"Lift the arms," the kid said.
Kelly Paul glared at him. Raised her arms slowly. Knew what the guys were thinking. Knew what they were looking at. She held them straight out to her side. Like she was on the cross. She stood tall, silent. Staring into Beau's face. She was well built. The kid stepped in, close. Sniffed the air, smelling her skin. Bent down and reached around her back. He got closer. Moved his arms down. Wrapping them around her stomach. His face was close to her chest. Close to her skin. Let his hands glide across her sides. She gasped when he touched her.
"You like that?" the kid asked.
A tear ran down her face. Her eyes were watery.
The kid looped the belt around her waist. Yanked it tight, pulling her towards him. Knocking her off balance. She put her arms around him to steady herself. The kid held her for a moment. Seemed like a long second. She was looking into his face. His was close to hers. He tilted his head and smelled her hair. He pulled her waist in tighter. Tightened his muscles. Their stomachs were touching. She struggled. He pulled harder. Their chests were touching. He held it for a beat. He relaxed, let her step back. She was tense. The bomb was in the front. From her sternum to below her waistline. The six-inch wide belt covered most of it. Only the grey top and bottom caps stuck out. He looped the belt through the buckle.
Kelly Paul’s face turned white. She knew what a bomb could do. She'd seen the damage, the blood, the body parts.
The kid reached into his pocket and came out with a small padlock. He held it up in front of her face. Dangling it.
"You ain't getting out of this," he said.
He opened it and ran it through two metal loops in the buckle. Locked it and pulled her off balance again. Into his arms.
She pushed him away and staggered backward. The kid laughed. Everyone laughed. Kelly Paul was breathing hard. Looking down at the monster attached to her stomach.
"Just in case you get any ideas," Redell said. "We got a timer on this. I dial a number and it's all over."
He held a cell phone in his hand for her to see.
Chapter 24
Benjamin Paul was alone in his hotel room. It was early, he had showered and shaved and was sitting at a desk when there was a knock on the door. He was watching the news. His daughter's kidnapping was the lead story. He was expecting breakfast. They were late. He had phoned down the night before giving his order to a friendly female voice and was expecting to be taken care of.
He looked through the peephole. Short, female, young; standing with a cart. Minister Paul opened the door and let her in. She was smiling, bubbly, said good morning. He didn't smile. They were late. She put the tray down on the desk and handed him the ticket. He added the items and calculated a twenty percent tip, scribbled the numbers, and signed for the room charge.
Benjamin Paul sighed when she left the room. He liked things orderly, on time, especially breakfast. His day was starting off badly.
He watched the news until they had finished talking about his daughter. He was mentioned. His wealth was mentioned. They mentioned Jimmy Paul.
The news covered Minster Paul's background. He was maybe seventy. No one knew his exact age. His birth date was private; records were sketchy. He was born in Texas. He had been married at the age of twenty-two to a girl from San Antonio. She was from a religious family, fully versed in bible thumping. He had taken over his father's ministry and a crumbling church. He had become a multimillionaire in his thirties. His daughter, the only child, made him wealthier. She was good business women. Jimmy Paul was his only grandson and he was missing.
There was a silver lid over his breakfast. When he lifted it off, the aroma was pleasant. He moved the plate closer. Something was underneath it, laying on the tray. Shiny, round, it stuck out. He looked at it, puzzled. A DVD was staring him in the face.
The disk was in a clear vinyl pouch. He held it in his hand and turned it over. Looking at it, studying it, suspicious. There were no markings on it. To his right, his laptop was on the desk. He turned it toward him and did the obvious, slid the disc in. It spun for a second making a winding noise. Then it opened.
Benjamin Paul tilted the screen and watched the video. It was out of focus at first. He didn't recognize the farm, didn't recognize the area. Then the picture came into focus and the camera zoomed in. He did recognize his grandson Jimmy tied to a pole.
The camera panned to his face, fear, pure terror.
Jimmy Paul was crying, pleading, saying something. Nobody else was in the video. Jimmy was talking to someone, someone outside the camera angle. Benjamin Paul was reading his lips. He could make out the words. Jimmy was begging, pleading, no. He was repeating it. Looked like he was yelling at someone.
The camera moved to his waist. Something was stuck in his pants.
The Minister knew what it was. A grey metal tube, a pipe bomb, it looked innocent. No moving parts, just sitting there. Potential energy ready to release. He watched the video. Saw Jimmy's stomach, moving up and down, he was breathing fast, panting.
The camera zoomed out. Fifty, sixty feet away.
The video was silent, no audio. Benjamin Paul watched, waited, seconds went by. Nothing was happening. Jimmy was by himself out in the open. Standing alone, yelling, pleading. Spitting at someone. His eyes were bulging, nothing like the Minister had ever seen before.
The camera was shaky. Someone was holding it. Moving around.
Jimmy Paul stared upward, appealing, begging to God. More time went by. The Minister watched. He knew what was happening. Jimmy Paul looked at someone. His face was red; he was shaking. He was going insane.
Fingers appeared on the screen. Three fingers. Someone, the one Jimmy was yelling at placed their fingers over the camera lens. It was a count down.
Three fingers.
The veins in Jimmy Paul's neck were fat, throbbing, pulsing. He was sweating. He was tossing his head around.
Two fingers.
He was pulling on the restraints, tugging, trying to escape. Spitting, yelling, crying. His legs were secured tight.
One finger.
He was screaming, staring at someone, begging for his life.
A cloud of red appeared. Blood. Body parts scattered everywhere. Some large, maybe a leg, maybe a ribcage. Some small, a hand, an organ. Some smaller, fingers, skin. The distance the parts went was directly proportional to their density. Something flew upward, kind of round, maybe his head. It was like the big bang. A billion pieces scattered in all directions exploding outward from the center of the impact. The shockwave moved like a rocket along the ground. It hit the camera guy. The picture distorted, the guy holding it staggered. The ground was covered in tissue, wet, red, bloody.
The mist of red dissipated. Benjamin Paul stared at the screen. There was dust everywhere. He saw two feet where his grandson had stood. His eyes moved upward, ankles. The dust was settling. He could see two legs below the knee. The clothes tattered, shredded, wet. He searched in the dust for more. His eyes moved higher. He stared in disbelief. One leg ended at the kneecap. The leg on the right was missing. Meat hung from the twisted remains of a white bone, femur, splintered, jagged edges.
Benjamin Paul made a sound he'd never made before. His hands covered his mouth. His heart was pounding. His face felt hot. His stomach turned.
He looked at the other leg. Followed it upward. Something was dandling from the upper thigh. Jimmy's hip was at an awkward angle. Only part of it was still attached. Entrails, slimy, long were dripping out. Hitting the ground. Piling up in a glistening heap.
Benjamin Paul vomited.
The dust settled. The picture was clear, crystal clear.
Less than half of Jimmy Paul's body was attached to the pole. The rest was gone, vaporized. The ground lay covered with warm chunks of lifeless flesh.
The screen went black. The video ended.
Benjamin Paul sat still, frozen. His hands wet from vomit. He coughed and threw up on the carpet. Pushing himself away from the desk, he staggered to th
e bathroom. Washed himself clean, crying, mumbling to himself. Cursing his God for allowing this to happen.
He slumped in a chair, shocked. He'd told Major Kenneth Ore to find his family. To bring them back safely, unharmed, alive. But he'd heard very little. Only that they had found Jack Dwyer's car north of Tampa at a truck stop. No signs of Kelly. He was told they are focusing on a farm. Suspicious, lots of vehicles, a few miles from where they found the car. But no signs of Kelly.
He'd seen her a week ago, before she came out to Florida to surprise her son. It was to be a short visit. A couple of days and she would be back in Texas.
He walked to the desk. Stood above his laptop and pressed eject. The disk popped out. He stared at it like it was dirty, evil, something from hell. He gasped aloud. It was sickening. He ripped the disk out, rammed it into the cover, and dropped it on the desk. He wanted no part of it.
He used the phone on the desk to call Major Ore. He answered immediately.
They're evil, sinister," the Minister told him. "Give them whatever they want, whatever they ask for. I want my daughter."
Benjamin Paul spent the next several minutes talking to the major. Explaining the best he could what he'd just seen. There were things he couldn't say, couldn't describe. Pictures were etched in his brain. Gruesome pictures, things he'd never seen before. He was scarred for life. That's what they wanted, the major told him.
"They blew him up," the Minister said. "Murdered him, killed him, violated him."
Benjamin Paul closed the laptop. Threw it on the floor. Brushed his arms across the desk knocking everything in the air. The phone, lamp, the disc. The desk was clean. Everything was gone from his sight. Everything but what was cauterized into his brain. It was as if cleaning the desk cleansed his mind. A sickening dirty feeling came over him. Something dark, suppressed thoughts surfaced. Bad thoughts, evil, embarrassing thoughts fluttered into his consciousness. The demon had grabbed him. He cried. He was paralyzed.
The good book was out of reach.
Chapter 25
"Why are they doing this?" Kelly said.
"You know why," Dwyer answered.
They were alone in the barn. Redell and his men were gone. Kelly Paul was free. Free to walk around the barn all she wanted. But what she wanted was to go home. Be with her son. Be with her father. Stopping her was a pipe bomb strapped to her waist.
She was tugging at it. Frustrated, angry, confused.
"Don't bother," Dwyer said. "They got that camera on us. Watching us. They're not going to let us get out of here that easily."
Kelly Paul glanced up into the corner of the ceiling. A black box, something mechanical, was wedged between the beams. She could see a red dot. The camera was focused on her.
For a second she stared at it and felt angry. Then she moved toward it. It was following her, she stopped, it stopped. The camera was at a forty-five degree angle above her head.
"Bastards," she yelled.
She was standing in the middle of the floor in the dusty warm barn. It was clear Redell knew there was no escape. The temperature inside was getting warmer. It would be like a sweatbox by the afternoon.
Minutes after they left Kelly started panicking, looking for a way out. Then she realized it was hopeless, but Dwyer had been watching these guys, saw how disciplined they were. Knew they wouldn't leave them alone if there was a chance they could escape.
Dwyer was sitting down. On the same chair he was cuffed to earlier. They had untied him; let him wander around the room. But he sat still, thinking, plotting a way out. Planning his next move. Aware he was being watched.
"Are you just going to sit there?" Kelly yelled.
He just looked at her.
"You came looking for me," she said. "Where's the police? Why are we still in here? What are they going to do to us?"
He sat in the chair. Silent, thinking, watching her.
"You brought the FBI? You told them where you were going?" she shouted. "Tell me someone knows where we are."
He was studying her face. Even under this stress she was a pretty woman. She was holding it together quite well he thought. Considering she's a civilian, not used to this, she was rational, strong. It made him wonder what she would be like under different conditions. What things would be like when this was over?
"I need a cigarette,” she said. "My father hates it. My son hates it. I told them I quit...what are they going to do to us?"
She was walking around the room.
"Help will be here soon," she said. "My father has connections. Washington connections. Military connections."
Dwyer looked to his right. She had her back to him.
"Military?" he asked.
"Major Ken Ore. Handles my father's security," she said. "Fanatics, crazies, things like this."
Dwyer was quiet again. He was thinking about the military. Things like this, interrogations. The training he went through. He recalled watching a video of a Taliban officer questioning an American. He had been taken prisoner, CIA, Dwyer remembered. He was tall, stocky, well built. Thirty-five or forty. He was on the ground. On his back. Black pants, no shoes, no shirt. The first thing they did was break his legs. His left leg was placed on a six-inch cinder block. One of the Taliban guy's jumped on his shin, shattering it. Then they broke the right leg. He kept screaming. A jagged edge of bone broke through the skin.
The camera was to the right, about eight feet from where the American lay.
Dwyer recalled someone stepping into view. Something in his hand, a screwdriver. The end had been sharpened. It was short about four maybe five inches in length. The Taliban guy moved to the right side of the American. He crouched down on one knee. He was talking to someone. There was no sound in the video. He was blocking the camera angle. Someone holding the camera moved and the American's stomach came into view. The guy holding the screwdriver pushed it slowly into the prisoner's stomach. The white skin sank under the pressure of the point. Then it gave way. The point went in. Then the shaft.
There was no blood. He pulled it out. Dwyer saw a small round purple spot.
Taliban have a way with torture, slow, taking hours. Maybe days, if they do it right.
He stabbed again with the screwdriver. Then again, and again. Fast short jabs. Eight or ten small dark holes dotted the stomach. Blood was beginning to run from the wounds.
The American screamed. Couldn't move because his legs were shattered.
The guy with the screwdriver pushed it in below the navel. Kind of on the right side of his stomach. Started turning it at different angles, continued jabbing. Twisting the intestines, puncturing them, internal bleeding. Then he worked on the lungs. Started stabbing the screwdriver in between the ribs. Hitting the lungs, piercing them, a red mist sprayed out when the American breathed.
The guy with the screwdriver stared into the camera. He said something and moved away.
The camera angle got wider. Further away, ten feet, maybe fifteen. The American's body came into view again.
The Taliban guy was standing between the Americans broken legs. He kicked them apart. Wide enough to kneel between them. He had something in his hand. It was yellow, long, looked plastic.
The American wasn't moving.
The guy stretched his arm into the air. The yellow plastic bat had razor blades and nails protruding from it. He smashed it down onto the American's face. He moaned. Didn't move. Then the guy hit him again, a cut opened up. Left side of his face, sliced across the nose. Hit him again, faster this time, and again. More cuts, blood. Hit him again. His face was red with blood. He got hit again. It looked fish gills, slices of skin hanging off his face. The camera zoomed in on the American's face. He was coughing on blood, his blood. He was conscious but didn't move. Blood was bubbling out of his mouth. Couldn't see his eyes. Couldn't make out his face. Totally swollen.
The camera zoomed out.
The Taliban guy put the bat down. He moved up to the American's face. The camera zoomed in. He held the screwdriver
. Put it close to the battered bloody face. He lifted slices of skin and muscle up with the point. Smiled into the camera.
The guy stuck the screwdriver into his left eye. Moved it around, small circles. The American barely moved, must have been numb. Then his right arm flopped up to his face. A feeble attempt at protection.
The camera zoomed out. The American was breathing, slow deep movements coming from his chest. His legs and arms were still. Dwyer heard it took eight hours for him to die.
Kelly Paul was looking at Jack Dwyer. "Are you listening to me?" she asked.
"You think the Major will find us?" Dwyer asked.
"You did," she said. "Plus my dad's about to change the country. That's why I've been taken, ransom, bribery. They want to hold me over his head. Stop him from running. But that won't happen. They don't know my father."
"You have brothers, sisters?" Dwyer asked. "What about your mother?"
Kelly Paul paused for a moment. Then glanced over her shoulder at him.
"No," she said. "No brothers or sisters. My mom died years ago. I was in boarding school. I was twelve. I feel like she's with me everyday."
Kelly turned around to face him. Her arms folded across her chest.
"What about you," she asked. "Any family?"
"No. Raised by my uncle."
"You don't seem shaken by this," She said. "You an ex-cop, military?"
"Military psychologist. Retired. Now I work for an oil company."
She looked puzzled.
"So what do you do?" she asked.
"Observe things like human behavior," he said. "Prevent terrorist attacks on oil installations."
"So you watch things. Great. Watching won't help us," she said.
Chapter 26
Dwyer heard the door open. He was sitting in the chair. He was thirty feet from the entrance, facing Kelly Paul, thinking about escape. The noise of multiple footsteps was loud. Dwyer leaned back in the chair, waiting, looking toward the sounds. He was sweating. Moisture ran down his back making his shirt stick to his skin. Four men entered the room. They surrounded him, two in the front, two behind him. Weapons drawn, pointing at him.
Shockwave Page 11
