by Darren Swart
The events that brought him here formed a collage in his mind: getting fired; the bar; the toast; the odd little Scottish man. What was his name? Dirk? No. Dink? No. DICK. It was with Dick that he had begun to feel woozy at the bar. The odd little man had offered to drive him home. None of the rest made sense. He continued to get the feeling there was something about this basement that was familiar.
He steeled himself to take a second look at the corpse. He pulled his shirt up and over his nostrils in an attempt to block out some of the smell. He crept toward the body as though it were sleeping. He studied the chalky facial features for a moment. Uncle Mal? It had been fifteen years since he’d seen the guy, but he hadn’t changed much. He was a train wreck before; he was a train wreck with a bridge collapse now. His wide mouth and puffy jowls had always reminded Marty of a hippo for some reason. Perhaps it was his huge belly that completed the picture for him. Sprigs of thin gray hair sprouted behind his ears like weeds. The top of his head was as smooth as a river rock and about as mottled. It was hard to tell if his T-shirt was filthy from being dragged down to the place, or if it had been that way to begin with. One thing was for sure: this was definitely Mal. He looked pretty much the same as he had when dumped off in the pouring rain on Bess’s doorstep when he was ten.
He studied the old man for a moment. There was something wrong about the way his body was positioned. It looked like there was something under him. He was not about to touch him, if at all possible. Marty grabbed a loose rag and made a loop. He wiggled it under Mal’s hand and tightened it. With the rag secured, he began to pull on his limp arm. He strained against the dead weight of the figure. Gradually, the body began to move forward. With a flop, the body rolled forward revealing the form of a petite woman beneath him. Aunt Faye?
If the couple before him was Faye and Mal, then this must be Barb’s basement. He hadn’t been back to the farm since Barb had died. What have I gotten myself into?
Neither Faye nor Mal had any real sense of ethics. When Barb had died, they had, in one fell swoop, tried to rob him of his inheritance and dump him like a stray puppy into Bess’s iron hand. Ironically, Bessie had turned out to be the best thing for him. He shuddered to think how he would have turned out under his Aunt and Uncle’s guidance. While crusty and sardonic to most, Bess had turned out to be sweet and patient in her own way. No matter what the circumstance, she was always his fiercest ally. No one messed with Marty more than once. As he looked down at the corpse couple, they looked a lot smaller these days. While the family reunion was heartwarming, it was time to get out of this place. He remembered that Barb’s cellar only had one way in or out.
Marty squared his broad shoulders up with the old wooden door. With his size, he was sure he could break it open if he tried hard enough. He just hadn’t tried hard enough before. He walked over to the double doors and steeled himself. A quick push and he should be in fresh air. He placed his hands squarely in the center and pushed up. The old oak planks creaked a bit, but didn’t give way.
Deciding to focus his energy in one big push, he stepped back a few feet. He would fling himself at the door and hope that he didn’t land on his face when he crashed through. Squaring his shoulder up, he threw himself at the door like a linebacker. He slammed into the door with no effect other than the radiating pain down his arm. The door was rock solid and now his shoulder hurt. He rubbed it sullenly and looked up at the windows. They were too small for his lumbering frame to fit through, but he could at least get a little fresh air through them. The windows were only twelve inches tall and well over his head. Looking around, he found a broken rake handle. The window broke easily, allowing the cool evening air to filter in. The breeze carried a hint of lilac and honeysuckle. He closed his eyes for a moment and enjoyed the memory of happier times on the farm. The thought struck him that he was a kidnap victim for some bizarre reason. Stranger still was the huge question mark as to why? He wasn’t rich or important. No one would miss him, if he was gone. The thought depressed him.
He shook his head. Maybe Dick is a serial killer? He thought this through and found it to be as preposterous as the kidnapping. If he were a serial killer, Marty would already be dead like his aunt and uncle. It was no irony that he was being held at Barb’s old farm. There must be a connection? Unless he got out of here soon, he was going to find out. It was time to take some action.
The night air cleared his senses enough for him to develop a strategy. For the first time, he noticed the sound of crickets singing in the night. It was comforting to hear something normal. Unless things had changed, there were no neighbor’s for miles. He looked around the room for a useful tool. The room was cleared of metal tools. How considerate, he thought.
His eyes fell back on a bag of fertilizer and an old kerosene lamp. The idea formed slowly. It looked as though his escape would require some assembly.
He carefully surveyed the door. Maybe I can blow it open? He built a rickety structure of old crates and pallets at the door. He hefted several bags of potting soil onto the top pallet, hoping that this would push the energy toward the door and protect him. He was good at building bridges—not so much at blowing them up. He moved quickly onto the bomb.
He assembled the lantern, pill bottle and fertilizer into a crude explosive. A small amount of paint thinner and a pool tablet would act as his fuse. Fishing line and a rusty nail finished the contraption. He carefully placed a bag of potting soil on top of it. He could feel his heart pounding in his ears, as he pulled the fishing line chlorine tablet into the waiting paint thinner to start the chemical reaction.
It had taken him all night to come up with this. The orange rays of sunlight were beginning to peek through the window, as he quickly took shelter behind a bunker of pallets and the remaining bags of soil—and waited.
Chapter 5
The cool night air whistled through the open window of the old Bronco, as it rumbled down the Interstate. The boxy shape, the blotchy worn paint and peeling bumper stickers with Live Free or Die belied its potential. Domed pistons, hemi heads and duel distributors made it hum flawlessly down the highway.
She had driven steadily for days. She turned off the throbbing bass of the stereo, as she passed the Welcome to North Carolina sign, a welcome sight in the headlights. An hour later, she scanned the back roads lined with corn fields and pastures in the dim pre-dawn light. Their local surveillance contact had witnessed Wood being kidnapped and the location where he was being held. He continued to watch. It struck her as odd that the Scot would have taken him there, but this wasn’t a business of second guessing. You proceeded at face value and prepared for the worst.
She eased down the winding dirt road that led to the farm and flipped off her lights. She looked for some place to hide the Bronco, while she moved in on foot. Moments later, she tucked in a cozy hideaway in a fallen section of fence which was only a few hundred yards from the farmhouse. She kept her eyes on the roads around her, as she draped camouflaged netting across the front of the Bronco. The hulking truck disappeared in the backdrop of honeysuckle and wisteria blossoms.
An odd thought struck her, as she methodically worked on the vehicle: She had never technically met her handler, Franz, face-to-face. The rest of the team had, including her father, before he’d died.
It was her father who had drawn her into all this. He had made her the perfect soldier—in his own image—even if she was a girl. She never strayed far from his teaching. It was a curse, really.
When the Bronco was camouflaged and she was securely hidden under a camouflaged net, she looked at her Timex: 0600. She pulled out her cell and hit the speed dial. Almost instantly, she was greeted by the squeak of Franz’s voice.
“Where are you now?”
“I’m in position and waiting at the farm.”
“Good. Surveillance is in position on the East side of the property. All is quiet over there now. We are confident Wood is in the basement. We suspect the Aunt and Uncle may be dead.” He said this in suc
h a matter of fact manner that it took Gillian aback.
“You’re sure they’re dead?”
“Ninety percent. Our source saw McPherson move them to the basement a few days ago—and none too gently from what he described.”
“So I only have to worry about Wood?” It was more of a statement than a question. She needed the confirmation.
“Correct.”
“Do we have any assets in the area?”
“Minimal. You do have some back up assets to help with the extraction.”
Swell. Once again she would go it alone. She would have to make it work. “Does McPherson have any assets in the area?”
“Yes. They have two teams in place and a third on the way.”
A chill ran down her spine. “Is there anything else I should know?”
“Yes. The object has not been located.” He paused momentarily. “…by either team.”
“So, is my objective Wood or the object?”
“Wood. He will lead us to the object.”
“Very good. I’ll touch base in two hours, if possible. Cell phone will be turned off in forty-five seconds.” Even in vibrate mode, it made enough noise to tip off anyone within earshot.
“Understood.”
A small chirp indicated that the line had been disconnected. It was a good thing she had years of training for this sort of thing. A girl might get her feelings hurt with a guy continually hanging up on her like that.
****
He barely noticed the clatter of the ice machine across the hall. The bed was lumpy, but compared to some of the snake infested swamps he had slept in, it was comfortable enough. McPherson awoke before the clock ever went off. He checked through his supplies again to ensure that everything was in order; car battery, wires with alligator clips, duct tape, rubbing alcohol, ball peen hammer, rags, plastic sheeting, handcuffs. He smiled, thinking of the pleasure it would bring him.
Everything had gone smoothly the night before. He dosed the lad with GHB and left him at the farm. Since he wouldn’t tell him what he needed to know, he would employ more traditional means—torture. It reminded him of South Africa. He whistled a happy tune at the thought of making the boy scream.
It was just after dawn when he eased up the long driveway to the farm house. He backed in to unload the station wagon and retrieve Wood. After being locked in the basement for a day, the lad should be pliable enough. He hoped Wood didn’t give in too easy and rob him of his fun. Easing out of the front seat, he dropped the keys in his pocket and patted them. Experience had taught him that there was no such thing as being too careful.
He worked his way around the house, surveying the perimeter as he went. His assumption was that his presence had not gone unnoticed. Noting no suspicious dots of reflection from the surrounding wooded area, he felt confident that if he was being watched there weren’t many or they weren’t very well prepared. He moved quietly toward the basement door and listened. There were no unusual sounds that he could detect. Everything seemed intact. Glancing to the right he noticed the broken window pane. No surprise there.
McPherson silently eased the lock off the door, with his foot planted firmly on the door to prevent it from being slung open. Leaving the door shut, he inched away slowly, giving his prisoner time to make a move. Inexperience usually dictated that a prisoner would rush the door as soon as the lock was removed, leaving him (or her in some cases) vulnerable and off balance. Dick liked to wait at least a moment or two in these situations. He couldn’t kill him yet—Boss’s orders.
Carefully, he moved over to the door and surveyed the seam for movement. Seeing none, he flung the door open and stepped back. Oddly, a duct taped lantern base rolled forward smoking in the dewy grass. Bollocks!
He leapt back just in time to miss the full force of the flash and the concussion of the explosion. The flash blinded him for a moment, while the shockwave threw him backward onto the ground. He coughed in the thick acrid smoke eddied in a plume over his head. Bloody Hell. He hadn’t seen that coming. The kid laid a booby trap for him. He rolled over and sprang up, the blue gunmetal of his Walther gleaming in the early morning sun. He waited and watched, but nothing happened. He shook his head to clear the ringing in his ears and blinked against the burning acrid smoke. He heard a faint cough. The boy wandered out of the basement with his hand blocking the sun and the other waving away the smoke as though nothing had happened.
“That’s far enough, Lad.”
Marty blinked against the bright morning sun, trying to make sense of it all. There was the little Scottish man with a pistol pointed at him. He stared at him for a moment, gathering his thoughts. McPherson spoke again. “On the ground, Mate.”
Marty blinked. He was still a bit bleary from it all. He slowly lowered himself to the ground, with his hands slowly going to his head. The wet grass felt cold against his knees. He thought about how odd the thoughts were before the end.
Dick reached into his pocket and jerked a pair of handcuffs free. “Face down on the ground and spread eagle there, Lad. I don’ want to hurt ya, but I will if I have to.” His accent was decidedly more Scottish than the night before. Marty guessed the time for pretense was over. All cards were on the table. He tried to stall. “What do you want? I have some money, not much, but I can get more.”
It occurred to Dick at this point that the boy didn’t have a clue why he was here. This might be harder than he’d planned. The crack of a pistol and the burning in his shoulder were almost simultaneous. McPherson’s right arm fell uselessly to his side, while the Walther dropped to the ground with a thud.
Instinctively, McPherson clamped his free hand over the wound, dropped to the ground and darted toward the cover of the basement. He tripped over the debris in the doorway and stumbled forward. He rolled as he hit the ground and came up into a crouching position. The pain from the sudden tumble made him nauseous. A steady throb of raw nerves coursed through his shoulder, threatening to make him black out. He gritted his teeth and scooted himself backward, deeper into the basement.
Like a wounded animal, he moved away from the light and hid in the shadows with a view of the opening. He found some cover in the dim light and scooted behind it. His right arm was useless and had little feeling at the fingers. He reached with his left and removed a .25 caliber backup weapon. He was trapped, but at least he had cover, a weapon and the light to his advantage. Marty lay on the ground with his hands on his head longing for a dead-end job in corporate America. That was when he heard her call his name.
“Wood!” The low, female voice summoned him.
He slowly turned his head in the direction of the voice. He saw her frantically motioning to him to come to her. She wasn’t shooting at him. That was a good sign. He heard another noise, it sounded like a gear, or a click, or… Crack! The noise popped from the basement like a fire cracker. The grass kicked up a few feet from him. He was a pretty smart guy and it didn’t take long to do the math:
Choice A—a gun welding maniac motioning to him to come closer, but not shooting at him; Choice B—a gun welding maniac shooting at me.
Choice A tipped the scale, though he couldn’t fathom why. Instinctively, he rolled away from the basement door and kicked it closed as he went. Rolling onto his knees, he raised to a crouching run toward the girl. As he approached, she began moving toward him. It wasn’t hard to see the automatic in her hand.
She moved past him toward the basement. Choice A seemed so logical, but now he was confused again. Why was she going back to the basement? A few feet past him, she stopped still facing the basement door. Without looking back, she thumbed toward the driveway with her free hand. “I’m Gillian. I’m here to rescue you. Run to the road. I’ll tell you when to stop.”
He ran like an obedient Labrador toward the road. Tired and still groggy from the drugs, he loped awkwardly, occasionally glancing back to make sure that the girl was still there. She padded along behind him, running gracefully in reverse, but easily keeping up with him. His
lungs burned, making him gasp for breath. She breathed easily through her nose and didn’t appear to be exerting herself at all.
In glimpses, he studied her. Her short dark hair shown in the morning sun, complementing her olive complexion. Occasionally, he caught a glimpse of dark eyes and full lips which complemented her small button nose. Her no-nonsense cargo shorts and tank tee fit the high end running shoes, but made him wonder who she was. She’s certainly not with the government. He would have expected anyone rescuing him to be in navy polyester and worn leather shoes.
Gillian padded silently behind Wood, careful to keep pace without running over him. Aside from being a bit loopy at the moment, he looked different than the last time she had seen him—more mature somehow. A shred of doubt in the back of her mind made her wonder whether she had rescued the right guy. She would let Franz figure that out. The upside was that she got to shoot McPherson. And it was a beautiful shot.
They neared the road, so Marty slowed to a walk which caused Gillian to bump into him unexpectedly. Curtly, she said, “Keep moving!”
Martin mumbled a quick, “Sorry” and picked up the pace again. His breathing was coming in ragged gasps, while sweat poured down his face stinging his eyes. He managed to eke out in short gasps, “How much farther is it? I’m really tired.”
Her contempt flashed unmistakably in her eyes. He said nothing more, mopped his brow and trudged on. Aside from the growing stitch in his side, he was still glad to be out of the basement. In a low tone, she said, “It’s just a little farther.”
Suddenly, she tugged his shirt and motioned him toward the right. All he could see was a shrub. Now what? Not that it mattered, he was happy for the rest. She moved him into the foliage and motioned for him to sit down. He plopped unceremoniously to the ground and wheezed like an old man under the broad leaves of a sweet gum tree. A light breeze kissed his cheek.
