by Ponzo, Gary
“Just out of curiosity,” she said, “where exactly are we going?”
Agent Ford kept his attention on the obscure dashes in the middle of the road. “Someplace where you will be safe.”
“How far away is it?”
Agent Ford sighed. “Not much longer.”
He was evasive, which was typical for an FBI agent, but he seemed to get edgier with every question she asked. The deeper into the wilderness they got, the less cordial he became.
There was a faint knock from under her seat. It sounded like a tire had flung a rock into the undercarriage of the car. She listened intently for a few minutes, but there was nothing more.
There were very few cars on the road and it disquieted her, although she wasn’t sure why. The car slowed as Agent Ford appeared to be searching for a marker of some sort, peering back and forth as if he’d become lost.
“Can I help you find something?” she asked.
Agent Ford ignored her, maintaining a hyperactive inspection of his surroundings.
Then, the knock again. This time it seemed to come from behind her.
“Did you hear that noise?” she asked.
Agent Ford sounded annoyed. “No, I don’t hear anything.”
Again a thump sounded, only louder this time. “That noise,” she said. “You can’t hear it?”
Agent Ford made eye contact with her through the rearview mirror. It was a look that forced her into a quick breath.
Another loud thump sent her nerves into overdrive. It wasn’t the thump that unnerved her as much as the reaction from the FBI Agent driving the car. He seemed annoyed, as if Julie was causing the noise.
“Certainly you heard that,” she insisted.
“Yes,” he said with a perfunctory nod.
“What do you think it is?”
“I know what it is,” he said. But he stopped there.
Why was he being so coy?
It dawned on her that she was locked in the backseat of an FBI vehicle. Which meant she was locked inside the car without any means of escape. The man was leering at her now through the mirror. This was not the way an agent treated another agent’s wife. Something was very wrong.
There was one way to find out if her worst fears were being realized. “Listen,” she said, “I . . . uh, what was your first name again?”
A hesitation, then, “Wesley.”
“Wesley,” she continued casually, as if she hadn’t caught the misnomer, “is there something wrong with the car?”
He mumbled something about a wheel bearing, but she didn’t hear a word. Instead, she heard her husband’s voice telling her the Agent’s real first name. William. Her world seemed to stop. She thought about Nick, about how they would never get to have a child together. How she’d never be a mother and watch her husband push their kids on the swing in the backyard, as promised. Nick was going to leave the Bureau and they would be safe, and everything was going to be all right. But not anymore and she knew it.
When her eyes met the stranger’s again in the rearview mirror, she thought she saw uncertainty. He wasn’t sure whether she had made him or not. She remembered something that Nick had told her years ago, when they were still dating. He was worried about her teaching in a public school in a rough section of the city. If she was ever in a situation where she was about to become a victim, strike the first blow. An attacker is never prepared for a woman to be aggressive. It sets them back. She thought it was peculiar advice from a law enforcer. She’d always read the best method of survival was to acquiesce.
But Nick was used to dealing with a different type of criminal, and she had a feeling it was exactly the sort of assailant she was dealing with now.
She stealthily removed her belt and re-looped it in front of her, low and out of sight. She slid her cell phone from her purse and glimpsed down at it just long enough to see where the redial button was, then quickly returned her attention to her driver. She knew Nick was the last person she had called and she was sufficiently frightened enough to call him back.
When her thumb pressed down on the redial button, the tiniest of beeps sounded. The man swiveled his head, saw the device in her hand, and snatched it from her with adroit swiftness. He rolled down the window, tossed it out, and shut the window.
“You’re not supposed to be using that thing. It could be traced,” the man said, searching her face for a reaction.
The banging became louder. Before she could think about what she was saying, she asked, “What in the world is that noise, really?”
He heaved a reluctant sigh. She thought she saw relief on his face. “It’s Agent Ford. He’s locked in the trunk.” The man shrugged, “I guess he’s no longer unconscious.”
Julie tensed. Her stomach began to cramp up. The thumping was constant and had developed a desperate cadence. The car was on the shoulder now, spitting up gravel. The man masquerading as Agent Ford searched for an opening in the trees. With the rain pounding the hood, Julie couldn’t tell if there was a dirt road ahead, or just a path in the woods.
The man’s eye’s briefly smiled back at her through the narrow slit of the reflection. This time she could detect a slight accent. “You’re going to be our hostage, Mrs. Bracco. Stay calm and you won’t be hurt. Do something stupid, and I’ll cause you pain that you couldn’t imagine in your wildest nightmare.”
Julie knew she had to act now or become a casualty. His threat was meant to buy him time. He expected her to be paralyzed with fear and she knew the minute the car was away from the road, she was a casualty.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
The man paid no attention. She could see the opening he was searching for a mere fifty yards in front of them. A pair of headlights peeked over the horizon, blurring the view of the road ahead of them. Julie took a deep breath, slipped the belt over the man’s head and pulled it tight around his neck. One hand held it taut to his skin, the other pulled the excess strap with every ounce her hundred-twenty-pound frame could muster. The car skidded sideways while the man dug his fingers at the restraint around his neck. They found themselves fishtailing in the middle of the road, the man frantically turning into the skid with his knees.
The approaching car swerved dramatically to miss them, the horn wailing as it passed the out-of-control vehicle. Julie didn’t relent. The car made a full circle and she hung onto the belt as the momentum flung her back and forth between the headrests.
The man desperately rummaged through his jacket. Looking down over his shoulder, she saw him pull a gun from his inside pocket. She could feel the car slowing.
The man tried to get a shot off without hitting himself. Julie felt the bullet whiz by her head and heard the blast of glass shatter behind her. A second bullet immediately followed. This time she felt it burn into her shoulder. She let go of her grip to see and feel the gravity of the wound. She touched the opening with her finger and felt the warm moisture escaping the site. Her blouse absorbed the oozing fluid like a tissue soaking up spilled tomato juice. She turned away, unable to deal with the reality of the hole in her body.
The man gasped a critical breath of air. He snatched the belt from his head and leaned back against the headrest, rubbing his neck.
The car had stopped in the middle of the road and Julie found herself crouched in the backseat, an easy target. When she looked up, she noticed the broken back window behind her. Jagged triangles of glass framed the opening like a menacing jack-o-lantern. She didn’t hesitate. She flung her body through the aperture, scraping her torso with razor-like tears as she shimmied her way out of the car.
She slid across the trunk, hit the slick asphalt with open palms and rolled onto her back with a thud. In her peripheral vision, she could sense the brightness of headlights approaching. She turned and crawled for a couple of yards until she could get to her feet. She ran toward the light. Her legs felt weighted down as she waved her arms. She was only upright for a couple of wobbly steps when she heard the shot and felt the bullet hit he
r in the back of her head. Then the lights disappeared, and so did Julie Bracco’s world.
Chapter 21
Don Silkari, Jimmy “Fingers” Ferraro, Tony “the Butcher” Florio, and Sal Demenci sat on a bench in the back of the FBI’s high-tech van in amazement. Across from the awe-struck Italians was a wall of flat-screen video monitors, radar screens, dials, and blinking lights. So many that even Nick Bracco had to strain his memory to recall the purpose of all of them.
Three FBI Agents sat on bolted stools in front of the screens wearing headphones and playing with knobs and switches. Nick and Matt sat in the front portion of the van familiarizing themselves with a detailed map of the surrounding streets. Nick looked up from the diagram and watched as Don Silkari stretched his neck to see the young FBI technicians at work. They were the new breed of agent. In the old days they would have been analysts, looked down upon as nerds who didn’t have the nerve to make it in the field. Nowadays, they were revered as sophisticated agents. The ones who used technology in the field to outmaneuver the enemy, making it safer for field agents to go places where they had previously avoided. In the past, the FBI went in heavy with SWAT teams and snipers. Now they surprised their opponents with small groups of prepared agents who were already informed about the obstacles they would face. Preserving evidence and saving lives.
Silk pointed to a blue screen with four straight lines flowing across it. “What’s that one for?” he asked.
Paul Hartwick pulled his headphones down around his neck and tapped the screen. “These are the lines that represent the voices inside of the house.” He looked over at Nick tentatively and Nick gave him a reassuring nod.
“Well,” Hartwick continued, “we have an acoustic laser pointed at a window of the home and it gives us readings on the noises inside. These lines indicate vocal tones. There are four flat lines, representing four different human voices detected inside the house at one time or another.” One of the lines began to wiggle. “See, right now this voice is talking. When the lines move it represents vocal changes. If a new voice should speak, the computer recognizes the different inflection and adds a new line to the screen. So far it looks like there are only four men inside of the house.”
Silk shook his head in amazement. He was like a kid watching Santa land reindeer on his rooftop. “You can hear what they’re saying?” Silk asked.
“Every word,” Hartwick assured him.
Nick leaned over and grabbed an available headset. He stuck one earpiece over his right ear.
Hartwick looked at him. “You know Kurdish?”
“Somewhat.”
After a few minutes Nick said, “What’s that word mean?”
Hartwick was listening to the same conversation on his headset. “Which one?”
“Sarock.”
“It’s a very respectful term, usually reserved for patriarchs of a family.”
“Could it mean . . . leader?”
Hartwick thought for a moment. “It could.”
Nick pulled his headset off. “Who’s in charge of Satellite Patrol?”
Hartwick was adjusting a dial on the panel in front of him. “I think it’s still Stevie Gilpin.”
“Can you get him on line for me?”
Before Nick could finish his thought, Hartwick was handing him a smaller, thinner headset and dialing a number into a keypad to his left. “He usually answers on the first ring, twenty-four hours a day.”
Nick heard half of a ring, then, “Gilpin.”
“Stevie?”
“That’s me.”
“Listen, this is Nick Bracco. Could you add a key word to our scavenger hunt?”
Gilpin laughed. “One word, Nick. You’re kidding, right?”
“No, I’m not. I just need the word Sarock added to the list.”
“Do you know which language so I can route it to the proper interpreter?”
“Kurdish.”
“Nick, for you, it will be done inside of thirty seconds. That fast enough?”
“You’re beautiful, Stevie.”
“That’s what everyone tells me.”
Nick hung up with a smile. Between the NSA, CIA, and FBI, there were twenty-two satellites circling the earth. Half of them were video surveillance recorders, the other half audio. The audio satellites were listening to every conversation sent through the airwaves around the world, and were programmed to record every conversation in every language that included any one of hundreds of key words: kill, bomb, nuclear, destroy, murder, etc. Once they were recorded, they were sent directly to FBI headquarters, where a translator would determine whether the conversation warranted any further investigation. Most of the time it was housewives talking about killing time, but every now and then something good happened. Adding Sarock to the list of words probably added a boatload of work for the Kurdish translator and nothing more. But it was worth a shot.
Sal Demenci looked over at the FBI crew with an expression of amazement, “If you guys can hear all of our conversations through windows and doors, then how come we’re all walking around freely?”
Paul again deferred to Nick with raised eyebrows.
Nick shrugged. “Because a lot of this stuff is illegal and inadmissible in a court of law. Believe it or not, Sal, even you guys have rights.”
“How did you guys find out about this house anyway?” Sal asked.
Matt didn’t look up as he responded to Sal’s inquiry. “The INS picked up a young Kurd and brought him in for questioning. His visa was in order, so they let him go. Fortunately, we’ve got a team working over there undercover. They tagged his coat with a tracking device and we followed the signal to this house.”
Sal looked at Nick. “Is that legal?”
“Not always,” Nick said. “This time, however, we had the proper paperwork in place.” The lines of legality were getting blurrier every minute. It was ironic that Nick wound up explaining the law to one of the most lawless men he knew. They were using lions to track down a wild bear running loose in the neighborhood. Not only that, but they were training the lions how to kill a predator more efficiently. This could not turn out well.
Matt placed a finger on the map. “There,” he said. “That’s where we plant him.”
Nick nodded. He gestured to get Paul Hartwick’s attention and the agent pulled one of the headphones away from an ear.
“You still think one of them is leaving?” Nick asked.
Paul held up a finger while listening to the conversation inside the house. “They’re still arguing about it. Apparently this is a bombing crew and they’re supposed to commence their mission at 1:30 AM.”
Nick glanced at his watch. “That’s less than two hours from now. Where does the guy want to go?”
Hartwick didn’t respond. He held his gaze on one of the screens in front of him while concentrating on the voices in his ear. “He wants to get a drink.”
Nick squinted. “What?”
Hartwick nodded. “Yes. That’s it.” He pointed to a line on the blue screen. “Number three wants to get a drink. He wants to go to a bar. Number two is telling him that it’s too dangerous. They can’t afford any attention.”
“You’re kidding,” Matt said, scrambling with the map to find a bar nearby. “Is he mentioning any names?”
“Something about blues.” He smiled at Nick. “Number three wants to hear some blues music.”
“Shit,” Matt said, fumbling with his diagram. “Blues, blues, who’s got blues music?”
“The horse you came in on,” Silk uttered.
Matt and Nick both stopped to look at him.
“That’s the name of the place,” Silk explained. “The Horse You Came in On. It’s a dive, but they’ve got the best blues in the city. It’s down on Thames, shit, walking distance from here.”
“He’s right,” Matt said. “That was my fiancée’s favorite club.”
“Your fiancée?” Silk said. “You have a fiancée?”
Matt shrugged. “A long time ago.”<
br />
Nick leaned back behind Matt’s shoulder and shook his head at Silk. He needed to sublimate any thoughts of Jennifer Steele.
Hartwick jumped up from his chair. “He’s leaving.” He stood over the agent’s shoulder next to him and punched a button on the panel. On the screen in front of him a man was seen opening a door, then scouring the street for anything suspicious.
“Can he see us?” asked Sal.
“No,” Hartwick said. “We’re too far away.”
Nick looked at Silk. “You ready?”
Silk stood up and checked the inside pockets of his denim jacket. “Guess it’s time to have some fun.”
Sal grabbed his arm. “You be careful out there. These guys aren’t going to be there to back you up.” Sal looked at Nick for confirmation.
“He’s right,” Nick said. “We can’t be seen escorting you in and out of trouble. Place this in your ear.” He handed a tiny rubber earpiece to Silk, who placed it in his right ear. It was flesh-colored and practically invisible unless you had an otoscope handy.
“We can hear you and you’ll be able to hear us. If we see something that concerns us, we’ll warn you. Other than that, you’re on your own.”
Jimmy Fingers shook his head. “I don’t like this setup. It stinks. We’re not allowed to back up our own people?”
“Hey,” Matt snapped, “we can scrap this entire project right now if you don’t like the terms.”
Sal held up his hands. “Okay, okay, cut it out. Silk goes out alone, but if we hear trouble, you gotta let us go after him—give him some kind of protection.”
Matt pursed his lips. “If we see it falling apart, we’ll drop you off. But then we disappear. There can’t be any evidence of collaboration.”
