The Black Hornet: James Ryker Book 2

by Rob Sinclair

  A moment later, all three of them were inside and the car was speeding away down the street, away from Ryker. He stopped and took aim again, but there was still no clear shot. There were too many parked cars.

  Just a couple of seconds later, the car turned a corner and was out of sight.

  Ryker then heard an explosion of sirens. He wanted to give chase after Willoughby, but he had no means of catching them. And with the police descending, he had a more immediate problem. Ryker lifted his head and roared in frustration, and then he turned and ran in the opposite direction.

  Willoughby was gone. He’d let her down. He’d lost her.

  Just like he’d lost Lisa.

  But Ryker wouldn’t give up. Not on either of them.

  52

  Ryker escaped on foot from the vicinity where Willoughby had been snatched, and he took time to let his head cool before he determined his next step. It would have been all too easy to steal a car or motorbike and hotfoot it out of the city, hoping to catch up with her kidnappers, but Ryker knew that would only add to the trail of destruction in his wake. He wouldn’t be able to evade the local police forever if they got him properly in their sights. Better to keep as low a profile as he could while he made sense of the mess he was in.

  It hadn’t escaped Ryker’s attention that he and Willoughby had been tracked down with apparent ease more than once now. Somehow Powell, Ashford, or Mitchell, or a combination of all of them, were a step ahead of Ryker. The obvious explanation was that someone – Mitchell and his crew? – had planted a tracker on the newly acquired car Ryker and Willoughby had taken to the Ashfords’ house in Mandeville. Whatever the explanation, Ryker saw little point in dwelling.

  Satisfied that he was in the clear, at least for now, Ryker took a bus out of New Orleans across to the nearby city of Baton Rouge – a place big enough that Ryker could remain anonymous, and that had good transport links for wherever he decided to head to next.

  Once in Baton Rouge, Ryker found a dive of a hotel where the doddery old man on reception gave him a single room for a nightly rate of twenty five dollars. It wasn’t hard to see why the room was so cheap. Not only was there no en-suite but the bedroom was the size of a large wardrobe and gloomy with a single square window to the outside world about six inches wide. The paper on the walls was worn, yellow and peeling, and the carpet underfoot – a grimy mud brown colour – was threadbare and sticky to the touch. Who knew what colour it had been forty years earlier when new. The decrepit room was certainly a big step down from the ones Ryker had shared with Willoughby in the French Quarter, but still a big step up from the cells in Santa Martha.

  Ryker slumped down on the single bed, eliciting a creaking from the rusted springs of the mattress. He picked his phone from his pocket and tried calling Willoughby for about the tenth time in the past two hours. Initially the calls had rung out, but now it wasn’t ringing through at all – was her phone dead or just turned off? Or had they taken her somewhere where there was no reception?

  Bottling his anger, Ryker set the phone down on the bed next to him and pulled the thumb drive from his pocket. He rummaged in the backpack and took out the laptop and fired it up before plugging in the drive. Although he was still feeling burned from having lost Willoughby so easily, he had to keep on top of the job at hand and hope that luck would be on his side.

  He had no way of knowing whether he’d retrieved everything of interest from Ashford’s computer, but as he opened the folder to scan the drive, he could immediately see there was tens of gigabytes of data, and thousands upon thousands of individual documents and email files. An experienced data analyst would need days, perhaps weeks, to properly search through that amount of unfiltered data.

  Ryker didn’t have days or weeks. He wasn’t sure he even had hours. He needed a smoking gun.

  Ryker had already debated whether, to stay on the front foot, he should go on the hunt for the injured Douglas Ashford. The radio news bulletins Ryker had streamed through on this phone had reported that Ashford was in a stable condition in a private clinic in Mandeville. The list of such clinics couldn’t be too long, but Ryker had to assume Ashford would now be protected both by police and his security team. Ryker wasn’t afraid to take on Ashford under such circumstances, but he hoped he’d find a better, and less risky, way of getting Willoughby back.

  Ryker noted with interest that the radio reports he’d listened to had correctly identified the attack at Ashford’s home as being carried out by a sniper. The reports had also stated that two Brits escaped the scene in a car chase and were wanted for questioning, but there was nothing on the news of a downtown shooting in New Orleans in which a young lady had been abducted.

  Despite his apparent strength in adversity, there was no doubt that Ryker felt rattled by what had happened to Willoughby – both for the raw feelings that it brought to the surface over Lisa’s disappearance, but also because in a short time, Ryker had warmed to her.

  Plus he felt responsible.

  Right now though, he had to take the emotion out of the situation and figure out a solution.

  Before Ryker delved into the sea of information on the computer in front of him, he realised he had another phone call to make. Peter Winter. The JIA needed to know about Willoughby; she was their asset.

  Winter answered after a few rings and Ryker explained the situation – what had happened both in Mandeville and in New Orleans.

  ‘You’ve had no contact since?’ Winter asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘They’ll be in touch. I’m sure.’

  ‘Yeah. I know. But we’re not dealing with ordinary street criminals here. I’ve seen what the cartels are capable of. If they’re involved, she may already be dead. We may not even get a chance to save her.’

  There was silence on the other end of the line for a few seconds.

  ‘I’ll get onto Willoughby’s Commander,’ Winter said. ‘I don’t know the ins and outs of this case but I’ll get him to send help. You need more feet on the ground for this.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Ryker said, although the thought of having to deal with other agents didn’t fill him with pleasure. He’d rarely been happy working in a team.

  ‘You’re going to need to lay low for a few hours. It’ll likely be the morning now before we can get anybody to you.’

  ‘We may not have that long.’

  ‘If you get even a hint of where she is, let me know. We’ll organise a tactical team to get to her. She’s one of us, Ryker. We’ll get her back, but it’s not worth losing you in the process. I don’t want you acting alone.’

  Winter’s words were strong and confident, though Ryker knew Winter’s reassurances might not be enough to save Willoughby’s life.

  ‘I’ll let you know,’ Ryker said.

  Ryker ended the call and got back to the task at hand. Within the raw data on the thumb drive, he initially focused on a folder titled “Camp Joseph” and scanned the lengthy list of documents inside.

  After opening a half dozen of the files, it became clear that what he was looking at was simply Ashford’s genuine business as Congressman – the ins and outs of the plans for the expansion of the army base, and the arguments being put forward by the opposing factions.

  Ryker let out a long sigh. He knew the best method for searching large volumes of electronic data was to run keywords through the files and review all those files containing one or more of the words. That was a lengthy process when carried out properly, and was dependent, to some extent, on trial and error in determining the most effective list of keywords to use. Ryker wasn’t looking to do a full, catalogued search though. He needed to cherry pick.

  Using a small number of what he believed to be the most relevant keywords, Ryker ran a series of simple searches. The powerful processor in the laptop took just a few seconds to spit out the results – over one hundred folders and several thousand files. The search software also displayed the directory structure of the captured data, and within the list of r
esults Ryker honed on two folders that were deeply hidden within the hierarchy of folders on Ashford’s laptop.

  As soon as Ryker opened the first folder he knew he’d hit lucky – all of these documents were related to Camp Joseph, one way or another. Not that he felt any elation over what was a minuscule triumph in the circumstances.

  Within the myriad of documents, spreadsheets and emails, Ryker came across several lists of goods. Orders, or shipments, it wasn’t clear. Some lists were regular consumer goods, others contained all sorts of weapons and ammunition. There were prices on some, weights and sizes on others. There was little context to any of it, much like the similar information Powell had shown him back in Mexico City.

  It was all interesting stuff, and it certainly provided further evidence that Ashford was neck deep in the goings on at Camp Joseph, but Ryker needed more. He needed a lead.

  As he delved deeper Ryker found a video file that the imaging software had recovered from the recycle bin on Ashford’s laptop. Many people didn’t realise that most deleted documents were available for full recovery even days and weeks after being put into a recycle bin. Even if the bin itself was cleared, deleted documents usually remained on the hard drive until that area of the disk was overwritten by new data. Snippets of deleted documents often remained on hard drives for years after their so-called deletion, and the recovery and processing and analysis of those snippets was an art form in itself.

  This file though had been deleted just days earlier and was intact.

  Ryker clicked to open the video. It only took a few seconds for him to realise what it was – the same gruesome video he’d already witnessed of the three Americans. He didn’t need to see that again, but as Ryker closed the file, he did at least feel that he was getting closer. Powell had made it clear he believed Ashford to be the American. Willoughby hadn’t seemed so sure, though based on what had happened to Ryker and Willoughby in New Orleans, and what Ryker was now seeing on Ashford’s computer, he saw no cause for doubt.

  Within the search results, Ryker noticed there were communications from two different email accounts. One, given the name, appeared to be Ashford’s personal email address. Another was more anonymous looking, containing what seemed to be random letters and numbers in the email title. Ryker at first thought – hoped – it was an account Ashford had created for his illicit communications. There was correspondence discussing shipping, timings, and money. It was all heavily sanitised, quite bland in the use of words and descriptions, but – knowing the context as Ryker did – not so coded that it was impossible to understand the true meaning. It was only when Ryker scanned through the emails in more depth that he began to understand the story.

  Ryker’s phone vibrated. He was so engrossed in what he was reading it took him a few seconds to register the sound. He tore his eyes away from the screen and picked up the phone and saw Willoughby’s number. He felt a lump in his throat.

  This could be about to get really bad.

  53

  ‘Yes,’ Ryker said when he answered the call. His heart was drumming with anticipation. His hands were clammy and it wasn’t because of the heat of the room.

  ‘Jack Turner?’ the man asked. His voice was deep and growly. Ryker didn’t know for sure who it was but he pictured the guy Willoughby had said was called Aaron Mitchell. Ex-special forces. Ashford’s right-hand man.

  He’d hoped it would be Willoughby’s voice he heard on the other end. This wasn’t a good start. Was Willoughby already dead?

  ‘Is that Jack Turner I’m speaking to?’ the man asked Ryker’s silence.

  ‘No,’ Ryker said.

  ‘At least we cleared that up easy enough. So who the hell are you then?’

  ‘I was going to ask you the same question.’

  ‘And I’m sure my answer would be the same as yours.’

  ‘Except I already know the answer.’ There was silence. ‘You’re Aaron Mitchell. We know a lot more about you than you do about us, it seems.’

  Ryker took the further silence that followed as a small victory.‘Let me speak to her.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘My friend. The woman you kidnapped off the streets of New Orleans.’

  ‘Sorry, not possible.’

  Ryker felt himself tense.

  ‘You know we had nothing to do with shooting your boss,’ Ryker said.

  ‘My boss?’

  ‘Congressman Ashford. Like I said, we know about you. But it was a sniper who shot Ashford. Probably a quarter of a mile away from where I was standing.’

  ‘Listen, I’ll make this real easy for you–’

  ‘No, I’ll make this easy for you,’ Ryker said. ‘You don’t know who I am. So I’ll tell you. I’m bad news. If you hurt her–’

  Mitchell laughed sarcastically. ‘Do you practice those threats in the mirror? Maybe you should, because that’s real lame.’

  Ryker realised Mitchell was probably right.

  ‘You two can still walk away from this,’ Mitchell said. ‘But only if you do exactly as I say.’

  ‘Which is what?’

  ‘I don’t know where you ran to, so I’ll give you two hours to get over here. Come alone. Unarmed. You’ll come here and you’ll tell me exactly who you are and why you came to our town. You’ll tell us everything. The time for playing games is over.’

  ‘You must think I’m really fucking stupid if you think I’m going to agree to that.’

  ‘Think? I already know you’re stupid. Otherwise you wouldn’t be involved in our business in the first place. Just do it. Or it’s over for you two.’

  Mitchell rattled off an address, and Ryker memorised it.

  ‘Now put her on,’ Ryker said.

  ‘I already said no. She’s alive. That’s all you need to know.’

  ‘Not good enough, Mitchell. Do you have any idea of the shit you’re in? I need to know she’s alive. Me hearing her voice might be the only thing that can save your life now.’

  Mitchell didn’t respond, but after a few seconds, Ryker could hear movement, shuffling, footsteps. Then he heard her voice. Faint, weak.

  ‘Ryker.’

  Ryker felt a jolt in his chest – relief. He wasn’t responsible for her death. Not yet, anyway. ‘You’re okay?’

  ‘We got it wrong. We got it so wrong.’ She was speaking quickly though her voice was only just audible. ‘Don’t come for me. You need to–’

  ‘Okay, that’s enough,’ came Mitchell's voice loud and clear. In the background he could hear Willoughby’s smothered shouts. Ryker had to again channel his anger as Willoughby’s voice rattled in his head. ‘Two hours,’ Mitchell said.

  The line went dead. Ryker held the phone to his ear for a few seconds longer as his brain whirred.

  What was she trying to tell him? Carry on going after Ashford – Lincoln? – instead of rescuing her?

  And what did she mean, they’d got it wrong?

  Ryker didn’t know, but he couldn’t sit and dwell. He tried his best to take his head back to the data on the laptop, but he could do nothing to stop Willoughby’s words repeating in his mind. Then Ryker’s attention was caught by the subject of an email, sent from Ashford’s anonymous account two days earlier. It was titled “Camp Joseph findings”. He clicked open the email. The recipient was Ashford’s private attorney.

  ‘What the hell?’ Ryker read the contents then clicked out of the email and opened the next on the list. More of the same. Then he honed in on one that was from less than twenty-four hours earlier. From Mitchell to Ashford. Again, the context was quite censored but Ryker believed he knew what the scant words meant. There was a shipment of weapons due to leave Camp Joseph – a big shipment – that night. He looked at the time on his laptop screen. Shit.

  Suddenly, Willoughby’s words made more sense. They’d made a big mistake, all right. Not just him and Willoughby, in fact, but Powell and whoever he worked for too.

  The wires of the intelligence services had somehow become severely crossed. Powe
ll – and whichever organisation he really worked for – together with Willoughby and the JIA, had believed Ashford to be a corrupt Congressman, using his position of power and wealth to benefit from the sale of black market arms to drug gangs.

  The real position couldn’t be further from the truth.

  Ryker had no doubt Colonel Lincoln was corrupt as hell; he’d been using his position at Camp Joseph for his own criminal gain. But there was a broker in between the US Army and the drugs cartels in Mexico, a person making the deals happen and calling the shots.

  That broker was known as the American. Someone in the shadows who had so far evaded Willoughby and the JIA, and Powell and his employers alike. Someone whose true identity was likely unknown to the cartels too, judging by the communications Ryker was reading between Ashford and his attorney.

  Maybe Ashford wasn’t squeaky clean – the actions of his security team alone would suggest that – but Douglas Ashford certainly wasn’t the American.

  The truth was that Douglas Ashford, just like so many other people, had been desperately trying to uncover the identity of the American. Ryker didn't know why Ashford had taken that task upon himself, but the Congressman’s efforts in discovering the truth had seen him implicated in the disappearance of a Mexican immigrant, and had likely seen him and his family receive a number of escalating threats, which had caused him to bring his far from lily-white friends – Mitchell and crew – into the mix for his own protection.

  Despite the presence of Mitchell and the others, Ashford had still come to danger and was now lying in a bed in a private health clinic with a gunshot wound for his efforts. He was lucky to be alive. Maybe he wouldn’t be so lucky a second time, because Ryker was sure Ashford would remain a target.