by Alan Orloff
King waited a few moments, then opened the door.
“Dr. King? Please come with us. Dr. Slattery and Colonel Locraft wish to speak to you.”
He nodded and started to leave the house, when one of the men held his hand up. “Where’s your friend?”
“My friend?” King put on his best confused expression.
“The girl who drove you here.”
“You’ve been following me?” In that instant, King felt like an idiot, thinking he could have eluded someone as anal as Locraft. “She’s gone. Doesn’t matter, she doesn’t know anything about anything. She’s my assistant, and we were just working on some lesson plans. That’s not important.”
The two men exchanged glances, then shrugged. “All right, we don’t have time to chase her down now. We can pick her up later if we need to.”
“We need to find my daughter,” King said.
“Then let’s get going.”
They were on their way twenty seconds later, and King rode in silence the entire trip, agonizing over Amanda. Despite his worst-case fears, he kept telling himself there was no evidence whatsoever Amanda had been taken against her will.
For their parts, neither man attempted to engage in conversation, reading King’s mood perfectly.
The car stopped in front of the same building where they’d had their task force meeting, where King had first met Locraft and all the other military drones. A uniformed man, also sans smile, stepped off the curb and opened King’s door. “This way.”
He escorted King in and led him through the labyrinthine building, badging them through locked doors. No conversation from this guy, either, which suited King fine. He’d save his explanations for Gosberg and Slattery and whoever else from their bullshit team was around.
They passed a few people in the hushed hallways, and none of them smiled, either. None even made eye contact. King felt like a dead man walking. His escort came to a halt in front of a shiny metal door and waved his badge in front of the sensor, then pressed his thumb on a little touch pad next to it. With a curt nod of his head, he opened the door and motioned for King to enter.
The room was like many of the rooms King had written about, rooms where Nick Nolan would berate government bureaucrats for thinking like dinosaurs or for ignoring the humanity of the situation or for a dozen other compelling reasons. In his stories, Nick Nolan always managed to get them to see the light, or to expose them as traitors. King prayed today’s reality would match yesteryear’s fiction.
Locraft and Slattery were both seated, on opposite sides of a large sleek table, as if they were about to do battle in a chess match. Two other men whom King hadn’t met—no doubt part of their illustrious “team”—sat in straight chairs lined up against the wall behind the table.
“Dr. King. Thank you for joining us,” Locraft said, tone more somber than usual. “Coffee?” He pointed to a white carafe in the center of the table, surrounded by mugs.
For a moment, King wondered if this was some kind of trick. Since when had Locraft been hospitable? “No. No, thanks.”
“Have a seat,” Slattery said.
King lowered himself into a chair next to Locraft. Were they being nice to him because they were about to tell him some bad news? Some terrible news? About Amanda? “What’s going on?”
Locraft and Slattery looked at each other for a moment, then Locraft cleared his throat. “I’m afraid I have some tragic news to report.”
King’s heart threatened to escape his body. He felt the tears welling, and he knew for a certainty he was going to lose it, right there. “No, no, no,” he said to himself, barely audibly, just like he used to do when his parents dropped a bomb on him. He remembered how upset he’d been the time they told him his sister had been in a serious car accident. Locraft’s expression was identical to the grave face his father had worn that night. “No, no, no.”
“It’s Peter Gosberg,” Locraft said. “He’s dead.”
King stopped his personal chant. Terrible news. But it wasn’t Amanda. “What? Peter’s dead? How?”
“His house was torched. To be more precise, Dragunov set some explosives, which then caused a fire. The place burned to the ground.”
“Oh my God.” King hadn’t known the man very well, but . . . the nightmare kept getting worse. How many more people, innocent and partially innocent, would be killed before Dragunov, his fictional villain, was captured?
“We’ve taken over the arson investigation, but it will be a few days, at the least, before we have any usable forensics, I’m afraid.” Slattery paused, and a small, sad smile appeared. “Peter was a good man. A lot of good people have perished since this began.”
King tried to corral his wild thoughts. Faces of those he knew—Feinbaum, Connelly, Gosberg—mixed with faces of strangers. The strangers had no facial features, just amorphous blobs, save for their mouths, which were all contorted in screams of agony.
“Dr. King?” Slattery said.
“Yes?”
“We need to be focused right now. There will be time for mourning later.” Slattery had switched back into efficiency mode. Amazing how effortlessly the man did it. Probably took plenty of practice, and King didn’t want to think about all the terrible events which had provided so much practice. “You mentioned something about your daughter being missing?”
King sucked in a few quick breaths, trying to maintain control of his emotions. “Yes, that’s right. I think she’s been kidnapped. Because she was mentioned by name in the dedication.” King explained his theory, and Slattery took notes as he spoke. Locraft sat erect in his chair and simply stared at him.
“Well, we did use the e-book versions in the experiment, and your theory fits, but . . .” Slattery said.
“What?” King said.
“Do you have any substantive proof your daughter was actually abducted?”
King pursed his lips. “I know something isn’t right. She left her phone behind. Her car was still there.”
“Forgive me, Professor, but I’ve done some research into your past.”
King’s jaw tightened.
“Don’t get defensive; it’s standard protocol for people we work closely with.” Slattery shifted in his chair. “It seems you and your daughter weren’t on the best of terms.”
“That was a long time ago. Ancient history.”
“Sometimes feelings of resentment persist.”
King’s face felt hot. “How do you know that, anyway? I don’t recall issuing a press release.”
“We interviewed a few people. That’s beside the point. What I’m trying to say is this: Amanda could easily have gone somewhere and not told you. Even if you two are on better terms now, maybe she sensed there was trouble surrounding you and decided to take a trip. Or maybe she found a new boyfriend. Either way, she might not have wanted to tell you. Fathers and daughters and all that.”
King digested what Slattery said. It would be just like Amanda to do something without telling him, not even considering how he might feel. Twenty years ago, he might not have cared—or even noticed—but he’d changed. A lot. And it pained him to think she hadn’t even noticed his transformation. “You don’t know her.”
King wasn’t sure he really did, either.
Locraft pounded his fist on the table. “I’m getting fed up with all this horseshit. We’ll find her.” The colonel turned to one of the guys sitting quietly in the back and barked a few orders. The young guy hopped up and practically sprinted from the room. “Let’s assume your acknowledgments theory is accurate. Was anyone else named in the acknowledgments who we need to warn?”
“No. I mean, I don’t think so. It’s hard to guess what Dragunov may—”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Locraft said. He pointed at Slattery, face shading. “Will, can you call up the document?”
Conversation stopped while Slattery pulled out a tablet and started touching buttons. A moment later, he said to King, “There’s a third man mentioned as part of your br
ain trust, Dante Harris. What’s his deal?”
“No need to warn him. He’s dead,” King said.
“Okay, then. If your theory is valid, none of your other friends seems to be in any danger. Of course, you’re in danger. That’s why we’ve been watching you.”
Locraft chimed in as a vein throbbed in his neck. “That’s right—this entire thing can be traced to your goddamn fucking—”
King bristled. “If you’re insinuating this is my fault in any—”
“Put a cork in it, Dr. King,” Locraft said. “Where the fuck did Dragunov come from, anyway? Not from us. From you and your deranged imagination.” Spittle flew from Locraft’s mouth, and his already-red face darkened to a shade approaching maroon.
“Gentlemen. Please,” Slattery interjected. “It’s nobody’s fault. We need to focus here.” Slattery addressed the remaining flunky in the room, who had casually averted his eyes from the colonel’s outburst. “Randy, please escort Dr. King out for a moment. The colonel and I need to discuss a few things.”
Randy rose, but King remained seated, not used to being dismissed, by anyone. He narrowed his eyes and glared at Slattery, trying to think of some scathing retort.
“Dr. King? Please? It will just be a few minutes. Randy can get you something to eat or drink if you like.”
Nothing scathing came to him. Dragunov had Amanda, and if King wanted their help in finding her, he’d need to play nice, no matter how much it rankled him. He slowly rose and followed Randy out of the room.
Down a long corridor, then straight into a break room, complete with vending machines along the walls and vinyl tile squares on the floor. It was obvious the DoD spent their funds on weapons and not office decor. “Care for something to eat or drink?” Randy asked.
“No thanks. I’ll just wait,” King said as he shot Randy a nasty look. “In silence.”
Randy got the message and took a seat at one of the three square tables in the room. King sat at the far table, facing away from Randy, imagining all sorts of terrible things happening to Amanda. Why had he made Dragunov such an effective killing machine? Locraft was right. It was his goddamn fucking book.
Five minutes later, Randy’s phone rang, and after a few murmured sentences, his chair screeched on the floor. Then King sensed Randy’s presence behind him. “They’re ready for you.”
To King, it sounded like a death sentence.
When they returned to the room, Slattery dismissed Randy with a “Thank you,” then waited for the door to click shut before continuing. “Dr. King, we’ve come to a decision. And it affects you. With Gosberg dead and your daughter missing, we’re circling the wagons. We want to bring you in to a safe house.”
“A what? Why?”
“A safe house. An isolated, protected, anonymous house where we can keep an eye on you. Make sure nothing happens to you like what happened to your friends. Or to Peter.”
It sounded a lot like house arrest to King. “I think I’ll pass. I don’t like being cooped up.”
“We can’t afford to lose you. You’re the only one who has the slightest inkling about what makes this guy tick,” Locraft said. “Besides, we tried watching you on the outside, and you kept trying to run. I’ll be able to use my resources—your babysitters—more effectively to help find your daughter.”
King shook his head. “I don’t know. I think—”
Locraft rose abruptly. “Enough. Enough bullshit. Enough of your liberal, personal freedom, I-know-what’s-best-for-me-even-though-I’m-a-civilian-numskull horse manure. Coming to the safe house is entirely voluntary on your part. This is the United fucking States of America.” His gaze burned holes right through King’s forehead. “On the other hand, I’m Colonel Hanson P. Locraft, United States Army, and I want you kept safe and sound—and where we can find you when we need you. This is a matter of national security. Who knows how many lives depend on you?” He paused, eyes blazing. “So, Dr. King, what’ll it be? My way, or the lonely, dangerous highway?”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Dragunov unfurled the top of the first bag and reached inside, unloading what he’d just bought at a nearby 7-Eleven. A package of sliced deli turkey, a bag of rolls, a minibottle of mayo. A small bag of barbecue chips. Two paper plates, a plastic knife, and a few napkins.
He took out two rolls—presliced—and placed one on each plate. Opened the mayo and slathered a generous dollop on the top half of each roll with the plastic knife. No telling when his next meal might be, and it was always a good idea to stockpile the calories when he had the chance. Then he tore open the package of turkey and divided it to make two sandwiches.
From the second bag, he removed two cans of Coke and popped them both open.
Two nice little lunches. One for him.
And one for his guest.
Amanda King sprawled on the thinly carpeted floor in a semi-fetal position. When she saw him open the second can of soda, her eyes went wide, and she tried to say something. Unfortunately, Dragunov couldn’t understand what she was saying beneath the strip of duct tape stretched across her mouth.
She was probably thirsty; she hadn’t had anything to drink since he’d snatched her from her home ten hours ago.
Silver duct tape also bound her hands and feet. Duct tape. So handy. So versatile. One of the few useful inventions America had contributed to the world. Dragunov settled in four feet away from her, cross-legged, with his plate on his lap. He smacked his lips, then took a large bite of his sandwich.
Delicious.
Hellmann’s mayonnaise was another outstanding American invention.
Soybean oil, water, whole eggs and egg yolks, vinegar, salt, sugar, lemon juice, calcium disodium EDTA (used to protect quality), natural flavors. Gluten-Free. Per Serving: 90 calories, total fat 10g, saturated fat 1.5g, trans fat 0g, polyunsaturated fat 6g, monounsaturated fat 2.5g, cholesterol 5mg, sodium 90mg, total carbohydrate 0g, dietary fiber 0g, sugars 0g, protein 0g. Rich in Omega 3-ALA.
He polished off his sandwich and took a nice long drink of his Coke, another worthwhile product of America. The Russians created great literature and music and art. The Americans created sticky tape and caloric junk food.
“Hungry?”
Amanda’s head nodded vigorously.
“I’ve got a sandwich for you. It’s pretty good. Thirsty?”
More head nodding.
“I’ve got another soda, too.”
He reached over, getting closer to Amanda, and dangled the sandwich in front of her face. “Here’s the deal. I’m going to take the tape off your mouth. If you scream, I’ll cut out your tongue. Besides, you saw where this warehouse is located. No one could hear you scream if you tried.” He smiled and brought the sandwich to his lips. Opened his mouth wide and pantomimed taking a huge bite. “Of course, if you don’t want it, I could eat it. I’m still kind of hungry.”
Amanda stared at him for a second, then her attention shifted to the sandwich. Then back to him as she tried to communicate something.
“You want this? Do you understand what I’ll do if you make trouble?”
She nodded again, more vigorously than before. As if she didn’t think he knew what she was trying to say. Idiot.
Dragunov set the plate down on the ground. He reached out and peeled the piece of duct tape off in a single yank. She gulped for air, then began working her tongue over her lips and making funny movements with her mouth.
He held the sandwich up to her so she could eat. She took a gigantic bite, chewed, and swallowed it without saying a word. Too scared, probably. Afraid if she said something he didn’t like, he’d stop feeding her. She didn’t know much about the kidnapping business. A hungry hostage was a cranky hostage, and a cranky hostage didn’t behave as well.
Dragunov calmly fed her, bite by bite, until she’d finished the sandwich. Her tongue darted out and wiped some mayo off her upper lip.
“Something to drink?”
“Yes,” she said.
He helped h
er sit up a bit and touched the can of Coke to her lips. Then he trickled a little down her throat, careful not to tilt the can too quickly. Some dribbled off her chin, a few dark drops on the bland carpet. With his hand, he brushed back a lock of dark hair that had flopped onto her face. Her big brown eyes reminded him of . . .
Janie.
Dragunov dropped the can of soda and it fizzed in a puddle as it spilled onto the floor.
Janie.
Dragunov closed his eyes, fighting the confusion. He saw a woman, not the woman bound before him, but a different woman. Older, then younger, then older. Smiling. Crying. Sleeping. He knew this other woman, but . . . he wasn’t sure from where. Was she his cover wife? Those images dissolved, and different ones appeared. Bloody stumps, dismembered bodies, death, destruction. He was in the desert now, dressed in . . . US Army fatigues. Impossible. He was Dragunov. A face reflected back from a mirror. He was . . .
Cole.
Cole Tanner. Special Ops.
With the heels of his palms, he pressed hard against his temples. He was having a difficult time discerning where reality ended and the delusions began. Nick Nolan and the American scientists had implanted false memories. He was part of some bizarre experiment, some sort of test to see how much the Americans could distort their enemies’ minds.
“Are you . . . are you okay?” the woman asked, cautiously.
Dragunov opened his eyes. Her name was Amanda, wasn’t it? What was she doing here, all trussed up? “What?” Each time he tried to form a complete, cohesive thought, something would pierce it, like a needle popping a balloon. The ideas were there, right there, just beyond his mental reach. Agonizing.
He glanced at Amanda, who regarded him with horror-filled eyes. “You don’t look well. Maybe you should get to a hospital. If you undo me, I can help you.”
Dragunov considered her request but couldn’t come to a conclusion. Was he really sick? Or was she trying to deceive him? He hadn’t felt bad earlier, but now he didn’t feel well at all. More mental than physical. What was happening to him? In the past, he’d always been very decisive. He’d had to be to survive. Quick thinking coupled with lightning reflexes had saved him on many occasions. During secret missions and . . . in the desert. On patrol. Iraq.
