The Troubles (The Jessica Trilogy Book 2)

by Connie Johnson Hambley

  Satisfied, Bragdon pulled up his collar and strode down the street.

  SOMEWHERE IN NORTHERN IRELAND

  THE ONLY SIGNALS that told Jessica she was conscious again were the discrete chaffing pain in her wrists and ankles and the roiling nausea in her stomach. Being curled into a ball made the pressure in her gut worse. The air was hot and fetid. Pervasive numbness infected her hands and feet, making them sluggish to her command. A wave of black wool enveloped over her and she could feel herself fight against its pull. She tried to wake up, tried to move, but her body had not cleared the tranquilizer from her bloodstream. Everything inside and around her buzzed and swayed. The contents of her stomach inched upward, threatening her to panic, but stayed at a distance. She took deep, steadying breaths and willed herself not to puke. Even muddled through the cloud of drugs, she knew she was blindfolded and gagged. Vomiting would choke her to death.

  The bands of cloth around her eyes and mouth did not loosen when she scrunched and contorted her face. She was only successful enough to see darkness surrounded her. As more consciousness crept in, she figured out her hands were not tied to her feet, as she had first thought, but that she was jammed into a box. She needed a few more minutes to realize that the box was vibrating and swaying, not her.

  The vibration of pressurized air released from a diesel engine jake-braking rattled her skull against the wooden sides. She swayed as the truck slowed and turned off a smooth road onto a rutted secondary road. The driver must have been in a hurry because he made no effort to ease the huge rig over the bumpy surface. If she weren’t wedged inside the crate, she would have been tossed and thrown against its sides.

  Her breathing was too fast. Her heart was beating too quickly. She instinctively knew that she was using up precious oxygen and tried again to calm herself. Inhale ten seconds. Exhale twenty. Inhale ten. Exhale twenty. The minutes dragged on and oxygen became scarce. Outside sounds no longer registered as her world shrank down to a three-by-four foot space. Her knees, compressed against her chest, throbbed against the wooden sides. The air should have run out. She felt she was living on borrowed time. Her focus flagged for that split second too long, and the hold she had on her gut finally released. The burning acid crept up her throat, and she sputtered and gagged, unable to stop her convulsing.

  The top of the crate flew open, and someone grabbed her by the scruff of her neck and waist, hoisting her over the side. Someone ripped the gag from her mouth, and she heaved and gasped for air, spitting and choking uncontrollably. The firm grip forced her head over a bucket, causing her cheek to strike against its metal sides. It should have hurt, but her face felt thick and distant. Finally, her stomach emptied and longed-for breaths of air cleared the last of the wool from her head. She needed to get her bearings. A gap formed at her cheeks and the bridge of her nose where the blindfold did not reach. She tilted her head back enough to see slits of light when she was yanked clear of the box and her blindfold removed.

  A man about her age stood in front of her. He was tall, well over six feet with a calculated manner of moving that made his actions deliberate and efficient. He had long red hair pulled back into a stringy ponytail. Dirty blue jeans and a sweatshirt that proclaimed him a fan of the Lisburn Distillery Football Association looked huge on his lanky frame. His work boots were caked with dust and grease, with laces untied as worn by simple workmen. Something about the way he assessed Jessica told her he was anything but. He shoved his sleeves up to his elbows and watched her expression as his tattoo of a shamrock sliced by a dagger registered.

  If they wanted her dead, they would have had more than enough opportunity. She shrank away from him and waited, slowly working her wrists to stretch and loosen the silver duct tape that bound them, trying for one little rip, enough to let her tear free. She contracted and relaxed her muscles slowly to regain circulation. Her head was clearing, but her body was still sluggish to react. The barrels and scopes of at least two guns rested within easy reach of the man, but she was too uncoordinated to try for them. She took in all the details she could and bided her time.

  The man gave an odd snort. “Don’t go getting your hopes up that you’ll be moving quickly any time soon. Xylazine will keep you from hurting yourself for quite a while.” He pointed at her bleeding cheek and laughed. “Bet you don’t e’en feel that, eh?”

  He was right. Everything was in the distance. Xylazine was a powerful tranquilizer capable of felling a stallion mid-rut and often used to calm animals for transportation. Its aftereffects include lack of muscle control and numbing. Her arms felt like logs when she tried to move them. She nodded toward her bound hands. “Then what’s all this?” Her mouth was feeling too thick and funny to form the words correctly and tasted of acidic bile.

  “We heard you was a feisty one. Just some insurance in case you woke up too early.”

  She was in the back of a tractor-trailer. Its large cargo area was filled with wooden crates the same size and shape as the one she was transported in. Rows of crates were stacked to the ceiling of the truck, and her crate was in a hollow, blocked from discovery from the door. As her eyes adjusted to the light, another wave of nausea roiled upward as she read the crates’ logos.

  Many were of companies she had never heard of, but others were very familiar. Ariat, Dover Saddlery, Crown Bridlework, Equistar were all names she knew as high-end equestrian suppliers. Others had Tully Farm and its running horse logo. She was surprised to see pallets of cases of baby formula and diapers mixed in, recognizing the names. Logos of charities and relief organizations—Red Cross, Oxfam, Global Families, Christian Relief—were mixed in. She was intimately familiar with those that had “MMC” stenciled on them. But something was off. If the boxes were full of baby items or gear for horses and riders, why didn’t she smell baby powder or leather? Instead, she could identify only the oily smell of polished metal and something reminiscent of fireworks.

  He slung one rifle over his shoulder and carried the other cradled in his arm as he wedged his body through a gap toward the back of the truck. With one leg he kicked open the doors and hopped down, taking time to carefully scan the area. He climbed back up, ripped the tape from her ankles, and shoved her forward, nearly throwing her on the ground. She tried to scramble to her feet, but her legs were rubbery. She wobbled until she sank down to one knee. They were in the middle of emptied and battered warehouses with rusted roofs and broken windows. Weeds grew up out of the pavement. Sounds of a highway and a door clanging against the metal structures echoed in the wind. The huge rig was pulled beside a road that was incredibly wide, enough for a six-lane highway.

  He grabbed under her arm and nearly dragged her into the closest building. Instead of entering a cavernous space, they walked down a series of cramped walkways flanked by rows of towering pallets of scrap metal alternating with walls of cargo containers. At times he pushed her ahead through a broad aisle and other times he grabbed her arm as they shimmied through a narrow canyon. In the center of the maze was a trailer of the type used as a temporary office space at construction sites. He unlocked the padlocked door and entered.

  The inside was exactly what she expected. Plastic wood paneling, gritty plywood floors, green metal desk. A thick wire mesh covered the windows. Her chest tightened when she saw a mattress in the corner with shipping blankets piled on top. The gap between her emotions and her reactions was closing as movement helped to clear her head. She didn’t need a lot of lucidity to understand she was trapped.

  “Who are you?” Her voice was flat. She didn’t know whether that was from the drug or simply not caring anymore.

  She felt eyes assessing her and glared back.

  “Folks here call me Paddy.” He swooped his free arm to his waist and nodded his head in a pantomime of a regal bow.

  She held up her hands. “Cut this off.”

  He shoved her to the middle of the room, making sure his body was between her and the door. From his back pocket he withdrew a long knife that looked exa
ctly like the dagger she had found in Tim’s truck. She couldn’t take her eyes off it as he sliced the tape and ripped it from arms. She rubbed her wrists and worked her hands as the feeling returned.

  At the sound of a footstep outside of the trailer, Paddy dropped to one knee, brought the riflescope up to his eye, and aimed at the door all in one fluid motion. Three quick knocks, then two and the door burst open.

  “Jay-sus Paddy! Put that thing away.” Tim put up one hand as if that would be enough to stop a bullet.

  “Tik! You’re supposed to stay at the rig.”

  The dogs bounded into the room, eyes bright with the anticipation of another adventure. Tim snapped his fingers, and they sat in unison, watching his every move. He looked at Jessica and walked over to Paddy, seething. “What happened?”

  “Keep your knickers on. She puked and hit her face. I did nothing.”

  “I told you to keep an eye on ‘er for that. You need to keep her walking for a while yet. Give ‘er some water.”

  “Christ, man. She’s not one of the animals you transport. Look at her.” Paddy flicked his head in Jessica’s direction. “She’s fine.”

  Tim walked over to the tiny kitchen and grabbed a bottle of water from the cabinet. He broke the seal and handed it her. When she hesitated, he took her hand and shoved it into her palm. “Drink.”

  She took a sip, concentrating on how to fit the bottle to her lips and not dribble the water down her chin. Her lips felt puffy and fat. She wiped them with the back of her hand. “Tim, what’s going on?”

  Paddy snorted. “So much for her being clever. Doesn’t have a clue, does she?”

  Tim motioned with his head for her to drink more. He checked his watch as he observed her carefully for a few moments as she took a series of sips, then turned to Paddy. “I’ve not said anything. Nor has Nan.”

  Paddy reached over and pulled back the collar of her shirt. Only a pink and yellow circle remained of the bruise. “Jay-sus! I’m a great shot. Look at that, Tik. Perfect! Drove like a bat out of hell after we positioned the truck but made it to Aintree with enough time to get to my perch. Had her in my scopes for half the race and had less than a second to pull that shot off. Good thing your boyfriend was thinking ahead, eh?”

  Her thinking was still sluggish. What was Paddy saying? She wanted to ask more, but Tim became agitated.

  “Níl muid chun labhairt os comhair a.” ‘We’re not to talk in front of her.’

  “Ifreann Fola, a deir tú. Beidh mé a rá cad ba mhaith liom.” ‘Bloody hell, you say. I’ll say what I want.’

  “An plean a bhí a chur léi anseo agus go raibh tú ag dul a fhágáil.” ‘The plan was to stash her here, and you were going to leave.’

  “Bhí ceaptha againn a cheilt a corp anseo, gan a bheith buartha faoi di reáchtáil ar shiúl.” ‘We were supposed to hide her body here, not to worry about her running away.’

  “Ansin, ba chóir duit a bheith dírithe le haghaidh a cheann nuair a bhí an deis agat. Tá sí anseo. Is é seo a cinniúint.” ‘Then you should have aimed for her head when you had the chance. She’s here. This is her fate.’

  “Fuck tú.”

  “Is é seo an méid atá againn a dhéanamh. Tá tú ag dul anois. Ní féidir leat athrú ar an bplean.” ‘This is what we have to do. You have to go now. You can’t change the plan.’ Tim’s feet began that odd tapping and his upper body pulsed in quick, small motions.

  Paddy scowled. “Whatever you do, don’t leave any trace of her behind. The cleaning crew in Belfast have their hands full as it is.” He gave the room one last check before he left. Jessica and Tim stood motionless until the last of his footsteps faded and the door slammed shut.

  Tim looked her over. “The nausea will fade in an hour, and you’ll feel more like moving after a couple more. Nothing for you to do but to sit and wait.” He motioned to the dirty mattress and blankets.

  “What the hell, Tim?” Jessica took an unsteady step toward the desk and nearly fell into the chair. A dull throb started at her temples. She reached for the plastic waste can and puked again, using the time to think. Paddy was a stranger and made her nervous, but Tim she knew. Michael trusted him. Wait. No he didn’t. She grabbed her head and rested her elbows on the grimy desk.

  He checked his watch again and his steps became more urgent. The dogs, huge in the tiny space, shuffled their bodies to the side to make room for his pacing. His movements took on a rhythm. Pace. Pace. Pace. Turn. Check watch. Pace. Pace. Pace. Turn. Check watch.

  A low rumble shook the building then faded. Tim stopped and stared at his watch. A few minutes later the rumble started again, grew louder then faded. The high-pitched screech of a jake-brake joined the vibration of a diesel engine, then faded. It grew quiet again.

  The dogs and Tim noticeably relaxed. Feeling unobserved, he sank to the floor with his back to the wall. The rocking continued. “Now, we wait. We wait. We wait.”

  GENEVA, SWITZERLAND

  MICHAEL WALKED BRISKLY through the gleaming corridor of Terminal 3 at the Aéroport International de Genève, or the GVA as the pilots liked to call it. He tugged at his starched white cuffs and worked his shoulders further into his suit jacket. He had one last meeting before his departure, and it had to be in the private lounge. The terminal wasn’t an ideal meeting place. He hated it actually. But time was of the essence and left him no alternative.

  Walking past the perfectly tailored and gracious concierges, offering flutes of champagne for hospitality at what seemed to be every twenty feet, he felt out of place—and watched. His head was crammed with new information and a nagging self-loathing. He should have figured this out before, but with answers came action.

  He had no time to plan. He was desperate to get back to Northern Ireland. The answering service radioed just before he landed at GVA that someone had used the landline at his home to call his cell. When the service answered the call, no one was on the line. The line remained open, most likely from a dropped phone, prohibiting anyone from calling the house back.

  Attempts to reach the security detail at Ballyronan failed, and another group of men was sent from Antrim to check on his estate. Precious minutes turned to hours as they recovered the bodies of the two guards. Murray was gravely injured but would survive. Questioning the disoriented butler yielded no clues to what happened or who could have been behind the attack. Two things stood out as abundantly clear. It was an inside job. Jessica was gone.

  He moved up his departure by hours, catching the ground crew off guard and leaving them scrambling to service the jet and get it ready for departure. If Michael had his way, he would have already charted another flight in a desperate attempt to feel like he was taking the initiative. A brief moment of reflection was enough for common sense to kick in. Charters ask questions. Most could not land at his airstrip without checking its craft size certification. Another risk was he could charter a craft that forced him to land closer to Belfast. What time he lost readying his jet for departure from Geneva, he more than gained on the other end by being closer to Antrim and, he hoped, Jessica.

  He tried to keep his exterior smooth as he spoke with Jean-Paul Cousette, a meticulously groomed older gentleman with salt and pepper hair and a weathered complexion. The pale skin of Jean-Paul’s upper face and hands gave him away as a skier whose eyes were always covered with goggles and hands always in gloves. Indeed, Jean-Paul’s polite banter inevitably turned to the beautiful mountain air of Bellevaux-Hirmentaz and the skiing that the locals enjoyed even as summer approached. Meeting the son of Magnus Connaught on a moment’s notice at the GVA instead of in the Geneva offices of his bank was the least he could do for a young man who was coming to grips with the wealth that was now his.

  “Please accept our deepest condolences on the passing of your father. If I do say, you bear more than a passing resemblance to him.” Jean-Paul’s face was the image of sympathy.

  “Thank you. As it often is between fathers and sons, we had not spoken much in recent years
. His sudden death meant he was not able to bring me into the details of his affairs. Thank you for assisting with putting together the documentation on such short notice.”

  Jean-Paul waved off Michael’s concerns. “Not at all, Monsieur Connaught. Your father was a brilliant man. I was always in awe of his encyclopedic knowledge of his dealings. You and he are of the same cloth but different, nonetheless.”

  “Oh?”

  “Oui. You have the quick grasp of the larger picture and can see where the details fit it, as he did. But you are different because you want to work with one person on all of your dealings. You Americans, you say you like to ‘centralize’ and ‘streamline’ your operations. No?” He paused just long enough to get a noncommittal nod. “With him, he was satisfied with a handshake here and a handshake there. No one person knew the whole picture, but we all, um, how you say, we all understood that he was not a man who would take a misunderstanding lightly.”

  Michael let his eyes narrow slightly as the implication of Jean-Paul’s words registered. He forced himself to sit back in his chair and smile, teeth showing. “You’re right. In that regard, we are of the same cloth.”

  The banker adjusted his tie. “Very well, then. I have reviewed the documents you have provided from your father’s estate, and they are all in order. I’ve had prepared for you the account title transfers. At the request of your attorney here in Geneva, I have included the transfer of ownership documents of your father’s corporations to you.”

  “The transfers happen immediately upon signing?”

  “Oui. All of this takes precedence over the Powers of Attorney put in place by Monsieur Liam Connaught.”

  “You’ll communicate immediately with all account holders that no more transfers or requests for information can occur unless expressly permitted and authorized by me.”

  “I have the notifications ready. All parties will be updated within minutes. I will personally speak to Monsieur Liam.”