Burning Bridges
Page 3
She threw the car into gear and pointed the nose north.
Southern Florida
* * *
Durham Joseph White hunkered behind an overgrown cypress and watched as the men trudged through the moist, soft ground of the Everglades. They did their best to avoid the wetter areas, but even then, they often found themselves stepping in the wrong place, a string of epithets in rough Spanish echoing throughout the marshes.
DJ slipped behind a thicker bush and brought his rifle to bear on the group. Very few people ventured into the ‘glades, but fewer were stupid enough to wear patent leather shoes and linen suits. The Panama hats were a dead giveaway that they didn’t belong. The fact that the men carried AKs, Uzis and Tec-9s were also good indicators that they probably weren’t in the wetlands to hunt gators.
DJ followed the pair as the leader continued to look at an electronic device in his hands and point. The only place they could possibly be headed was the ramshackle hut that he had cobbled together as a hunting cabin decades ago. When he chose to “fall off the planet” he decided to make the cabin home.
DJ cursed to himself as he broke away from the group and worked his way back along the game trails he used. He knew that at the pace they were going, he had plenty of time, but he still wanted to buy himself more.
He shot through the underbrush and turned sideways to slip past the sawgrass. He pulled a crusty rope from an old mahogany stump and stepped into the flat bottomed aluminum boat, pushing off with the ball of his foot before planting his ass and grabbing an oar.
He glanced at his watch then began to paddle, ducking under the branches that he knew like the back of his hand. He crossed the seasonal puddles and broke into the waterway just as the tides were shifting. He knew he’d have to increase his pace if he wanted to have enough time to set his trap.
DJ dragged the paddle in the water, slowing his approach then stepped out onto the soft ground. He dragged the boat up onto the shore then tore through the low brush and up the hill toward his cabin.
He paused at the plank bridge and strained his ears to listen. He could hear the men cursing and splashing as they fought their way to his domicile. If they had been smart, they would have hired a guide. Of course, if they had been smart, they would have listened to the guide when he told them that trying to find DJ White was a suicide mission.
He pushed open the door of the shack and slung his go-pack over his shoulder. He snatched a small wooden box and slipped it into his cargo pants pocket then looked around the tiny cabin once more.
He sighed as he pulled the door shut and attached a metal ring to the rusty nail along the edge. He stepped back carefully and held his hands out, willing the door to remain shut. He quickly turned and darted through the underbrush just as the voices increased in volume.
He slid down the bank and snatched the rope from the broken branch he had tied it to. He stepped onto the flat bottomed boat just as the men discovered the cabin. DJ floated in the water, listening to the men as they took up positions around his home. He held his breath, listening to them as they all chambered a round in their weapons.
“Meester Whi-i-ite!” a heavily accented voice called. “El Fantasma sends his regards!”
DJ cringed at the staccato of weapons fire and held his breath for what he knew was about to come.
An ear shattering blast shook the trees, sending splinters of ancient woods missiling through the dense vegetation as the explosives removed the invaders from his land.
DJ floated in the muddy waters, debating with himself if he should investigate. Eventually, curiosity won out and he paddled back to shore.
He approached the site slowly, his rifle leveled on the scene of destruction as he stepped from the overgrown greenery. Bodies lay strewn across the damp ground, limbs and weaponry scattered.
DJ walked gingerly through the devastation until he heard a soft groan near the edge of his camp. He stepped over entrails and pieces of cheap linen cloth until he found the man, still breathing but in obvious shock. His lower extremities were missing.
“Who sent you?”
The man’s eyes scanned the area until they settled on him. The man shook his head slowly, his words barely a whisper. “Murillo…” The man coughed the word out. “Hermana…” He sucked in air again then the light left his eyes.
DJ stood upright and cursed under his breath. He glanced at the smoking remains of his home then turned for the boat. If the Murillo Cartel were going to these extremes to find him, there was no telling what else they’d been up to since he decided to go off the grid.
3
Southeastern Oklahoma
* * *
“If I were smart, I’d call Baba Yaga and have ME look this shit up. I’d have had it hours ago.” He motioned around the spartan cabin. “Here? With this ‘Pine Cellular’ shit running on your phone?” He handed Bridger the police report. “It’s taken me this long to download and print two pages.”
Bridger snatched it from his hand and skimmed through it. “This is next to nothing.”
“You’re welcome,” Slippy snapped. “Next time, bring a satellite uplink.”
Bridger rolled his eyes. “Look in the back of the Tahoe. I grabbed some of the tech gear.” He glanced at Slippy as the man came up from his chair.
“Why didn’t you tell me that to begin with?”
Bridger shrugged. “Part of me liked the idea of fucking with you.” He lowered his voice to a mutter. “The other part hoped we wouldn’t need it.”
“You’re an ass.”
Slippy carefully exited the cabin and Bridger turned his attention back to Mauk. “What about DJ?”
Mauk shook his head. “He’s dropped off the planet, just like he always threatened to. Last I tracked him back to Florida and then he just melted into the muck. Probably changed his identity and faded into the swamps. You remember how paranoid he was back then.”
Bridger stiffened and cleared his throat. “I uh…yeah. I remember.”
Mauk gave him a puzzled look. “As I recall, you were pretty ‘out there,’ too.”
Bridger shrugged. “That’s all of us.” He glanced at Mauk again. “Are you sure this is tied to White Rock? We were all part of the team before then.”
Mauk shrugged. “I asked Lisa and she’s pretty certain that it’s White Rock.” Mauk took another long pull from the coffee and reclined in the chair. “Panama was after that and Lisa and Rob had already left.”
“What about Bolivia?”
Mauk shrugged and sank further down into the chair. “It has to be White Rock.”
Bridger watched as Slippy threw the door open, two plastic cases in his hands. “Finally. A chance at connecting to the real world.” He tossed the cases onto the small table and flipped the lids open. “Come to poppa my sweet babies.”
Bridger watched as he lifted the devices from the cases and set them on the table. “Give me the plugs.”
Slippy handed him the cords then raised a brow. “They have honest to god electricity out here? Whodathunkit?”
“Don’t be a smart ass.” Bridger plugged the cords into the wall then turned to Mauk. The man had passed out in the chair, his coffee cup dangling from his finger. Bridger slipped over and unhooked the cup before it dropped and woke him from his much needed rest.
He set the cup on the counter then lowered his voice. “Check everything Lisa told him then look for DJ. He’s out there somewhere.”
“Say the word and I’ll hack Langley. I can backtrack through the old files and get his service photo. If we’re lucky, facial recognition might pick him up somewhere.”
“Do it.” Bridger slipped into the chair opposite him and sighed. “Can you track him with a photo that old?”
Slippy nodded. “Even with time and gaining or losing weight, we can track him.” He looked up and raised a brow. “IF he’s come out of the woods long enough to get his face seen.”
Bridger patted his arm. “Do your best. If I know DJ, he’s dug himself
a deep hole and only comes out when he has to.” Bridger glanced to Slippy and saw the raised brow. “Yeah, we’re cut from the same cloth.”
Slippy gave him a lopsided smile. “That ain’t necessarily a bad thing.”
“Yeah, I’ll tell him that if we can find him before the cartels do.”
Central Florida
* * *
DJ bounced along the dusty dirt road in the worn out pickup, the radio turned low so that he could hear beyond the belching and backfiring engine. He slowed the truck and practically stood on the brakes at the intersection.
He sighed as he lifted the old gas station map to his eyes and studied it. It had been far too long since he’d left his swamp cabin. Not since the last hurricane had he so much as ventured out of the shadows. He’d done the majority of his trading with the locals who seemed to enjoy going into town on the weekends.
DJ would rather stay hidden in the woods, hunting, fishing and trapping to supply his needs. He was actually surprised when the truck finally started. He had to jerk the battery from the interloper’s car to get the old pickup to turn over, but he felt it would be far easier to blend into the background of south Florida in the beat up old rust bucket than in the nearly new Buick that the cartel hitmen had rented.
And who sent professional hitmen to the swamps for somebody like him? Who the hell was this Hermana guy, and why did he want DJ dead? Murillo, he could understand. After they had been made by the cartel, Bridger took over the operation and practically bombed them into oblivion. DJ could only imagine how long it took to rebuild the little villages that processed their cocaine. He imagined that the dirt runways used to fly the blow out weren’t salvageable either. He also imagined that Murillo wasn’t happy looking for a new summer house.
Too bad he hadn’t been at any of the locations they took out.
DJ chuckled to himself as he recalled them using Laughlin’s connections to do their dirty deeds. Wolcott had flown the CIA’s own chopper into the supply depot and they loaded it with every munition they could fit. They charged it all to Laughlin’s White Rock program then slipped out before the supply nerds could verify authorization.
He actually laughed when Laughlin came over the radio and screamed at them. Lisa was fit to be tied as soon as she heard his voice and Bridger simply turned the radio off. DJ had clung to Big Bertha and prayed that he never pissed off Bridger or Mauk because those sons of bitches were crazy.
He folded the map and stared at the dirt roads.
Turning left would send him to Arcadia and Bradenton, eventually to Tampa. A right would send him to Okeechobee and eventually I95. But going straight would keep him off the beaten path a while longer. Oh, he’d eventually hit I75 and head north to the panhandle. But where would he go after that?
DJ sighed and wiped the sweat from his brow. Even though it was officially winter, Florida rarely cooled off enough to kill the humidity and everybody from the South knew that it wasn’t the heat, it was the humidity.
Right.
He shoved the old pickup into gear and feathered the clutch, the rusty beast shuddering as it pulled through the intersection. He couldn’t know for sure where he was going, but as long as it was away from the Murillo cartel hitmen, he would gladly put the miles between them.
“I’ve no idea where I’m going, but there’s no sense in being late.”
Central Texas
* * *
Lisa drove the stolen Mercedes as far as she dared. The fuel gage tapped at the big red “E” and she knew it was only a matter of time. She pulled into the truck stop along Interstate 45 and sighed as she realized the drying blood slickening the black leather interior of the sedan would be a dead giveaway that something nefarious this way had come.
She slipped out of the wide sedan and glanced at the ladies room. She pushed her way inside and grimaced at the dried speckles of blood splattered across her face and shirt.
She unzipped her black hoodie and hung it across the top of the stall beside the sink. She began to scrub at her hands and face until she had removed the dark brown freckles then pulled her white t-shirt off and tossed it into the trash.
She glanced into the mirror again and snorted at herself. There was no way she was running around Texas in a stolen car wearing just a black bra.
She quickly inspected her jeans and they passed muster. The black motorcycle boots probably had a nice spray of blood, but it was well hidden. She snatched the hoodie from the wall and slipped it back on. She had just zipped it up when a blue haired lady strolled into the restroom. Lisa glanced at her in the mirror but the older woman was intent on getting to an open stall quickly and didn’t give the dark haired woman at the sink a second glance.
Lisa quickly rinsed the bloody spots from the sink then pushed through the door. She made her way inside and pulled a generic touristy shirt from the rack and grabbed a bottle of iced tea. As she stood in line, she snatched up a pack of pistachios and a cheap prepaid cellular phone then studied the people coming and going as she waited.
She quickly paid for the items then hustled back out to the car. Behind the dark tinted windows she quickly donned the t-shirt and pulled the hoodie back over it. She stared at her reflection and sighed.
“I have to figure out what the hell is going on here.” She rubbed at her temples to fight off the migraine that threatened to rob her of her coherency. Craning her neck, she squinted at the highway signs farther up the interstate. “Waxahachie?” She shrugged. “Who the hell would think to look for me there?”
She glanced at the digital computer and the Mercedes claimed she had 62 miles until empty. She started the car and pulled it carefully out into traffic again. “Just get me to a sleepy, quiet town and I’ll dump you in the nearest creek.” She patted the dashboard. “Don’t fail me now you overpriced German piece of scrap.”
4
Southeastern Oklahoma
* * *
Bridger tried not to hover as Gregg worked the web. He would back away and pace quietly while Mauk slept in the threadbare chair in the corner. Every few moments he’d find himself staring over Gregg’s shoulder as the man typed in commands.
“That last login ID we had for the NSA isn’t working anymore.” He glanced to Bridger and shrugged. “I’m guessing they found the body.”
“Can you hack ‘em?”
“Does a bear shit in the woods?” Gregg tsk’d him as he went back to work. “Just give me a moment to work my magic and…voila.” He spun the screen around to show off his handiwork. “I’m going to pull up everybody from the team.”
“Why not go through the CIA’s mainframe? It was their op.”
“Once everybody fell under Homeland, most of the CIA’s digital files were combined with the NSA’s and the FBI’s at the central hub.” Gregg typed commands and the printer began to hum as data was fed to it. “All archived files are maintained there now. They’re supposed to be more secure.”
Bridger sighed and pulled a chair from the dinette set. He sat down quietly and watched as Gregg rifled through ancient files. “A lot of that stuff is redacted.”
“Yeah, to the layman, but this is Sir Slippyfist you’re talking to.”
Bridger cringed and sat back in his chair. “Why did you keep that nickname anyway?” He shuddered and stared at the smaller man. “That’s pretty gross ya know?”
Gregg shrugged. “It fits.” He finished typing then hit the print screen button. “Besides, it worked didn’t it?”
Bridger had to admit, the tactic was effective. Even if it was a main reason for the military dropping the hammer on their intelligence groups and their tactics. He tried not to remember, but the scene was too grizzly not to see in his mind’s eye.
During a rather important interrogation, a certain detainee had been ratted out by the others. He was the key to the current operation they were trying to infiltrate and stop. The man had been made of stone. Everything they tried, from sodium pentathol to waterboarding, had been ineffective.
Gregg rolled his sleeve up and walked slowly around the man, explaining what he was about to do. “You know, the human body is a pretty incredible fucking machine.” He paused and wiggled his fingers in front of the man’s face. “Funny thing is, men have this thing called a prostate. Massage that sucker just right and he pops a woody and starts shooting baby batter all over the place. I guess that’s why gays enjoy it so much.” He bent low to meet the man’s gaze. “Imagine how your friends out there in Jihadiland are going to love finding out just how big a queer you are when I slide my hand up your ass and film you shooting your load all over the room.”
The man’s eyes widened for just a moment before he spat at Gregg. “You cannot do this things. There are rules for you.”
Gregg actually laughed as he began to smear bacon grease up and down his arm. “I debated on going in dry, but you don’t have a pillow to bite.” He snatched the thin cotton breeches down around the man’s ankles then positioned himself accordingly. “Trust me, you’re going to like this a lot more than I will.”
“Fuck you!” The man shouted just a moment before Gregg plunged his hand into the man’s rectum. The shriek that echoed in the room sounded more like a scared girl than a grown man. Gregg planted a hand on the man’s lower back and clenched his teeth. “Ready to blow your load? Trust me, you’ll never go back to goats when I’m done with you.”