Act of Vengeance

by Michael Jecks

  For a moment his mind was blank, then he glanced at Debbie, nudged her, and gestured to his phone.

  ‘Mister Hansen. Or do you prefer Mister Case, Jack?’

  ‘Do you prefer to remain alive?’

  Frank’s jaw clenched.

  ‘I dislike being threatened. If that’s all you got to say, I can give you a short answer, Case. You try to—’

  ‘Not me! Look in your mirrors, agent.’

  Frank’s eyes automatically did as he was told. In his wing mirror he saw a man walking nonchalantly towards the car, a hand concealed beneath his coat. The other mirror showed a second man, his gun hand too was hidden but, as Frank watched, both men drew their hands out into the open, guns ready and pointing towards him and Debbie.

  He dropped the phone, said, ‘Debbie, move!’ and was about to throw himself from the car when he realised it was too late.

  His hand was on the door, his right reaching for his Glock, when he saw the barrel of the gun at his temple. He looked up, but in the eyes there was nothing but cold determination.

  ‘Shit, Debbie, I’m…’

  He had been going to apologise. It was senseless, a waste of her life to die out here for no reason, but even as he prepared to say so, there was a flare of light from the gun, and he winced and snapped his eyes shut, expecting the bullet in his head at any moment, but then the car jerked and rocked, and he heard Debbie swear. He looked at her in time to see the man her side slide down the side of the car. He left a smear of blood against the window as he went. Frank turned to the man with the gun at his head, but he was gone, slumped against the low wall of a garden, eyes wide.

  He had his Glock and pulled it out and up as he pulled the door wide, shouting, ‘FBI, drop the weapon!’

  There was no answer. The man was moving, just, his empty hand jerking up towards his chest, and then Frank saw over his gun sights that the downed man had a spreading stain on his shirt. The hand twitched, and then gently drifted back down to settle in his lap. His leg shuddered, once, then again, and his head slowly eased down to rest on his shoulder, his eyes fixed on Frank with total surprise.

  Frank walked to him, his gun out and pointing at the fucking jerk, and in his mind he heard his armourer’s firm but calm voice saying, ‘Foresight, squeeze, foresight, squeeze, don’t jerk it!’ and there was a loud rushing in his ears as adrenaline fizzed in his blood like cocaine, and the urge to shoot the fucker was almost unbearable…

  ‘Debbie? You OK?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m all right.’

  Frank turned, and there, he saw Jack Case standing the other side of the car.

  ‘You’re making a habit of getting shot at, you know.’

  ‘Yeah. I know. Drop the gun, Jack.’

  Jack turned and pulled on his backpack, stuffing the small pistol into his belt as he walked.

  Frank shouted.

  ‘Hey, where d’you think you’re going?’

  ‘I saved your life,’ Jack said without turning. ‘If I stay here, I’m likely to end up as dead as those two. I’ve been set up from the moment I landed in the US.’

  Frank lifted his Glock.

  ‘Stop! Don’t make me shoot you!’

  ‘That would be taking ingratitude to a new level,’ Jack said forcefully. He felt weary, so tired he could sleep for a week. The smell of blood and urine was still in his nostrils, and he shivered suddenly as a wave of cold fear washed down his back. He lifted his hands and faced Frank.

  ‘Someone is after me, Frank. They tried to shoot you just now. What more proof do you need? If you take me anywhere, I’ll be killed.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘I’m trying to find out. The answer is in a place in Virginia, apparently.’

  ‘Where? Virginia’s a big place.’

  Jack cocked an eyebrow.

  ‘A man called Deputy Director Amiss.’

  ‘You are kidding me!’ Rand said. ‘He’s no more likely to be behind this than the President himself, Jack. Someone’s been bullshitting you.’

  ‘Yeah. I’ve not been taking bollocks from everyone since I landed in the States, Frank. I dreamed it all up.’ Jack eyed him. ‘You’re on their hit list too, now. That’s why those two were after you.’

  ‘Who are they?’ Debbie demanded. ‘Why’re they after us?’

  ‘Don’t know. But they look the same as the two in Seattle, don’t you reckon? Did you get who they were?’

  ‘There was no ID on them.’

  ‘What would you take in a bet that these guys don’t either?’

  Frank looked at the nearer of the two bodies.

  ‘Why’d they shoot me?’

  ‘You’ve been behind me every step, haven’t you?’ Jack said. ‘And these guys were behind you. How did they know where you’d be? They follow you, or did they have a beacon on the car?’

  Debbie was just behind Frank. She pushed Frank’s gun until it was pointing away from Jack.

  ‘Thank you, sir. Appreciate your help. Now it’s time to figure out this shit. You come with us and we’ll get this all sorted and have you back in England in no time.’

  ‘No. You have to shoot me to stop me, Frank,’ Jack said. He had his hands in the air still, but he was taking steps back. In the distance there was the sound of sirens. ‘These guys were in an agency of some sort. I can’t take the risk that they’re “friendly”,’ he added sarcastically. ‘I have to get away from here.’

  ‘Look, wait a minute,’ Frank said, as the sirens were grew nearer. ‘OK, then, we’ll sort this somehow. You just have to come in and—’

  ‘I am not going to be taken into custody,’ Jack stated. ‘Shoot if you’re going to, Frank.’

  Frank felt his finger tighten on the trigger. He felt sweat break out under his arms, felt the first pressure of the trigger taken up, and then he heard Jack’s voice.

  ‘I saved you, Frank. You need to remember that before you fire.’

  ‘Oh, fuck,’ Frank muttered, and his gun dropped to point at the ground. ‘Come on, Debbie. Let’s get things sorted.’

  ‘What about him, Frank?’ she demanded, pointing at the figure disappearing into the shadows.

  ‘We didn’t see him, Debbie. Understand me? We didn’t just have that conversation.’

  ‘Sir, I don’t know that—’

  ‘Fine. You tell Houlican what you want, agent. Me, I’m not prepared to risk his life. He just saved us both. So you get on to the airport and sort out a plane for us while I see if these pricks are carrying ID.’

  *

  01.02 Las Vegas; 09.02 London

  Stilson passed by less than five minutes later and, as he passed, he swore quietly under his breath. Soon as he was parked a couple of miles away in a suburban street, he picked up the STU-III and called Amiss.

  ‘Go secure,’ he said.

  ‘Yes?’ Amiss’s voice was not sleepy. It was four in the morning, Stilson told himself, looking at the car’s clock, and the guy was as wide awake as he was at noon.

  ‘I don’t know what happened. By the time I got to Sorensen’s house, there were police all over the place. My boys were there, I think. I saw their car. I don’t know what’s happened to them… or to Sorensen.’

  ‘That is highly unsatisfactory,’ Amiss said.

  Stilson pulled the phone from his face and stared at it.

  ‘Yes. It is,’ he said. ‘I need you to find out where Sorensen is, so I can get to him. I don’t want him shooting his mouth off, if they got to him. Call me back.’

  He put the phone down and waited. It took seven minutes by his watch.

  ‘Yes?’ he responded when both phones were synchronised.

  ‘He is in the hospital. Apparently he was knee-capped by this damned Brit, and two men were shot dead while trying to attack FBI agents. That explains the others. Sorensen may have told the Brit about us, I expect. You must get him removed. He is an embarrassment we can well do without. And when you have that sorted, get back here. I will need your help.’

&
nbsp; ‘All right.’

  *

  02.50 Las Vegas; 10.50 London

  Back at the Bellagio, Jack walked into his room and stared about him. His rucksack was in his hand, and he let it slip to the floor now, feeling the tension in his whole frame. The scene in that room was with him still – the smell of urine and blood and sweat from Sorensen, and his own sweat as he tried not to show his horror at what he was doing.

  He was no torturer. Nor a murderer. But today he had killed two men. Two more yesterday. Who were they, the two trying to get the jump on Frank Rand and his companion? Just two more faceless soldiers, like the two who’d killed Stephen Orme, probably like the ones who’d killed Danny Lewin. How many more of them were there?

  But through all his thoughts he could see the face of Sorensen – his white face as Jack had shot his leg. No matter that Jack was trying not to injure him badly, Sorensen wouldn’t care about that. He was just a small cog in a machine, and now Jack had set his face against the world by attacking him.

  He felt a growing nausea and hurried through to the bathroom, where he rested with a hand at either side of the sink, staring at himself in the mirror.

  His eyes were bloodshot now – tired, like the rest of him. But this was worse than usual. Even when he had killed before, that had been necessary. The violence had been essential. This was worse, much worse, and he was so exhausted because he was suffering the reaction. Shooting Sorensen was torture. By that act he had been reduced to the level of a Nazi or a Soviet. No better than one of those from whom he had sworn to defend his country.

  Now, for the first time, he really understood what Lewin had gone through. He would never lose that feeling.

  A violent retch made him close his eyes and bend his head to the sink. It felt as though it would never end, as his stomach heaved and contracted, but he had eaten so little in the last day and a half, there was nothing to bring up. He forced himself to calm down, sliding down the wall of the bathroom, keeping his back flat against the wall, head resting against it, his palms in his lap, until the shivering and anxiety left him, and he could feel his rapidly beating heart calm a little, his panting slow down and deepen.

  He would not give in to this fear. Nor would he succumb to terror or self-recrimination. He wasn’t some murdering machine, and the fact that he had taken extreme action to get what he needed from Sorensen didn’t make him evil. It made him desperate – desperate to get back home and to put an end to this.

  Getting to his feet, he walked through to his bedroom and stared at his bag. He had stowed the little Colt .380 in his backpack, and now he took it out and sat at the desk.

  It was some years since he had stripped a Colt and cleaned it, and now he went through the process, pulling the slide back to throw out the cartridge from the breech and locking it open. Ejecting the magazine, he pulled the slide and let it run forward, snapping the hammer down. He pressed the button under the barrel and rotated the bushing to loosen the recoil spring, and pulled the pin from the side so the barrel and slide assembly could come off, and tugged the springs and barrel from it. Cleaning it with Kleenex from the bathroom took him some time, and when he was done, he methodically put it all together again. Not ideal, he considered, because it was dry and could have done with some oil, but it would do. And it had served its purpose. He felt a lot better for the concentration.

  He sat back. The bed beckoned but he dare not lie down. If he did, sleep would bring back the sight of Sorensen’s face, his leg, the sound of his scream, the smell of his body, and his terror. Jack had killed before, but there were reasons then. Torture was different. It left him feeling shabby, befouled. He could not lie down; in preference Jack went to the bathroom, stripped, and took a shower. Today he had it almost scalding hot, and then turned the dial to cold, and stood it as long as he could, feeling the water take the dirt and horror away. And as it went, he found himself thinking with a new clarity of mind. He could feel his purpose returning as he rubbed his arms and chest against the cold.

  He would have to prepare for the next stage.

  Someone from Virginia had tried to see him killed. They had attacked him and had murdered Sumner and Lewin.

  They would pay.

  *

  07.14 Las Vegas; 15.14 London

  Jack did not go to bed that night. Instead he went through his clothes and picked out all those he thought Rand might have seen. He put them into a bag, then went downstairs and out into the Strip. There was a dumpster bin a block or two away, and he shoved the clothes inside before returning to the casino. He ate pizza overlooking the fountains and tried to fix the memory of the place in his mind. Back in his room he renewed his widow’s peak as he shaved, and pulled on a clean T-shirt and trousers. Soon he had packed again, and left, taking the stairs to the ground floor. There he paid off his room with cash.

  ‘I got lucky,’ he said with a smile.

  The girl at the desk smiled back as though she truly felt pleased on his behalf, and soon Jack was outside throwing his bags into the trunk of his rental. He still had the little pistol in the small of his back under his jacket, but when he sat in the car, he removed it and stuck it beside his seat before strapping on his seat belt. He had a long journey, and didn’t want to be uncomfortable.

  As he pulled out of the car park and onto the Strip, his phone rang.

  It was an alien sound. He stared at it for a moment, his heart lurching. Nobody knew this number. His Blackberry was the only phone he had where others knew the number, not this throwaway one. With some trepidation he picked it up and answered the call.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Hello, this is Frank Rand.’

  ‘How did you get this number?’ Jack asked with genuine surprise.

  ‘You called me last night, remember? There is such a thing as call-back.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Cursing himself, he realised he had not turned his new phone off again after the shooting. He was losing his touch.

  ‘You left Sorensen in a bad way.’

  ‘I had to find out. It was the only way in a short timescale.’

  He sounded defensive even to himself.

  ‘Look, Jack, can we try to sort this all out? I’m sure there’s a misunderstanding here.’

  ‘Are you recording this call?’ Jack said.

  ‘No. And before you ask, neither am I tracing you. I want to talk, Jack.’

  ‘I have a lot to do today.’

  ‘Right. And damn the idea that I could help.’

  ‘What could you do that I can’t alone?’

  There was a pause, a slight hesitation. Then, ‘I might be able to help you to speak with Amiss.’

  *

  08.29 Las Vegas; 16.29 London

  The hospital was bright, busy, and full when Stilson entered it that morning. He had a large bunch of flowers and, as he stood aside to let two hurrying nurses with a trolley go past, he saw a cleaner sweeping the floor.

  ‘Hi, can you tell me where the trauma centre is? An employee of my company was shot last night and brought in.’

  ‘Sure, head down to the end of that corridor and take the elevator. It’s all signposted.’

  ‘Ah, thanks,’ Stilson said, and followed the directions.

  This was a new hospital. Although Sorensen could have demanded to be taken to a more expensive facility, Stilson knew this had the reputation of the best hospital for trauma. They had the American College of the Surgeon’s highest ranking for the work they did with their thousands of patients every year, and Stilson was sure that Sorensen would have demanded to be brought here. Whether he had or not, Amiss assured him that his name was logged on Echelon as being taken there in the ambulance.

  Stilson looked through the windows into the trauma rooms. There were many ICU beds, and another set of rooms with resuscitation beds, but he was guessing that Sorensen wouldn’t be in any of them.

  At the end of the corridor he saw a police officer waiting at the door. Immediately Stilson dialled Roy Sandford’s numbe
r.

  ‘Yes, there’s a police officer at the door. Right.’

  Sandford had a list of the officers who were on duty, and he had already isolated Officer Martinez as being responsible for Sorensen’s safety. Stilson closed his phone just as Martinez answered his own. He looked startled as Sandford told him that a truck had run into his parked black and white, and, shutting off the call, the policeman pelted along the hallway and out the fire doors at the far end. Stilson continued on and opened the door he’d guarded.

  Sorensen looked dreadful. His face was waxen, pale, and drawn. There was a drip in his left arm, and he had an oxygen tube in his nose. A livid bruise on the side of his head made his features look unbalanced as he opened one swollen eye and stared at Stilson.

  ‘You all right?’ Stilson said, looking around for somewhere to put the flowers.

  ‘I guess,’ Sorensen rasped. His voice was rough, and he looked a little disorientated as he narrowed his eyes, peering at Stilson.

  ‘I had to come and make sure you were OK, that you hadn’t told the guy anything.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘He tortured you, though?’

  ‘Yeah. He was asking about the two. Sumner and Lewin, and what they were wanted for, and he shot me, the bastard. In the knee.’

  ‘This one?’ Stilson said, looking down at the lump under the bedclothes.

  ‘Yeah,’ Sorensen said.

  ‘But you told him nothing? What sort of nothing did you tell him?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Sorensen said. The big man shivered. ‘Look, Ed, I wouldn’t give anything away, man. It’s just not me, man.’

  ‘I knew you were a fool, but I always kept any real information away from you because of that,’ Stilson said. ‘You never could hold a secret, could you?’

  ‘Look, Ed, I…’

  Stilson had his hand on the bedclothes and he lifted them away now. Over Sorensen’s knees was a kind of table to stop the bedding from falling on his knees and hurting them. ‘You were shot up, weren’t you,’ he murmured gently.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Must have hurt, being shot in the knee.’

  ‘Ed, I…’