Patrick Bowers Files 02 - The Rook (v5.0)

by Steven James

  Military uniform.

  Not Sebastian Taylor.

  But who?

  Then Cole recognized him: Sergeant Bier, one of his assistants in the Department of Defense. Cole lowered his gun. Opened the door just as Sergeant Bier was about to knock.

  The sergeant saw the gun in Cole’s hand and froze. “Are you all right, sir?”

  “Yes, of course. What is it, Sergeant?”

  “Project Rukh, sir.” The sergeant kept his eye trained on the general’s gun. “There’s a problem. There’s been a security breach in Building B-14.”

  “What?”

  “A fire. I was told to deliver the message in person. They believe the fire was intentional, sir.”

  The general felt his gut tighten.

  It had to be Victor Drake. It had to be.

  So, Drake wanted to play it like this, huh? In order to hide his failure in completing the project, he decides to burn down the research facility that the military was providing him. Then he could just use the fire as an excuse for not delivering the device.

  It sounded exactly like something a spoiled, self-centered billionaire would try. OK. You want to play hardball; it’s time to play hardball.

  “Contact the members of the oversight committee,” General Biscayne said as he spun away from the door. “And arrange for an immediate flight to San Diego. It looks like I’ll be meeting with Mr. Drake a day early.”

  48

  6:24 p.m.

  1 hour 36 minutes until Cassandra’s deadline

  Dusk was over, night was here.

  It took me a few minutes to locate Lieutenant Mendez, but finally I found her talking with one of the base liaisons. They’d spread out the blueprint of the building on the hood of an MP’s car.

  I hurried to her. Just as I arrived, she finished her briefing with the senior chief petty officer and then gave me a quick rundown: No known casualties. The base had received an anonymous bomb threat two hours before the fire. They’d cleared Building B-14, swept for explosives, found none, and were just about to let the staff return when the fire alarms went off. Because of the bomb threat, there was some confusion about whether to send in the bomb squad or the firefighters. Ten minutes later, it didn’t matter. The building was in flames, and all they could do was try to control the blaze.

  “He was really quite clever,” Aina said. “He got everyone out of the building, plus he created enough confusion to give the fire time to ignite.”

  “You’re sure it’s our guy?”

  “Pretty sure.” She drew my attention to the blueprint. “Fire started here, on the east wing, near the A/C center.”

  I immediately saw why she thought it was our arsonist. “Fits the pattern.”

  “Sí.”

  I traced my finger along the blueprint. “Just like the first fourteen fires, he used vents and airflow to direct the blaze.”

  Aina picked up on my train of thought. “The building’s main air-conditioning vents blew directly on the fire, feeding it a steady stream of air, here—”

  “Creating a giant blowtorch that shot the fire through the building’s air ducts. Building B-14 didn’t have a chance.”

  “You think like an arsonist,” she said.

  “No,” I said, turning to face the fire. “If I did, I’d know why he chose this building.”

  Creighton Melice grabbed the new cell phone he’d bought half an hour ago. Time to leave the warehouse and meet with Hunter to make the exchange.

  Well, to be more accurate: to get the device. There wasn’t going to be any exchange. There was only going to be a dead ex-SEAL.

  He didn’t want to worry about Cassandra somehow escaping, so he double-checked the security of the cotter pins that locked the metal bars in place at the top of the tank. The pipes passed through holes drilled into the glass, and since the cotter pins that secured the pipes were outside the glass, there was no way for her to get out, even if she were able to break the chain.

  “See you soon, Cassandra,” he called. “I hope I make it back in time to say good-bye.”

  The water was up to her chest. Cassandra shouted at him, a muted, hollow cry, and spit at the glass. Creighton waited a moment to watch the saliva slide into the water, and then he left her, locked the warehouse door behind him, and stepped into the cool San Diego night.

  While Lien-hua went to speak to some base personnel about the nature of the bomb threat used to clear the building, I met with Aina and Ralph to try and narrow down where Hunter might be hiding.

  “He could be in the crowd,” Ralph said.

  “We thought of that,” said Aina. “We’re checking on everyone who’s here.”

  “No,” I said. “Not this guy. He leaves. Remember? The trolley system. He likes to disappear fast, and he knows how to do it. He’s not going to stick around. Besides, he needs to get to shore. He wants to save Cassandra.”

  I tried to figure out what the best entrance and exit routes would be. How would I get off Coronado Island?

  Obvious choice: drive. Either the Coronado Bridge or the Silver Strand, the narrow strip of land that leads from the island to Imperial Beach. Aina seemed to read my mind. “The military is treating this as domestic terrorism,” she said. “They’re stopping all traffic leaving the island.”

  “Boats?” I asked her.

  “Already on it. We took a few people in for questioning. It doesn’t look like anything though.”

  I heard the sound of a chopper and noticed a news helicopter hovering above the shore of the mainland. Hmm. It was possible. “See if there’s been any base air traffic in the last hour. Choppers especially.”

  “You serious, Pat?” said Ralph. “You think he flew out?”

  “Just trying to eliminate the possibility.”

  Aina spoke into her walkie-talkie. “No air traffic,” she said. “Not in the last two hours.”

  “Then there’s only one option left,” I said.

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  I pointed to the dark ocean. “He swam.”

  Austin Hunter threw his arm out of the water and grabbed the edge of the dock. It had taken him longer than he expected to get to shore, but he knew there would be too much attention drawn to this fire to get off the island any other way.

  After he’d hoisted himself onto the dock, he slipped out of his swim fins and then yanked off his face mask and snorkel. Normally he would have used a scuba tank and a rebreather to eliminate bubbles, but tonight he’d needed to pull something with him.

  In his black hybrid wet suit he doubted anyone passing by could see him, but he needed to make sure. He gave the area a quick visual.

  OK.

  Clear.

  Austin glanced at his waterproof watch: 1839 hours.

  He needed to hurry; he was supposed to have checked in nine minutes ago.

  The rope that was tied around his waist tugged at him, telling him that the five-foot-long inflatable sack containing the device was floating past him toward shore. Before it could bump into any of the dock’s pilings, he pulled the floating waterproof bag toward him, and carefully lifted it onto the dock.

  49

  I spent a minute studying the water, gauging the wind. The currents. “Ralph, how far do you think it is to shore?”

  He surveyed the distance. “I’d say about a mile, mile and a half.”

  “You were in the special forces; how long would it take a Navy SEAL to swim that far?”

  “A SEAL, with this wind . . . maybe thirty-five, forty minutes.” As I stepped toward Aina I heard him mumble, “Take a Ranger twenty-five.” I took a moment to compare the swim time with the time of the fire’s origination.

  “He’s on the mainland,” I said. “Aina, we need to send out an APB, have officers start sweeping the shore. Get some. Wait—” As I stared at the shoreline I saw the news helicopter again. This time I could read the writing on the side: Channel 11. “They’re filming this. Ralph, see if you can get us a feed. Pull some strings if you h
ave to. I want to see if they’ve caught our guy on camera.” I saw Lien-hua coming toward us, picking her way through the crowd.

  “Maybe we could have the helicopter crew help look for him,” Aina suggested.

  “No good,” I said. “I don’t trust the media, and the more control they have, the worse off we are. We need to get in the air ourselves.”

  Lien-hua arrived, and while Aina and Ralph made the calls, I ran with her toward the amphib base’s landing pad.

  The man on the phone had been very clear that if the device was not intact they would kill Cassandra. So, before delivering it, Austin decided to take a quick look and make sure it hadn’t been damaged during his swim across the bay.

  He bypassed the zipper and instead tore open the waterproof bag and pulled out the black duffel bag inside. He didn’t rip this open, though, but unzipped it carefully. The device was enclosed in a protective foam wrap, which he gently unfolded.

  The device looked a bit like a video camera supported on an extendable tripod base. The unit’s body had a laser focus and a satellite dish the size of Austin’s hand. An eight-inch video screen was mounted in the front, and a large removable battery pack with radioactive warning labels hung from its belly. If he didn’t know better, he’d say it was some kind of laser tracking unit or remote listening device, or maybe a high-tech thermal imager. But he did know better; he’d seen those two men use it the previous night.

  Austin thought this thing might have something to do with the research Cassandra was doing, but he couldn’t be certain. One time she’d mentioned a project she was working on for the government, but he hadn’t pried. After fourteen years as a SEAL, he knew that keeping secrets meant keeping your job. Now, he wished he’d asked her more about it. In any case, the device didn’t seem to have retained any damage from its trip across the bay. No way to tell for sure, but it looked intact. He folded the foam around it and zippered the duffel shut.

  Time: 1844 hours.

  Cassandra would be dead in seventy-six minutes unless he delivered this device.

  Austin pulled his combat knife out of its sheath, cut the rope off his waist, and tossed his snorkeling gear into the ocean. Then he strapped the device to his back using two elasticized ropes as shoulder straps and sprinted up the pier.

  I smacked my hand against the stucco siding of the air transport building.

  Two stern MPs blocked my path. “I’m sorry, sir,” one of them said, “orders from the admiral.”

  Ralph appeared beside me. “Aina sent out an APB, they’re scouring the shipyards—” Then he saw the expression on my face. “What’s the problem here?”

  “They won’t get us a bird,” I said. “We’re on a military base, not civilian soil, so they said they would take care of this themselves.” “What?” He glared at the MPs. “Let me talk to your superior officer.”

  “Wait,” said Lien-hua. “Time’s not on our side anymore. Finding the right person, going through the right channels, getting clearance, we don’t have that kind of time. What did Channel 11 give you?”

  Ralph shook his head. “We got nothing,” he said. “They were filming the fire, not the shore . . .” He looked toward the sky. “What the—”

  I followed his gaze. The news chopper had changed direction and was heading back along the beach of the mainland. “Oh no,” I said. “They’re going for an exclusive. They’ll spook him. Ralph, can you—”

  “I’m on it,” he snarled, pulling out his phone again. Before speaking into his phone, though, he told Lien-hua and me, “You two get to the mainland. Now.”

  Catching up to Hunter was the key to finding Cassandra, and we had just over an hour to do it. Lien-hua and I hurried to the car.

  I pulled out the car keys, but she grabbed them from my hand. “I’ll drive.”

  50

  As far as Austin Hunter knew, he’d never killed anyone. Never eliminated any targets.

  That’s how they put it in the special forces—eliminating targets. His friends had. Some of them had made a career out of it. But not Austin Hunter.

  How had this happened?

  How had he dragged Cassandra into this?

  Oh, if they hurt her in any way.

  If they do anything to her.

  It was because of the fire last night. He knew they were doing this because he hadn’t started the fire last night.

  Austin had investigated each of the fire locations to make sure there were no occupants in the buildings. All were empty. No people. No casualties. No targets.

  After the first six fires, he’d started to think that Drake was just a rich pyro who was too much of a coward to start his little recreational fires himself. And that’s what Austin told himself for the next eight fires.

  But then last night came, and everything changed.

  Once again Drake had told him to come at the specified time— that was always part of the deal; he wouldn’t get paid if he arrived early. But last night Austin had gotten a bad feeling after talking to Drake. The billionaire sounded really torqued about something, and Austin didn’t want to be a part of any job that went sour. So he decided to arrive an hour early to check things out.

  And that’s when he saw what those two men did.

  And in that moment, Austin realized that he’d gotten himself in way over his head. The men had probably used the device at each site before he arrived. That’s why he’d been brought in to start the fires.

  And that’s why he’d been told not to arrive early—so he wouldn’t see them in the act.

  Now they could set him up for everything.

  Austin figured Drake’s men would come after him, but he never thought they’d go after Cassandra.

  The news chopper rotated toward him, and Austin dashed past a marina and slipped into a gap between two buildings. He needed to avoid the sight lines of the chopper, but all the evasiveness was slowing him down and he didn’t have time for that.

  Victor Drake was behind this. He had to be.

  But Drake had messed with the wrong man.

  Austin waited a moment for the chopper to pass, then edged into the street and ran toward the primary rendezvous point.

  Earlier in the day, when he first saw the video of Cassandra in the tank, he’d thought about going after Drake, doing whatever it took to get him to talk, but he was afraid that if he did, Drake’s hired guns would find out and kill Cassandra before he could save her. And, of course, Austin couldn’t go to the authorities because the kidnappers would definitely kill Cassandra then, and afterward Drake would turn him in for starting the fires.

  Really, Austin had no bargaining chips—except for his skills.

  So. Mission objectives: burn down the building, retrieve the device, save Cassandra.

  Then when it was all over: deal with Drake.

  Yes, as far as Austin Hunter knew, he’d never killed anyone.

  But if they hurt Cassandra at all, if they even touched her, that was going to change.

  Creighton Melice waited anxiously by the docks for the call from Shade. According to the plan Shade had emailed him, Hunter should have found the cell phone taped beneath the park bench over twenty minutes ago. Shade was supposed to call Hunter first and then contact Melice to finalize where the exchange would take place. But so far, nothing. Creighton didn’t like it when things didn’t go according to schedule.

  A thought crawled into his mind. An awkward, uncomfortable itch.

  What if Hunter had retrieved the device and decided to keep it for himself?

  No. He wouldn’t do that. He loved Cassandra. That was the key to everything—his love for her. He wouldn’t leave her alone at the deadline. He wasn’t that kind of a man.

  But then again, maybe Shade had read him wrong. Maybe Hunter loved something else more than his girlfriend.

  Creighton decided to give Shade five more minutes and then, if he didn’t call, return to the warehouse and switch to Plan B.

  7:05 p.m.

  Austin heard the phon
e ringing and sprinted the last sixty yards at full speed to the park bench, but by the time he arrived, the ringing had stopped.

  He scoured the bench, found the phone, and snatched it up.

  But when he opened it all he found was dead air.

  No.

  Too late.

  They’d been very specific about the time, and he was too late.

  No, he couldn’t be too late. He couldn’t be. He slammed a fist against the bench.

  Maybe they were here, somewhere close by. He looked rapidly in every direction.

  No one.

  No!

  And that’s when he heard the sirens coming his way.

  51

  7:11 p.m.

  I braced my hand against the car’s ceiling as Lien-hua swerved around a corner and jammed on the brakes at the edge of a semicircle of spinning lights. In the middle of the road, surrounded by more than a dozen police officers, stood a lone man wearing one of the new breed of Kevlar-sewn body armor that doubles as a wet suit. He wielded a jagged combat knife and was turning in a cautious circle so the officers wouldn’t rush him.

  Austin Hunter.

  They had him cornered.

  And I had to assume that they didn’t know about Cassandra.

  Lien-hua and I jumped out of the car and rushed past the ambulance parked behind one of the police cars.

  “Drop the knife!” one of the officers yelled. “Hands above your head!”

  Hunter began to slowly raise his hands, and then in one lightning-swift motion yanked a Kimber Tactical Custom II .45 out of a holster slung around his chest and aimed the weapon at his own head before anyone could react.

  There he stood. Knife in one hand, gun in the other.

  This guy was brilliant. If he would’ve aimed the gun anywhere else—anywhere at all—the cops would have fired. And if he turned himself in, his abductors would think he’d gone to the authorities and would undoubtedly kill Cassandra. The only way to save himself and his girlfriend was to buy time by threatening to take his own life right now. Maybe get the authorities to listen to him. To help him.