Tainted Robes

by Joe Nobody

  After two miles, Griffin pulled into a driveway as if to turn around but stopped the car instead. “What are you going to do now?” Kit asked.

  “I want you to drive so I can scout that building and the surrounding terrain.”

  They switched places, Kit keeping their speed low, so he had time to study the area. “I think it’s a barn, pure and simple,” Griff announced. “The problem is the approach. There’s nothing but open land all around it. Even the dumbest sentry could spot someone inching from a mile away.”

  “That’s probably why they picked this location. No prying eyes… no way anyone could sneak up on them.”

  Grunting, Griff added a darker justification. “And no one to hear the victim’s screams.”

  She swatted his arm, “How morbid! Are you seriously that jaded?”

  A grimace crossed Griff’s face. “Look, if they wanted Mr. Computer Specialist dead, they would have simply driven by and ventilated his brainpan. They want to know exactly what he told us and when. Call me skeptical, but somehow, I don’t think they’re going to buy his answers. They are going to give him an opportunity to reconsider his story. These guys are pros. I’m pretty sure Mr. Mahajan is in for a painful evening.”

  “So, what do we do? Contact the FBI? Call for backup? There’s no way you and I can approach that structure without being observed.”

  He shrugged, “That’s true… in the daylight. If we wait until sunset, we probably could get in. And you know how I feel about using our phones.”

  Her expertise from her FBI days came back to Kit, her mind reviewing the possibilities. “This is risky,” she pronounced. “One patrolling guard could cause the whole thing to blow up in our faces, and Mr. Mahajan’s blood would be on our hands.”

  She pulled into the gas station, selecting a parking spot alongside the small convenience store. It was an advantageous position, allowing them to keep an eye on both interstate ramps and ensuring that the captors didn’t slip past them.

  “Let’s take turns using the restroom,” Griffin suggested. “Who knows when we’ll get another chance. I need time to think.”

  “Thank God for that,” Kit replied, throwing off her seatbelt. “Me first.”

  Not only did the duo utilize the facilities, each loaded up on snacks and a fresh drink. By the time they had finished nibbling, Griffin had reached a decision. “It will be dark in another 15 minutes. I think we have to chance going in.”

  “Just the two of us?”

  “I have some friends here, and I’ve considered calling them directly. Time is a problem. I don’t think Mr. Mahajan is going to survive long enough for us to wait for backup.”

  Turning toward the backseat, Griffin dug around in his bag, eventually producing a handful of magazines. “How much ammo do you have?”

  “Three full mags,” she replied, fishing two spares from her purse.

  “It will have to do,” he sighed. “Next, can you bring up the Google Earth images for the barn and surrounding area?”

  “Already done,” she announced, flipping around her laptop so he could see.

  After a minute of scrutiny, Griff pointed to a faint streak in the satellite’s remarkable picture. “This looks like a path, or a lane. Probably was used to maintain a fence line. If we can sneak over to this road, it’s only about a mile’s hike to that building. They’ll be watching the closer road but might not even know this path exists.”

  It took Carson only a few seconds to nod her agreement. “Might work,” she decided.

  It was Kit’s turn to examine the contents of her suitcase, eventually producing a pair of running shoes. “A girl never knows when she hangs around with Marshal Griffin Storm,” she teased.

  Then they were off, pulling out of the gas station just as the light began to fade. “I wish I had my operations bag,” Griff commented. “We could surely use a couple of M4 carbines, a thermal optic, and a handful of stun grenades.”

  “Don’t forget the battle tank,” she teased. “And air support, how I would love a little air support right now.”

  The passed the barn again, Griff taking notice that both the Chevy and the BMW were out of sight. “They’re trying to maintain a low profile. That’s a good sign. Means they want to get away with the crime.”

  Kit executed a series of turns, eventually navigating to a position about a mile behind the oversized, metal building. It was completely dark by the time they found the lane.

  “I hope we’re not too late,” Kit lamented as she pulled their rental off the paved road and onto what was essentially a dirt path.

  “Like I said, these guys are pros. If my guess is right, they’ll take their time just like the police do when questioning a suspect. Time is the friend of the interrogator. They’ll let their prisoner sweat for a while, let him overhear exactly what they’re planning to do to him. The minutes will wear him down more than any beating or torture. Later, to verify his story, they’ll get rough.”

  “You sound like you know a lot about this?” she inquired, throwing him a questioning glance.

  “I read a lot about the topic while at the academy.”

  She seemed to accept the simple explanation. “I see. You had me worried there for a second, Griff.”

  “Let’s move out.”

  The path proved to be easy walking, and they made good time. They paralleled a fence, which afforded them some cover.

  “Even if they do have a lookout,” Griff stated, “we’ll be difficult to detect in the darkness. Just stay as close as possible to the railing.”

  In less than 15 minutes, the pair of feds was staring down a slight slope at the back of the wood and metal building.

  They could see both stolen vehicles parked behind the impressive structure, the barn’s girth hiding them from the road beyond. Light leaked out from the edges of the main door.

  The unexpected variable was the third car.

  “Someone was already here? Waiting for them to show up with Mr. Mahajan.”

  “Shit,” the marshal grumbled. “With only three kidnappers, it was a pretty safe bet that one would remain with the prisoner at all times. Another of them would be in charge, and probably doing the talking. That would leave a single sentry outside working security. Now we have no idea how many are in there. Damn it!”

  “I have a cell signal. We can still call in your buddy for backup.”

  The marshal shook his head, “No time.” Then, after more thought, “We can still make this work,” Griffin began in a barely audible voice. “We’re going be a centipede. I’m going first; I’m the head. I want you to follow me, keeping back about 20 yards and clinging to the shadows. When I stop, you catch up. Repeat. The key is getting to the barn without firing a shot or giving the people inside any warning.”

  “And once we reach that objective?” she whispered.

  “Then we scout what going on inside. We’ll figure out phase two once we have some facts and better intel. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  “One last question,” he began with a grin, “are you wearing your Dick Tracy boxers?”

  Her answer was a smirk and a swat on the arm. Without another word, Griffin moved, running bent at the waist in the low light.

  Kit tried to recall her training at Quantico, remembering her FBI instructors always stressing the importance of cover. “Always know where the next bullet stop is located. It might be a wall, automobile, mound of dirt, or ditch. You must keep that in mind when performing an approach. Mentally map your route. Pick several spots along the way. You should always be ready to dive, run, or jump to that sanctuary if someone opens fire.”

  She noted that Griff must have done the exact same drill. He was scurrying toward an old piece of farm machinery, now surrounded by weeds. Judging the gap, she followed a moment later.

  Just as she arrived at his side, he darted directly toward the automobiles parked near the building, his speed and stealth impressive. Kit h
ad to admire the strength and grace her partner displayed. She’d seen Griff fight before, the El Paso coffee shop the most recent example. Tonight, however, was different. There was an edge to his movements, an aggression, an offensive mindset betrayed with every motion. He’s a soldier, not a cop right now. He’s going into battle, not making an arrest, she thought.

  Somehow, she wasn’t scared, and that was surprising. She then realized that fear was but a rare visitor when Griff was around. The man’s confidence must be contagious.

  She was just about to rise and follow when a shadow appeared at the edge of the barn. Kit spied movement more than shape, but it was obvious someone was patrolling around the building’s perimeter. Her first thought was to warn Griff, but there was no way.

  The sentry carried a rifle, his outline clear now, illuminated by the light escaping the structure. He stepped directly toward the marshal.

  She then realized Griff was no longer visible. Where did he go? How did he disappear?

  Her concern was quickly refocused when the sentry’s rifle snapped to his shoulder. He pointed the weapon directly at her and began taking small, sliding steps toward her hiding spot. Did he see something? Was he going to sound the alarm? Was he about to shoot now and ask questions later? Kit held her breath, her body frozen stiff. “Don’t move!” her brain screamed. “Don’t give him a target!”

  The guard’s shadow thickened, then “thwack, thump, crack,” sounded in a rapid, machine-like cadence across the barnyard. Before Carson could blink, the sentry fell, Griff standing over the still form at his feet.

  The marshal bent for the sentry’s rifle, slinging the weapon over his shoulder in a blurred movement. Less than a second later, Griff dragged the unconscious man toward a patch of weeds. After disposing of the body, he waved her forward.

  “You okay?” she asked in a hushed voice.

  “Yeah.”

  “How long will he be out?”

  “Forever,” the marshal replied without emotion. “He surprised me. No time to measure my response.”

  Then the pair rushed for the massive structure’s exterior wall, heading toward the door.

  Halfway there, Griffin stopped, seeming to study the wooden plank next to his head. Kit heard it a moment later, the sound of voices coming from inside.

  Motioning her to move close, Griff pointed to a sizable gap between two boards. She could see, as well as hear, what was going on inside.

  There was Mr. Mahajan, tied to a supporting beam with thick strands of rope. At his feet was a battery-powered camping lantern, throwing off just enough light to detect the blood dripping from his nose. Clearly, the man was injured, exhausted and scared.

  Four men gathered around the hostage, one of them sitting at a folding card table, the glow of a computer casting a blue circle of light.

  The guy working the laptop was a mousy sort, thin neck, slight build, slumping shoulders. The other three were rough-looking characters. The largest wielded an AK-47.

  Kit recognized the man that had lured Mahajan out of the liquor store. She was pretty sure the guy with the rifle was the driver.

  It was the fourth and oldest kidnapper that drew her attention. He was well-dressed, wearing the kind of shiny shoes that didn’t usually walk where livestock had been housed and sporting a gold ring on every finger. He’s the boss, she assessed. He’s running the show.

  “Mr. Mahajan,” the head honcho said, “We can easily resolve this issue without causing you further discomfort. As I’ve already stated a dozen times, if you would sign my accountant into your checking account, we can verify your story and end this. I only want my cash back.”

  “And for the hundredth time, I didn’t take your damned money. Why would I do such a thing? I don’t even know who you are!”

  The boss shook his head, “But I’ve shown you the information my bank provided. I’ve provided you the proof that the funds were transferred to your account just this morning. Did you really think you could steal fifty million dollars from me and not face the consequences?”

  “How would I have even done that?” Mahajan pleaded.

  The head man was getting agitated. “You’re a software genius, are you not? You own a computer company, for the love of God!” Without warning, Mr. Gold Rings took a step toward the captive and issued a short, powerful jab into Ven’s gut.

  A whoosh of air and pain rushed from the tech executive’s throat, followed by a deep moan and short, sharp breaths. “I didn’t take your money! I swear it!”

  “Then sign into your bank account and prove it! That’s all I ask. Is this so much?”

  “I’m not going to give you access to my funds,” the insolent hostage snapped. “You men are crooks… thieves… this is all a scam to get access to my corporate accounts.”

  The leader turned to one of his henchmen and nodded. A second later, the goon leered in front of the bound captive, smirking as he issued a series of harsh, opened-handed slaps across Mahajan’s face.

  Griffin picked that moment to wave Kit away from the crack. When they were a safe distance away, he questioned, “What in the hell does this have to do with cybercrime and the downfall of the US government?” he hissed.

  “I don’t know,” she shrugged. “I’m just as surprised as you are.”

  “Is Ven Mahajan really a crook? Did he get caught with his hand in the cookie jar?”

  “Who knows? It looks like we’ve stumbled onto something completely unrelated. How do you want to handle this?” she responded.

  Before Griffin could answer, a scream from inside the barn broke the stillness of the night. “I don’t know… yet. I need to know more,” the marshal snapped and then returned to eavesdrop at the gap in the wall.

  “The bank must have made a mistake!” Mr. Mahajan was shouting. “Why are you doing this to me?”

  “A mistake?” the boss screamed back. “Don’t insult me! My organization purchased your scheduling software for our operations. A month later, I’m missing 50 million dollars from the same account that we used to pay for your product. When I call my long-time money manager and close friend in the Cayman Islands, he promptly informs me that the funds were transferred to your account! This is a mistake? I should just take your word over his?”

  The honcho then stormed over to the table and lifted a stack of papers. “I’ve shown you the proof! I’ve been a reasonable man and let you read the documentation. My auditor has allowed you to view our account online! Why do you keep denying this?”

  The chief didn’t wait for Mahajan’s response. Instead he took two steps toward the hostage and threw the papers in a fit of rage. “You thought stealing money from my organization would be easy! You believed you could get away with taking illegal gains from dumb criminals would go unnoticed and unreported! After all, what are we going to do, call the police? You probably started plotting this theft as soon as you figured out our business.”

  Mahajan started to speak, but the crime lord was done. After delivering a brutal punch to the captive’s mouth, he turned to one of his thugs and directed, “Cut off his balls.”

  A knife appeared in the subordinate’s hand, the dim light glinting off its blade. Mahajan moaned through his blood-filled mouth, the hostage’s eyes open wide with terror.

  As the henchman stepped forward to remove Mahajan’s pants, Kit cupped her hand and whispered in Griffin’s ear. “Why doesn’t he give them what they want?”

  Making a slashing movement across this throat, Griff indicated the captive would be of no value to them the moment he gave in. “He’s smart,” the marshal explained. “He knows they’re going to kill him one way or the other. He’s trying to buy time. I’d do the same thing.”

  A round of laughter echoed from inside the metal barn, the gathered hoods laughing as Mr. Mahajan’s pants were yanked down below his knees, his manhood now on display. “Fucking geeks,” the boss chuckled. “No balls to speak of. How did this idiot ever father children w
ith that tiny, little toy?”

  Clever, Griffin thought. Humiliation is a potent form of pain.

  As everyone took their turn making a joke, Griff suddenly turned to Kit and asked, “Does this scenario remind you of anything?”

  “What do you mean?” she blinked. Then the dots connected, and Kit whispered, “The call to the SWAT team in Indianapolis. A setup! Our cybercrooks didn’t want us talking to Mahajan. They hacked in and transferred the money to get him killed!”

  The marshal nodded his agreement before he began considering their next move. His focus was broken by the second of the tech executive’s screams. The gleaming blade was now approaching his crotch, his body jerking and struggling to climb up the post.

  “Time to end this,” Griffin announced. “I’ll take the dude with the rifle; you get the other gunman. Don’t worry about the bean counter.”

  Before she could react, Storm rushed toward the main door. She had to hustle to catch up.

  Pressing a shoulder against the barn entrance, Griffin created an opening and slipped through, his appearance taking the mafia muscle by surprise. The .40 caliber barked twice in the marshal’s hand, two slugs ripping into the rifleman’s chest before anyone could even shout a warning.

  Kit was right behind him, her weapon coming up in a fighting stance. As her front sight centered on the man with the knife, she squeezed the trigger, then pulled again as the recoil traveled up her arm.

  The numbers cruncher was faster than either fed had anticipated, slamming shut the laptop and diving for the ground. Griff’s victim landed on the lantern, throwing the structure’s interior into complete darkness.

  Anyone with half a brain dreaded close quarters combat. There were too many variables evolving at such a rapid pace. Response times shortened, mistakes amplified. Everything changed so fast that the human mind had difficulty processing even the basics. A gunfight up close and personal was the worst. Doing battle in the darkness was an absolute nightmare.