by Rob Buckman
"Well?" Charley asked.
"Well what!" Pete answered, shaking his head, "the man said to transport Edward Mason to Denver, so that's what I'm going to do."
"Oh shit! I hope he's in a talkative mood."
"You can say that again. Mike is pissed and about to go on the rampage." Charley scratched the back of his head.
"Can't say I blame him much."
* * * * * *
The Blat! Blat! of a motorcycle exhaust shattered the quiet around the house on Thunder Mountain, and a moment later it roared out of the storage shed and took off down the mountain. Mike didn't bother with the road, just took off directly across country in an almost direct line for the Peregrine Creek airport. A black rage consumed him and he saw nothing but his goal, ignoring any danger in his path. He shot across gaps and crevasses, plowing through streams and brush without slowing as quail and rabbits shot out of his path. Even an old grizzly bear didn't challenge his right of way when he thundered out of some trees into a clearing. Cresting the shoulder of a ridge Mike plunged down the other side at a better then 30º angle, plummeting off a rise to land on the main road in a shower of brush, sparks, and dirt. Gunning the engine, he took off again, leaving a black strip of smoking rubber in his wake. Twenty minutes later, he broadsided around a corner and into the parking area of the flight line, killed the engine and leaned the bike again a convenient wall. Un-strapping his pack he marched across the flight line and opened up the cabin door to Kat's Twin Otter, throwing the bag inside. After a long song and dance with sheriff Napa, Pete ended up at the airport 52 minutes after talking to Mike, finding, as promised the aircraft sitting on the ramp waiting for him. The moment he'd hustled his prisoner inside and closed the cabin door, the aircraft taxied out to the run up area and Pete only just made it to a seat opposite Edward Mason before it surged forward down the runway and moments later lifted into the blue sky. Thirty minutes later Mike tapped him on the shoulder, pointing to the flight deck. Pete didn't need a map to tell him what Mike expected and simply nodded, stood up and went up front to sit in the co-pilot’s seat.
"Hello Edward." Mike said, sitting down opposite. Edward Mason felt his bladder let go and he started peeing his pants. The man who sat opposite him looked nothing like the well-dressed professor he'd seen at the party.
The fever had drawn Mike’s skin tight across his face, emphasizing his Apache ancestry. His green eyes glittered with something akin to madness and the only thing that Edward could see in them was death.
"Your boss has something that belongs to me—and I want it back."
"What....what is that?!" Edward gulped, his voice sounding squeaky as it issued from his dry throat.
"Kat Ballard!" Mike snapped, eyeing the growing wet patch in Edward's crotch.
"Oh..."
"Yes, oh. You are going to tell me where he took her."
"I don..." Mike held up his hand, stopping the flow of words before they had started.
"I don't want to hear what you don't know, only what you do know." Mike leaned closer, knowing he had to put more fear into this man than Roland Hawkins did. "We can do this the easy way, which means that the FBI can't find anything to charge you with and let you go, or we can do this the hard way." He let that sink in for a moment, seeing the wheels go round in Edward's head.
"The hard way is that I take you apart bit by bit, starting with your feet and working my way up, and if you think for a second that I am not capable of doing that, then I strongly suggest that you think again, because I can and will."
"I... I... I." Three times Edward tried to get it out. He was now sitting in a pool of wetness and he knew that wasn't the only thing in his underwear. "I don't know exactly where he might have taken her but I can guess."
"Not good enough Edward, I have to be sure." Saying that, Mike reached down and lifted Edward's left leg, pulling off the shoe and sock. "Maybe if I took off a few of your toes that would help you remember in more detail." Pulling a leather thong out of his pocket, Mike started tying it around the little toe, pulling it tight. Next, he drew the bowie knife out from under his jacket.
"OH GOD!!! NO PLEASE!!!! Edward screamed as Mike forced his foot onto the armrest and placed the sharp edge of the knife again the small toe. To stop him struggling, Mike place a booted foot in Edward's chest, forcing him back into the seat. Blood flowed from the slight pressure of the blade as it bit in, but that was sufficient to loosen Edward's tongue.
"I’ll tell you, I'll tell you!!" He screamed, the sight of his own blood sickening him.
"Well!!" Mike snapped, keeping the knife in place. He fully prepared to dismember this piece of garbage to get the information he wanted.
"He probably sent her to the whore house training center outside of Las Vegas. That's what he usually does." Edward whimpered.
"He's done this before then?"
"Yes, many times. He has his security men pick up young runaways on the streets and bring them to him, the younger the better, 12, 14 year old boys or girls. He beats them into submission with a whip, plays with them a while and then ships them off to the training center. They end up going to whore houses all over the world to the highest bidder."
Once Edward had started talking, he couldn't stop. He told Mike everything he knew about Roland Hawkins, and the general location of the training center, as he'd never been there himself. Mike sat there, impassively listening to the litany of crimes, knowing that if nothing else he'd kill Hawkins for any one of them. In the end, he gave a snarl and with a quick chop of the knife took the little toe off. There was no way Edward Mason was going to walk away from this without a reminder. Edward's scream echoed around the cabin, and Pete winced when he heard it. At last, Mike let Edward go and stalked back to the flight deck and dropped into the first seat.
"Is he still alive?" Pete asked.
"Yeah, he's alive, but I wish I hadn't told him that I'd make sure he walked. Felt like throwing him off the aircraft just to get rid of the stench." Pete looked back down the cabin, seeing Edward nursing a bloody foot.
"He's bleeding."
"Yes, he had an accident, caught his foot in a door and lost the little toe on his left foot." Mike explained, seeing Pete nod.
"You get what you wanted?"
"Oh yes," he answered with a nod, "now we go hunting." A short call on the radio relayed the message through to MacFarland, and after that Mike sat back and relaxed somewhat, at least he now had somewhere to go to look for Kat.
Mike flew Kat’s Twin Otter to Denver, and except for Pete rendering first aid to Edward, the remainder of the flight was uneventful except for the landing, as by the time he reached Denver Airport darkness had fallen and the weather had started to close in. He was a bit rusty using ILS approach but the aircraft was forgiving enough to help him over the rough spots, hardly bouncing at all. Taxing over to the private parking area he lashed it down and headed for the flight center while Pete took off to book his prisoner in.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE:
"Hi. My name is Mike Grainger. Do you have any messages for me?" He asked the girl behind the counter in the flight operations center. He gave her his best smile, hoping it would offset his appearance. Even after a careful shave, shower and clean clothes he still looked battered and worn, cuts and bruises still evident on his face.
"That must have been some accident you were in,” she said, looking at his face, frowning and biting her lower lip.
"You could say that." He took the envelope she held out and opened it. Inside was nothing more than a set of directions to a hanger on the far side of the airport plus an airport security permit in his name. He pinned it on. "Can you tell me how to get to hanger 26?"
"Twenty-six?" She said, looking puzzled. She picked up an airport directory and studied it for a moment. "Let me see. Oh yes, that's on the other side of the airport, over in the air national guard area."
"Thank you."
"You can't go there anyway, it's off limits to civilians."
"W
ant to bet."
With his permit he managed to hitch rides all the way there, the last dropping him by the front door—and the three man guard. They were not here for show and the moment he stepped out of the vehicle, two of them covered him with their AR15's. The other man moving to the side, out of the line of fire, pulling his side arm. A lexan clipboard was held at the ready in the other.
"This area is off limits at the moment, sir. You'll have to go back." It was crisp and left no room for argument.
"What you’re guarding is for me."
"Pardon?" The guard leader said, looking puzzled.
"My name is....." he thought about it for a split second "Sunray Five." That stopped them.
A different expression crossed the man's face as he said it." I.D. please." The leader holstered his side arm and held his hand out while the other two still covered him. Carefully, he handed it over and stepped back, as did the leader. With a small flashlight, he examined the I.D. carefully, consulting some notes on his clip board. That board was not just for notes. It was made of half inch Lexan and in an emergency, it could act as a bullet proof shield. The man tucked the clipboard under his arm, coming to attention and saluting.
"Good evening sir. Sorry for the inconvenience, we were told to be extra careful."
"I'm not surprised with what's been happening lately.”
"Yes Sir. Thank you for your co-operation." He saluted again, turned and walked up to the door and knocked.
A few moments later, it was opened from the inside and Mike stepped into the darkness. He was a bit puzzled by all the security. But knowing Roland Hawkins, there was no telling how far his power reached. It wasn't until the door was closed and locked again that the lights came on and he found three more men facing him. Each man wore starlight goggles and had a 9 mm automatic pointed at him. As the lights came up, they pulled the goggles off.
"Mr. Grainger?" One asked.
"Yes."
"I would like to see your I.D. please."
Mike complied. Someone was taking no chances, not that he could blame them. Looking around he found the reason for the extra precautions—a SR71 'Blackbird’ sat in the center of the hanger behind the three guards. With a multimillion dollar, top secret aircraft sitting in the middle of the hanger, Mike suspected that there were a lot more guards around someplace. The moment he'd been cleared, the place became a whirlwind of activity as the flight crew swarmed over the aircraft for a last minute check out. Half an hour later he was kitted out and strapped into the rear seat of the aircraft as it thundered down the runway and leaped into the sky. The pilot hadn't bothered to ask him if he'd flown before, just stood it on its tail at a sixty degree angle and punch the after burners. This left what remained of his stomach at five hundred feet while his head was at fifty thousand and climbing. Someone must have taken him seriously, when he said that he wanted to get there fast. The only trouble was, no one had told him(?) where he was going. The pilot wasn't in a talkative mood for which he was thankful and so he reeled his stomach back in and settled down to catch up on his sleep. At seventy two thousand feet at Mach point nine, this bird burned a few gallons of gas. So it was not surprising to wake up and find themselves tucking behind a KC150 'ARCO' air tanker sucking on a tit. He tuned out the natter between the pilot and the fuel exchange technician and went back to sleep. His wake up call was the wheels hitting the tarmac. After taxiing to a hanger, he climbed out, stiff and sore, but feeling a hundred percent better. Dawn was just breaking as his transport pulled in. He hoped there was still time to save Kat before she was shipped off to somewhere he’d never find her. Either way, Rolass Hawkins was dead. On the drive out, he had found out where the bastard was, Washington. The car dropped him off at Langley, and he was ushered through the formalities and up to the private dining room.
"Thought you might like some breakfast,” the Director said by way of introduction.
"Thanks, not a bad idea." The Director nodded to a waiter standing unobtrusively in the back ground. He took Mike's order and vanished, appearing a few moments later to deposit a steaming plate in front of him. The Director waited until he'd departed before speaking.
"Good to see you again Mike."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, of course I am."
"I had the impression you might like to see me dead." The Director chuckled at that.
"I won’t lie to you. The thought had cross my mind."
"Miss your opportunity?"
"No. Let’s just say for argument’s sake that I had the chance but didn't take it."
"You're losing me again."
"Mike. Whatever you might think of this agency. Not everybody is a gold plated son of a bitch."
"No. Just you."
"You've got that right. We do have a few bad eggs, but we've gradually weeded them out."
"A few! My God, that an understatement." The Director held his hand up.
"Let’s not quibble about numbers. Sometimes we need those type of people, I'm sorry to say. You know as well as I do what a dirty business this is."
"You can say that again. Anyway, I didn't come here to chew over old times with you."
"What did you come for?"
"To kill Roland Hawkins." The Director chewed that one over for a moment.
"Can't say I blame you. Nasty piece of work that, anything personal?"
"Hell yes, damn it! He kidnapped a girl..." Mike stopped himself before he’d said too much.
"I see." And he did. This girl, whoever she was had touched the heart of stone and it gave him pause to think.
"You know where she is?" Mike asked.
"Yes, I believe so. The number you gave me is to an address here in Washington. A private number, not listed anywhere. We've been monitoring that number since you called. An hour after that we intercepted a call to a place just outside of Las Vegas."
"You think Hawkins might be there?"
"No, I don't think so but I do know the girl is, or I should say was there."
"How's that?" He asked, his stomach feeling tight.
"Hawkins called himself, to see if she had arrived safely. She had. We only discovered this after you had left Denver, and rather than re-route the aircraft I decided to bring you here first."
"So I go to Las Vegas, then back and kill him." It made no difference to him.
The director nodded, thinking it over. It didn't bother him at all that Roland Hawkins would die. And he suspected not very pleasantly. He’d ordered many men killed. Some he'd regretted, some he didn't. This one he didn't. He now knew for a fact that Roland Hawkins had caused the death of a friend of his, nothing provable, but a fact none the less. This would be justice delayed.
"Tell me what this is all about Mike, maybe I can help. It's going to take a little time to set this up any way."
"I know. I'm not trying to rush you."
"More coffee?" Mike took another cup and told his story.
"So this whole deal was about drugs then?" The director commented after he'd finished.
"Yes, but hundreds of tons, not just pounds. Those trucks are the keys. Hawkins has worked out a way to import the paste, probably as fertilizer or something like that. Customs people wouldn't check too very closely, or he's got someone on the payroll. Either way, he has access to sufficient material to manufacture enough product to flood the United States. He would have put all the other drug dealers out of business, and make billions of dollars." The Director nodded, agreeing with his scenario.
"I'm going to pass this on to the DEA and FBI. Between them they should be able to shut this operation down."
"Whatever, I don't care. Just find Hawkins for me."
"We'll find him for you."
* * * * * *
The same SR71 took him to Nellis AFB and a Huey Gunship from there out into the desert. It dropped him off beside a secondary road where he was met by a man wearing a special forces Green Beret.
"Good evening Sir. My Name is Captain Goodman. My men are waiting for y
ou."
"Anyone else?"
"Yes Sir. A Pete Rogers and two other FBI men." Mike went over and shook hands with Pete. Not liking the idea of the other FBI men being here.
"Good to see you again Pete."
"And you Mike."
"Have any trouble in Washington?"
"None to speak of. As soon as the director received a call from upstairs the whole matter of my acting without orders was dropped and I was officially put in charge of the case."
"Do we need the other two men?" Mike asked, nodding in their direction.
"Yes, if any one should ask, this is an FBI raid. We will be taking credit for this."
"All right. What's the drill?" He asked.
"These special forces types have located the place and have it under surveillance. From what we can tell, there are only four heavies on duty at one time. Four others are in the house resting or doing other duties." He didn't have to elaborate what the other duties were. Mike could guess.
"We go in just after dark as they change shifts, that puts them all outside at the same time. When that happens, we hit them and take them out. The rest should be easy."
"You hope,” he said, then added "It's never easy."
"There's not harm in wishing."
"Give me a minute to get changed Pete." He said, and started stripping off his clothes.
As the cool of the evening dropped on the desert, they moved down the road. Whoever the men were with Pete, they moved as silently as the rest of the 'A' team. He was thankful for that. There was nothing worse than to have a flat footed cop stumbling around in the dark to give the game away. As night fell, they moved to within a hundred yards of the house, moving into the cover of some scrub brush.
"Damn!" Instantly Mike saw the reason for the Captain's remark. On top of everything else, there were now two armed men on the roof. There was no way to take them out silently, plus there was the added difficulty of being spotted as they moved up to the house.
"Now what do we do. Rush the house?" Pete asked the Special Forces Captain.
"No way!' Mike answered.
