, sleek, and built for speed, sporting carbon-fiber propellers and nitrous tanks mounted next to the engines. Each boat held a pilot in a low-slung, front-mounted seat, and a two-man team seated in the rear.
The men wore black polo shirts, jeans, and grey Kevlar vests. The men in the rear carried small bullpup assault rifles. Caine recognized the design: IWI Tavors. The weapons were Israeli-made and chambered for 5.56 NATO rounds. They were compact, reliable, and capable of burst and full automatic fire.
The guns, the clothes, the boats, Caine thought … Money. Private contractors.
Mercenaries, like the men who had brought Blayne into the swamp.
Caine had scouted this area of the swamp days before. During his surveillance of Blayne, he had noted the two men from the dock tailing the DNI. He shadowed them as they followed Blayne throughout the city of New Orleans. Then he followed them into the swamp and observed as they had prepped the area in advance of the meeting. He watched while they rigged power from a generator, set up an antenna for satellite internet coverage, and secured the grounds around the shack. Then he waited, taking shelter in a hunter’s hide for several days until Blayne and the men reappeared.
The shack was on the outskirts of land owned by Delta Blue, a private military and intelligence company. Their main training facility was a twenty-four-acre compound a few kilometers northeast of the shack. But if these mercenaries worked for Delta Blue, who had hired them?
Caine pushed the questions from his mind. There would be time enough for answers once he questioned Blayne … assuming they lived that long.
As they sped away from the dock, Caine pushed the steering stick forward. He turned the boat right and circled back around the little island. Outrunning the pursuers’ boats would be difficult. The airboat that had transported the DNI was a civilian model, with unremarkable specs. It was a far cry from the high-tech craft that were now closing in on his wake.
As their pursuers moved closer, Caine slid the DNI’s Ruger from his waistband. He looked back over his shoulder. The massive propeller, and the wire safety cage that surrounded it, blocked his line of fire. There was no way to get a clear shot at their pursuers.
Blayne stood up and reached for the pistol. “Give me the gun! I can shoot!”
Caine slammed the butt of the pistol down on Blayne’s face. The DNI crumpled back into his seat, a trickle of blood streaming from a gash on his forehead.
“I’m not stupid, Blayne,” Caine shouted. “Stay down!”
A barrage of automatic gunfire erupted behind them. Caine ducked low in his seat as sparks flew off the safety cage … the men’s shots had missed the propeller by inches.
Keeping a loose grip on the gun, Caine wrapped his fingers around both control sticks. He jerked them in opposite directions, gunning the throttle and forcing the rudder full left.
As the boat pivoted, Caine eased up on the throttle. The boat sped sideways across the murky water, skipping across the river like a stone thrown from the shore.
Now sideways, Caine had a clear shot. He twisted his body to the left and let go of the sticks. He used a double-handed grip to steady his aim as the boat bounced across the water. The gun roared in his hands as he sent a stream of bullets towards the lead airboat.
Sparks flew from the boat’s hull. Two of his shots ricocheted off the metal, but the third struck the pilot, and his body jerked backwards. Caine set the pistol down on the arm of his chair and pulled back on the sticks. A hail of return fire cut through the humid swamp air around them.
“What the hell are you doing?” Blayne shouted. “You’re gonna get us killed!”
The boat straightened out. Caine pushed forward on the throttle again, speeding away from the boats behind them. The lead boat pursuer slowed down as one of the mercenaries pulled the injured pilot from his seat. The other boat surged forward. The two armed men onboard fired a series of short, controlled bursts into the rear of Caine’s boat, causing a plume of smoke to billow from the propeller housing.
Another lump of dark, forested earth rose from the swamp ahead of them. Caine pushed the boat to the right, hoping the smoke would throw off their pursuers. But the roar of the other boats soon caught up to them. More gunfire nipped at the water’s surface. Stray branches and bits of moss clattered onto the deck as the bullets cut through the trees surrounding them.
The engine noise behind them grew louder. Their airboat lurched sideways and shuddered. The Ruger pistol flew from the chair and slid across the hull towards the back of the boat.
One of their pursuers had managed to pull up along the right side of the boat and rammed them. The thick roots and gnarled trees of the island loomed to their left side. The boat’s hull scraped against the raised land.
Dammit! Caine cursed in his head. How did they catch up so quickly?
Then he remembered the nitrous tanks.
The two men in the rear raised their weapons to fire. Caine gunned the throttle, slamming into them again. The impact threw off their aim, sending the burst of bullets thudding into the deck.
A stream of water sprayed from one of the holes in the hull of his boat. They were taking on water.
C
aine looked to his right and spotted a small metal tool bin bolted to the deck.
“Blayne, make yourself useful. Open that toolbox. See if there’s a bilge pump!”
Blayne eyed the stream of water filling the hull, then scrambled towards the metal bin.
Caine yanked back on the stick, once again slamming into the other boat. More gunfire sliced through the air above them. The engine of the second boat roared closer. One of the other men must have taken the pilot’s position, and now it was gaining on them.
Blayne shouted over the loud prop wash. “There’s a hammer, a box of nails, a flare gun … no pump!”
Caine glanced to his right. The last remnants of the setting sun cast a golden glow through the trees and vines of the swamp. The dying rays of light reflected off the steel propeller cage, and the silver nitrous tanks of the attackers’ boat.
“Grab the flare pistol and hold on,” he shouted.
He swung the boat again. The metal hull groaned as it slammed into their attackers. Blayne tumbled across the deck and thudded into the sidewall. Water continued to spray through the holes in the hull.
Caine reached behind his back and drew his Berretta. As the men on the other boat recovered their balance, he locked his sights on their nitrous tanks.
BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!
The gun barked three times. A high-pitched metallic twang screamed through the air as the bullets struck their target. A pair of dark holes erupted in the middle of the tanks. Twin streams of liquid nitrous oxide spilled out onto the deck.
Blayne struggled to sit up. He turned and aimed the flare pistol at the attackers’ boat.
“No,” Caine shouted, jerking the control stick to the right once more. “Wait, not yet!”
The two boats clashed together again. As they drifted apart, the men in the other boat ignored the ruptured tanks and opened fire. More slugs tore into the deck of Caine’s boat. A two-inch pool of swamp water now filled the bottom.
Thomas Caine series Boxset Page 69
