He climbed between the two seats and hunched over moved into the back toward her. He was looking at the tape over her mouth. He squatted down in front of her. Paused for a beat and reached behind her head. Kelly Paul screamed like hell when he ripped the tape off her face. She gasped; it was the first deep breath she had taken since the hospital.
He was looking at her face.
"Tim Harding," he said. "We call him ‘Big Red’." He nodded toward the driver.
Kelly was scared to speak. She had seen what these guys could do to someone. She saw their faces when they were beating the orderly. They liked that kind of work. It came easy for them.
"Kelly Paul," she said. "Do you know who I am?"
"What do you think, we're stupid?" he asked. "Preacher's daughter."
"So why me?"
She was still looking at him. Sure it was a mistake; sure they had taken the wrong person.
"You're going to Hell," he said.
"Leave her alone," the driver, Big Red yelled.
The guy sounded mean, tough. Kelly shot him a fearful look. She whimpered a bit, pulling against the restraints. Trapped, caught, no way to escape.
"Please," she muttered. "Where are you taking me? Don't hurt me. I have a son. My father will pay whatever you want."
Harding glanced at Big Red. A smile broke out between the two of them. They knew something. Something they weren't telling. Something bad.
"My father has money."
"We know that, bitch," Big Red yelled. "Tim, get back up here."
Kelly was silent. His tone, his words. She was scared.
Tim Harding smiled at Kelly. His eyes wandered over her body. Then he moved forward, to his seat beside the driver.
"Tell me, tell me what you want," she pleaded.
They didn't answer. They knew where they were taking her. They knew what they were going to do to her.
"Answer me," she yelled.
Big Red looked at her through the mirror. He nodded at Harding. It was getting dark outside. Inside the van it was even darker. Kelly saw Harding reach down beneath his seat, to the floorboards. When he came back up she saw a flash. Something in his left hand. Something shiny, metal. He threw it backhanded, right at her. The crushed soda can smacked her in the face. Just above the right eye socket. She was stunned, not because it hurt. Because it didn't. But it was the brutality of someone throwing something at her like she was meaningless that upset her.
The clang of the can bouncing against the metal was loud.
"You gonna keep your mouth shut?" Big Red asked.
He picked up a soda can from the console. He hadn't finished it. She could tell by the way he was holding it. His arm was cocked ready to fire it at her. If he threw it and hit her teeth, she would lose a couple for sure.
"Well, you gonna keep your mouth shut?" Big Red asked for the second time.
It was a half empty can. Wouldn't hurt that much. Maybe a cut.
They were quiet for a moment, staring at Kelly. Then the driver with the can dropped his arm and put the soda back in the cup holder. The passenger, Harding dropped his eyes. He was staring at Kelly's breasts. Awkward. She looked away. It took a moment before Harding turned around.
She sat there in the dark hollow of the van and realized the car bombing was meant for her. She missed death once when the stranger pushed her to the ground. But it wasn't enough. She was now a prisoner.
Chapter 11
Five hours north of Tampa by car the farm was anything but quiet. Inside the barn a group of men were working. The leader, a large man named Beau Redell was yelling at the other six, pointing, telling them what to do. He had a clear image in his mind of what needed to be done and expected perfection.
The barn was being prepared for an event nobody would have expected and for a guest who was not prepared. The event called for specific details. They were clearing the main floor of the barn. It was a concrete pad, a large area. Big enough to house eighty to one hundred people. They'd swept the floor, washed the dirt away and were now hanging black drapes from the ceiling to the floor. Earlier in the day they had left the windows intact, but sealed them from the inside with three quarter inch sheets of plywood blocking out all light. The plywood was painted black. From the distance it looked like the lights were off in the barn.
The main room was more than two stories tall inside. A loft was at one end overlooking the main floor. Inside the room, near the roof, rafters ran from wall to wall. The wood was old. Thick beams that had stood for sixty years. The barn hadn’t been used for farming in three years but still had the odor of cattle. It had been cleaned recently probably pressure washed and it was good enough for what was needed today.
"It's starting to shape up," Redell said.
The leader, a big man, had a loud voice with an edge to it. The kind of guy that made you uncomfortable to be around. When he spoke it was direct, poking at you like you had done something wrong.
"A few more drapes and it'll be done," one of the workers said.
"I'll tell you when it's done," he said. "You need to move faster. They're on their way."
The group nodded as one. The drapes were forty-feet long so they could be stapled into the ceiling and touch the floor. Three sides of the room were complete. The final side would take them just under an hour.
Long wooden benches, twelve foot by one foot wide were being hauled into the room. They were being placed around the perimeter. Kind of like a church set up for people to watch the event. The crew worked together not talking to one another, not wasting time. When the last one was in place, the leader motioned them outside. He stood with his hands on his hips doing a slow scan from the front entrance around the room and back again. It was pitch black inside. He wanted it to be perfect. A camera was to be set up and when they started filming he didn't want anything to give them away. He knew the FBI would be watching. He knew they would be looking at every detail. But this was perfect. Black drapes, surrounding the room, nothing indicating where they were.
In the back of a pick up truck was a tarp thrown over something. Redell walked out of the barn. It was bright; he squinted. Looked at his men, then to the truck. He walked with a purpose, kind of quick for a big man. They followed Redell keeping an eye on him. He lowered the gate and nodded to the tarp. One of the guys, younger male, nervous. Pulled the covering off. Underneath were three items laid out on the truck bed. A cement block, must have weighed about eighty pounds, sat in the middle. It had a square hole in it. It looked like a cube, maybe two foot in height. Beside it were two six by six beams. New wood polished and finished with a dark wood stain and a metal four-inch pipe.
The men looked puzzled. Redell smiled.
It took two men to carry the cement block. They ran the pipe through it and lifted it up. Two others hoisted the beams onto their shoulders. One guy middle age, muscular. The other one, skinny, weak, always shifting from one foot to the other. The leader, Beau Redell led them into the barn. He could hear them breathing, sweating.
"Put the block over there," Redell said. He was pointing to the middle of the floor.
Two of the workers did what they were told. No questions, heads down, they placed the block dead center on the barn floor. Two of the others stood, watching, waiting for instructions, the heavy beams on their shoulders.
Redell lifted his left hand and waved one of the guys over.
"Put it in there," he said. "All the way in."
The guy struggled with the beam. Placed one end down on the cement block. Shimmed it over the hole until it was above it. Then gave it a little nudge. It went in. The hole in the cement block held the beam tight, a solid base. The beam stood seven feet into the air. Straight up, perfect.
"All right, bring the next one over," Redell was looking at the other guy holding the beam.
He was struggling. The beam was digging into his shoulder. He started to shake, his knees were giving out. He took another step, weaved and bobbed a bit. He had been holding the heavy oak for
over five minutes. Then shuffled a few more steps.
"What's the problem boy?" Redell asked.
The guy bit his tongue. He knew better than to complain.
"I asked you a question."
He looked at Redell. Squinting, hiding the pain.
"I'm going to ask you one more time," Redell said.
"It's heavy sir."
"You think this is the hard part carrying a piece of wood," Redell yelled. "You ain't going to make it, are you kid?"
Redell stood with his hands on his hips watching the nervous guy struggle. His belly sticking out. He glanced at his men. "He ain't gonna make it."
Nobody responded.
Redell nodded to a couple of his guys. "Pick this up."
Two guys lifted it off the nervous guy's shoulder. He collapsed. He was on all fours, catching his breath; relieved the burden had been lifted. Relieved the pain was over.
"Now look here. Yeah see that notch. Place the two notches on top of each other," Redell said.
He was pointing to both beams. They had been notched to allow them to fit together.
The two guys holding the ends of the beam placed them on top of one another. They formed a cross.
"Now you see that hole in the middle?" Redell asked. "Slide this bolt through there."
He handed one of the other guys a one-inch diameter bolt. Six inches long. Heavy iron, threaded at one end and a square nut.
"That's it. Tighten it down," he said.
When they were done, a solid wooden cross-stood in the floor. Something medieval, something eerie about it.
Beau Redell looked at the nervous guy.
"You ain't gonna make it kid. You ain't got what I need."
Redell stood silent staring at him.
"What should I do?" Redell asked.
He looked around the room. Nobody said a word.
Beau Redell reached out and grabbed him. Pulled him forward by the hair on the side of his head. Tossed him about like a rag doll. Threw him against the wooden cross. He banged hard against it. Grabbed a hold of it so he wouldn't fall.
The nervous guy looked frightened. He stared at Redell. His eyes as wide as a dinner plate.
Redell strolled to the drapes and pulled them apart at one of the seams and slipped behind them. The guys knew there was a workbench back there. The nervous guy's eyes followed him until he disappeared. The room was dark, no windows. Black drapes. Redell came back out; he was in the shadows, doing something. He walked back toward the nervous guy. He was hiding something behind his leg. Holding something heavy out of sight.
"You ain't gonna make it kid," Redell said.
He grabbed the thin guy, the nervous guy's right arm. Lifted it up and stretched it out along the wooden beam. The kid didn't know what he was doing.
Redell moving fast raised his right arm from behind his leg. He was holding a nail gun. One of these bright yellow and black models, heavy duty. He fired one shot into the nervous guys wrist. It fired like a gun. A loud bang and bounced off the kid's arm. The bone splintered, blood sprayed. The nail was coated with an adhesive. The heat caused by driving the nail through the bone melted the glue. It set quickly.
The guy flailed around. His mouth open in shock. Spit flying out as he tried to speak. His knees buckled. He was staring at his wrist, crying.
Beau Redell looked into his face. He liked seeing people in pain. He moved to the kid's left. There was no resistance in the nervous guy's other arm as Redell picked it up and laid it against the beam. Palm side up. He pressed the gun into his hand. He squeezed the trigger and fired the gun again. The second bang seemed louder. He drove a nail into the guy's hand. Redell stepped back and smiled. He listened to the guy scream for a long moment. He was in no hurry. Then he had enough of the guy’s crying. He placed the gun in his mouth. The guy’s eyes opened wide, big orbs. The guy was breathing fast out through his mouth. Redell pushed the gun in further. The guy froze. Redell held still for a beat. Long enough for the kid to know what was about to happen. Then he pulled the trigger. Another bang. The back of the guy's head exploded. More blood. He stopped crying, stopped moving, stopped thinking. He was dead.
Beau Redell turned to his workers. "Told you the kid wasn't gonna make it."
Chapter 12
Jack Dwyer was observant. He was standing with a crowd of people looking at what was left of the van. He was in the middle of a large group, the kind that came out looking for blood. Maybe something grotesque, something they could talk about the next day at work. Something that their friends would take notice of, a story that would make them important. But Jack Dwyer was the story. He was looking for something else. He'd made a mental note of the van driver, the car bomber. He was scanning the crowd, examining each face. Studying their features. Seeing if they fit the face that was burned into his head. Dwyer knew from the research that these lone actor types come back to the scene. That's what they are called, actors. They act bad, doing bad things. Most agencies have been trained to look for these people. Middle class, white males, bored, angry. They have a grudge against society, something they don't like and feel they have the right to destroy it. Dwyer was trained in the military to find these types. He was good at it. He was doing this for the oil company. Looking for homegrown terrorists.
Dwyer spotted him. He was also in the middle of a large group, hiding, watching, looking at his masterpiece. He was watching the police, watching the crowd. He was living it all over again. Enjoying the adrenaline high, enjoying the moment when he killed. He was tall, dark hair. Crew cut style, military look. At first, Dwyer glanced past him. On the second take he recognized him. He had changed his clothes. He was dressed in a yellow t-shirt with a happy face on it and pants that looked dark.
The area was full of people. Dwyer moved with the crowd, slowly, watching. They followed the police tape. The bomber was about seventy-five feet ahead and on the other side of the road. He was standing still, letting the crowd move past him. Dwyer stayed in line, didn't want to make any sudden movements. Didn't want to do anything that might catch his attention. That's how the human eye works. It catches these things, little things. Movement draws us toward it. Our eyes follow it. If Dwyer broke from the pack he'd see it. If he was any good he'd sense something was wrong. He'd probably have an exit strategy. Maybe there was a lookout, someone else watching as a back up.
The crowd bunched tight as they reached the street corner. A police officer had stopped traffic. He blew his whistle and waved the crowd through. Dwyer walked straight ahead, didn't look to his left where the bomber was. One of Dwyer's rules. Don't make eye contact. These guys are paranoid, if they get spooked, they run.
He crossed the road. Moved about ten feet deep into the crowd and headed to where the bomber was standing. The crowd had grown on this side of the street. The bigger the group the slower they moved. This one was crawling. Dwyer was fifteen maybe twenty feet from where he last saw the bomber. He was gone.
Then there was movement. Dwyer caught sight of someone. Someone moving faster than the rest of the group. Someone walking deliberately. In the corner of his eye he caught the movement. He turned his head and looked. He saw a man walking toward him, pushing through the crowd going the wrong way, upstream against the tide. If this was his man, he was doing it all wrong. There were too many people in the way; Dwyer couldn't make out his face. He was easily ten feet away. A light hit him. Dwyer recognized the profile. Agent Miller was right in front of him. Dwyer turned.
The agent didn't see him because he was in the crowd, blending in with the sightseers. Not making eye contact. Dwyer was an arm's reach away from the agent, facing away from him, sensing the agent's movements. People were pushing, shoving their way forward. Dwyer was moving slowly. The crowd kept pushing him. He inched around the agent. Waiting to be nabbed. He was sweating. He could feel his shirt sticking to his chest. The agent was methodical. He was scanning the crowd, looking fifteen, twenty feet out. Not close by. He was trained, looking for a lone actor. He was
n't expecting Dwyer to be right beside him. Dwyer stepped forward and pushed away from the agent.
Dwyer moved along the sidewalk, same direction as the crowd. He checked everyone's face. There was no one raising any flags. No agents trying to blend in, no civilians with a radio plug in their ear. No one watching him. So he edged to a storefront. Looked in the glass, studying the reflections. Studying the crowd. He was safe.
A minute later Dwyer was walking toward his car. He'd messed up. He let the bomber get away. There was nothing he could do. When he got to his car he pulled out of the parking lot and headed toward the highway. Maybe the beach wasn't such a bad idea, maybe forget the whole thing. Check into a hotel. Get a drink at the bar. Hit the bed early. Get up and forget this even happened. Get on with his life.
Dwyer stopped at a 7-Eleven. He needed gas. He pumped for about two minutes and when it stopped, he placed the nozzle back in the rack and reached for the receipt. Far to his left was a car. A black Mustang, two door. The passenger front fender was dented. Two men inside. He noticed it because they were shifting around a lot. Looking in the mirrors. They started backing out. Dwyer recognized one of them. The bomber was sitting in the passenger side.
Just like that he was back in it. He did his best to contain himself and slipped back into his car. He followed them from the distance, letting the guys become a dark dot on the road ahead.
The night was rolling in. Lights were coming on.
Dwyer focused on their taillights. It made it easy to keep his distance.
The highway wasn't busy. Just enough vehicles for Dwyer to hide behind. Take his time edging close, but keeping his distance. Nothing quick or sudden, nothing to catch their attention.
A couple of hundred feet ahead he saw the car pull off into a gas station. One of those big highway truck stops, lots of people. Food, families, perfect cover.
He saw the bomber step out of the car. He was still wearing the yellow t-shirt. He looked relaxed, rested.
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