by Dave Edlund
“My father will be home soon!” Jo shouted in defiance. She was feeling her fear being replaced with a growing rage.
Ramirez smirked. “Yes, I know. I am counting on that, my dear.”
“Let me go! Leave now, and I won’t call the police.”
Ramirez chuckled. Jo didn’t like the sound of him laughing. It was pure evil, she thought, and it made her skin crawl. “I have no intention of leaving, not yet. I came a long way to meet your father.”
Ramirez placed a gag in her mouth, ending the conversation. Next, he dragged a leather chair near to the pool table. He positioned it so that Joanna was between the entrance to the game room and the chair. Then he sat down and relaxed, keeping his pistol pointed at the girl.
Jo was trying to make sense of what the man had said, but she couldn’t. Then she heard a familiar sound, a hopeful sound. It was the front door opening. She heard Jess shake her collar, the metal tags rattling. She was sure she had never before heard such a beautiful sound.
Peter returned from walking Jess and unclipped her leash. Removing his jacket, he hung it in the hall closet. He noticed that the great room was empty, so he walked into the kitchen, assuming Jo was there making her cup of tea. The kitchen was brightly lit and water was boiling over in a pot on the gas cook top. He turned it off. Joanna was not there.
“Jo?” he called. No answer. Walking from the kitchen into the great room, Peter noticed something out of place. He walked closer, Jess never more than six inches from his left leg. A book was opened and lying on the table next to the huge oak bookcase. This wasn’t just any book from his collection. This book was hollowed out inside in the shape of the pistol that normally rested there.
Peter knew this was very wrong. He knew his daughter would not retrieve the pistol unless she felt an urgent need for it. “Jo!” he called again, standing motionless and listening for any hint of sound that might betray her presence.
Nothing.
Peter looked to Jess, still standing by his side. The dog was staring intently at the top of the spiral staircase. Peter thought for a moment. Okay, trust the dog—she could hear far better than he could. Was Jo upstairs? Wherever she was, she was not answering, and she had taken the hidden pistol.
Peter motioned to Jess with his hand outstretched, palm facing the dog. Silently he mouthed the word, “Stay.” Jess obeyed. Peter swiftly moved back into the kitchen without a sound and opened his cell phone. He hoped and prayed he could make this call without being overheard. He dialed and waited. On the third ring the other party picked up.
“Hey buddy, miss me already?” greeted Jim.
“Listen, I don’t have time to explain. Someone is inside my home; I think they have Jo. My gun is missing.”
Although Jim could barely hear Peter, he knew this was no social call. “Don’t do anything crazy. Stay put if you can. We’ll be there in five minutes.”
He hung up, not daring to say anything else for fear of being overheard. Peter racked his brain for a weapon he could get quickly. With the operation coming to a close and his father safely working at The Office, Peter had dropped his guard and locked his .45 in the gun safe downstairs rather than continuing to carry it.
On the counter next to the cook top Peter saw the knife block. Removing a stout eight-inch kitchen knife, he returned to Jess and looked to the top of the spiral staircase. If Jo was up there, he had to get to her.
Peter walked to the staircase and started to ascend towards the darkness. Jess was silently beside him as usual.
At the top of the stairs, Peter halted. Where to now? He didn’t have long to consider his next step before Ramirez called to him.
“Dr. Savage, please come in.”
Peter turned in the direction of the voice. It was coming from the dark game room, near the pool table. He stared into the darkness of the room, trying to make out anything that looked unusual, out of the ordinary. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light he could see a dark shadow at the far corner of the pool table and another one on the floor next to the table. Then his eyes caught the glint of light flashing off Jo’s silver jewelry.
“Jo?” he called.
All he heard in reply was a muffled grunt. Then Ramirez spoke again, his voice menacing, “I have been waiting to meet you, Dr. Savage.”
Peter took two steps forward. His eyes now adjusting to the darkened room. “Who are you, and what do you want?”
Rising from the chair as a shadow devoid of details, he answered, “Forgive me. I seem to have forgotten my manners. My name is Vasquez Ramirez.”
Peter’s blood became ice water. He felt his chest tighten and the hairs stood up on his arms as he fought down a rising fear.
“I believe you met my brother?” asked Ramirez.
“Your brother was a murdering swine,” replied Peter angrily. He had to buy time for the cavalry to arrive.
“My brother was a revolutionary soldier and liberator. And you, Peter Savage, are responsible for his murder.”
“You have your facts all twisted, Ramirez. Your brother was captured alive. It was the spetsnaz sniper team that killed him before he could be taken into custody.”
“I will deal with the Russian soldiers in due time. But you are equally responsible. If you had not attacked my brother’s team of liberation fighters, he would not be dead.” His voice was beginning to rise. Good, Peter thought, he was distracting him.
“It’s what we call self-defense. Your brother and his band of terrorists attacked us. They murdered a U.S. marshal in cold blood and would have murdered everyone, including my father. These are civilians we’re talking about, not soldiers. What sort of lunatic attacks scientists and then justifies it as a war of liberation?”
Peter edged forward, closing the distance to Ramirez. If he could just get closer. He had to keep him talking.
“For too long the United States has been the oppressor of my people. You think we are fooled into believing that you respect our right to self-govern, yet you dominate us through your capitalism. Your CIA works to overthrow governments that are freely elected and then props up puppet regimes that are repressive to the people. You treat all of Central and South America as if it were still under colonial rule.”
Peter had taken two more steps forward. The knife was held close to his thigh, invisible in the dim light. He could now see Vasquez Ramirez clearly and his daughter sitting on the floor just in front of him.
“Let my daughter go. It’s me you want. She has nothing to do with this.”
“Ah, I see… but that is not possible. You are responsible for the murder of my brother. He was my family. We grew up together, fighting every day for survival, living in the gutters. When we weren’t digging through garbage for meager scraps of spoiled food, we would play like other boys. Do you have any idea how much pain you have caused me? You will share that pain. And then… I will kill you.”
Peter sensed he was out of time. He saw Ramirez begin to move his gun, raising it toward Joanna. In an instant Peter threw the knife. It was a snap throw, underhanded, with no time to aim. But it caused Ramirez to duck.
At the same moment Jess lunged from beside Peter and charged toward Ramirez, who was off balance. She closed to within four feet and then leaped to attack this unknown intruder.
But Ramirez was fast, and he recovered just enough to swing the pistol around. The barrel actually pressed against Jess’s chest as she landed on Ramirez at waist level. Before she could get a firm lock with her jaws he pulled the trigger, a single bullet entering her chest and exiting her back. The dog crumpled to the floor.
“You bastard!” screamed Peter. He charged Ramirez, who had now regained his balance. He fired a shot into the floor at Peter’s feet.
“Stop!”
Peter had gotten close, but not close enough. “You bastard!”
“You will suffer worse before this is over. Now, sit down and put your hands on your head.”
Peter moved to Joanna and sat down in front of her. He reached
out to remove the gag Ramirez had stuffed into her mouth.
“Hands on your head!”
Peter complied, clasping the fingers of both hands on top of his head. He looked into Jo’s eyes.
“Are you okay?” he asked his daughter.
She nodded, tears welling up in her eyes.
“I’m so sorry. I love you,” was all Peter could say.
“How touching,” Ramirez said with unveiled sarcasm.
He pointed his pistol at Jo, slowly and deliberately so that Peter could see and anticipate his actions.
“Please, you don’t need to do this. Let her go. Kill me, but let her go.”
“Very good. I did not expect you to beg. How pleasing.”
He continued to raise the gun and extend his arm. To Peter everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. What more could he say? Time had run out. He had tried to buy time, enough time for Jim to arrive, but he had failed. And now, his daughter was going to pay with her life.
Peter watched, helpless as Ramirez slowly began to move his finger, pressing the trigger slowly, seeing the flesh squeezed as he steadily applied greater pressure to the trigger. Ramirez knew that the mental torture he was inflicting was great.
The pistol was only two feet from Jo, aimed squarely at her head, and Peter had a front-row seat. Any moment and the gun would explode, and his daughter would be dead. Peter looked into her eyes, softly saying he was sorry and that he loved her. She nodded, seemingly resigned to fate.
And then it happened, startling Peter with the suddenness and intensity of the gunshot. BOOM!
Joanna fell forward at his knees.
Chapter 42
October 23
Bend, Oregon
Joanna slumped forward at the waist, limp and not moving. Peter dropped his hands and grabbed his daughter’s shoulders, but since her hands were still tied to the leg of the pool table, he could not draw her up to him. It felt like his still-beating heart had been ripped from his chest. He lunged forward to hold her.
The sound of the gunshot was still ringing in his ears, so he didn’t hear the pistol clang to the floor. But he noticed it from the corner of his eye—it was almost touching his knee. He quickly picked it up, and then looked up at Ramirez, not comprehending what had just happened.
Ramirez was still standing over Jo. Blood was seeping between his fingers where he was holding his wrist and forearm.
“Peter, it’s Jim,” he heard from behind. Turning, Peter saw Jim standing at the top of the stairs. His arms were still extended, gripping his Super Hawg .45 in a classic two-hand hold.
Jim continued, “McNerny, see if Jo’s hurt. I have Ramirez covered.”
McNerny came around Jim and already had his knife out, ready to cut Jo free of her restraints.
She raised her head. “I’m all right. I heard the shot and ducked. It was strange, because I was certain I had been shot, but I didn’t feel anything, no pain.”
McNerny cut the rope and, together with Peter, helped Jo up. Peter was still stunned. He was holding the gun that Ramirez had trained on Jo only moments before. He looked at Jim.
“You fired?”
Jim nodded. “I just reached the top of the stairs. Ramirez was so focused on you and your daughter, he didn’t see me. I shot him in the wrist to keep him from pulling the trigger.”
“Why not just kill the bastard,” asked Peter. He looked at Ramirez and saw in his face a mask of pure loathing and contempt.
“Nothing would please me more, but alive we can mine him for lots of intel.”
While Jim was speaking, Jones arrived at the top of the spiral staircase. “The rest of the house is clean, sir.” Jones stood two steps behind his commander, splitting his attention between the wounded Ramirez and the open space below at the base of the spiral staircase.
With Ramirez disarmed, wounded, and at the business end of his Super Hawg, Jim was beginning to believe they had the situation under control. “Good work, Jones. I need you to go back downstairs and plant yourself where you have a clear view of the front door and the door from the lower shop level. If any cohorts of this asshole try to come through either door, you drop ‘em, understood?”
“With pleasure, sir,” replied Jones as he disappeared down the spiral staircase.
Jo rubbed her wrists. They were raw where the rope had chaffed. She put both arms around her father’s neck, not able to suppress the tears.
“I thought you were dead,” Peter said, choking up himself. “I thought we were both dead.”
“Well,” said Jim. “Looks like Vasquez Ramirez made my job easy. I won’t have to track down this shit ball after all.”
Peter unlocked Jo’s arms. “It’s okay now, kiddo.” He tried to smile even through the tears.
Jo looked away from Peter and saw Jess, whimpering, bleeding, barely alive.
“Jess, oh Jess.” She was still crying and dropped to her knees beside the mortally-wounded friend. She laid her head on Jess’s shoulder and tried to comfort the dog.
Peter knelt beside his companion of ten years and put his arm around Jo’s shoulder. “She saved our lives, you know.”
Sobbing, Jo just nodded, unable to speak.
Peter rubbed Jess’s head. “You’re a good dog, Jess. You’ve been a loyal companion. I’m going to miss you, ol’ girl.” Peter’s voice was thick with emotion, tears streaming down his cheeks.
Jess relaxed her head and closed her eyes in the comfort of the people she had always known and loved. She took a deep breath, and then exhaled for the last time. Her body went completely limp, and Peter knew his friend had died.
Slowly, Peter rose to his feet. The sorrow had vanished from his face. He said nothing; he just turned to face Ramirez, eyes full of intense, burning hatred.
Peter now realized that he was holding the pistol. Without thinking, he tightened his grip and raised his arm. He had the means to kill this bastard, this blight on mankind, and he fully intended to do so.
Peter pointed the gun at Ramirez, focused on killing him. He didn’t hear anything; his peripheral vision seemed to shut down. All he saw was Ramirez in front of him, and he began to increase pressure on the trigger.
Jim was shouting at Peter, but he wasn’t hearing. Then Jim shook Peter at the shoulder. “Peter! Let it go, he’s not worth it.”
But Peter still didn’t break his trance-like focus. He was looking down the barrel of the gun at Ramirez, imagining the bullet smashing into his chest. This man was pure evil; he deserved to die. And Peter was more than happy to make it happen.
Jim shook him again. “Peter, he’s not worth it!” Jim was yelling at Peter, trying to break his concentration and to get him to listen to reason. “There’s been enough killing—let it go.”
Peter seemed to relent. Maybe he heard Jim; maybe he just decided that shooting Ramirez here, in front of his daughter, was not the right thing to do. Slowly he lowered the gun.
Peter looked to his friend, and nodded. “Yes, but promise me this pile of shit will be locked up for the rest of his life.”
Peter had spoken slowly in a low, calm voice. There was no sign of excitement or anger or hatred, nothing. None of the emotions Peter had experienced were evident. He was speaking like a machine.
Jim nodded. “He will be interrogated at length and then locked up. I promise you, he will never again be a free man.”
Like Jim and Jo, McNerny had also been focused on the drama unfolding with Peter. Ramirez realized that the threat had been largely eliminated when Peter lowered the gun. And now that he was not the focus of attention, he smoothly moved his left hand to the small of his back—with a minimum of motion to avoid drawing attention—where the Colt Commander he had taken from Jo was secured. He wrapped his fingers around the grip, felt with his index finger to ensure the safety was off, and then rapidly drew and swung the gun toward McNerny, who was standing closest.
Ramirez fired and McNerny spun to the side, the bullet striking his left shoulder. Jim turned his bod
y toward Ramirez, immediately realizing his error. He never should have allowed Ramirez to be unwatched for even a moment. Jim was still raising his Super Hawg when the pistol exploded. It was deafening in the confined room.
Ramirez had his gun pointed at Peter, but it was Ramirez who was falling backwards as if hit by a sledge hammer. The Colt fell from his grip, a crimson red blotch was growing in size squarely in the middle of his chest. Ramirez fell back into the chair. His mouth moved, but no words came out. His eyes were looking forward but unfocused.
Peter was standing with the pistol in his outstretched hand; a waft of smoke drifting from the muzzle. He was glowering at Ramirez; his body slumped in the chair. In a soft voice Peter said, “That’s for shooting my dog.”
Peter lowered the gun and then gave it to Jim.
“I’m finished,” was all Peter could say, and he turned to his daughter and wrapped his arms around her.
Chapter 43
December 21
Bend, Oregon
October soon passed into November, and November faded into December. As the days and weeks passed, Peter and Joanna found the routine of work to be good therapy. Jo had reluctantly accepted that her father could not answer all her questions. And although she didn’t truly accept the need for government secrecy, with the passage of time her need to know became less important.
Peter was spending about half his working time at EJ Enterprises to support his father’s research, mostly designing and fabricating powerful, adjustable electromagnets that were assembled around the stock high-pressure reactors. Eventually that would end, but at least for now it was good to be spending this time with his father. Often Peter found himself staring off in the distance, recalling how close he came to losing both his father and his daughter. How precarious life is. One moment everything is fine, the next your world comes crashing in.
Peter’s cell phone rang, pulling his mind back to the present. He flipped open his phone. “Peter Savage,” he said.
“Hi son, how are you?” answered his father.
