Running Dark

by Jamie Freveletti

“Many have already fled inland, away from the heat.”

  They drove down a pockmarked road, bouncing in holes and spewing rocks and gravel behind them. They turned a corner, and Emma gasped. Suddenly she was looking at one of the most beautiful beaches she had ever seen. White sand stretched in a graceful sweep for more than a mile. Blue waves tipped with cream washed over them, before retreating back. The sun rose, staining the sky overhead with pink. No garbage, people, or other signs of civilization marred it.

  “It’s gorgeous,” Emma said. “I was wrong about Somalia being hell on earth. This is heaven.”

  Hassim navigated the jeep a little farther onto the sand.

  “Some of the best diving in the world is here. The UN workers used to come here to snorkel and fish. There are other beautiful areas of Somalia that could be developed if the country could only shake its perpetual violence.”

  He switched off the engine, and they sat in silence. The only sound was the pounding of the surf and the occasional cry of a seabird. Emma stared at the ocean, mesmerized by the endless blue, and a thought came to her. Somewhere, out there, Sumner was on a death ship.

  31

  BANNER’S PHONE BEEPED ON HIS DESK, INDICATING THAT AN INTERNAL call from Alicia was coming through. He hit the speaker button.

  “What’s up?” he said.

  “Two men here to see you.” Alicia’s voice sounded strained.

  Banner picked up the phone. “Are you on speaker?”

  “No, I understand that the defense secretary is more important. I’ll let them know you will only be a few minutes.”

  They must have been standing directly in front of her, forcing her to talk in riddles. She was giving him a chance to leave through the back door in his office that fed directly into the stairwell. Banner appreciated her quick thinking, but he wouldn’t even consider leaving.

  “Do they look strange?” he asked.

  “Yes. But that computer hasn’t been quite right in a long time.” Her cryptic words, coupled with the strain in her voice, told Banner that something bothered her about the visitors.

  “Got it. Send them in. Just give me a chance to activate the camera.” Banner reached under his desk and hit a small button on the console’s interior portion. A short click confirmed that the camera hidden in a vase on the credenza behind him was on and recording. The feed went straight to Alicia’s and Stromeyer’s desktop computers, with an additional stop at another location where it was downloaded and stored.

  The door swung open, and Alicia walked in trailing two men behind her. One was dressed in a trench coat, the front unbuttoned. The second was the rough-looking passenger in the Crown Vic that had tailed him from Stromeyer’s house. Banner felt his fingertips tingle with a little fizz of adrenaline-generated electricity. He stood but made no move to shake their hands.

  “Gentlemen, how can I help you?”

  The rough-looking character smirked. The other man stepped aside for him. So Rough-Looking was the leader, Banner thought.

  “We’re here to talk about your security operations.”

  Banner waved them to the chairs positioned opposite his desk. “Please sit down.”

  The leader shook his head. “This isn’t a social call. We’re going to give you the facts of life. First”—the man held up his index finger—“we know you’re running an operation in the Gulf of Aden. An illegal operation. You’re arming your security guys in violation of international law. Second”—another finger went up—“you’re putting hundreds of lives at risk by placing that guy on a civilian cruise ship.”

  Banner raised an eyebrow. He’d bet the rough-looking character wouldn’t know international law if it came up and bit him on the ass. “What’s your name?”

  “Agents Tarrant and Church.”

  Banner raised an eyebrow. “Agents? Of what?”

  “None of your business.”

  The other guy snickered.

  Banner had had enough. “Listen, Agent Tarrant. I have a lot on my plate today, and a visit by two men making vague threats is not on my to-do list. Tell whoever sent you that I’m operating within international law, I’m not impressed with either of you, and get the hell out of here.” Banner moved toward his office door. Church stepped into his path. Banner stood his ground, which resulted in his getting a potent whiff of stale cigarettes and bad patchouli cologne that wafted off the second loser.

  “We know you’re doing your vice president. I’d hate to see her get hurt.” Tarrant gave Banner a sardonic grin.

  Banner rarely lost his temper—a source of pride, because he thought losing one’s temper was the mark of an amateur. He looked at the sniggering Tarrant and wondered just who was behind the intimidation, because it was clear neither Tarrant nor Church was the brains of any operation. He wondered if they had any idea how difficult it would be to take out Stromeyer. In a straight fight, he’d bet on her every time. Before he could say a word, the office door opened and Stromeyer strode in holding a cup of coffee and a gun.

  “Edward, would you like some coffee?” she asked.

  Banner raised an eyebrow but remained quiet. Stromeyer never called him by his first name—no one did. It was their personal code that meant be prepared. She was going to either shoot the gun or throw the hot coffee—or both. He tensed. He watched her turn toward Tarrant, who took a look at the gun and shoved his own hand into his jacket.

  She threw the coffee. It flew at Tarrant in a perfect arc, her body flying with it. He dodged to the side, whether in an attempt to avoid the coffee, Stromeyer, or both, Banner couldn’t tell. Stromeyer stumbled two steps forward before catching herself. She still held the gun, but now she stood over Tarrant, who had fallen onto the floor. Two more drops of coffee fell on his sleeve from the cup.

  “Don’t move, Mr. Tarrant. If it’s a gun you’re reaching for, it had better be licensed, because you’re on Candid Camera.” Her voice was calm, collected. Behind her, Church took a step closer.

  “I wouldn’t if I were you, Mr. Church. The camera feeds directly to a security station that will notify the D.C. police,” Banner said.

  Church stepped back.

  “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, aiming a gun at a federal officer.” Tarrant’s voice was harsh, but he’d pulled his hand out of his coat and stayed put.

  Stromeyer looked at the gun in her hand, and an expression of surprise came over her face. “Oh, I am sorry. I forgot I was even holding it. It’s been misfiring, and I was going to have it checked out after I delivered the coffee to Banner. But of course then I slipped.” She bestowed a solicitous smile on Tarrant. “It didn’t burn you, did it? And what agency did you say you work for?” Tarrant remained quiet. He got up, brushing coffee off the sleeve of his trench coat, only managing to smear it instead.

  Banner walked to the door and held it open.

  “This meeting is over. It’s been informative. Next time you two agents decide to come here spouting threats, you’d better have a warrant.”

  Tarrant laughed an ugly laugh. “I don’t need a warrant to beat your ass.”

  Banner pointed at the door. “Get out.”

  Tarrant walked over to Banner. When he came even, he leaned in close. “Shut your operation in the Gulf. It’s illegal, and after the Colombian matter no one’s gonna believe you when you say it ain’t. Darkview’s finished. Better find yourself a new job quick.” He sauntered out the door. Church followed, his face suffused with red from suppressed anger. He managed to bump Banner’s shoulder as he passed. Banner wanted to brush himself off to rid himself of any part of the man’s touch. Instead he stood still and watched them both leave.

  32

  BANNER’S PHONE RANG THE MINUTE THEY WERE GONE. STROMEYER had followed the men out, probably to ensure that they vacated the premises. He punched the speaker button on the base. Might as well use the feature, he thought, since the whole world was listening to his conversations anyway.

  “Mr. Banner, Senator Cooley calling, please hold w
hile I connect you?” Cooley’s secretary sounded impersonal, professional, but Banner was still irritated. As far as he was concerned, Cooley should place his own calls, like the rest of the business world. He made a mental note to have Alicia place the next call to Cooley.

  Cooley’s supercilious voice came over the line. “Mr. Banner, I’d like to meet with you at my offices. New information concerning the pipeline has come to light. Oh, and I’ve signed a subpoena in which we demand that you provide the committee with every piece of paper related to Darkview’s contract in the Colombian matter.”

  For a brief moment, Banner considered demanding that Cooley tell him about the pipeline over the phone, but the tap held him back. Depending upon what the information was, he might want to hear it directly from Cooley in a safe environment.

  “When?” Banner said.

  “Thirty minutes from now.”

  “I’ll be there.” Banner clicked off the speaker. He grabbed his motorcycle helmet on the way out.

  He drove into the underground parking lot attached to Cooley’s office building. The minute he left the sunlight, cool, damp, grease-filled air hit his face. Fluorescent lights cast a harsh glow over the gray concrete. Banner had felt his anger growing ever since he’d hung up the phone. Cooley was gunning for Darkview and showed no signs of letting up. The subpoena sounded like yet another attempt to dig up dirt that Banner knew didn’t exist. He wasn’t concerned about what the subpoena would find—he knew that Stromeyer would never have a paper out of place—but he was concerned about the impact such a move would have on the company’s reputation. Cooley knew that clients of security companies like Darkview relied on discretion and wouldn’t like to do business with a company that government investigators were targeting. Likewise, the Department of Defense would eventually steer clear of a contractor that brought with it even a whiff of impropriety. Cooley had been unable to bring Darkview down in a legitimate fashion, and now it appeared he was going to try a smear campaign. Banner parked the cycle, removed his helmet, and headed for the elevators, brooding. At that moment he could have happily smashed something. He heard a noise from a corner of the lot but ignored it while he continued to fume.

  Twenty seconds later three men appeared from behind a stone support. All three focused on Banner. Two were black guys, over six feet but slender. The third was white, about five-eight, with a basketball for a stomach and arms like a stevedore’s. He carried a heavy Maglite flashlight. They were an incongruous bunch. Like a motley group of thugs brought together only by their love of destruction. Banner slowed to a stop. It was apparent they were focused on him. He began to make the calculations he’d been making his whole life when confronted with impending violence.

  Banner stood six feet, weighed 170, and had the advantage of experience. As former Special Forces, he knew how to fight. Over the years he’d learned a little about many martial arts, cherry-picking the moves he liked and adding them to his repertoire. Still, three against one constituted formidable odds. He sized up the men and did some quick reckoning. The tall ones looked like a couple of inner-city gangbangers accustomed to fighting dirty. Banner thought he caught the glint of some brass knuckles in the hand of one. The little guy was the oldest and meanest of the three, and once he got his hands on Banner, his strength would come into play, but his girth was going to slow him down. The short one must have known this—hence the Maglite. Despite the weapon, as long as no one pulled a gun, Banner thought he had a decent chance to survive. In fact, he thought they intended for him to survive. If killing him was on their agenda, they wouldn’t have shown themselves so early but would instead have jumped him from behind. They were there to deliver a message and then beat the hell out of him to drive the point home. Banner waited for one of them to speak. He focused on the short guy—who, sure enough, started talking.

  “You’re getting to be a pain in the ass,” the short one said. “Our shipping friends tell us that you’ve got guys running around the Indian Ocean firing on their fishing boats. They don’t like it.” He slapped the Maglite on his palm.

  Banner shrugged. “I’m sorry to hear that. Tell your friends to stop firing on legitimate trading vessels and we can all go back to living peacefully.”

  “Tell your guys to fly home. They don’t belong there.”

  “No,” Banner said.

  “You’ve got thirty-six hours. We’re here to show you what happens when people don’t do what we want. We’re gonna give you a little preview.”

  Banner stared down at him. “Listen, jerk. I don’t have anything you might need except maybe the instructions for a really good diet.” The gangbanger on the right laughed.

  The short one’s face flushed red. “You won’t be so cocky when you end up in the emergency room.”

  Banner shook his head again. “I’m not the one going to the emergency room. I’m only asking once for you three to move on. If not, I’m going to have to hurt you, and I’d hate to do that.” Banner freed up his hands by dropping his helmet on the ground.

  The skinny one on the left came at him so fast that Banner was impressed. He had his hand cocked back, ready to deliver a blow. There was steel on his knuckles, and he covered the ground between them in a couple of seconds, but the move was a straightforward attack, which made it easy to avoid.

  Banner dodged the punch on the inside. He opened his hand wide and used the space between his thumb and index finger. He hammered this spot into the man’s Adam’s apple, keeping his arm slightly bent to absorb the blow but moving forward into the attacker. As he did, he closed the rest of his fingers around the guy’s neck and squeezed.

  The skinny one made a strange gargling noise from his windpipe. He arched backward, as if he were doing the limbo, while Banner followed him down, trying his best to crush the man’s throat. The other two came at him at the same time. The short one grabbed Banner around the waist, trapping his left arm to his body and holding him in place while the second one aimed a fist at his temple. Banner avoided the main force of the punch, but the hit still whipped his head to the side, making him see stars. Pain radiated through the bones of his face along with the scrape of a dull point ripping his skin open. The temple shot forced him sideways. He dragged the short one with him, like a load of ballast. Banner felt his own blood pouring down his cheek. He lost his grip on the first guy’s neck, but he was down anyway, rolling around on the cement, holding his throat and making wheezing noises.

  Banner stumbled over the first one’s body while he wrestled to free himself from the short one’s grasp. The man was like a pit bull with its jaws clamped down. He held on to Banner so tightly that Banner was finding it hard to breathe. Number Two had a grip on the sleeve of Banner’s leather jacket and was using him like a speed bag, raining a series of short punches on him. The jacket softened the blows, but each one created a burst of pain. He quit with the rapid hits and aimed a jab straight for Banner’s face, looking to drive Banner’s nose into his forehead. This time Banner saw the brass knuckles with spikes on top as they came at him. He managed to twist his upper body to the side, getting his face out of range. Instead he felt the fist with its metal-tipped payload piston into his rotator cuff. The same rotator cuff that had taken shrapnel fifteen years before and still ached at the slightest change in the weather. Even with the leather as protection, Banner knew that the blow might take him down. The gangbanger had found his Achilles’ heel.

  White-hot pain reverberated through his arm and into his chest. It felt like someone had driven a two-foot blade directly into half his body. Mixed with the pain came a surging volcano of anger. He turned toward the gangbanger in a blinding rage, yanking his left arm out of the short one’s grip. Now he had a better range of motion, despite lugging the short one around like an anchor. He drove his right fist into the guy’s solar plexus with such force that odds were he wouldn’t survive. As he folded forward, Banner raised his knee into his face. Number Two dropped like a stone.

  The short one still had a vi
se grip on Banner’s midsection. Banner catapulted himself backward, onto him. They fell together. Banner heard a loud crack as the man’s head hit the pavement. His arms finally loosened. Banner wrenched himself out of the other man’s grasp, rolled himself sideways, and rose up to his knees. The short one was already on all fours. His hands scrabbled around on the floor. Banner watched his fingers close over the Maglite. He jerked, as if attempting to stand.

  Banner’s left arm was useless, his temple wound dripped blood onto the concrete, and he had no weapon. All he had left were his feet. He staggered to his cycle. He heard the last guy behind him but forced himself to keep his eyes on the ignition. Even raising his left arm enough to hold the handlebar sent waves of pain through it. He jammed the key into the ignition. The cycle started on a roar. Banner drove it off its kickstand and raised his boots into position while he skidded around a turn.

  Twenty minutes later he pulled into his garage. His face still bled, and his left arm shook with pain. He watched the electric garage door close while he sat on the cycle, unable to move. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket to call Stromeyer and tried to raise it to his ear, but the upward motion, even from his uninjured shoulder, sent a twinge of pain across his chest. He ended up holding the device at waist level while he sent a text requesting that she meet him at his house.

  He dragged himself into the kitchen, headed toward the ibuprofen that he kept in a cabinet above the sink. But when he contemplated the pain level that reaching up for it would create, he decided against the maneuver. Instead he opened a nearby drawer, fished out a long wooden spoon, and knocked the bottle off the high shelf into the sink. He swore under his breath at the childproof cap. The pain wasn’t letting up, the blood from the cut on his face was congealing, and he felt a swelling beginning at his shoulder. He would need to ice it quickly, or the rest of the week was going to be all about agony.

  The doorbell rang. Banner took it as a good sign that whoever wanted to see him had the decency to actually ring the bell. The three in the garage would simply have smashed in a window. He walked to the door, still clutching the recalcitrant ibuprofen bottle. He checked out the newcomer through the peephole. It was Stromeyer. He opened the door.