by Peter Darley
Thirty-Five
Surveillance
Spicer walked into his apartment to find it was strangely quiet given that he had guests.
Rachel stepped out of the kitchen.
“Where are they?” he said.
She gestured to his bedroom door. “They’re asleep. They hadn’t slept in two days. I didn’t think you’d mind them crashing on your bed.”
“You’re right, I don’t. It’s the best thing for them at the moment.” He looked away sadly. “If only this could be all over for them.”
“What happened?”
David sighed. “Stockton and I took the Porsche out to Cherry Mountain Plain and left it there. General Grant’s dealing with it.”
Rachel gave him a puzzled look. “Why would you take the car all the way out there?”
He was about to answer when he was halted by the sound of a door clicking. He looked to his right and saw Belinda coming out of the bedroom.
“David, you’re back. What happened?” Belinda said.
“He was tracking you. You had a homing device attached to the rear of the car. He must have put it on when you were in Boston. I’ve taken the car far away from here. When he reaches its location, he’ll be one-hundred-fifty miles away from you.”
“Oh, my God,” she said with barely more than a whisper. “I can’t believe it. He was tracking us all the way from Boston?”
“I’m afraid so. But you don’t have to worry any more. The car is nowhere near here, and plans are already in motion to intercept him.”
She shook her head, clearly torn by ambivalence. “Will they kill him?”
“Nobody can say. I suppose it depends on him.”
With a vacant look in her eyes, she returned to the bedroom.
David turned back to Rachel. “Thank you for staying with them.”
“Oh, believe me, it was no trouble. They’re good people.”
“Yeah, they are. I don’t even know them that well, but we’ve been through so much together, it’s almost like we’re family.”
“I can understand that.”
“God help me,” he said. “I actually hope Drake gets taken out today.”
***
Agent Wentworth Cullen sat before Director Brenham in the director’s office. He’d never seen Brenham appear so anxious before. “Deputy Director Hayes said you have an assignment for me, sir.”
Brenham loosened his tie. “Yeah, I do. Hayes trusts you. That’s all I have to go on.”
“I don’t follow you, sir. Why did I have to undergo a polygraph? I was screened only a couple of months ago.”
“There are traitors within the intelligence community, Cullen. We can’t even polygraph these guys without alerting whoever else may be involved. They would’ve passed their routine polygraphs because the questions weren’t specific to this case. You should take the fact that you were polygraphed again as a sign that you’re trusted more than anyone else right now.”
Cullen suddenly realized. “Wilmot.”
“He’s the leader, and I have two more I want you to check out.”
“Who?”
“Kerwin and Rhodes.”
Cullen nodded.
“You look like you expected their names to come up. Want to tell me why?”
“They work closely with Director Wilmot, and both are arrogant and power-hungry. It doesn’t surprise me in the least.”
“We don’t know how far this goes, or who else is involved, so I don’t need to tell you how sensitive this is.”
“Of course. But sir, shouldn’t the NSA be looking into this?”
“Ideally, yes. The problem is I don’t know if even they are infected. I know this isn’t in your official job description, but it’s the most important assignment I’m ever likely to give anyone. The future of intelligence is on the line, and you are the only living soul I can trust with this right now. We have no choice.”
Cullen became pensive as he processed the sinister nature of the circumstances.
“Please know that this is strictly off the record,” Brenham said. “You can’t say a word about this to anyone. Not a word, you understand?”
“You can rest assured.”
“All right. I need you to put Kerwin and Rhodes under surveillance. Bug them, track their every move, do whatever you have to. But I want to know every word they say, and every name they mention. This supersedes any of your current assignments right now. Whether anyone even has a next assignment is down to this investigation succeeding.”
“Understood, sir, but I won’t be able to monitor them in their homes if I’m working alone.”
“Just do whatever you can.”
Brenham’s tone had risen with a hint of aggression, but Cullen understood perfectly. It was a high-priority crisis. He couldn’t deny his own sense of pride that Deputy Director Hayes had named him as the only operative she trusted enough for the task. Finally, he stood. “I’ll get right on it, sir.”
“Thank you, Agent Cullen. Now, I have another operation to oversee, if you’ll excuse me.”
Cullen stood and exited the office with the director.
Within an hour, Cullen had prepared himself for his vital mission. He felt no remorse over Kerwin and Rhodes. Despite the requirement for professional conduct between operatives and inter-departmental relations, he’d always despised them as individuals. Of all agents to be traitors, those two caused him the least disappointment.
He approached Rhodes’ office with a folder under his arm and knocked on the door. Seconds later, it was opened. Despite Rhodes’ conservative, clean-cut appearance, Cullen knew the shark behind the demeanour.
“So, Boy Scout,” Rhodes said, “what can I do for you?”
“Mind if I come in?”
“Sure. What’ve you got?”
“The director had to go out on an operation, and he gave me copies of a file he wanted me to hand to a couple of you.” Cullen opened the folder, took out one of the files, and handed it to Rhodes. “There’s a suspected al-Qaeda cell living as a family in Michigan. Brenham wants you to look into it.”
Rhodes turned away and perused the file. “Why hasn’t Director Wilmot come to me with this?”
Cullen eased himself across to the desk while Rhodes’ back was turned. He’d needed a reason to get into the office, and handing a bogus, time-wasting assignment to Rhodes seemed to have a note of poetic irony. With a subtle backhand move, he pressed an adhesive bug onto the underside of the desk. “Director Wilmot is being made aware of it as we speak. I guess Brenham thought it was time you got off your ass and did some work for once.”
“Very funny.”
“I’m CIA. You’re SDT. Home turf assignments aren’t our place. It’s why we keep you guys around.”
“I’ll check it out.”
Cullen smiled, inwardly gloating. “I’d better get going. I have a hell of a lot to do.” A lot to do completely screwing you over, you prick.
“Yeah. Always a pleasure, Cullen.”
Cullen exited the office with a smug grin. He couldn’t shake off the rush of having just been placed solely in charge of a major intelligence crackdown—and one he’d been personally responsible for instigating.
He moved along the corridor, down the steps to the lower floor, and headed toward Kerwin’s office. Coincidentally, he spotted Kerwin about to enter the room. “Hey, Kerwin, glad I caught you,” he said with a false smile.
Kerwin turned his shaven head toward him with a typically hostile stare. “What’s up, Boy Scout?”
“Nice to see you haven’t lost your charm, Kerwin. The director has a job he wanted me to give you. Can I come in?”
Kerwin invited him into the room, his expression persistently cold and contemptuous.
Cullen followed him into the office. Damn, I hate you, asshole.
***
Brenham parked his BMW at a distance from a residential street in Georgetown. Positioned behind a park, the car would be concealed by the trees where he
could see a particular house clearly.
He lowered his electric window as a team of five FBI agents arrived, and watched while they approached the front door of the house. One of them rang the doorbell.
A minute later, the door opened, the occupant obscured by the agents. They wasted no time storming the property.
Satisfied, Brenham smiled.
Thirty-Six
Showdown
Colonel Darren Woodroffe stood in General Thaddeus Grant’s office, bewildered. “Drake’s alive?”
“So it seems.” Grant awkwardly pinched his thick, gray moustache. He picked up a strip of paper from his desk and handed it to Woodroffe. “Spicer did the right thing taking that Porsche to a remote spot. The location is on there.”
Woodroffe looked at the paper. “Very ironic. The place where I had my last altercation with Drake.”
“I’ve informed SDT, but I want a unit dispatched to monitor what goes on. I don’t trust Wilmot.”
“Sir, that isn’t our responsibility. Shouldn’t the FBI handle this?”
“There’s more to it than that. Drake is a lethal public hazard and an escaped military prisoner. We recruited and trained him, and I need to know he’s been contained.”
“All right, sir. Do you want me to take Spicer?”
“No. He’s off duty, and although I could put him back on at a moment’s notice, he’s not an effective option for this. For some reason, he has regard for Drake.”
“I’ll take eight men. That should be enough.”
“Keep a distance. Only go in if it looks like everything is going down. I know this is technically unlawful, but something is very wrong here. It’s a desperate situation.”
“Yes, sir.” Woodroffe saluted and exited the office.
***
Drake followed the tracker, which sat on the passenger’s seat of the Chevy. It confused him as to why it was indicating a westerly direction. The blinking location light pointed to fifty miles away and he couldn’t make sense of it. Cherry Mountain Plain? Why the fuck would she go there?
He continued along a series of long, dusty roads, impatiently glancing at the tracker every five seconds. They weren’t moving. The signal was static. What the hell are they doing? Having a picnic? He pressed his foot on the gas and glanced at the speedometer: 82 m.p.h.
During the last mile, the location light flashed frantically, indicating he was on top of them.
He sped past the Porsche and hit the brakes as he noticed it. After checking the rear view mirror, he backed the Chevy up and reversed into the inlet. He then gunned the car forward and spun it around, pulling it up parallel to the Porsche. He looked around, but there was nobody in sight.
He climbed out of the Chevy with a sudden suspicion coming over him. He listened for any sound around him. Anything that would indicate a human presence: the sound of footsteps, the crack of bramble, or rustling of any kind. But there was nothing.
He turned his attention to the shack but wasn’t about to take any chances before going in. Returning to the Chevy, he opened the trunk, grasped the samurai sword, and strapped it across his back. He opened the attaché case, took out two of the thermo-neutron detonators he’d stolen from Mach Industries, and put them in the pockets of his tattered hoodie.
He picked up the MZ-507 rifle from beside the case, and then turned back to the shack.
As he came closer to it, he began to tremble, and it wasn’t the fear that the FBI might be waiting for him inside. It was something else. Something he couldn’t identify. What is it about this run down shack?
And then it struck him. The Interceptor has been here.
Before entering, he stopped. His gaze lingered on the side of the shack and a sense of anguish came over him. But why? It was something about Spicer. Why would Spicer have been here with The Interceptor? Were they looking at something?
Yes.
He could remember the incident on the small iPhone screen. Spicer had been showing him footage of him torturing Nabi in Afghanistan. So, the backstabbing pricks filmed it when I wasn’t looking.
He knew the torment he was feeling wasn’t his own. It was The Interceptor’s, and he had to overcome it. The Interceptor is weak at his core. He’s a pussy.
He gingerly pushed the door to the shack and discovered it wasn’t locked. It was barely even attached to the hinges. The shack was empty. Where the fuck are they?
He stepped out again and noticed a gaping hole in the wood beside the door frame. He knew the hole had something to do with The Interceptor and Spicer. Looking up, he gazed beyond the Chevy and the Porsche. Seeing the inlet from this angle seemed so familiar. It was more of The Interceptor’s memories, no doubt—something about a Mustang parked just ahead before the patch of trees by the roadside. He was running toward it and throwing something at the Mustang.
He grasped his head as the pain started up, brought about by his instinctive curiosity and the unremitting attacks of déjà vu. No. I’ve got to forget about this. It doesn’t matter what happened back then. It was his fight, not mine.
But it was too late. The view of the location brought flashes to his mind. He didn’t know the story behind them, but he couldn’t stop the feeling of urgency and desperation from taking him over. He needed to catch the Mustang. But why?
It was her. He was trying to save her. She’d been taken. He glanced at the road and somehow knew that if he continued after the inlet, he’d come to a canyon with a deadly drop on the right side of the road. There were bombs exploding. Grenades. He could feel himself jumping out of the vehicle, followed by the impact of his body crashing into the hillside on the left.
It was always about her. She was the source of his weakness and vulnerability. Everywhere he found himself, The Interceptor used her to break him down. He had to find her, and she had to die. There was no other way.
He walked past the cars and headed toward the trees. Perhaps she was hiding among them. He cocked the rifle and continued forward.
He slowed his pace, focusing on what he could see between the branches. Nobody was there. He took another step forward . . .
A series of stabbing impacts struck him in the back, hurling him forward and knocking him off his feet. He fell to the ground, striking his forehead on the gravel. Shaking his head, he forced himself up and turned around to see Slamer standing by the shack holding an automatic rifle. The expression on Slamer’s face showed confusion and fear.
Drake chuckled. “You just hit me with a few rounds from an M-16, asshole, and I just got up again. How did I do it? I know what you’re thinking, buddy.” He moved toward Slamer, removed the sword from his back, and cast it onto the ground. Next, he threw down the MZ-507 rifle and took off the hooded top containing the detonators.
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Slamer said.
Drake opened the first few buttons of the checked shirt to reveal the advanced armored vest piece. “You really think you have artillery that can get through this, you fuckin’ dinosaur?”
Slamer placed his M-16 on the ground. “If you want to test your metal against me, kid, just bring it on.”
Overpowering hatred gripped Drake’s heart. He wanted to kill Slamer so badly he could feel the fury almost choking him. Nevertheless, he wanted his showdown to be hand-to-hand. No weaponry. “I’m gonna fucking kill you, Slamer!” he yelled, feeling the blood flushing his face.
“Come and get it.”
Drake sprinted toward Slamer, leaped into the air, fist poised, and roared.
Thirty-Seven
Mortal Combat
Slamer instinctively backed away as Drake hurled himself upon him. Their fists collided with one another’s heads simultaneously, knocking each other to the ground. Both stunned, they shook themselves off and got back on their feet.
Drake assumed a martial arts stance. Slamer raised his fists with his body angled in a boxing style.
Slamer lunged at Drake, aiming his right fist point blank at his nose. Drake sidestepped the blow
knocking it out of the way with a forearm block. In continuation of the same move, he snapped his fist backward, his knuckles shattering Slamer’s nose.
With blood splattered across his face, Slamer resumed the fight and swept his right leg round in a low arc, taking Drake off his feet. He came upon Drake and attempted to drive his fist toward his jaw. Drake rolled out of the way, causing Slamer’s fist to strike the stony ground. He howled with the pain, giving Drake the opportunity to get back on his feet.
Slamer rose as Drake assumed a stance again. Without giving Slamer time to get his bearing, Drake issued a series of kicks to his foe’s head. Slamer became notably senseless. The assault was punctuated as Drake leaped into the air and spun around, throwing the heel of his right foot into Slamer’s jaw.
Slamer fell and Drake leaped upon him. Slamer turned over and punched upward into Drake’s jaw, knocking him three feet across the ground.
Dazed, Drake struggled to get to his feet. Where he had power, skill, and extraordinary agility, Slamer had devastating strength. Slamer only had to catch him once to seriously impair him.
Drake finally got back on his feet and tried to focus. Despite his blurred vision and his jaw feeling as though it had been torn off, he could make out Slamer coming toward him.
“You’re good, junior. I’ll give you that,” Slamer said. “But I am going to kill you.”
The comment brought the rage back to Drake’s heart, and with the rage, his vision cleared. “Bring it on!”
Slamer charged toward him, but Drake spun around, throwing his heel into Slamer’s stomach. The crippling pain caused Slamer to buckle over giving Drake the opportunity to move in for the kill. “You really think you’re gonna kill me, Slamer?”
Slamer shot his fist up into Drake’s solar plexus but struck the armor, almost breaking his knuckles. Roaring with pain, he reached out desperately and grasped Drake’s legs in a bear hug and pulled his feet out from under him. Drake struck the back of his head on the ground as he fell beside his opponent. With Drake disoriented, and Slamer gasping for air, they looked at one another, each unable to move.
