Safe and Sound

by J. D. Rhoades

  “Where’s Ben?” Marie interrupted.

  DeGroot stifled his irritation. “He’s close by,” he said. “Safe.”

  “How do I know that?” she said. Her voice trembled slightly.

  “It’s not important to me that you know that, stukkie,” he snapped. “I’ll give you directions in a minute on where to find him. Then you can all go back to your happy homes and lives while me and my brus here have a little conversation.”

  It was then he became aware of a sound at the edges of his hearing. It was a familiar sound, one he had heard so often that in most situations he barely noticed it. But here, surrounded by the silence of the mountains, it seized his attention. It was the beating of rotor blades. He glanced for a second toward the source of the noise, then did a quick double take.

  Out over the yawning darkness of the valley below, he saw a pair of red aircraft running lights like angry eyes in the night. And they were headed straight in his direction.

  ***

  One and two, are you in position?” Rankin was in the front seat of the chopper. She heard the replies from the ground team crackling in the headset.

  “One, ready.”

  “Two, ready.”

  Rankin turned toward the back. Gerritsen sat next to the open crew door. He was dressed head to toe in black tactical gear. A pair of night vision goggles dangled from his neck. A rifle with a night vision scope lay across his lap.

  Gerritsen adjusted the microphone of his own headset and gave Rankin a thumbs-up. “Okay,” she told the pilot. “Light ’em up.”

  Helicopters, Keller thought. It’s always goddamn helicopters,. Then the brilliant cone of light caught DeGroot dead center. He threw up his hands to shield his eyes. A voice like that of God himself blasted out of the sky along with the light.

  “FBI!” the voice bellowed. “PUT DOWN YOUR WEAPON!”

  The combined blasts of light and sound staggered DeGroot for a second. He recovered almost instantly, however, and raised his weapon. Keller heard the crack of a high-powered rifle, almost drowned out by the thudding of the rotor blades, and a chunk of pavement flew up at DeGroot’s feet.

  Keller charged. He hit DeGroot with enough impact to knock the wind out of both men for a moment and bore him to the ground. DeGroot’s head hit the pavement with a sickening thud, and the submachine gun flew from his hands. DeGroot snarled and rolled, going onto his back. He brought his knee up in a vicious strike at Keller’s groin. Keller turned slightly and caught the blow on the thigh. It felt like he’d been shot in the leg. He grabbed DeGroot around the throat and slammed his head into the pavement again.

  “WHERE IS HE?” Keller screamed into DeGroot’s face. “WHERE’S THE BOY?”

  DeGroot’s only response was another snarl and a punch to Keller’s midsection. This one was weaker, however, and only staggered Keller slightly. The helicopter roared overhead. Keller could hear the sound of car engines, big ones, roaring into the parking lot. He slammed DeGroot’s head against the pavement again. The man’s struggles grew weaker. Keller felt a hand pulling at his shoulder. He reached up and brushed it off. He reached down with his free hand and placed his thumb against the socket of DeGroot’s eye.

  “Tell me where he is,” Keller said, “Or so help me God, I’ll put your fucking eye out.”

  “No, you won’t, Mr. Keller,” a familiar voice said. He felt the coldness of a gun barrel against the back of his neck.

  “We have the situation under control,” Wilcox said. “Now let him go.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “You tapped my phone,” Marie said.

  “Not me,” Wilcox said. “Our friends in the FBI.”

  The parking lot was full of people and vehicles now. A pair of black Chevy Suburbans were parked haphazardly in the lot. She could see Keller in the back of one of them. There was a red-haired agent in the front seat, yelling at him. Keller wasn’t answering. The two men from the Jeep were handcuffed in the back of the other Suburban. Alyssa Fedder was in a third vehicle, a Taurus sedan, with two other agents, both female.

  Marie shook her head. “I should have figured it out back at the house. When you just turned around and left.”

  “I wouldn’t be complaining if I were you,” Wilcox said. The chopper made a low pass overhead. He stopped talking and waited for the racket to die down before continuing. “They probably saved your life just now.”

  “Saved my life?” Marie’s voice was a low hiss. “They used me as fucking bait, Wilcox! Me and my son. They could have picked that bastard up at any time and gotten Ben back.” She glanced over to where DeGroot stood between two FBI agents. His hands were cuffed behind his back. There were already bruises rising on his neck and another beneath his eye, but he looked remarkably calm. She started toward him. Wilcox tried to block her. She shoved him aside and kept walking.

  “Where is he?” she hissed as she came closer. One of the black-suited FBI agents blocked her way. The agent, a black man built like a football linebacker, didn’t move when she collided with him.

  “Where is he?” Marie demanded again over the agent’s shoulder. Her composure snapped and she screamed at DeGroot. “What did you do with my son?”

  The man looked at her expressionlessly. He turned to the other agent, this one a shorter white man. “I want to make a deal.”

  “Fuck you, shitbird,” the white guy said.

  DeGroot shrugged. “Suit yourself, boet,” he said. “But that little boy’s running out of time.”

  “Tell us where he is, and we’ll consider your request,” the black guy said.

  DeGroot shook his head. “Can’t tell you,” he said. “I’ll have to show you. I have to take you there.”

  “Bullshit,” the white agent snapped. “You can give us directions.”

  “Yeah,” he said, “I could. But you wouldn’t know how to disarm the surprise I put with him. You might figure it out. If you had time.”

  “Oh my God,” Marie said. “What did you do?”

  DeGroot smiled at her. “Made sure that you and your boyfriend wouldn’t be coming after me once you found the boy.” He shrugged again. “Ag well, that plan’s buggered since this crew’s rocked up. So, makes sense for me to keep the little fellow alive, hey? But this lot might fuck it up. So I have to be the one.”

  The two agents looked at each other. “We’ll have to run this by the Agent in Charge.”

  “Don’t be long,” DeGroot said. The white agent walked away quickly. In a moment he was back. With him was a short, red-haired man with a scowl on his face. “I’m Special Agent in Charge Clancy,” he said. “What’s this I hear about you wanting to deal?”

  Clancy, Marie thought. Where have I heard that…oh, shit. She glanced over at where Keller still sat in the back of the FBI Suburban. Keller’s last encounter with Clancy had not gone well.

  “Those are my terms,” DeGroot was saying. “I lead two of your people to the boy. I disarm the explosive.”

  “And in return?”

  “In return, I get a trial, not a ticket to someplace where I’ll never be heard of again. And you tell whoever holds that trial that I could have killed the boy but didn’t. Sounds fair, hey? All you do is tell the truth. And you’d do that anyway. Oh, and before trial, I get a phone call.” He grinned. “There’s someone I want you to talk to.”

  Clancy worked his jaw for a moment, as if he was chewing on the idea. “Tick…tick…tick…,” DeGroot said. The chopper passed over low again, causing everyone but DeGroot to flinch downward and cutting off all conversation. When the roar had died away, Clancy turned and shouted at an agent nearby. “Call the damn chopper,” he ordered, “and tell them the area’s secure. They can go home.” He turned back to them. “All right,” he snapped. He turned to the two agents. “Leonard. Swierczynski.” He jerked his head toward DeGroot. “You go with him. Stay close.” He looked at DeGroot. “So where’s the boy?”

  DeGroot nodded his head toward the wooded slope.

  “Up th
ere,” he said.

  “In the woods?” Clancy said.

  DeGroot nodded. “And don’t think of going back on our deal,” he said. “There’s half a dozen trails up that mountain. Only I know the right one. Oh, if we’re going to be walking in the woods together,” he said, “I’ll need these cuffs off.” Leonard and Swierczynski looked at each other, then at Clancy.

  “Fine,” Clancy said. “But if you’re going to be taking my people into the woods in the dark, I’m putting two more agents on you.” DeGroot just nodded.

  “I want to go,” Marie said. “He’s my son. He’ll be terrified.”

  Clancy shook his head. “No. No way. I’m not putting a civilian into this situation. The last time that happened, things went cockeyed.”

  I know, Marie thought.

  “Get Guthrie and Starr to go with you,” Clancy was telling the two agents. He looked at DeGroot. “And if he tries to escape,” Clancy said, “shoot him.”

  ***

  It was only about a half mile from the overlook to the peak, but the trail wove back and forth through the trees, winding its way up slowly so that the tourists wouldn’t have to climb the steep slope directly. DeGroot picked his way carefully along the trail. Two of the agents, Leonard and Swierczynski, flanked him on either side. The beams of their flashlights bobbed and wavered as they tried to keep up on the uneven ground in their dress shoes. Two more, who he supposed were Starr and Guthrie, followed behind. He could hear them breathing hard.

  “How much further?” grunted one of the agents beside him. It was Leonard, the big kaffir.

  “You’ve been behind the desk too long, boet,” DeGroot said. “You’re out of shape. It’s just a bit further.” He heard the sound of running water ahead. “There’s a footbridge that goes over that stream ahead,” he warned them. “It’s narrow. We’ll have to go single file.” The ground leveled out slightly as they approached the stream. Leonard took up a position ahead, with Swierczynski behind. Starr and Guthrie trailed. The crude wooden bridge appeared in the beam of the lights.

  “This bridge is old,” DeGroot said. “It’s shaky. Best we cross it one at a time.” Leonard looked at him suspiciously for a moment. “Okay,” he said finally, “I’ll go first.”

  “Sure,” DeGroot said.

  Leonard turned to the other agents. “Watch him,” he said. He turned and started across. His shoes clattered on the worn planking.

  “Mind your step,” DeGroot called out. “There’s some boards missing.” Leonard reached the end of the bridge and stepped off onto the trail. He turned and pinned DeGroot in the beam of the flashlight. “Now you,” he said.

  The stream was invisible in the darkness, but DeGroot could hear it chuckling over the rocks beneath. As he reached the end of the bridge, his foot caught in the gap where a plank had once been. He stumbled forward and landed full-length on the ground with a loud exhalation of breath. He lay there for a moment, groaning. He could hear footsteps clattering across the bridge. Leonard’s heavy tread approached from the other direction.

  DeGroot rolled to one side of the trail. He groped for a moment in the leaves until he found what he was looking for, what he had left there when he prepared this ground earlier. It was a plastic grip with a trigger assembly, like a pistol without receiver or barrel. Without looking up, he squeezed the trigger.

  A massive roar split the night and the darkness turned to momentary daylight. The three agents bunched together on the bridge didn’t have time to scream as the pair of claymore mines DeGroot had placed on his side of the bridge scythed them down. The hundreds of ball bearings embedded in the front of the mines blasted every living body in the kill zone into pulp. The bridge itself disappeared in a rain of splinters. DeGroot sprang upward, toward where he had last heard Leonard. The kaffir was standing there, his face slack in shock from the blast and carnage that had shattered the nighttime silence. DeGroot caught him in the throat with a vicious punch that fractured his windpipe. The man went down, gagging for the breath he’d never take again. DeGroot aimed a killing blow at the FBI agent’s temple and the gagging stopped. DeGroot picked up the flashlight and looked around. He located Leonard’s weapon on the ground by the trail and picked it up. He checked Leonard’s body again to determine whether a killing shot would be necessary. It wasn’t. He rifled through the agent’s coat for spare ammo clips. He found two and pocketed them. He looked back down the trail. There were more agents down there, he knew, and they’d be on their way soon. He reached into the bushes where he’d hidden the trigger for the mines. He came up in a moment with a small two-way radio he had bought at Radio Shack. He turned the device on. The low hiss of static came from the tiny speaker.

  DeGroot keyed the mike.

  ***

  Keller,” Clancy said, “Lately it seems like every time some kind of major shit starts in this state, you’re in the middle of it. You got any explanation for that?”

  Keller shrugged. “Just lucky, I guess.” He looked over to where a group of FBI agents were clustered around DeGroot’s vehicle. “Any sign of the boy?”

  Clancy shook his head. “This DeGroot asshole says he’s got him stashed up on the mountain. Booby-trapped.”

  “Who is that guy, anyway?” Keller said.

  “Some kind of mercenary,” Clancy said. “He was mixed up with what ever Lundgren, Powell, and Riggio were doing.”

  Clancy looked sour. “We don’t know, and even if we did, do you think we’d tell—” He stopped short as something that sounded like a clap of thunder ruptured the night. It came from somewhere in the woods.

  “Shit.” Clancy yelled. He turned and bolted toward the Taurus where Alyssa Fedder sat. “Get the girl out of here! Now!”

  Wilcox looked as if he was going to make an argument of it, but then he looked at the girl. He started the engine. The tires spun briefly in the gravel before they caught and the car wheeled quickly onto the blacktop. It was gone in seconds. Marie was sprinting for the tree line. Keller jumped out of the Suburban and ran after her. “Get back here!” Clancy bellowed. Marie ignored him. As Keller ran past him, Clancy grabbed his arm. The momentum of Keller’s rush spun him around. Clancy grabbed him in a bear hug. “Oh, no you don’t,” he grunted. “We’re not going to—”

  At that moment, DeGroot’s car exploded as the other two-way radio, rigged as a detonator, set off the plastic explosive in the trunk. The agents standing by the car were killed outright. Clancy and Keller were knocked to the ground by the blast with Clancy landing hard on top of Keller. They lay there stunned for a few moments.

  “Clancy,” Keller grunted. “Get off me.” There was no response. Keller pushed, and Clancy’s limp body slid off of his. Keller got to his feet painfully. He looked at Clancy.

  The FBI man lay on his side on the ground, his eyes open and unseeing. A jagged piece of metal protruded from the middle of his back. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. Keller looked around for Marie. She was across the road, by the trailhead. She was on her hands and knees, slowly getting up. She looked at Keller for a moment, then staggered toward the woods.

  “Marie,” Keller shouted. “Wait!” She ignored him and disappeared into the gloom. Keller swore under his breath. He ran to his car. His shotgun sat propped up in its rack on the driver’s side. He pulled the weapon out and racked the slide as he headed after Marie.

  “Hey!” a voice came from one of the other vehicles. “Hey!”

  Keller looked over. The two men who had brought Alyssa Fedder to the overlook were raising their heads above the windowsill of one of the Suburbans. All of the windows on one side had been blown out. The two men’s faces were streaked with blood, but the cuts on their faces looked minor. Shattered glass glistened like gems on their skin and in their hair.

  “Get us out of these handcuffs,” the blond man who had taken Alyssa from the car said. “We’ll help.”

  “Right,” Keller said. He continued across the parking lot.

  “You’re up against a pr
o,” the dark-haired one called. “You’re going to need all the help you can get.”

  That stopped him. He looked at the two men for a moment, then jogged over to the black Suburban. “Where’s the handcuff key?” he said.

  The blond man nodded toward the other side of the car. “The guy who was standing right over there had it,” he said. “Before the car went up.”

  Keller rounded the big truck. One of the FBI agents, a balding sandy-haired man, was sitting propped up against the side of the vehicle. He was semiconscious, his eyes foggy.

  “Give me the keys to those cuffs,” Keller demanded.

  The man looked up at him uncomprehendingly. “What?” he said, his voice slurred. He raised his hand to his ear and smiled apologetically. “Sorry,” he said in a too-loud voice. “Can’t hear.”

  “Damn it,” Keller muttered. He bent down and started going through the agent’s coat pockets. “Hey,” the man protested weakly. “Hey—” He reached up with one hand.

  Keller brushed the hand away easily. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I need that key.” His hand brushed across the small hunk of metal and he pulled it out.

  “I think I need a doctor,” the agent said calmly. “I don’t feel so good.” Then his eyes glazed and he slumped over. Keller bent down and felt for a pulse. Then he opened the car door and began unlocking the dark-haired man’s cuffs.

  “Is the guy all right?” the man said.

  “He’s dead,” Keller said. The dark-haired man slid out of the vehicle and knelt on the ground by the FBI man as Keller uncuffed the other man.

  “C’mon, Mike,” the blond man said. “We haven’t got time.”

  The dark-haired man sighed and stood up. “Probably couldn’t have done anything anyway,” he said in a detached voice. “Overpressure like that, his insides probably look like strawberry jam.” He looked at Keller and extended a hand. “Mike Riggio,” he said. “My partner here’s Bobby Powell.”

  “Jack Keller,” Keller said. “We need to move. Marie’s alone up there.”

  Powell and Riggio looked at each other. “That’s not real bright,” Powell said.