The Midas Code tl-2

by Boyd Morrison

  “Yes, but unless we follow his rules, he’ll never show up. He’s got the leverage for now.”

  “But you’ve got the geolabe. We could find the gold ourselves and then meet up with Orr. Then we’d have the leverage.”

  “There’s not enough time. If we don’t meet his deadline, I don’t want to think what would happen. Orr doesn’t seem like the type to bluff.”

  “No, he doesn’t,” Stacy said.

  Tyler paused. “You don’t have to go through with this. I can make the exchange myself.”

  “The hell you will. You just said we can’t change the plan. He wants me there, I’m there. I’ll do worse than chop off his ear if he doesn’t tell me where Carol is.”

  Tyler couldn’t tell if she was exaggerating or being literal. Maybe she didn’t even know herself how far she’d go to get Carol to safety.

  “All right,” he said. “Grant will have us in view the whole time. We’ll be fine. It ends tonight.”

  “One way or the other.” Stacy took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “Orr’s not going to let them go, is he?”

  “Not unless we make him. But we’re not meeting with Orr until he shows us in the next video that they’re still okay.”

  Tyler checked his watch. It was noon. They’d arrive in Rome and drive down to Naples in three cars, one for him and Stacy and two for Grant and the Neutralizer team, who would keep an eye out for Orr as they drove in case he planned to ambush them early. Once they were convinced that they weren’t being observed, Grant would separate from Tyler and Stacy, taking the tracker and the Neutralizer team with him to a location where they could watch the piazza. At the same time, Tyler and Stacy would head to the concert with the geolabe.

  It wasn’t a foolproof plan, but Tyler was convinced that it was the only way to prevent a major catastrophe and save Carol and his father.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  Metal handcuffs rattled against Sherman’s cell door.

  “All right, General,” Phillips said. “Time for your daily video.”

  The cuffs dangled through the door’s portal. Sherman slowly pulled himself off the bed, ready to put his plan into motion. They’d fed him only two meals in the past two days, so he’d laid off the calisthenics and conserved his strength for this moment.

  He ran a hand over his five days of stubble and grunted as if standing was an incredible effort. He hadn’t seen a mirror in days, but he figured that he looked even worse than he felt. Good. Better that Phillips think he was completely worn down.

  Sherman dragged himself over to the portal and grabbed the cuffs with a sigh. The routine he was supposed to go through was familiar by now. Ankle cuffs first, then wrists. Stand back from the door until it was opened, Phillips training the Taser on him while he turned to show that the cuffs were on and secure.

  But this time he was going to shake up the routine.

  The pat-down had been thorough when they brought him in, but they’d let him keep his clothes, and his dress shirt gave him something that would make his escape possible. In his palm was a thin plastic stay from his collar. He had quietly bent it at night until he could break it into a piece small and stiff enough to insert into the cuffs.

  The handcuffs were the type used by most law-enforcement agencies in the US. When the cuffs were closed, the audible click was the pawl engaging the gear in the ratchet, which prevented the gear from opening, locking the cuffs. But if a shim were inserted between the pawl and the gear, the ratchet wouldn’t engage, leaving the cuff free to open.

  The stays in his collar were thin enough for the job. He just had to make sure Phillips didn’t realize the cuffs weren’t locked.

  Sherman knelt, placed the cuffs on his ankles, and locked them. He couldn’t prop them open with a stay because they’d come undone as soon as he began to walk, exposing his plan even before it got under way.

  He stood and put the cuffs on his wrists as Phillips watched. He made sure to keep the stay hidden as he put the cuff on his left hand. As he closed the cuff, he jabbed the stay into the narrow opening. After a few clicks, he felt the shim slip under the pawl. Now it would slide freely if he tried to open it.

  The stay was in place, but Sherman was afraid the cuffs would fall open if he raised them. He held them against his body, backed up, and rotated to show that the ankle cuffs were in place.

  Phillips unlocked the door and threw it open. He had the Taser at the ready if Sherman didn’t comply. It wasn’t armed with the cartridge that shot the leads out to twenty feet, so the shock could be applied only at close quarters.

  “Let’s go,” Phillips said, bored by the tedium of this daily show.

  Sherman shuffled out. The chair was in the same place. Crenshaw held the camera. No one else was there.

  Phillips put the balaclava on. Sherman sat and was blindfolded as usual. The rustle of the newspaper told him when they were filming. He recited his name. Nothing new.

  After a few seconds, Phillips said, “All right. That’s good enough.”

  The blindfold came off.

  “Get up,” Phillips said as he pulled the mask off and faced Sherman. Crenshaw was already heading back to his workbench, his iPod earbuds blasting away.

  Sherman didn’t move.

  Phillips sneered. “Didn’t you hear me?”

  “I heard you,” Sherman said.

  “Then get your ass out of the chair and back into your cell.”

  “Make me.”

  “Oh, so you want to ride the lightning again. Doesn’t bother me.”

  Crenshaw had his back turned to them. With a wicked smile, Phillips pulled the Taser from his belt.

  “At least I get to enjoy part of my day,” he said.

  He walked up to Sherman and reached out to tase him in the neck. He came at Sherman slowly, his eyes glinting in anticipation of the paralyzing reaction to the shock.

  Sherman quickly worked the left cuff open. When the Taser was within a foot of him, his hand shot out, grabbing Phillips’s wrist. The surprise on Phillips’s face was total, giving Sherman the moment of hesitation he needed. He twisted the Taser down, forced it against Phillips’s leg, and pressed the trigger.

  Phillips’s body seized in agony, and he collapsed. Sherman leaped on top of him, sending another jolt into Phillips’s chest.

  Sherman stole a look at Crenshaw, who was just turning to see what the commotion was. His opportunity to disable Crenshaw wouldn’t last long, and there were guns on the table.

  Phillips’s pistol was in his waist holster. Sherman drew it, dropped the Taser, and rolled off Phillips’s torso. As he raised the gun, Crenshaw spotted him, threw the metal table over, and dove behind it. Sherman’s shots pinged off the underside.

  Phillips shook off his daze faster than Sherman had expected and grabbed the Taser. He lunged toward Sherman with it, the high-voltage prongs chittering with sparks, but Sherman snapped off a shot before Phillips could reach him, and the man dropped in his tracks as the bullet blew off the back of his skull.

  Sherman had to get the key. As he rifled frantically through Phillips’s pocket, he fired three more shots at the table to keep Crenshaw down. He found the key chain in Phillips’s front pocket, along with a cell phone, and unlocked one of the ankle cuffs so that he’d be mobile.

  As Sherman got up to find cover, a bullet slammed into his thigh. He cried out but didn’t go down, knowing that he would be a sitting duck for Crenshaw. As rounds pinged off the concrete walls, he hobbled over to his cell door, leaving a thick trail of blood behind him.

  The heavy steel door provided plenty of protection. He winced as he collapsed to the floor behind it. He was only now aware of the frenzied shouts coming from the other cells.

  Sherman undid the remaining locks on the cuffs and threw them aside. Then he dialed 911.

  After two rings, he heard, “911 emergency. How can I assist you?”

  “My name is General Sherman Locke. I’m being held hostage by terrorists. I’ve killed one, but I�
�m pinned down by another.”

  “Can you tell me your location?”

  “No. I don’t know where I am. Zero in on the cell signal.”

  “All right, sir. I’ll have the police there as soon as I can. How many assailants are there?”

  “Just one more, I think.”

  Sherman didn’t like being cornered like this, but he didn’t have a fallback position. He discouraged Crenshaw from circling around by firing two more shots. He was running out of ammo.

  “Are those gunshots?” the operator said.

  Good God. “Yes! He’s shooting at me. That’s why I need the police. Now!”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “Yes. I’ve been shot in the leg. Have you got my signal?”

  “We’re working on it.”

  “Well, hurry up, dammit!”

  After a pause, the operator said, “I’ve got you. Five two nine Business Parkway in Hagerstown.”

  “What state?”

  The operator didn’t skip a beat at the odd question. “Maryland. Near the intersection of I 70 and I 81. State and local police are on their way. They should be there in minutes.”

  That would put him right between Pennsylvania and Virginia. I 70 was a straight shot to DC, and I 81 led to Philadelphia and the Northeast Corridor. Crenshaw could be in one of a half-dozen major cities within hours with his radiological bomb.

  But that wasn’t Sherman’s biggest problem right now. He had seen the barrel next to his cell. He couldn’t tell what was inside, but wires from it led to another barrel, and then another. He could see at least four of them.

  Obviously the warehouse was rigged to explode, which would destroy all evidence of Crenshaw and Orr’s operation.

  And if Crenshaw escaped, he’d set them off before the police arrived.

  Sherman pocketed the phone without turning it off. He had to see what Crenshaw was doing. He gritted his teeth and hopped up onto his one good leg.

  He slid the door’s portal aside, but he couldn’t see Crenshaw. Where did he go?

  At that moment, the semi’s engine cranked up.

  Crenshaw was making a break for it.

  * * *

  The external door of the warehouse was opening too slowly. Crenshaw had the truck in gear ready to go, but the door rose at a maddening rate.

  He glanced out the window and saw General Locke staggering toward him, his gun pointed at the cab. Two bullets pierced the door just above his lap, smashing into the dashboard. Crenshaw returned fire.

  His first two shots missed, but the third hit the general in the chest. He couldn’t tell how crippling a shot it was, but the general went down in a heap, the gun flying to the side.

  The garage door was almost fully open, and Crenshaw could hear the distant wail of sirens. The general must have called the police with Phillips’s phone. No way Crenshaw was going to stick around with this mess.

  The original plan, now literally shot to hell, had been to leave one of the Muslims they’d kidnapped in the wreckage of the burned-down warehouse and bring the other with them to leave at the scene of the explosion.

  But Crenshaw couldn’t corral one of the Muslims and drive the truck, not without Phillips. So instead the Feds would have to think that a third bomber had gotten away in Manhattan. Same difference. They’d still pin the attack on Al Qaeda.

  Crenshaw took one last look at the general, who was still motionless on the concrete floor. He put the truck into gear and roared out of the warehouse.

  No cars were around to see him exit. He turned onto Business Parkway and built up speed, keeping an eye on the rearview mirror to make sure the general didn’t make a last-second escape through the open garage door, which was now closing behind him.

  The aptly named road was lined with other small warehouses and industrial workshops. None of their residents had any clue that amid the distribution centers and manufacturing buildings was an operation that would change history.

  Crenshaw could see two police cars approaching. As long as they didn’t notice the bullet holes in the side of the door, they’d never suspect that he was coming from their destination.

  They raced by him. Crenshaw was now a half mile away, with plenty of space between him and the warehouse. He flipped open the safety on the detonator and pushed the button.

  A huge orange fireball erupted behind him, followed almost immediately by the noise of a tremendous blast ripping the air. Even though he was ready for it, the size of the explosion startled him. He grinned as he realized that he’d used far more of the explosive than he needed.

  The police cars skidded to a stop behind him. One of the officers got out to look at the shattered building, but they never glanced back at him.

  Crenshaw turned onto Greencastle Pike, which was only a block from the interstate. Ninety seconds later, he was on I 81 heading to New York. He breathed easier when he’d gone another two miles and the only emergency vehicles he saw were three fire engines speeding in the other direction.

  FORTY-NINE

  At an outdoor café along Via Chiaia in Naples, Orr checked the tracker signal while Gaul ate a slice of pizza. When he saw where the tracker was, he nodded with satisfaction. His plan was working out perfectly.

  It was now eight o’clock, but Locke and Benedict had been in the city since 3 P.M. Orr tossed back an espresso and smiled at the thought of having the Midas Touch in his possession by the end of the night after all these years of searching.

  His phone rang. It was Crenshaw.

  “Where’s the video?” Orr said. He was supposed to have received the last proof-of-life recording thirty minutes ago.

  “The video?” Crenshaw said, his voice cracking. “Jesus, that’s the last thing on my mind!” Orr heard an engine downshift in the background. Something was wrong.

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m in the truck heading up to New Jersey. The warehouse is toast. Had to blow it early. Phillips is dead.”

  Dead? That idiot Crenshaw. “What the hell happened?”

  Gaul stopped chewing and looked at the phone.

  “General Locke got loose somehow. He killed Phillips, but I was able to shoot the general twice. I would have stayed, but the police were on their way. Locke must have called them.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “He’s in pieces, along with the girl and those two Muslim guys.”

  Orr stopped himself from screaming in frustration. This was why he kept his team small. He had to do everything himself if he wanted it done right. Still, if Crenshaw completed his part of the mission, the situation could be salvaged.

  “What about the truck?” Orr said. “Is it ready to go?”

  “I’ve got the bomb rigged. It’s buried in the trailer under the sawdust.”

  “Good. You know where to park it, right?”

  “You think I’m doing this on my own?”

  “Crenshaw, we are a couple of hours away from finishing the mission. As soon as I call you, I want the timer on that bomb set.”

  “No way. You think I’m dumb? I know that you’re after the treasure of Midas. And I want my share.”

  Orr’s lip curled in anger. That was not the plan, and no one changed his plan but him.

  “What do you want?” Orr said.

  “I know that what I’m doing is worth a lot more to you than two million dollars. I want twenty million.”

  Orr heard the plastic seams on the phone crack as his grip tightened. “Fine. But you’d better do your part.”

  Orr planned to sell off the Midas Touch in a private auction. When the price of gold shot through the roof after lower Manhattan was rendered uninhabitable, he would start the bidding at a billion dollars. Crenshaw was jeopardizing everything.

  “I’m not setting off the bomb by myself,” Crenshaw said. “I want you here.”

  “What?” Orr yelled, drawing the stares of the other patrons. “Why?”

  “Because I want to see the Midas Touch in person. I want to know th
at it really works.”

  Orr snorted in disgust. Asking for more money was one thing. But this weasel was going too far by blackmailing him. He vowed silently that Crenshaw would never get to spend the twenty million.

  “Okay,” Orr said, “we’ll be there tomorrow.”

  “Oh, and when we see each other, don’t try to kill me. I’ve designed the detonator with a code. You’ll never be able to set it off without me.”

  That little pig. Orr couldn’t believe it, but he had no choice but to agree.

  “All right. We’ll do it your way. I’ll call you when we have it.”

  Orr hung up. He wanted to indulge his rage somehow, upend the table or throw the phone through a plate-glass window, but he had to control himself. The Midas Touch was all that mattered right now.

  “What’s the problem?” Gaul asked.

  “Sherman Locke and Carol Benedict are dead. Some shootout at the warehouse.”

  “Phillips?”

  “The general killed him.”

  Gaul nodded slowly as he mulled over the news, his face revealing nothing more than his concentration on how it affected their scheme. “What now? Locke won’t show himself without the proof-of-life video.”

  Orr checked the tracker again. It was headed straight down Via Don Bosco. If it kept going, as he thought it would, it would be near Piazza del Plebiscito in ten minutes.

  Instead of Locke’s number, he dialed Stacy Benedict’s.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “You have the geolabe?” Orr said.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Let me speak to Locke.”

  Locke answered. “What?”

  “I just wanted to hear your voice. I’ve missed you terribly.”

  “Screw you. What about the proof-of-life?”

  “I’ll send you the video before we meet. But I need assurance that you have the geolabe with you. Have Benedict take a picture of it right now using your phone. Put her phone next to it so I can see my number and text the photo to me.”

  He heard a muffled voice. Locke was covering the mic on his phone.

  “It’s on the way.”