by Brian Drake
Then the next rocket struck.
The second SUV blew, a tsunami of heat and flame roaring over Dane and the others. Nina grabbed a stray handgun and crouched beside Dane.
“Get back!” she shouted, pulling Dane away from the SUV. They and the security agent raced for the shoulder of the road behind them.
The third RPG lifted the SUV off the ground, the ball of flame engulfing the steel body, the security agent running beside Dane falling as sharp pieces of metal impaled him. Nina stumbled, catching one of Dane’s legs as she fell. He hit the pavement hard, breath leaving him. He rolled onto his back. Nina lay flat on the pavement, a growing pool of blood under her face. Then armed men, wearing masks and toting automatic rifles, emerged from the forest.
Dane raised the HK submachine gun and triggered a long burst of .45 slugs. The rounds cut through the leading gunman, stitching the hooded shooter from chest to face. The back of the man’s head sprayed blood and bone on the shooter behind him. Dane’s next burst put down that second man. The heat from the burning SUVs cut through his clothes and touched the back of his neck. Sweat covered his skin.
Somebody tossed a grenade. It sailed overhead, aimed right for Dane’s position. As it reached the top of its arc and started down, Dane rolled. When he reached the opposite edge of the road, he went over the side. The grenade blast shook the ground. Shrapnel rained overhead. Dane kept falling, landing hard on a wooded slope, the wind knocked out of him. His vision spun and he sucked air in short gasps. Every bone in his body hurt, but he focused only on the task before him. Injuries were not the priority.
Dane rose just high enough to bring up his weapon. The masked shooters were spread out on the road. Two of them dragged Nina into the brush. Dane took aim but dropped back as the other shooters saw him and opened fire. Slugs cut through the brush, sharp bits of bark and branches striking his face and neck, the bullets whistling overhead. Dane rose again and returned fire. The hoods retreated into the forest as his salvo reached their last position. He struck none of them. He climbed onto the road and had both feet on the pavement when a fifth RPG shrieked from the forest. The pavement took the hit, and the explosion lifted Dane off his feet and back over the edge of the road.
DANE LANDED like a ten-ton brick.
He lay stunned but forced himself to hands and knees, fighting the searing pain that he now couldn’t so easily ignore as the threat of unconsciousness joined the party. His head still spun, and he rose only to find he had no balance. Back on hands and knees, he vomited and rolled onto his side, eyes shut, a low groan escaping his lips.
The enemy was getting away.
And they had Nina.
No cavalry coming to save the day.
How did they know we were coming?
An inside job!
Dane beat back the agony of his injuries and forced himself to stand. The front barrel of the HK had been bent in the fall. Useless. He discarded the weapon and climbed to the pavement. The dead security agent lay on the ground next to his SUV, which burned, the heat intense, almost like a force field Dane couldn’t penetrate. He stepped close enough to grab the security agent’s ankles and dragged his body away from the vehicle. He took the man’s pistol and spare ammo.
And then he charged into the forest.
THE HOODED gunmen had worn heavy-duty combat boots.
Dane easily followed their sunken steps. He stopped every ten to fifteen yards to examine the tracks. No booby traps to entangle pursuers, he noticed, because they didn’t think there were any.
When he heard the distant thump of a helicopter, instinct told him it was not government issue. He powered forward, legs sore from the uphill climb, his lungs burning, the pain biting his insides with more intensity every time he took a step. He kept going. Pain meant he was alive; it felt good to be alive.
Dane passed over the discarded RPG launchers. Still on track. The helicopter sounds grew louder. A burst of sunlight ahead signaled a clearing. Dane ran, leaping over a fallen tree trunk. Then he saw the hooded gunmen. One of them held Nina facedown with a pistol jammed into her neck. Dane braced against a tree and fired twice.
The shots geysered dirt in the clearing. Dane shifted and tried again. Another miss. He hit the dirt as return fire snapped his way. Another grenade bounced off a tree, landing nearby, the explosion a deafening roar. Dane fired from a prone position but there were no more targets. The shooters had taken cover in the foliage.
The chopper dipped into the clearing, a large black passenger helicopter with no visible markings. The hood with Nina shoved her toward the chopper. At least she was moving on her own. The other shooters fired on Dane’s position with enough accuracy to hit the tree he lay beside and kick up the dirt around him. He fired a blind shot in return, but all that did was waste ammo.
The covering fire stopped. Dane lifted his head again and saw why.
The last of the hooded gunmen climbed into the helicopter, the pilot lifting off before his passengers had the side door shut. Dane ran into the clearing. He raised the pistol in a two-handed grip, and he fired so fast that the pistol spat lead like a machine gun. The slugs sparked against the fuselage but did no damage. And then the pistol locked open. The chopper flew over the trees and out of sight.
Dane dropped to his knees, gasping; then he fell over and passed out.
He had lost Nina.
19
Scared Rat
DANE OPENED his eyes. Len Lukavina looked down at him.
“Not this scene again,” Dane said. The words croaked from his throat, his mouth cracked and dry.
“Hanging out while you’re unconscious in a hospital bed does seem to be my lot in life.” Lukavina moved to a chair in the corner and brought it over to the side of the bed. He sat.
“How did you find me?”
“Followed the noise. You’re the only one who made it.”
“They have Nina.”
“We traced the chopper to a local airfield, where they transferred to a pair of vehicles,” Lukavina said.
“And split up.”
“They changed cars again before we lost them.”
Dane started to rise, but his spinning head made him plop right back down. “Oh wow.”
“You’re not going anywhere. No broken bones, but numerous cuts and abrasions and a doozy of a concussion.”
Dane tried to rise again. “They have Nina.”
Lukavina put a hand on Dane’s chest and pushed him back down. “We’ve been rattling cages all over the world.”
“And you have nothing.”
“Not yet.”
“How did they know we’d be there, Len?”
Lukavina took a notebook from inside his coat. “Well, this incident did reveal a clue. The only way Royce could have known about your arrival is if he had an inside man. We think we know who that is.”
“How?”
“Cell phones are banned in the headquarters building. Before the attack, we recorded an unauthorized cell call followed by the abrupt departure of a man named Andy Swindol. An analyst.”
“Is he running to Royce?”
“He’s running somewhere.”
“How many eyes on him?”
“As many as we can spare. I thought you might want to call in some help, too.”
“No, Len. When I get out of here, I’m going after Royce alone.”
Andy Swindol always knew this day would come.
He’d been brought into Royce’s inner circle at the agency only a year before Royce retired, and while he was sad to see the old man go, they had a private chat prior to his departure in which Royce outlined how he’d need Swindol to keep the circle going as time went on, a job the younger man relished. But he knew The Call would mark the end of his usefulness at headquarters, and he’d have no choice but to link up with Royce elsewhere to keep the scheme going.
He made the call. Royce moved assets into position to intercept the convoy…
And per instructions, he was to telephone ag
ain for further orders. Get out of the building and head for a rendezvous, where you’ll be collected.
Swindol exited the Beltway and drove in heavy surface-street traffic, nervously drumming on the wheel. He wasn’t in a car the agency knew. It was his alternate, a getaway car stashed for such an occasion. His other car, with the cell phone the agency undoubtedly now had a lock on sitting in the glove box, was parked in an alley elsewhere in D.C.
He watched street signs closely and didn’t notice how heavily he was breathing. The full-blast air conditioner kept the sweat on his face from dripping.
Another block and he turned into a shopping center, the parking lot stuffed and slow-moving shoppers pushing carts and walking too leisurely for his liking. He found a place to park and left the car, pulling at his collar, his custom-fitted suit suddenly feeling like it didn’t fit at all. He knew he wasn’t losing his mind, but it sure was playing tricks on him.
His feet felt like lead as he crossed the lot to the building, breathing deeply. He now realized just how ill prepared for this day he was. But once he made this next call, all would be okay. Royce would send somebody to fetch him. That was their deal.
He reached the building and went to the pay phone against the wall. The phone sat between the grocery store and a dry cleaner. It was one of several he had mapped out throughout the city. He lifted the receiver and deposited the appropriate amount of change before dialing. Two rings and then a man answered.
“Yes?”
Swindol did not recognize the voice. He said, “It’s Swindol, reporting as ordered.”
“Wait.”
He stifled a curse. Royce could have at least used some hold music.
Swindol turned his back to the phone. People continued to move about, a mother pushing a full shopping cart and trying to control two kids at the same time passing him with little notice. He looked across the parking lot but couldn’t see his car. A white SUV was parked near his spot, though. His pulse quickened, but there was no way the FBI could have picked up his trail so quickly. The SUV was but one of many cars in the parking lot. That was all.
AS SOON as the white SUV stopped near Swindol’s car, one man exited the passenger side carrying a small tote.
His left arm was covered with tattoos. He knelt on the passenger side, extracted a rectangular device from the tote and rolled onto his back and under the car. He was there for two minutes before rolling out, grabbing the tote and wiping grimy hands on his jeans. He climbed back into the SUV. The driver put the vehicle in gear and pulled away.
“SWINDOL?”
The young, now former CIA man snapped to life, turning away from the parking lot view.
“Good to hear your voice, sir.”
“Don’t be nervous, you’re covered.”
A wave of relief washed over Swindol. “What do you want me to do?”
Royce gave instructions, and Swindol repeated them.
“See you soon.” Royce hung up.
Smiling, Swindol did the same, wiped his face with a handkerchief and walked back to the car. All was well. His feet didn’t feel like lead any longer. He unlocked the car and climbed in, noting that the SUV had gone. He thought nothing more about it.
When he turned the ignition key, the car exploded.
DANE PLACED his bare feet on the cold tiled floor and immediately felt dizzy.
He grabbed on to the bed. Lukavina walked in as he rolled back onto the mattress.
“What did I tell you, dummy?”
Dane, breathing hard, only nodded.
“Wherever Nina’s at,” Lukavina said, stopping bedside, “she’s a tough girl. She won’t make anything easy.”
Dane swallowed. “They don’t want her. They want me.”
“You need to take it easy, Steve.”
“Where’s my phone?”
“Someplace you can’t get to it.”
“Why are you here, Len?”
“Bad news about Swindol. We found bits of him in a blown-up car.”
“No surprise.”
“So for now that means we’re at a dead end.”
“Bring me my phone.”
“Who are you going to call?” Lukavina said.
“Nobody. I’m going to wait for one.”
20
A Quiet Country Cottage
NINA WINCED as the truck jolted.
She lay on the floor of the truck, tied at wrists and ankles, and the cold steel beneath her proved quite unforgiving. Worse, she had no idea where she was or where the driver planned to take her. The only thing she knew for sure was that the two gunmen guarding her looked bored, but not unwilling to use their machine pistols should she try anything.
Another bump. Her left shoulder hit hard and she stifled a cry, shutting her eyes tight. She rolled onto her stomach. Might as well let her chin take a beating for a while. She didn’t want to rest on her left side, because the cuts on her head wouldn’t appreciate the beating. There was caked blood down the left side of her face, and she wanted a washcloth. Bad.
It was an old truck, the steel floor rusting in spots, a canopy over the bed, a canvas curtain covering the rear. The boots of one of the gunmen were right beside her right ear. If she moved that way even a little, he might think she was coming on to him. He had his face in an iPhone, though. He probably wouldn’t notice.
More bouncing. Nina shut her eyes and tried to think of how long they’d been traveling. She’d been woozy from her injuries during the convoy attack, the chopper flight hazier still, but she’d awoken from unconsciousness aboard a passenger jet. Nobody had spoken to her, but they let her know they’d use their guns if necessary. She thought that was a bluff. There was no reason to have her other than as bait for Dane; of course, she didn’t need to be alive, they just had to convince him that she was and he’d come running to her rescue. If he didn’t say, “The hell with it,” and run off with a blonde in Barbados. She’d have to kick him in the shin for that when she saw him next.
Huh?
She forced thoughts from her head. No sense in going loopy when she needed clarity.
What did she know for sure?
They were on a rough road going somewhere. Destination unknown. She had no shoes and no belt. Taken because they might be used as a weapon. Her bare feet felt dirty; there was grit between her toes. She’d been carried from one point to another with her feet dragging. She didn’t remember getting off the plane, so maybe it happened then. Too bad she couldn’t analyze said grit and figure out where the soil originated from. She’d have to do everything the old-fashioned way.
Two goons with her, one on his phone, the other she couldn’t see. Both armed. Was there a passenger up front with the driver?
She turned her attention to the current environment. The air smelled fresh, minus the occasional putrid exhaust blast. She didn’t hear any other vehicles, and they didn’t stop for traffic lights.
She sighed with exhaustion. She could spin her thoughts a million miles an hour, and the reality was that she wouldn’t have any concrete information until they hefted her out of the truck and to wherever they were taking her. If they’d wanted her dead, she’d have been dead by now.
She rolled onto her right shoulder and bounced some more. Her head hit the steel and she let out a groan. Neither of the gunmen seemed to notice. She glanced at the second gunman, a younger kid with a clean-shaven jaw, who was dozing, the muzzle of his machine pistol lazily drifting with each jolt.
Well. So much for tight security.
THE TRUCK rumbled up an incline with the engine struggling, but it was a short climb. As soon as the driver leveled off, the truck stopped and the engine stopped.
Nina kept quiet as the two gunners rose and tossed the tailgate curtain up over the roof of the canopy. Bright light invaded the space, and Nina squinted her eyes. She rolled onto her back, crunching her abs to pull her upper body up into a sitting position.
The two gunners waited, with a third man standing between them. The third man le
aned on a cane.
“You must be Royce,” she said.
“I am. Get out.”
Nina hesitated. The gunners stepped back, raising their machine pistols. Nina scooted forward, grunting with her hands behind her back. She moved forward like a slug, pulling with her legs, scooting her bottom along the truck bed. She stopped with her legs dangling over the tailgate.
“If you expect me to walk, I need my legs free.”
Royce gestured to the youngest of the gunners, the one who’d been dozing, who shouldered his weapon long enough to cut the bonds with a knife. He quickly stepped back and pointed his gun at her again. Nina hopped off the tailgate.
“Start walking,” Royce said.
“Where?”
“I’m not a patient man, Ms. Talikova.”
Nina turned and moved around the side of the truck. Ahead of her sat a single building in a large field of green, with snow-capped mountains far in the distance. A chill bit through her skin. She was in the Alps. The building before her was the only one around with a dirt road running by. Truly in the middle of nowhere.
Her bare feet actually felt good in the cold grass. She didn’t mind that at all. But the rest of her body felt stiff and sore. She bit her lip, trying not to let out any sounds of discomfort. Royce walked beside her, his cane preceding every step, the gunners behind him.
“This is my personal hideaway,” Royce said. “You’re a privileged guest.”
“Why don’t you just call me bait?”
Royce laughed. “I suppose we could do that. Whether you’re live or dead bait is up to you.”
“You know what will happen if I sustain any damage.”
“I’m sure. Mr. Dane has become quite a proficient killer. I have no plans to harm you, Ms. Talikova. Your boyfriend, on the other hand, I intend to harm a great deal.”
