by Matt Hilton
Billie eyed the woman, who raised a plucked eyebrow, then snorted under her breath at Billie’s insolence. She turned and walked away without comment, leaving the tray and nylon pouch. Billie stared at the pouch as if it was a bomb on countdown to detonation.
The nylon pouch didn’t explode, but she almost did. It took rigid self-control not to holler and rant, because she still had no idea what her captors were waiting for and her guards had refused her the slightest of clues. She was left to ponder and she was sure it had been for hours. This time she didn’t sleep, and the time crawled by.
There was no mystery why she’d been snatched. The ATF agent, Cooper, had warned her that she might be the target for the people diligently chasing her husband. Joe Hunter had enforced the idea too. But what could she tell her captors? The official police report said that Richard crashed his car, plummeting from a bridge into a deep ravine, killing both him and their daughter, Nicola. Billie knew that Richard was dead, even if his body had never been recovered from the river the way Nicola’s had. She’d learned that a man resembling Richard had been spotted coming through Seattle-Tacoma Airport, red-flagged via a facial recognition program. The program must have been flawed, because it simply could not have been Richard. Of course, it wasn’t Richard everyone was most interested in finding. It was the money he’d allegedly squirrelled away from the accounts of several shell companies, one of them involved in the illegal arms trade. Thirty million dollars was a large motivator, enough that the company would pay handsomely to anyone who could reunite it with its original owners. The armed men who’d killed Hunter, and snatched her, were simply stormtroopers, brutish men who did the grunt work, but she trusted there was someone behind them and it was he who wished to question Billie. What the hell did they hope to learn from her? If her husband had stolen money, then they wanted to find it. But it wasn’t as if the cash was an actual tangible commodity, was it? The thirty million dollars they were concerned about was probably nothing more than a sequence of numbers lost in cyberspace. Did they expect Richard to have hoarded it somewhere, a massive mound of stacked dollar bills, and handed Billie his treasure map, ‘X marks the spot’ emblazoned over the location of the loot? It’d be funny if things weren’t so damn serious.
She assumed that she was going to be dangled like a carrot, bait to draw in Richard. But he wouldn’t be coming. So what would happen then: physical torture to force her into giving up the money’s secret location? Little good that would do any of them, considering she had no clue. In fact the first she’d heard of her husband’s alleged criminal activity was from Agent Cooper. His infidelity wasn’t the only secret that Richard had kept from her.
She looked again at the nylon pouch on the tray, and had a good idea what was within it. It wasn’t unlike the pouch from which the thugs had pulled the needle to sedate her last night. However she didn’t expect that this one held the same drug; why would they want to knock her out if they were looking for answers? She didn’t think it was an incapacitant, and had a horrible feeling that there’d be no waking up from it. Placing the damn thing in her cell was tantamount to psychological torture. She knew enough about kidnap to know that seeing her abductors’ faces was never a good thing; it meant they weren’t concerned about witnesses because they planned on doing away with her after she was no longer useful.
Maybe she shouldn’t be so adamant about his death when they asked if Richard was still alive. Hell, let them search the globe for him and she’d be happy to stick around while they were at it. The longer they were engaged in a wild goose chase, the longer she had to find a way out of her predicament.
Outside in the corridor there was a brief mutter of voices and the clip of heels on hard flooring. Through the grainy ribbed glass of the door she watched the shadows shift as one of her guards moved. A key rattled and the door was pushed open. The eldest of the two men responsible for drugging her last night stood in the threshold. He’d discarded his informal clothing and now wore pristine black slacks, a pale grey shirt and maroon tie, expertly knotted. His black leather shoes gleamed, buffed to mirror sheen. His spectacle lenses had been recently cleaned too, and were crystal-clear. He’d shaved and his skin was almost waxy, drawn taut across the lumpy planes of his face. Discounting the broken nose, the surly turn of his mouth, he didn’t resemble a thug now, more a business executive. He studied her without comment before entering and stepping aside, making room for his superior.
Whomever Billie had expected, this wasn’t he.
In fact the person that walked into her cell wasn’t even a ‘he’.
A forty-something woman, willowy and tall, entered and stood on high heels, her ankles touching, her hands clasped at her midriff. She wore a trouser suit, grey, over a pale lilac shirt and a thin gold chain encircled her swan-like neck. Her auburn hair hung in loose curls around her shoulders, but not in a haphazard fashion: hours and much expense had gone into her ‘natural’-looking hairdo. She too resembled a high-powered executive, and the steel-grey glint of her gaze only added to the impression. She wasn’t a pretty woman. She had an aquiline nose, a bulbous forehead and her mouth was too small, puckered like the painted mouth of a porcelain doll. For some reason Billie feared her more than she did the brutish men who guarded her.
27
Rink drove Adam Sanderson’s SUV while I sat in the back, studying the ingress and egress points of the sprawling logistics hub. Our new friends were in Noah Kirk’s sedan, parked discreetly in the parking lot of a gas station from where they could observe the front access gate to Route 507. At the front of the complex a slip road ran a couple of hundred yards parallel to the main route before converging with it, allowing traffic to gain and match speed before entering the highway. It was late, and the Spanaway McKenna highway was still busier than expected, but once we got off it and on to the surface roads around the site the traffic was much lighter. We followed East Gate Road, then took a left on an unmarked service road that followed the perimeter fence north, along the back end of the distribution complex. I recognised the view as the one showed to me earlier on Adam’s iPad. I noted the tall poles and CCTV cameras, watching for areas where the arc of one camera sweep would meet that of the next. There were no apparent blind spots that I could tell, but I knew that it was largely down to whether or not those watching the camera feeds were alert or not. A raised sidewalk adjacent to the fence was a good sign. If there was a pedestrian right of way then it was highly unlikely that the fence was electrified, or that it was equipped with motion sensors. Someone walking their dog, or kids from the nearby housing project, could easily bump the fence, and set off alarms, and I guessed these inconveniences would’ve been taken into consideration. Any other security measures would be within the perimeter fence.
Approximately three hundred yards along, we came across a back entrance. It was probably only opened to allow fire trucks urgent access, but it didn’t appear to have been used recently. Weeds grew along the bottom of the large gates, intertwining in the wire mesh, and the chain and padlock were rusty. CCTV cameras covered the gate, but I recognised a gap in the security net. The cameras angled down to cover the gates, but the next pole was a good hundred yards away and its cameras were pointed in the opposite direction. Whoever had last used the PTZ facility of the cameras had been tardy, forgetting to realign them to their original targets. I shared a nod with Rink, who’d also recognised a way inside. We didn’t stop.
We followed the service trail to where it dead-ended at an undeveloped tract of land. Bushes and tall grass couldn’t fully conceal the mounds of rubble and dirt, or the burned-out husk of a car, that had been dumped on the fallow ground. On the corner of the perimeter fence stood another CCTV pole, this one armed with two cameras to watch both directions where the fence took a right angle. A well-trodden footpath followed the fence back towards the distant highway and I guessed that people from the housing project used it as a short cut to the shops and services adjacent to the 507 rather than go all the way around
the logistics hub.
‘That could be our best way in,’ Rink noted.
‘Security will have grown complacent back here,’ I said by way of agreement. If there were someone watching the cameras, they’d regularly see civilians wandering along the path next to the fence, possibly to a point where they barely registered them anymore.
‘We doing this then, brother?’
‘We have to,’ I replied.
‘We don’t have to. You can still call Cooper and get the FBI on the case.’
‘That’d be the sensible thing to do,’ I said, but without conviction. ‘But what if Billie isn’t here? All we know is that the beacon from her vest is. It could have been removed the way mine has. Billie could have been moved since. If the FBI go in now and find nothing, that’ll be it. Procrylon will know they’re rumbled, and Billie will probably be dropped in a deep hole in the ground somewhere. Then both the FBI and ATF’ll shut us out. Let’s do as we agreed, Rink. We take a look, and if we can’t get Billie out ourselves, then we’ll call in Cooper.’
Rink shook his head, chuckling under his breath. ‘You’ve no intention of calling Cooper.’
I sat quietly. He was right. But my reluctance to hand over the rescue attempt to the federal government had been taken out of my hands. Noah and Adam were under express instructions to call Cooper at the first hint of trouble. Cooper knew I was on the case and I trusted that he was waiting for the inevitable crap to hit the fan: even if he didn’t have an armed response team on stand-by I expected he could call in the other members of his small task force. And if that wasn’t the case, there was an entire battalion of soldiers little more than a stone’s throw away that could be mobilised in a hurry.
‘How are you bearing up, Joe?’
When Rink calls me by my given name it means he’s concerned.
‘Sore but capable,’ I said.
He made a noise in his throat.
‘I’m OK. Quit worrying.’
‘Glad you agreed to wear that vest again,’ Rink said.
‘Yeah.’ I smiled. ‘It helps hold me together.’
Rink didn’t have the luxury of a bulletproof vest, but that wasn’t unusual. He had come through on gathering the necessary weapons we’d need, though. From Harvey’s contacts he’d sourced us a couple of handguns, suppressors and ammunition, plus a Mossberg 590 pump-action shotgun, Rink’s weapon of choice for when events grew nasty and loud. He’d brought with him an ammunition belt stuffed with three-inch magnum cartridges, enough firepower to drop a small army, or to breach as many locked doors as necessary. He’d forsaken his colourful shirt for a black sweatshirt now that things had grown serious, and his ever-present KABAR was tucked away in a sheath on his hip.
Rink performed a ‘Y’ turn in the road and headed back the direction we’d come. A little way down the service road he took a left and into the housing project. He tucked the SUV out of the way in a cul-de-sac. The car didn’t look out of place, as there were others of its type parked on the driveways of at least two of the houses in near view. Most people had retired for the evening, but inside a few homes TVs still flickered. We sat a few minutes, and I went over the map of the logistics complex Adam had printed for us. I’d memorised the location of the last known signal from Billie’s vest beacon, though it was unlikely that she’d still be in its vicinity. Also I’d taken note of the layout and configuration of the complex of buildings and warehouses, and tried to plot where Billie was most likely being held. It was a lottery, but I’d decided on an order of entry, and once inside I was hopeful of finding someone to point me to her. Rink had also plotted his actions. We weren’t going in together; Rink was our backstop, our extraction man for when I got Billie away from her guards. He was going to run diversion and disruption tactics. In many ways his was the more dangerous job, because his was about thunder and destruction while mine should be subtler. Noah and Adam were non-combatants and our last resort for when the time came for escape and evasion.
Rink’s cell vibrated. I’d handed it back to him earlier. He took it out and held it up so we could both hear. It was Noah calling.
‘I don’t know if it’s important but a limo turned up a few minutes ago. We couldn’t get eyes on the passenger but the guards at the gate stood to attention, and jumped to it pretty sharp when they recognised their visitor. The limo was ushered inside and directed over to that large administration building with the domed roof.’
We knew the building that Noah referred to, marking it out earlier as a probable location for Billie.
‘A few minutes ago, you said?’ Rink sounded displeased at the lapse in time.
‘We thought it best to wait and see where it went before calling it in and keep you holding.’ Noah’s logic was sound. ‘Still couldn’t make out who was inside, but judging by the looks on the faces of the guards it was someone with clout, and not very likeable.’
‘You did well,’ I said.
Adam said something in the background, but his words were too muffled to hear. Noah came back on. ‘You sure we can’t be of more help to you guys?’
‘You are being helpful,’ I reminded them. ‘Sit tight, and if things grow noisy, do as we agreed. Get Cooper and his gang over here quick like.’
‘Stay frosty,’ Rink reminded them, meaning they remain calm and alert. ‘We’re going silent now.’ He switched off his cell, looked over at me. ‘We should roll.’
‘We’re rolling,’ I said and slipped out of the SUV.
28
‘You know what we want from you, so make things easy on us all and tell us the truth.’
It wasn’t the first time the woman had uttered similar words, but Billie knew that frustration was beginning to edge in and before long the reasonable tone would grow more threatening.
Billie was no longer in the cell.
After the arrival of the tall woman the man with the spectacles had come forward and snicked through her zip-ties with a knife, then forced her up and out of the room ahead of him. Billie had glanced down at the mysterious nylon pouch on the tray, wondering again what it held, before she was propelled out of the door and along a corridor. She was taken up a flight of stairs and into another corridor and another set of offices. Finally she was led to a corner room, with windows dominating two of the walls. Outside it was dark, and she could see the far-off lights of a city, or at least a large town. In the night sky the landing lights of aircraft blinked and were low enough over the horizon to hint at a nearby airport. She was seated at a desk and the newcomer had strolled round the other side and sat in a plush leather chair, crossing her long legs primly and placing her folded hands in her lap.
They’d left the uniformed guards behind on the lower floor, but it was apparent to all that the bespectacled man was enough of a threat to keep her under control. He positioned himself behind Billie, his arms folded loosely across his chest, while the tall woman studied her as if she was something distasteful and beneath her attention. They waited, and a minute or so later the other familiar man entered the room. Billie watched her guards’ reflections in the windows behind the woman. As he had in the forest, the younger man presented the nylon pouch to his brother. Billie couldn’t be sure, but she’d assumed that the men were siblings. They looked too alike to be otherwise.
‘Stay with us, Danny,’ the woman said and the younger man took up a position, leaning with his shoulders against the wall to Billie’s left, arms also folded nonchalantly. He wore a firearm holstered on his left hip. Everyone was silent again, and Billie guessed it was a ploy to get her talking. She licked her lips, working up some moisture, but then settled back and folded her own arms in defiance, watching as the woman’s doll mouth pinched tighter and colour blemished her cheeks.
‘We are not unreasonable people,’ the woman began.
‘Aren’t you? Tell that to the man your goons shot to death when they kidnapped me.’
‘My goons?’ The woman glanced past Billie at the brothers and smiled. The men laughed disparagi
ngly at the insult, but Billie wasn’t sure if it was her words or the woman’s apparent pleasure they were responding to.
The woman went on. ‘I heard that your friend was first to employ violence. My goons only responded in kind.’
‘Well pardon me if I disagree,’ Billie said.
‘We won’t hold it against you. Like I said, we’re not unreasonable. We’re happy to play nice if you’re willing to work with us on our mutual problem.’ The woman showed her teeth in a smile that held all the warmth of an attack dog’s snarl. ‘Answer our questions truthfully, make things easier for all of us, and we will find happy resolution.’
Billie stared at the woman. ‘Are you for real?’
‘Very much so.’ The woman sat back, flicking imaginary lint off her thighs. ‘And very much to be taken seriously.’
‘I don’t even know who you are.’
‘You may call me Amanda. I represent the interests of a certain party keen on finding resolution to our mutual problem.’
‘You’re a merc like this lot?’ Billie jerked her head at her stoic guards.
