The Broken Chase

by Cap Daniels

  He grunted. “How’d this happen?”

  Skipper blurted out, “Two maniac Russians snuck on our boat, knocked us out, and tied us up, but we got free. Then, I tried to shoot one of them with a speargun, but I missed, and he took the gun from me and hit me in the face with it.”

  I had hoped she’d lie about how she received her injury, but seeing the look on the doctor’s face made the truth a lot more fun.

  He looked at me quizzically.

  “Hey, I didn’t see it,” I said. “I was busy trying to knock the other Russian off the boat.”

  “Yeah, that’s right. He was!” Skipper said.

  The doctor grumbled something under his breath. “I see. Well, your jaw bone isn’t broken. It’s just deeply bruised, and your teeth seem to be fine. But there is the matter of assault. I’m required to notify the police of these sorts of things. I’m sure you understand. Are you sure you want to tell the police the same story you just told me?”

  “The police know all about it,” Skipper said. “The Coast Guard and the FBI arrested the Russians and took them away right after it happened. Oh, and Chase broke the woman’s arm. So, yeah, I’m sticking with my story. It’s the truth.”

  “The FBI? I’ve heard a lot of tales over the years, but this one takes the cake. I’m going to prescribe an anti-inflammatory and some pain medication. Don’t take them with alcohol or other drugs, and don’t do anything to aggravate the injury. The bruising will last a week or so, and the swelling should be gone in a couple of days.”

  “Hey, doc,” I said, “where’s the best local place to eat?”

  He squinted at me. “Let me take a look at that nose. Did the Russians do that, too?”

  He shined his light up my nose, and I flinched as he probed around.

  “Well, that’ll heal too, but it’s going to hurt for a while. Keep some ointment on it, and try to keep your hands off of it for a few days.” He pocketed his light. “Oh, and Cap’s on the Water is everyone’s favorite local restaurant.”

  * * *

  We were both pleased to hear that her injury was only a bruise and not a break. I paid for the exam, and we left the building.

  “Wait a minute.” Skipper grabbed my arm. “You promised to get your knee checked out.”

  “It’s fine,” I said. “It barely hurts today.”

  She yanked me around and led me back into the physician’s building. She scanned the information board and found an orthopedic surgeon on the fourth floor. She pushed the elevator button and waited for the doors to open. When they finally did, she walked into the elevator and stuck her palm in the center of my chest, stopping me from following her. “If it’s not hurting, then you can take the stairs. I’ll meet you on the fourth floor.”

  “Point taken,” I said.

  The lady at the window said there had been a cancelation and she could take me back right away. Just like they’d done for Skipper, the X-ray technician took several shots of my knee. The orthopedic surgeon took my breath away. She was tall, blonde, and stunning . . . just like Anya. I expected an Eastern European accent, but when she spoke, it was obvious she was all-American.

  “I’m Katherine Everett,” she said.

  “Chase Fulton.” I stood to shake her hand.

  “Sit!” she ordered. “You’re hurt.”

  I obediently followed her order.

  “And you must be Mrs. Fulton.”

  Skipper pointed to her bruised and swollen jaw. “Do you think I’d marry a man who’d do this to me?”

  The doctor glared at me with disdain and jammed the X-rays into the clip of the light box.

  “I’m just kidding,” said Skipper. “He didn’t do this to me, and he’s not my husband . . . yet.”

  The doctor chuckled. “I think I like you, future Mrs. Fulton. Now let’s take a look at that knee of yours, alleged fiancée beater.”

  She studied the X-rays for several minutes then began to poke and prod at my knee. “How did you hurt it?”

  I pointed at Skipper. “She stepped on it.”

  The doctor gave Skipper a high five. “Good for you, girl. That’ll teach him to put his hands on you again. Okay, seriously,” she said, “what really happened to this knee?”

  “Seriously,” I said, “someone stepped on it. But it was someone much bigger than her.”

  “I see. Well, it’s in pretty bad shape. Are you a long-distance runner or hiker or anything like that?”

  I laughed. “No, ma’am, but I was a baseball catcher for a decade.”

  “Ah, that explains it. It isn’t broken. It’s just sprained. I’m going to give you a neoprene brace to wear for a couple of weeks and some anti-inflammatory medication. Be gentle with it, and take the meds until you run out, even after it stops hurting. Alternate heat and ice several times a day, and stay off of it as much as possible. You”—she shook her reflex hammer at me—“keep your hands off that girl’s face, or next time she’ll do more than just step on your knee . . . and I’ll help her.”

  “Thank you, doctor, and I promise to be well-behaved from now on.”

  “I doubt that,” she said as she began to leave the room.

  “Doctor, wait!” said Skipper. “What’s your favorite local place to eat?”

  “Cap’s on the Water, of course.”

  We left the physician’s building and found a pharmacy where we got our prescriptions filled and picked up a heating pad and a few necessities for the boat.

  “So, Cap’s on the Water for lunch?”

  “I’ll hail a cab,” she said.

  When we pulled into the parking lot at Cap’s, I wasn’t so sure about our doctors’ recommendation. The place looked like a hodgepodge of weathered waterfront buildings shoved together on the banks of the Tolomato River.

  The cabbie handed us his card. “You guys picked a great place. Call this number when you’re ready, and I’ll pick you up.”

  The old adage about never judging a book by its cover was appropriate for Cap’s. Everything we put in our mouths was magnificent, and the waitress was friendly and spot-on with every recommendation. Cap’s was everything the good doctors had claimed.

  The six-mile cab trip back to the boat took just over twenty minutes. We were looking forward to a leisurely afternoon aboard the boat, nursing our wounds, and doing nothing. What we discovered at my boat would not only shatter our plans for a quiet afternoon, but would also change my life forever.

  30

  Honey Trap

  Near the stern of my boat, and in a collection of secondhand lawn chairs, sat Dr. Richter, Dominic Fontana, Clark Johnson, and two men in suits who I’d never seen. I tried to conceive the odd collection of men, but my imagination wasn’t creative enough.

  “What’s all this about?” I asked as we approached the boat.

  Each man wore a somber expression, and they rose in unison. I didn’t like the look of that, and I didn’t like how it made me feel.

  “Take your shoes off before you get on my boat, and thank you for not boarding without asking,” I said, trying to sound confident.

  Inside, I was trembling with anxiety over what was about to happen. I’d killed several people while on an unauthorized operation to get Skipper out of the hands of the cretins who had made her their personal slave. I didn’t know who the suits were, but I believed I was on the verge of paying for my sins.

  “Skipper, you might want to go check out the sights,” I said. “You probably don’t want to be a part of whatever this is.”

  “She should stay,” said one of the suits.

  I saw the fear in her eyes. “Everything’s going to be fine, Skipper. Just tell the truth. No matter what they ask you, just tell the truth.”

  We boarded my boat and I offered drinks, though everyone declined. One of the suits took Skipper to the portside hull.

  “I’ll be going with them,” Clark said. “I’ll look after her, Chase. It’ll all be over in a few minutes, and everything will be just fine.”

 
I studied Dr. “Rocket” Richter, my mentor, and the closest thing I’d ever have to a father after losing my own, but I couldn’t find loss or sorrow in his sunken eyes. What I saw was anger. They were the eyes of a man who’d been wronged. Had I been the cause of that anger and betrayal? Was he disappointed with me for what I’d done to find Skipper? Knowing that I’d led his beloved daughter into a gunfight that took her life had to be torturing him.

  I embraced him. “Dr. Richter, I’m so sorry. I can’t tell you how—”

  “It’s not what you think, son. It’s worse. Just follow the advice you gave the girl. Let’s go inside and talk.”

  I was introduced to Agent Garret Knox of the CIA. He was the remaining suit. I assumed the other man with Skipper and Clark was also CIA, but I didn’t ask.

  Agent Knox questioned me about every detail of my relationship with Anya. I’d take the advice I gave Skipper and I’d tell the truth, but I didn’t believe everything would be fine that day—or ever again.

  When I’d truthfully answered every question he’d asked, I felt as if I’d been dragged through the desert by my heels.

  “Excuse me for a moment,” I said. “I need some water. Can I get anyone else anything?”

  No one spoke.

  I pulled two bottles of water from the icebox and started down the stairs into Skipper’s side of the boat.

  “You can’t go down there!” Agent Knox called out.

  I ignored him and continued through the door into Skipper’s cabin. She was sitting on the bed with tearstains on her face.

  The other agent stood up. “You can’t come in here!”

  I pushed him aside and handed the bottle of water to Skipper. “Are you okay?”

  The agent grabbed my arm and repeated, “You can’t be in here. I’m conducting a—”

  I hooked my right heel behind his left knee and shoved him backward onto the settee. “You listen to me,” I said. “This is my boat, and I go where I want, when I want, aboard my boat. Neither you nor anyone else will give orders on my boat. You will treat this lady with respect, and you will use some manners, or you and your cheap suit will find yourselves overboard. Is that understood?”

  His nostrils flared as he pushed himself back to a standing position and clenched his fists, but I wasn’t afraid of him or anyone else.

  I drove my finger into his chest. “Respect! Do you understand?”

  * * *

  I walked back to the main salon.

  “She wasn’t my daughter, Chase.” Dr. Richter’s words were molten lava crashing into me.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “We ran the DNA. She’s not my daughter. She’s also not Katerina Burinkova’s daughter.”

  What he said sent my mind into a spiraling plummet toward disbelief and heartbreak. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t meld his words into my reality.

  I stammered, “But the pictures . . . and letters . . . her eyes.”

  “She was the best infiltration agent we’ve ever seen,” said Agent Knox. “It’s almost impossible to explain, and we don’t have all of the answers yet, but here’s what we know so far.”

  I held up my hand. “Just give me a minute, here. I need a few seconds to get my head straight.”

  I pulled four tumblers and a bottle of eighteen-year-old Laphroaig from the locker. I poured three fingers into each glass and set them on the table. Mine disappeared in one swallow and I poured another. There was no reason to recork the bottle—both it and I were going to be empty vessels by the time we finished the coming conversation.

  Agent Knox ignored the scotch and started talking. “Do you know what illegals are, Chase?”

  I nodded slowly. “Yeah, they’re Russians living in the States as Americans, blending in with society, and are almost impossible to detect.”

  “That’s right,” Knox said. “That’s exactly what Sara and Michael Anderson were. Thanks to you, once we had them in custody, they cut a deal to save their lives. With the results of their interrogation and a number of other sources, we were able to determine what happened. The woman you knew as Anastasia Burinkova was an SVR captain who would have made colonel if she had succeeded in her mission. We believe her real name was Ekaterina Norikova, but we’re still not certain. What we do know is that she worked for Colonel Victor Tornovich, who, until he lost his best officer, was in line to receive his first general’s star and probably a director’s position in the Kremlin. Captain Norikova, or Anya, was dispatched by Tornovich to find you, seduce you, and convince you to take her to America. How the Russians knew who and what you were was a mystery to us until we discovered that Jarrod Thompson, the man you knew as Dutch, was a mole who’d been selling intelligence to the Russians for nearly a decade . . . right under our noses.”

  I held up one finger, trying not to erupt. I drew in what I had intended to be a calming breath. “So, you’re telling me that Anya, or Captain Norikova, was . . .” My mind played countless scenes forward and backward, freeze-frame, and in slow motion. I’d lost my train of thought. “But she killed Dmitri Barkov because he killed her mother.”

  The three men shook their heads no.

  “What? Damn it! Talk to me!”

  “She killed Barkov because Victor Tornovich ordered her to kill him. Barkov had become a thorn in the side of the regime in Moscow, so he had to be killed. How better to do that than as a dramatic punctuation to an undercover infiltration? Tornovich is a tactical genius. He’s known Richter for decades. They were spooks on opposite sides of the Iron Curtain during the Cold War. He knew about Richter’s history with Katerina Burinkova and with Barkov.”

  I stopped him with a wave of my hand. “Hang on just a minute. I’m going to need another drink. I’m afraid I’m having a little trouble keeping up.”

  Agent Knox ignored my need for a break. “They hatched a diabolical but brilliant plan to weave an intricate web of lies filled with just enough forty-year-old truth to make everyone involved lap it up like a thirsty dog. They knew Richter would believe anything if he could be convinced Norikova was his daughter. And Chase, they knew you well enough to know that getting Anya close to Richter would only solidify your relationship with her.”

  Dr. Richter drained his tumbler and poured himself another. I sat in silence, rage boiling in my chest.

  Knox continued, “You’re not the first, nor will you be the last American operative to fall into a Russian honey trap. There’s no one on Earth better at that than the Russians.”

  “But we were in love,” I growled through clenched teeth.

  “No, Chase,” said Knox. “You were in love. She was acting, simply doing her job . . . the job Tornovich trained and ordered her to do. Nothing more. As terrible as it is to hear, it’s the God’s honest truth.”

  I threw my tumbler of scotch across the salon and watched it explode against the navigation station. I picked up the bottle by its neck and Dr. Richter placed his hand over mine, easing the bottle back onto the table.

  “Chase, you’re not the only one,” said Dr. Richter. “Under Tornovich’s orders, she deceived Dutch, Clark, Dmitri Barkov, and me. Tornovich’s planning and Norikova’s execution were flawless. She played each of us to perfection.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Coach!” My newborn hatred for Victor Tornovich exploded into indescribable fury, and I could barely breathe. I stormed from the main salon and onto the aft deck, sweat and scotch dripping from my face, looking for something to destroy, something to shred into oblivion with my own hands. My rage exploded in uncontrollable waves. The salon door closed behind me, and I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned around, ready to rip the throat out of whoever dared touch me. I froze when I saw Dr. Richter standing there.

  “Chase, Tornovich did this to all of us, but especially to you and me. With Anya—or Norikova—dead, and Michael and Sara in custody, Tornovich’s infiltration scheme has come to a screeching halt. There’s nothing more we can do.” His face sagged and he hung his head.
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  Seeing Dr. Richter surrender hurt me almost as badly as Anya’s betrayal and Tornovich’s treachery.

  “Yeah, I know that bastard Tornovich fooled all of us, but here’s the difference between me and everyone else she fooled.”

  I gripped the shoulders of the man who loved me like a son, and who I respected more than anyone. A sudden, searing plan thundered within me, and I looked through Dr. Richter’s haunted eyes and into the depths of his soul.

  “I’m going to make him regret ever drawing a breath on this Earth. I’ll find him. I’ll pull him out of the Kremlin and put him on his knees. And I’ll laugh while he begs for his life at my feet . . . right before I tear him into pieces that not even God could recognize.”

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  About the Author

  Cap Daniels

  Cap Daniels is a sailing charter captain, scuba and sailing instructor, pilot, Air Force veteran, and civil servant of the U.S. Department of Defense. Raised far from the ocean in rural East Tennessee, his early infatuation with salt water was sparked by the fascinating, and sometimes true, sea stories told by his father, a retired Navy Chief Petty Officer. Those stories of adventure on the high seas sent Cap in search of adventure of his own which eventually landed him on Florida’s Gulf Coast where he owns and operates a sailing charter service and spends as much time as possible on, in, and under the waters of the Emerald Coast.

  With a head full of larger-than-life characters and their thrilling exploits, Cap pours his love of adventure and passion for the ocean onto the pages of his new action adventure series, the Chase Fulton Novels.

  Please look for other books in the Chase Fulton Series:

  Book 1: "The Opening Chase"

  Book 3: "The Stronger Chase"