Pray for the Innocent

by Alan Orloff

  What a pretentious ass he’d been.

  He didn’t remember much of it now, thank goodness. Even touching this knife, knowing how much pain knives had caused on the streets, made him sick to his stomach.

  “Okay. I’ll take it.”

  “Great. Anything else I can help you with?”

  “No. That’ll be plenty.”

  The clerk reached behind him and took down the knife King wanted. It came sealed—tightly—in a plastic package. He placed it on the counter.

  “Uh, could I have the demo model?” King asked, not wanting to fool with the plastic packaging. He’d need another knife just to cut the package open.

  “Sure. I can even knock off ten percent for you.”

  “Swell.” King emptied his basket on the counter and paid for all the stuff at the sporting goods register. At first, he debated using his credit card for fear of being tracked, but if Hemingway was right, Locraft already knew where he was. King felt a little like a subject in one of Gosberg’s scientific experiments. Let’s see how much psychological stress one man can endure before going berserk.

  King grabbed his bags and headed to the café to meet Hemingway. As he did, he rearranged the stuff he’d bought in his two bags. In one, he covered the knife and the duct tape with his clothes. He put all of Hemingway’s clothes in the other bag.

  Hemingway had taken a table in the back, and it seemed like he’d dragged it farther into the corner. King took a seat, and Hemingway slid a piece of paper across the table. Put your phone in the corner for a minute. King glanced up, and Hemingway nodded at the corner of the room, away from any other people.

  King got up and set his phone on the floor in the corner, as instructed. Then he returned to the table.

  Hemingway whispered. “Get everything?”

  “Yep. You?”

  Hemingway nodded. “Already activated our phones. Here.”

  “Good.” King handed Hemingway the bag with his clothes and shoved his new phone in his pocket. “I hope you like what I picked out.”

  Hemingway didn’t glance in the bag, didn’t smile. “We can change right after we talk to Dragunov. Come on, let’s find a quiet place to take this call.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” King said, getting up and retrieving his phone. He followed Hemingway out of the café, glancing at his watch for the tenth time in the last minute. Fifteen minutes until noon. Fifteen more minutes until the fun really began.

  #

  Dragunov paced the width of the empty warehouse, phone in his hand. It wasn’t quite noon yet, but as it grew near, his throat became more and more parched. He’d already downed a quart of warm orange juice, and it hadn’t made a dent.

  Amanda followed him with her eyes, and part of him wanted to peel the duct tape from her mouth—he knew what it felt like to be uncomfortable. But she’d be free soon enough, if everyone cooperated. He wasn’t sure why he felt okay letting her go; maybe he was getting too soft, living here in America.

  He stopped walking and crouched in front of where he’d propped her up against the wall. “You okay?”

  A nod.

  “Promise you’ll be quiet?”

  More nods.

  Dragunov stripped off the piece of tape.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re . . . you’re welcome.” For a second, it seemed as if he were on the ceiling, looking down on the room, watching a stranger show compassion to his hostage. Such a foreign concept, but . . . it seemed almost natural.

  “What do you really want?” Amanda asked.

  “I want . . .” He took a quick breath and tried again. “What is it like to be Nick Nolan’s daughter?”

  “I told you, Nick Nolan is fictional. Doesn’t exist. Just a product of my father’s warped imagination.”

  Dragunov lowered himself from his crouch into a sitting position. “Was he a good father? Or was he too busy trying to save the country to pay much attention to you?”

  “Save the country? He wrote novels.” She stared at him. “What’s your real name?”

  “Dragunov.”

  “You’re not really Dragunov. He’s fictional, too. What name were you born with?”

  Something shifted in Dragunov’s mind. Memories seeped from the murky depths. Memories of a different reality. The name of a stranger, yet the name of an intimate, appeared in his mouth. He blurted it out without hesitation. “Cole Tanner.”

  Amanda’s eyes dilated. “Cole Tanner? Your real name is Cole Tanner?”

  “No, it’s Dragunov.” He closed his eyes as the mental maelstrom returned. “Cole Tanner is . . .”

  “Is what?”

  “Cole Tanner is dead.”

  “But you’re right here, in front of me. Cole Tanner isn’t dead. Dragunov is fictitious, but Cole Tanner is very much alive.”

  Dragunov opened his eyes and reached into his pocket. Pulled out the bronze cross and read the name inscribed on the back. Cole Tanner. “This is all some kind of trick to get me to release you.”

  “No, no. I’m trying to help you see the truth. Dragunov isn’t real. His mission isn’t real. Cole Tanner is real. Cole Tanner wouldn’t hurt anyone. Isn’t that right, Cole?”

  Dragunov closed his eyes again and fell back on the hard floor. Those recurring images, of body parts and blood, of death and agony and immeasurable pain, clawed at him. He didn’t want to hurt anyone. He wanted to save people. But sometimes, in order to save people, other people had to die. It was the way of the world, and a horrible truth he was very familiar with, in the desert, in the jungles, in the bombed-out cities. All that suffering, and for what? Hopelessness and futility. Children, wounded. Children, dying. Babies, too.

  Who was Cole Tanner? And why was he so tortured? Dragunov tried to shake off the distracted thoughts.

  “Cole? Cole? Are you all right?”

  He cracked his eyes open. Amanda was staring at him, concern on her face. And in that moment, he saw someone else. Someone as familiar as the reflection in the mirror. “Janie?”

  “Who’s Janie?”

  “Janie’s my . . .” Dragunov’s pulse jumped.

  “Who’s Janie? Wife? Girlfriend?” Amanda asked. “Daughter?”

  His mind roiled in chaos. Janie was his wife, wasn’t she? Then why hadn’t he considered—even considered—how this mission would affect her? A sharp recollection of her house, its smell and its familiarity, hit him, almost sucking the wind from his lungs.

  He imagined his brain split into two halves, each with its own set of memories, each with its own identity. Which was really him? Was he Cole Tanner, or was he Dragunov?

  “Cole?” Amanda said.

  “No. Stop it. My name is Dragunov. I’m on a mission. All the rest . . .” He scrambled to his feet and waved his hands in the air. “All of this is a trick. Distraction. Now, I’m going to make a call, and if you know what’s best for you, and your father, you will do exactly as I say.”

  He had a mission. And he wasn’t about to let Amanda or Nick Nolan—or Cole Tanner, for that matter—derail his efforts. He could worry about what to do about the insidious Cole Tanner after he’d done what he’d set out to do.

  Destroy America.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  “Three minutes,” Slattery said as Locraft took a deep breath. The Ops Center was full now, all awaiting Dragunov’s call. Once they got the details, every one of the twenty men had a different function to perform. A well-oiled military machine with all cogs and gears working together. At least, that was the goal. Locraft had learned the hard way that, despite the best-laid plans, these things often devolved into SNAFUs—Situation Normal, All Fucked Up.

  Those who best adapted, best coped with the uncertainties and found a way to overcome the challenges were the ones who came out on top. And Locraft was a survivor. If he screwed this thing up, if Dragunov escaped and continued his rampage, killing more innocent people, his career would come to a flaming end. And all the good things he’d accomplished—make that all
the great things he’d accomplished—would be forgotten under the crushing weight of this disaster.

  “Everyone in place?” he barked.

  No one answered, but a dozen heads nodded. Everyone was too busy concentrating on their immediate tasks. “What about the mobile units? Are they in place?”

  Slattery answered. “Yes, sir. We’ve got two vehicles in place at the Sav-Mor. Another’s ready on the interstate.”

  “Good.” Locraft knew the importance of controlling as many variables as possible, and King, Hemingway, and Gosberg were three large variables who, if left to follow their own motivations, had the potential for mucking up the operation. Wasn’t going to happen on his watch. As soon as they had the time and location of the meeting place, they’d pick up King and Hemingway and bring them back to the safe house to keep them within sight—and out of the way.

  And they’d step up their search for the elusive—and skittish—Peter Gosberg. Once they found him, they’d haul his ass in to see what was going through his turncoat mind, too.

  As the clock ticked toward noon, Locraft offered a silent prayer asking for God’s help. Today was the Fourth of July, his favorite holiday of the year. What better way to celebrate it than by catching Dragunov and saving the country?

  If everything went well, maybe he’d be able to enjoy some fireworks later tonight.

  #

  King’s phone rang at precisely twelve o’clock. “Hello?”

  “Nick Nolan?”

  “This is Mathias King.”

  “Ah yes. As you wish. Listen carefully. Take notes if you need to.”

  King had a pen in his pocket—writers always carried a pen or pencil—but he had no doubt he’d be able to remember everything Dragunov said. He put the phone on speaker. They’d moved to the back corner of the Garden Center, next to a huge stack of deck timber, far away from any shoppers or store employees. As an added layer of privacy, Hemingway had moved a “Wet Floor” sign into the middle of the aisle, twenty feet away.

  King adjusted the speaker to the minimum volume that would still allow them to hear. A thin trickle of sweat dripped right down his spine. “I’m listening.” Next to him, Hemingway had leaned in so close he could smell the man’s stale coffee breath.

  “I’ve got your daughter here. But I’m willing to trade her for you. If that’s acceptable to you, of course.”

  “Yes, yes. Let’s trade.”

  “Very well. There are a few conditions, of course.”

  “What?”

  “If I suspect an attack on me, she dies. The trade is for you, and you alone. Once I’ve got you tied up, I’ll let her go. You’ll just have to trust me on that.”

  King listened as Hemingway jotted down a few notes. “Okay. All that sounds fine. Let me talk to Amanda.”

  “Sure. Here she is.”

  There was a brief silence, then, “Dad?”

  “I’m here.” The trickle of sweat turned to a small stream. Up until this very moment, he’d believed she was still alive, but he hadn’t been certain. For some reason, though, hearing her voice made him more anxious. Or maybe the pressure just seemed greater—he wasn’t sure. Maybe it just brought the reality of the situation into harsh focus. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes. I—”

  There was a small squeal, then Dragunov’s voice returned. “See? She’s fine. Misses her daddy, though.”

  “There’s no reason to hurt her.”

  “True, as long as you don’t screw this up.”

  “I won’t. I assure you.” King could hardly get the words out.

  A long period of silence followed, and for a moment, King was afraid they’d lost their connection and Dragunov would blame it on him and take his anger out on Amanda. After all, he’d created Dragunov, and he’d made him out to be short tempered, vindictive, and without a conscience. And a damn fine killing machine.

  But Dragunov broke the silence, and King’s heart started again. “Okay, I want you to meet me on the Mall, at the—”

  “Wait!” King cried, interrupting. His thoughts raced. A lot of people were listening in, most of whom didn’t have Amanda’s best interests paramount. “I . . . I have a request,” King said, bracing for an eruption.

  “You have a request? I’m the one with the hostage. Your daughter, to be specific.”

  “This condition is for our mutual benefit.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “That’s the thing. You’re not the only one listening.”

  “What do you mean?”

  King sensed the increased wariness in Dragunov’s tone. “My phone is bugged. Someone is listening in. Someone who is out to prevent our exchange.”

  “Who?”

  “Let’s just say it’s the US government. We need to pick a spot they won’t know about.”

  “And how do you propose that?”

  “We’ll meet at a place I used to take Amanda to when she was little. How about her favorite place on the Mall? Ask her. She’ll know.” Only he and Amanda knew where that spot was. If Locraft was going to find it, he’d have to follow King, but as soon as they were done with this call, King was dumping his phone, and Locraft’s trail of bread crumbs would end right there in the Super Sav-Mor’s Garden Center.

  “Hold on.” King heard muffled voices in the background. Next to him, Hemingway was gesturing wildly. King turned his back and faced the corner, brushing Hemingway’s hand from his shoulder. The voices continued their unintelligible conversation. A moment later, silence, followed by Dragunov’s voice. “Okay. We can do that. But how do I know this isn’t some kind of trick?”

  “I don’t want you to hurt Amanda. If these other people got involved, I’m afraid that’s what would happen. I’m willing to take my chances you’re telling the truth. I’m sure you realize you won’t get what you want from me unless Amanda walks free.”

  “Four p.m. At Amanda’s favorite childhood place.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you will. Goodbye, Nick Nolan.”

  The line went dead.

  “You think that was smart? Standing up to Dragunov with your demand? Dictating the exchange point?” Hemingway asked, stuffing the piece of paper into his pocket.

  “Sure. He can’t have all the control. We need to keep him unsteady. Unsure. I created Dragunov; I should know what makes him tick.” King wished he believed his own words.

  “What if that causes him to snap and do something drastic?”

  “Let’s hope we get to him in time.”

  “You do realize that it’s the Fourth of July, don’t you? And that hundreds of thousands of people will be on the Mall for the festivities and fireworks?”

  “Dragunov picked the Mall. I just picked the place on the Mall. And those hundreds of thousands of people will make it very difficult for Locraft to find us, don’t you think?”

  “I have a bad feeling about this.” Hemingway shook his head. “Come on. Let’s get going.”

  King and Hemingway hustled through the Garden Center back into the main part of the store, then ducked into the men’s room. Luckily it was empty, and King rolled a trash can to block the entrance. They quickly changed into their new clothes, stuffing their old clothes back into the shopping bag. When Hemingway’s back was turned, King slipped his knife into his pocket.

  King still had his phone, so they didn’t speak the entire time they changed, not wanting to tip off Locraft before they had to.

  “Ready?” King mouthed. In all, it had taken them less than three minutes to complete their makeover.

  “Ready,” Hemingway mouthed back.

  King nodded, and Hemingway left the men’s room first. Their plan was to leave the store separately, from different exits, and meet at the car. Their disguises were by no means elaborate, barely enough to throw off a ten-year-old, but they needed only a few minutes of confusion to get away.

  King opened the first stall and tossed his phone into the toilet. Then he walked—fast—from the m
en’s room through the Garden Center, aiming to leave through the side exit. Wearing his jeans and heavy metal band T-shirt with his cap and sunglasses, he knew he looked different. What he didn’t know was whether it was enough to throw Locraft’s men off his scent.

  He circled the building and spotted Hemingway weaving his way through the parked cars to where they’d parked. No one seemed to be following him. In fact, King didn’t see anyone who looked suspicious or out of place. Not that he really expected to—people who tailed people for a living knew how to remain invisible.

  King’s suspicion about Hemingway—and Gosberg, by extension—grew. They had to be working with Locraft. King’s escape had been way too easy, and who had suggested it? Gosberg. Who was waiting for him? Gosberg’s man, Hemingway. Who had guided him there to the Super Sav-Mor and was listening in and whispering words of advice during his call with Dragunov? Again, Hemingway.

  A plan formed in his mind. He had been planning to tie up Hemingway at knifepoint and leave him by the side of the road someplace. But a more effective idea occurred to him. A little misdirection—something Nick Nolan would have been proud of.

  #

  Redundancy. One of the military’s basic tenets. Foolproof was a concept for fools, so the engineers and planners and strategists always engineered redundancy into their systems. The cost of the backup system was usually secondary, mostly because the price of failure was often astronomical, in terms of both money and human life.

  Unfortunately, when the backup system failed, disastrous results could occur, as evidenced by their current situation. Locraft mused how differently he’d be spending his time now if the power hadn’t gone out at the lab and the backup generator hadn’t allowed that voltage surge into the system, reanimating Cole Tanner and setting Dragunov loose to create havoc.

  Luckily, Locraft lived, breathed, and worshipped redundancy. He’d had the foresight to implant GPS microtransmitters in the soles of King’s shoes. And not just one shoe, both shoes. After the disaster in the lab, Locraft wasn’t taking any chances. When King was showering, Locraft had ordered one of his techs to sneak in and take care of it. This time, the redundant backup was proving to be a lifesaver.