The Fourth Law

by Paul Stein

  “Okay…this is what we’re up against,” Henry replied.

  He reviewed all the information he was comfortable sharing: that the hostages were kidnapped as the result of an elaborate scheme to steal top secret research being conducted by Dr. Jarrod Conrad— research that had national defense implications; that the technology was to be used somehow at the Fort Knox Army base; and that he and Emerson were not to interfere until the machine was fully deployed. Further, the local authorities were not to be contacted and the hostages could only be rescued secondary to this primary objective. Their orders were top-secret from the highest level of military command, presumably in concert with the president.

  “Ho-lee Jesus,” Morris said, his face turning ashen as he tried to grasp everything Agent Henry was sharing. Angelina slowly shook her head, too, mortified by the extent of Alastair’s appalling nature. Palmer merely looked relieved that the truth was finally out so they could cooperate with one another.

  “Yeah…now you realize the full extent of my mission. Sorry to keep you in the dark all this time, Dave, but I was under orders. As it is, I’ll have to ask both of you to disavow everything you’ve just heard,” Henry said, expecting an affirmation from both Morris and Angelina.

  “You have my word,” Morris replied.

  “Mine, too,” Angelina chimed in.

  “So where does that leave us, Jason?” Palmer asked.

  Agent Henry ran through the list of objectives in his head and counted them down on his hand as he made the recitation. “Dave and Angel will cover the hostages. As soon as the balance of this crew mobilizes to Fort Knox, we follow them to the base. Assuming everything goes as planned, Dave will take out the guards and rescue the hostages after Angel’s diversion. Only then will he contact the local authorities…but he won’t divulge any information about Fort Knox, that’s Emerson’s and my responsibility. Then we all meet tomorrow morning for breakfast,” he added good-humoredly, needing one more task to use all the fingers on one hand.

  “I’m stoked on the breakfast part,” Palmer joked.

  “It’s a date, then,” Angel said, looking playfully at Emerson. “Don’t you stand me up now!”

  “I wouldn’t think of it, my dear. But promise me one thing.”

  “Anything, honey,” she said agreeably.

  “Keep your pretty head down when the lead starts flying. Only when the shooting stops do you release Sela. Understand?”

  “Whatever you say, honey,” she said, patting his hand after feeling the affection in his voice. “Whatever you say….”

  SIXTY-THREE

  FORT KNOX, KENTUCKY

  22:00 HOURS

  RICHARD KILMER’S team completed the final preparations for the Fort Knox incursion precisely on schedule. The men donned black battle fatigues and inventoried personal gear a final time. Few words were spoken; tension descended on them like a thick San Francisco fog. The mood had never been this somber preceding a mission, and the last hours of waiting had become interminable. With everything staged, they counted down the final minutes before mobilizing.

  For this mission the team would be using customized personal defense weapons comprised of Heckler and Koch MP7s—fully automatic concealable machine pistols with sound suppressors that could fire 1,000 rounds per minute. The 4.6 X 30mm bullets were armorpiercing, with a range of 200 meters. The MP7 was an ideal close-quarters weapon that could spray bullets with awesome range and accuracy. Each of the men also carried a small backpack containing five forty-round clips; night-vision goggles and voice-activated radios completed their personal gear. They were well equipped for fighting the elite Army Rangers stationed just five miles from the depository.

  Colt Hamil kept himself busy as usual with the vehicles. Both the Peterbilt tractor-trailer and Kenworth dump truck sat idling in the parking lot. Ever since arriving at Wildcat, Colt had spent the bulk of his time traveling the roads they would take to Fort Knox. He went to the base Visitor Control Center, run by military police, and located the Brandenburg Gate, the main access used for commercial vehicles and staffed 24/7 by MPs. He drove the distance between Struffeneger’s farm and the base several times to get a feel for landmarks or any complexities along the way. His reconnaissance proved the trip would take about forty minutes.

  Colt was surprised to learn Fort Knox was an actual town; over 2,500 families called the base home. Typical of any community there were restaurants, shopping malls, a movie theater, a bank, schools, a hospital, and everything a normal suburban municipality would usually have. The Southern-style residential neighborhoods were comprised of small to mid-sized homes with postage-stamp lawns and porches gracefully shaded by large elm and maple trees, giving the area a hometown feel. Other areas of the base presented large three-story barracks, where the enlisted men were housed; each building closely connected to the Base Exchange, cafeteria, and a training facility. Everything appeared very orderly.

  Colt also learned that Fort Knox was named after Henry Knox, the Continental Army’s chief of artillery during the Revolutionary War, who became the country’s first secretary of war. It was Colonel Knox who had conceived of and commanded the first artillery regiment that helped defeat the British with cannons his troops confiscated from Fort Ticonderoga following the Boston Massacre. Fort Knox ultimately became the training ground for the Army’s armored tank division and graduated legendary World War II tank commander General George Patton. Oversized statues of Colonel Knox and General Patton—with his trademark ivory-gripped .45-caliber sidearm—prominently stood guard over the base headquarters.

  Except for driving through town on Bullion Boulevard to access the depository, Colt didn’t think the transport would raise inordinate attention. If questions unexpectedly arose about the unusual hour of the transport, he would present the manifest for the classified load, and the visitor’s pass the MPs would issue at the Brandenburg Gate. Colt was confident with this part of the plan.

  Before the team’s departure, the hostages were moved into the great room of Struffeneger’s house. Farley lashed four chairs back-to-back in the center of the room and each of the hostages except Jarrod was individually tied to a chair. Once the hostages were in place, he wound a length of sturdy rope around all four, binding them securely together; tape across their mouths nullified their persistent verbal protests.

  When Ryan continued to struggle, Farley slugged him forcefully in the solar plexus, warning that continued resistance would be taken out on the women. To drive home his point, he violently slapped Sarah’s face, raising an ugly welt. Her muted scream pitched Ryan into an angry spasm. Farley’s perverse enjoyment of Sarah’s useless fight made it all the more demeaning.

  Farley planned to hold the hostages until Kilmer confirmed they were no longer needed—presumably when Conrad had completed his part of the operation. Upon Kilmer’s command, the hostages would be taken outside and executed with a bullet in the head, their bodies later discarded in the fish ponds. Farley showed not a glint of remorse or hesitation about his responsibility. Rather, he kept his fiendish intentions in check, secretly waiting to be left alone with his quarry to satisfy his perverse pleasures.

  With the hostages secured, as a final step Farley doused the lights to make it difficult for anyone to observe his actions. Under these conditions, he could guard the hostages alone without difficulty.

  But unbeknownst to Stuart Farley, his every move was being closely scrutinized. Agent Henry and Lieutenant Morris were lying on a knoll overlooking the main quarters at Wildcat Fish Farm, closely watching the unfolding events from about one hundred yards away. The men painstakingly watched a tall, athletic-looking, bald man bring each of the hostages into the living room, restraining them in one of four chairs he had tied together. The equipment they purchased at Bass Pro Shop was perfect for this clandestine surveillance.

  As Morris had predicated, Bass proved to have everything the men needed to rescue the hostages. He found a reliable bolt-action Winchester Model 70 .30-06, on which
he mounted a Trident Pro night-vision scope. This was all the firepower needed to rescue the hostages. They also found ATN night-vision binoculars and Viper night-vision goggles. A couple of Motorola radios with Foxfire ear-wrap headsets rounded out the technical equipment the men needed. Finally they visited the clothing department and selected boots and camouflage clothes suitable for the conditions of their mission.

  While Morris and Henry scoped out the back of the residence, Palmer and Angelina had remained near the front about 200 yards away. They sat in the Explorer, Palmer using a high-powered night-scope that brought every movement into high definition. He watched the men below conduct an orderly progression of tasks in preparation of leaving Wildcat Farm. The two semi-trucks were idling and their deployment seemed only moments away. Their increased activity spiked Palmer’s adrenaline. Things are about to get crazy; hunker down, Fort Knox…trouble’s coming.

  “Looks like showtime,” Palmer whispered into his Foxfire voice-activated mic. “Have you got visual on the hostages?”

  “We’re in a perfect location,” Henry replied. Morris was looking through the Trident night-scope on the rifle and relayed every move coming from inside the house. “Morris only sees one man guarding the hostages. There’s another with him…but he’s decked out in commando gear, and it looks like he’s giving final instructions. The good news…it seems we’ve only got one guard to deal with.”

  “Excellent,” Palmer whispered. “Time to rendezvous; these guys are ready to roll.” Palmer and Henry were planning to meet at the Explorer and needed to vacate soon after the men departed.

  “Ten-four…on my way,” Henry replied.

  “Remind Morris about the timing. Precisely ten minutes after the trucks leave the yard, Angel begins the diversion. She’s got my watch and a radio but she’ll be out of contact after making her move,” Palmer reminded him.

  “Affirmative. Morris will be awaiting her move ten minutes after the trucks roll. See you in five….”

  Richard Kilmer escorted Dr. Conrad out of the house with his hands still tied behind his back and tape drawn across his mouth. The night air was chilly and the sky was clear. He noticed the thin sliver of a crescent moon but it wasn’t an issue like it was during the Livermore job; when the Army Rangers were activated, they would have the same night-vision capability the team was using. The months of planning and preparation finally over, a peculiar calm surrounded Kilmer, but all his senses were sharpened by the prospect of the coming battle.

  Colt loosened the tarp on the trailer covering the antigravity machine and Marlon, Ventura, Mills, Metusack, and Kilmer scrambled underneath. Rafie assisted Dr. Conrad onto the trailer and then helped Colt re-tie the tarp. Both men were dressed in Army fatigues for entering the base, Rafie’s uniform sporting his officer’s rank of major. It was almost midnight when Colt climbed into the semi and slowly inched the truck out of the Wildcat parking lot, followed closely by Struffeneger and Starkovich. The Fort Knox operation was underway.

  As the truck began to pick up speed, an unanticipated problem struck Kilmer. The men hidden in the trailer would be exposed if the MPs decided to check the load. The possibility was remote because the transfer manifest was stamped Classified: Top Secret, which would normally preclude anyone from inspecting the transport. But if Conrad did somehow draw the MPs’ attention, their hiding place could be compromised.

  “Here’s a worry, Professor. Ya’ll need to play passum when we git to the base. If the MPs go berko, it’s lights out for yer gal,” he explained. He was looking at Conrad through his night goggles, and the professor was squirming uncomfortably on the rigid steel bed of the trailer. “If we’re bagged and Farley doesn’t hear from me, yer rellies are history. Nod if ya git me.”

  Jarrod couldn’t see anything and felt a stifling suffocation sear his lungs, the tape covering his mouth restricting his breathing, but he managed to indicate his understanding.

  Jarrod was unprepared for this point in the abduction. He needed to figure a way to stop Kilmer and save the hostages at the same time. With Ryan and Sarah also held captive, this seemed impossible. He lay in the dark, feeling the vibration of the truck through the bed of the trailer, and racked his brain for a plan. Hope was not lost, but it was clearly at a premium. If ever I need divine inspiration, this is it, Jarrod thought. What would Amerigo do? Come on, Nono…give me a sign.

  SIXTY-FOUR

  WEST POINT, KENTUCKY

  23:30 HOURS

  A GHOSTLY QUIET seized the home at Wildcat Farm when Richard Kilmer and his men finally took their leave. A terrible foreboding filled each of the hostages as they wondered what their fate would be. Ryan sat in the dark room, imagining that the rest of his family was surely just as terrified as he was. Never had he felt so defenseless—bound, gagged, and at the mercy of a man who was unquestionably a psychopath. The odds of getting out of this jam alive were extremely remote. Ryan had never prayed more fervently for a miracle.

  Ryan’s eyes were fully dilated, having adapted to the minimal light filtering in from the outside lights, but no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t locate Farley or determine what he was up to. Sitting amongst his family, wondering what was next in store, he heard Farley’s voice from somewhere in the darkened room say one of the most alarming things he’d ever heard.

  “Since you’ll all be dead soon…what d’ya say we have some fun?”

  Ryan cocked his head to locate Farley but couldn’t make out where he was. Then he heard the muted sounds of Sarah struggling and of tearing fabric. Farley had cut the cloth of her shirt, ripping it down to the rope secured across her abdomen. Then he put the knife underneath the clasp on the front of her bra and cut it through.

  “Nice tits, lady,” Farley said silkily, admiring her bare breasts through the night-vision goggles he wore. He caressed one of her nipples as she indignantly struggled. “Wow…for an old broad, you’ve still got the goods.”

  Hearing Sarah’s torment renewed Ryan’s futile struggle to break loose. The rope holding him was much too strong, and the weight of all four people kept him seated. Sweat poured off Ryan’s brow as he strained mightily to tear loose.

  Farley walked over to Ryan and forced his head back, grabbing a handful of hair. “Relax, Cochise. You’ll get your turn. I’m saving you for last. You get the added treat of listening to your family endure my unique talents. Now tell me…isn’t that an inviting thought?”

  Pausing only briefly, Farley continued. “You surprise me, Marshall. I can tell by the look in your eyes that I’ve frightened you. You’re not really so naïve to think we’d let you all go?”

  “Mmmph,” Ryan mumbled through the tape, valiantly struggling to mount a defense. Farley retaliated with a stinging blow across the bridge of Ryan’s nose that exploded in a stream of blood.

  Farley looked disgustedly at the blood dripping from Ryan’s chin onto his shirt. “Balls. Now look what you made me do. I didn’t want any blood…but too late for that,” he said dispassionately. “Now sit still and behave…I’ve got work to do.”

  Farley stepped back to survey his choices, “Let’s see…who gets to be first? Eenie…meenie…miney…mo,” he played in a sing-song voice, relishing the fearful look on the faces of his subjects. He enjoyed the psychological torment this infantile game caused—each secretly hoping against being chosen, but daring not wish the coming pain on the others. “Okay, since I don’t see any volunteers, I think I’ll start with…the youngest,” he said after a theatrical pause.

  He rounded quickly on Jer and cut open his shirt with a deft flick of his knife, ripping it past his shoulders to expose a bare chest. Jer didn’t struggle but panicked from the suddenness of being first chosen, his imagination in overdrive from what would happen next. Nothing could prepare him for the horror to come. Farley used a welder’s striker to ignite a small propane torch and an eerie blue light permeated the room.

  “Well…let’s see what this will do,” Farley began. “I’ve tried to come up with someth
ing fun that won’t cause any blood-letting—it’s really messy and hard to clean up, you know. Yet I wanted something that would inflict a maximum amount of pain. Fire fits the bill, don’t you think? It’s not messy, and except for the nasty stench of burning flesh, isn’t too hard to manage. And look, I found a branding tool in the barn that I think will serve quite nicely,” he said, holding it out, sounding much like he was merely prepping to brand livestock.

  He set the propane torch on the table and placed the branding tool directly in the blue flame. In just moments the iron brand started to glow as it drew in the heat and began to look like a small cat, obviously meant to resemble the wildcat mascot for the University of Kentucky. As Farley heated the brand, the hostages stirred uncomfortably, infuriated by what this man was preparing to do. No one dared believe he would actually brand Jer’s bare chest.

  He kept the brand in the flame until it was glowing cherry red. “Almost there,” he said, bringing it close so Jer could feel the heat radiating against his face.

  “Damn, I bet that’s gonna hurt,” Farley teased. The sadistic look in his eyes was unmistakable, made more so through the goggles he wore and the eerie, dull light from the brand.

  “Why so serious, son? Oh, I’m sorry…I can’t hear you. Have you got something to say?” he asked, ruthlessly ripping the tape off Jer’s mouth.

  “Jesus, mister, please don’t burn me,” Jer pleaded. “We’ve done everything you’ve asked. You’ve got Uncle Jarrod and you’ll all be rich. Please, Jesus, don’t hurt my folks.”

  “Pleeaassee…Jessuss…don’t hurt my folks,” Farley taunted in a nasal, high-pitched voice. “Sorry, son, it’s not that easy. You see…this is how I get my rocks off. I love inflicting pain,” he said calmly, changing to his regular voice.