Thomas Caine series Boxset

by Andrew Warren

  But even the deep bass and pulsing rhythms of her new music could not completely mask the disturbing sounds the machine generated. It sounded like a jackhammer was pummeling the tube. It vibrated through the curved white walls, drilling its way towards her skull …

  She took a series of rapid, shallow breaths. Her chest was heaving and beads of sweat broke out on her forehead.

  “Please, try to breath normally.” The technician’s voice crackled through her headphones.

  She forced herself to calm down, slow her breathing. She kept her eyes closed and focused on the music. As she relaxed, a memory crept across the empty canvas of her mind. A hot, sweat-soaked night in a private gym. A late night sparring session … the crinkle of smiling eyes. Rippling muscles, arms wrapped around her, embracing her …

  Josh Galloway.

  She had to get through this, had to get back to work. She had to find him.

  She lay still as the machine buzzed and clanked around her. Then, with another electronic hum, the table slid back out into the light of the examination room.

  “That should just about do it. Sorry, I know it can get to you inside there,” said Isaac, her MRI tech, who wore blue scrubs and thick glasses over his warm, kind brown eyes. He helped her sit up, then rolled her wheelchair over to the table.

  Rebecca took a deep breath. She ran a hand through her copper hair, pushing it back behind her ears.

  “Ninety minutes sliding in and out of a two-foot-wide dark tube? Sounds like an enhanced interrogation technique to me,” she said. She shimmied off the table and lowered herself into the chair.

  Isaac grabbed her charts from the wall. He walked alongside her as she rolled out of the MRI chamber. They moved through a short corridor towards the administrative wing of the hospital.

  “It’s a lot less invasive than sticking a camera up your spine. And Magnetic Resonance Imagining is safer too.”

  Rebecca shook her head as they entered a small, pristine office. “I don’t know. Any machine that sends all my atoms spinning in the same direction doesn’t sound that safe to me.”

  “What is it with you CIA types and hospitals?” a booming voice called out as a door at the end of the room swung open. A tall, lanky man with a shock of white hair and a neatly trimmed goatee strode towards them. He wore a white doctor’s coat over a light blue Oxford shirt and slim jeans. A stack of papers and folders was tucked under one arm. The name tag on his coat read ‘Paul Corrigan.’

  Rebecca saw a flash of golden sunlight and green foliage through the window in his office. Then the door shut behind him. It was a refreshing jolt of color, a break from the hospital’s cold, sterile surroundings. Corrigan gave her a gentle hug, kissing the air next to her ear.

  “You’re trained to withstand extreme pain, solitary confinement, and mind-altering drugs," he said. "And yet, you make the worst patients.”

  She laughed. “You’re not exactly selling the hospital’s facilities, Paul. I doubt Medstar Georgetown would appreciate being compared to a black site prison.”

  Dr. Corrigan glanced up as Rebecca’s MRI data began to fill a series of large monitors mounted to the wall. “Luckily I don’t work for Medstar, I work for you.”

  Rebecca couldn’t resist a smile. The CIA Office of Medical Services had vetted and approved dozens of surgeons and spinal specialists. Corrigan was the one she felt most comfortable with. Other doctors spouted meaningless statistics and case studies. Safe, approved information designed to avoid lawsuits and malpractice claims. Corrigan told her the truth, good or bad.

  As far as Rebecca was concerned, she was fighting for her life … to regain what she had lost. She was fighting to run again, to walk … even to crawl.

  Safety was the last thing she cared about.

  Corrigan worked in Boston, but he flew in to oversee her case based on a request from the Director of the CIA himself. Rebecca didn’t know what pull the so-called “God on the Seventh Floor” had over the talented and respected surgeon. But whatever it was, it had worked. Although she was still confined to her chair, her prognosis had improved since Corrigan had taken over her treatment.

  “Isaac, can I see the next set of images please?” Corrigan focused on the screens with laser-like intensity. Rebecca rolled her chair next to him as Isaac sat down at a desk and tapped the keyboard of a computer.

  “Sure thing. Series B-154 through 175.”

  Rebecca glanced over at Corrigan. “Jeans and work boots? What is this, casual Friday? I thought doctors always wore bad ties and cheap slacks.”

  Paul glanced at her from the corner of his eye and smirked. “Maybe you’ve been hanging out with the wrong doctors. Like the ones who removed the shrapnel and bullet fragments from your spine. Sloppy work. They missed the bone splinter that was causing swelling in the surrounding tissue.”

  She nodded. "Good Point."

  They both examined the new series of images that flashed across the screens. "So, what exactly are we looking at here?" she asked.

  Corrigan pulled a small laser pointer from the pocket of his white coat. He aimed the pinpoint of light at a hazy gray mass, near what Rebecca assumed to be the small of her back. It was difficult for her to tell exactly what she should be focusing on in the black and white haze of the MRI image.

  “I'd say we are looking at … significant improvement," he replied. “After removing that bone fragment, the swelling at the impact point seems to have gone down quite a bit. The remaining scar tissue here … That looks to me like nerve damage. Damage that should be treatable.”

  Rebecca swallowed. She felt her heart leap in her chest. For so long, words like “improvement” and “treatable” had been dreams, fleeting hopes that she tried to control … to keep hidden, lest disappointment crush her if reality failed to live up to her optimism.

  But this was Corrigan. She trusted him. And if he believed there was a chance, then there was no chain on earth strong enough to keep her hopes shackled.

  She closed her eyes and brought a hand to her forehead. She had expected to feel joy, or excitement, at such news. Instead she felt light-headed and nauseous.

  Corrigan looked down at her and smiled. He turned to Isaac. “Hey bud, could you grab us a couple waters from the cafeteria? This is good news, so go for the sparkling stuff.”

  “Uh yeah, sure thing.” Isaac stood up from his post. “I’ll be right back.”

  Corrigan watched him leave, then turned to Rebecca. “You okay?”

  She nodded. “I am. I mean, I’m better than okay, this is … This is amazing!”

  “Yes it is. But I know it’s a lot to process.” He smiled and turned towards his office. “Follow me … I have a special prescription for you.”

  She followed behind him as he opened the door to his private office. Inside, the colors were warm and natural … khaki curtains, a tan carpet, dark brown leather sofa.

  He opened a wood panel and removed an unmarked bottle of amber liquor and two crystal tumblers. Outside, the late afternoon sun cast dappled pools of light amidst the shadows of the trees.

  Rebecca closed her eyes. For a moment, she could feel the wind at her back, streaming through her hair. She could almost hear the metronome of her feet pounding across packed earth.

  She remembered running … The freedom.

  “We must accept finite disappointment, but never lose infinite hope.”

  Corrigan’s words pulled Rebecca back to reality. She opened her eyes. The tall man sat down in front of her on a leather ottoman and held out one of the glasses. He stared at her for a second. His brow furrowed as a look of concern filled his eyes.

  “Sounds a bit poetic for you,” Rebecca said. She brushed back a strand of fiery hair as she accepted the glass.

  “The quote isn’t mine. Neither is the Scotch, for that matter.” He took a sip and eyed the glass. “I’m borrowing the office from Dr. Rothman.”

  Rebecca took a long drink, then nodded. “Doctor Rothman has good taste in single malts. So where
’s the quote from?”

  “Martin Luther King, Junior. Rebecca, some of that scar tissue I saw … it’s recent. Post-trauma. It didn’t happen during the incident in Thailand, did it?”

  A shiver ran down Rebecca’s spine. It was an involuntary reaction as she remembered recent events. A kidnapping attempt in an alley, the assault in a Virginia farmhouse. Ted Lapinski’s attempts to clean up loose ends, including her … and a battle with a professional mercenary named Wallace Ganda.

  She stared at her hands. She remembered droplets of Ganda’s blood staining her fingers. The hired killer had underestimated her. A kitchen knife in his heart was the reward for his lapse in judgment.

  Rebecca had trained in self-defense as part of her CIA orientation. But it had been Josh Galloway who taught her to fight in the chair. Her lower center of gravity, the weight and bulk of the wheelchair … Under his guidance, things she saw as weaknesses became weapons. But the critical thing he taught her was that no matter how scared or broken she felt, she was not helpless.

  “Paul, I … does this mean—”

  He raised a hand and cut her off. “Look, everything’s fine, I still think your recovery is on track. But what the hell happened?”

  She paused for a moment and stared at the Scotch in her glass. Then she threw her head back and swallowed the remains of her drink.

  “I’m sorry, that’s classified. But trust me, it’s not something that’s likely to happen again.”

  Paul grabbed the bottle and refilled her glass. “Okay, fine. Let me hit you with another quote. This one’s from the Dali Lama. ‘When we meet tragedy in life, we can react in two ways. Either by losing hope and falling into self-destructive habits, or by using the challenge to find our inner strength.’”

  “I didn’t know philosophy was one of your specialties.”

  He shook his head. “Rebecca, you’re closer than ever before … closer to walking again. Maybe even running again. But with hope, comes fear, and sometimes guilt. And those things can drive good people to make bad decisions.” Paul stood up and walked to his desk. He flipped through her charts. “I’m recommending you for spinal decompression surgery in thirty days. It is vital that your swelling continues to go down before that time. That means easing up on the exercise. You’re in physical therapy, not training for the Navy Seals.”

  Rebecca nodded and once again finished her drink. The liquid warmth of the Scotch flowed through body, warming her chest and soothing her jangled nerves.

  She took a deep breath. “Got it. I’ll be a good girl, Doc, promise.”

  “And may I remind you, your physical therapy regime does not include parkour or hand to hand combat. Leave the fieldwork to your Special Operations Group. That’s what they’re for.”

  Rebecca cocked her head and eyed the handsome surgeon. “You and the director must be closer than I thought. What’s the deal with you two? How did he convince you to come out here, anyway?”

  Corrigan shut the file and smiled. “Sorry, Freeling. My turn to play the classified card.”

  Rebecca laughed. “I guess the CIA Medical Service wouldn’t have cleared you if you couldn’t keep a secret.”

  A loud, electronic buzzing erupted from her taupe leather Hermes purse. She pulled out her phone and checked the display. “It’s my security detail. Are we good here?”

  Corrigan nodded. “I’ll have the hospital make the arrangements with your staff. Thirty days, Freeling. Take it easy. Focus on your recovery. Doctor’s orders.”

  “How about we call it a doctor’s recommendation? Following orders isn’t my greatest strength.”

  Corrigan nodded and set the glass down on the desk as Rebecca wheeled towards the door. “Your director mentioned that to me as well.”

  The beams of sunlight from outside played across the scarlet and copper highlights of her hair. She turned to give him one last smile. Then she wheeled herself out of the office.

  As she navigated the long, sterile corridors of the hospital, Corrigan’s words echoed in her mind, over and over.

  Thirty days. Fear and guilt …

  She made up her mind. In thirty days she would walk again. But if she was going to free herself from fear and guilt, and focus on her recovery, she knew there was one thing she had to do first …

  She had to find Josh Galloway. Find him, and bring him home.

  Chapter Six

  There is blood on his hands. Caine stares at them, holding them up to the flickering light of the campfire. The stain is pale, almost pink in the firelight. He remembers the feel of the knife in his hands as it sliced through the assassin’s neck. The cascade of blood over his fingers, the dark puddle on the floor of the mosque in Khartoum. The blood glowed white-hot in the lenses of his night vision goggles. It faded to gray, then black, as its residual heat dissipated into the stone floor.

  Caine leans forward on the wood bench and holds his hands over the fire. The night air is hot and dry, but his fingers feel frozen. He knows the numbing sensation is the after-effects of adrenaline, his body’s reaction to the shock and violence he has put it through.

  Other men carrying rifles and machetes walk past him. Loud rap music blasts from a radio somewhere in the camp. Some of the younger men dance and pump their fists in the air. The lyrics are all in an African language. Caine doesn’t recognize the dialect.

  Jack Tyler steps out of a hut and walks towards him. Caine clenches his hands into fists to stop them from shaking. Jack is a former Delta Force operator, trained in demolitions, sniping, and hostage rescue, among other things.

  Jack is his partner.

  The man is holding two unmarked brown bottles in his left hand. Caine recognizes them as a local beer, brewed in Northern Sudan from fermented sorghum grain. Jack sits down next to Caine on the bench and slips a Leatherman tool from a pouch on his belt. He pops open the two beers and hands one to Caine.

  “This round’s on me. You did good out there tonight. Sorry I let one slip through.”

  Jack was perimeter security for the operation. Caine was on the ground, spotting targets and picking off strays. The asset they have been assigned to protect is a man codenamed Puff Adder. He was granted safe passage into the city by Sudan’s intelligence service. Puff Adder represents a rebel faction in South Sudan. This splinter group has formed in opposition to President Kiir. And in Sudan’s view, anything that sows discord in the fledgling southern government is something to be encouraged.

  Caine sips his beer. He winces as the foul liquid burns his throat.

  Jack laughs and takes a swig from his own bottle. “Damn,” he sputters. “That’s the second most dangerous thing we’ve done tonight. You know, this shit’s illegal in Sudan. The wives brew it under the sink in old bleach bottles.”

  Caine looks at the grass huts and collapsed buildings around them. The village is in a no-man’s land, disputed territory.

  “We’re not in Sudan,” Caine mutters.

  Jack looks around, then squints as he stares into the fire.

  “Yeah. Guess anything goes here.”

  Caine looks up as two men exit one of the grass huts. One of them, a man with graying hair and wire-rimmed glasses, is his handler, Allan Bernatto. Bernatto’s voice was in his head earlier that night, crackling through a micro-earpiece.

  Bernatto gave the kill order.

  The man’s dark, beady eyes dart towards Caine as he speaks to the other man, Khairi Abboud. Khairi is shorter, but his chest and shoulders are powerful and athletic-looking for a man his age. His thick, gray hair is brushed back from his face. The wrinkles around his deep-set brown eyes look like smiles in the dim light of the fires.

  Bernatto paces towards them, his shirt stained with dark patches of sweat. Droplets of perspiration roll across his forehead and cheeks. He wipes them off as he stands over them.

  “Nice work tonight.” He turns towards Jack. “Too bad you let one slip the net.”

  Jack glares up at him. “Hey, had to let Tom have a little fun.” />
  Bernatto frowns. He peers at them over the rims of his glasses and is silent for several seconds.

  Finally, Jack sighs. “I messed up. Missed him. He must have come in from the side entrance. I was too focused on the street.”

  Bernatto nods. “Don't make the same mistake twice. Tom, is the site clean?"

  Caine keeps his eyes on the fire. “Body’s in a dumpster a few blocks down the street. Knife’s at the bottom of the Nile. There’s some blood in the mosque. Nothing to tie the body to me. Besides, the assassins were from South Sudan. I don’t think the police in Khartoum are going to look too hard for a suspect.”

  Bernatto glances at the watch on his wrist. “Sounds adequate. I have to report in. We’re wheels up at 0600. Don’t be late.”

  He turns and walks towards a black Land Rover. The rugged vehicle sits among the battered pickups and dusty vans surrounding the rebel camp. As Bernatto drives out of the camp, Khairi joins them by the fire.

  He pulls a silver flask from the rear pocket of his linen pants and takes a long swig. He offers the flask to Jack.

  Jack shakes his head and swigs his beer. “No thanks, Khairi. Thought you weren’t allowed to drink that stuff.”

  Khairi laughs. “It is true. In Sudan we have Sharia law. No alcohol, no relations between men and women, unless of course they are married. But, then again, this is not Sudan. Yesterday, perhaps it was. Tomorrow, it may yet be again. But today, we are in purgatory.”

  “Why are we here, Khairi?” Caine asks.

  Khairi took another swig. “Look who has become a philosopher.”

  “I mean, what does Sudan get from facilitating an arms deal for this asshole?”

  The older man shrugs and stares into the fire. “Ah. Well, I’m not sure we should be discussing such things. Let’s just say it’s a joint effort. I’m sure it has to do with oil, and money. And, of course, cooperation with your government’s counter-terrorism efforts. It benefits both our countries to work together on these things. Either way, I promise you, in a few years, no one will even remember. Everything will have changed. Everything but the fighting.”