by Theo Cage
Rice ordered agent number two to lie down next to his groggy partner on the floor and got Britt to start taping them together.
“Start with heads. Tight as you can.” She unhappily wrapped the sticky tape around both their heads, their bodies back to back.
“Now legs, extra on the ankles. You boys try anything, you can kiss your knees goodbye. I love shooting out knee caps.” Britt made a face. Rice knew he was coming across like a brute, but talk is an important part of self-defense. These guys were just deliverymen, and the people they worked for would joyfully feed Rice into a wood chipper without losing five minutes of sleep. If they could. But they weren’t going to get the chance. He had a mission to complete, just like them.
When she was finished, the two men securely joined with several layers of tape, Rice waved her away with his gun. He felt like a complete jerk, but agent number two could see him and he didn’t want to give them any idea that Britt was an accomplice. Rice led her into the back bedroom.
“Britt. I need to make this look like you’re the victim.”
“Do you need to enjoy it so much? You just separated that man’s shoulder like you were folding laundry.”
“I could have done a lot worse. I was trying to err on the side of caution.”
“What do they want?”
“They want me dead.”
“You need to leave,” was all she said, her eyes on the floor.” Before someone else drops by and I have more bodies in the living room.”
“You have to be clear. I kept you captive. Against your will. I told you nothing, just my name. Ray Martin. That’s important. They will interrogate you.”
There was a lot Rice wanted to say. So much. But he had no time and he could tell she wanted him to go.
Rice left the bedroom and grabbed his gym bag. He zipped it open and put the two guns inside, grabbed his shoes and laced them up. Then he walked through the living room to the front door, the eyes of the two bound agents on him all along.
Rice stepped outside and closed the door. Listened. A black Monte Carlo was sitting parked in the gravel turnaround. No one else was visible on the street. He wanted to look back one last time, see if Britt was watching him, but ignored the impulse. Never look back. Ever.
Then Rice took a leisurely stroll down the walkway to the driver’s door and got in the car, saw the keys in the ignition, started the engine and drove away.
CHAPTER 49
Bismarck, N.D.
HOTWIRING A CAR wasn’t as easy as it was a decade ago. Every vehicle Rice came across down back lanes seemed to have some form of modern theft protection or kill switch. He finally found an old Cavalier with 200,000 miles on the odometer that would let him trade down from his federal ride. Standard. No air. Window cranks. He’d seen better prizes in boxes of Cracker Jack.
Rice had gone through the Monte Carlo for ID, but only came across a Hertz receipt for a Karl Malden. He guessed that was a joke. If these guys were the FBI, they would have no need to rent wheels - they had parking lots full of dark-blue and black Ford sedans And a fake name meant fake identity and fake credit cards. That seemed like too much trouble to go through to search a neighborhood. Now he had no idea who these guys were. Clearly not Elites. Not ex-Delta or Special Operatives. Could be ex-cops or some kind or private police service. Or a discount recon service - maybe buy-one-get-one-free for all he knew. Hey, it was a new world.
Rice drove the Cavalier through downtown Bismarck until the gas tank was close to empty. He parked the beater and walked back a dozen blocks to a used car lot.
Stealing was better than buying because you had fewer witnesses, but Rice wasn’t going to bet his life on a wheezy four-banger not long for this world.
Marv’s Pre-owned had a nice clean Ford F150, silver grey. As close to invisible on the highway as you can get. Rice passed on the trade-in option, leaving the Cavalier on a side street where he was sure it would sit untouched for years. He had used fifteen thousand in cash, which was unfortunate. He was trying to preserve his money as long as possible, what was left of his share of the biker’s stash. He still had the compromised ID, which he used to register the car knowing the paperwork would just sit in Marv’s filing cabinet. There was no sign of a computer in the sales trailer. This was a local two-bit operation, the owner’s only entertainment, worn stacks of car magazines.
Before he hit I 94, he filled up at a gas station where he bought a pay-as-you-go phone. He lost his in the crash and Britt was unable to find it in the pile of scrap in her machine shed. He had Grace’s number burned into his memory so he had no difficulty sending her a quick note.
Had a slight delay. Back on the road.
Grace responded in seconds.
Where were you? They took your bro and his family. They’re back now and safe. Three dollars down.
Rice squeezed the bridge of his nose and rubbed his eyes. He was an idiot. He should have contacted Grace sooner. Britt would have bought a phone for him. That would have raised a lot more questions, but he could have dealt with them.
Three dollars down meant three kills.
Sorry. I was in an accident.
That felt lame as soon as he typed the words. Her message was clear. Kreegar's baboons had kidnapped Scott and his family from their bungalow in Brentwood. They had endangered Jeannie and their two children. Then Grace had done what she does best. But there was still a mess to clean up. The police would have a lot of questions and several bodies to investigate - and there was nothing Rice could do from his end to make Scott feel safer.
Rice’s brother had no idea there had been surveillance on him right from the moment the ex-spy took refuge in the Ghost Hills. They were the only family he had left so he was frankly surprised they waited so long.
Now that Rice was back on their radar, their greatest concern would be that Rice would talk. Or give information to the media that would blow up like a dirty bomb on the steps of the Capitol building. They must believe he had evidence hidden somewhere. Otherwise Kreegar would have just sent in a Tomahawk missile instead of three agents.
The second they knew Rice had no backup for his case against them; they would just rain hellfire down on him and be done with it.
He slowed down for a stop sign. Then sat there for long time until a car pulled up behind and someone honked their horn. Rice had made up his mind. There was nowhere to hide and no point in running. Kreegar would never stop until he had Scott and his family in chains. Everyone was a target now including Britt and possibly Addie.
Rice finally turned onto Ninth Street, the on-ramp to I94 ahead, thinking of the innocent people involved. There were always innocents; people standing at the sidelines, victims of bad luck, paying the price for someone else’s war. He had decided once he would never let that happen again on his watch.
And the only way to make that happen was to go on the offensive.
CHAPTER 50
Washington D.C.
KREEGAR PUT A HAND TO HIS HEART, felt it skip and trip and start again. Stress always did this to him. Threw off his natural balance, his timing. His heart at times like this became a traitor, an old friend now threatening to derail him.
He sat in his Lincoln town car craving a cigarette. He hadn’t sucked in the hot breath of nicotine and coal tar for six years, but there wasn’t a day that went by where he wasn’t reminded at least once of what he was missing.
Kreegar was back home in DC, hunkering down for the final battle, stressed and anxious as always. His heart somehow the victim. He squeezed the steering wheel hard. He was so damned close. All he needed to do was make Rice disappear. One man. Not an army or a division or a freaking Swat Team. One rusty agent. A man who no longer served the greater purpose; someone no one would miss anymore.
One bullet could do it. Three dollars’ worth of ordinance could sweep Kreegar’s vista as clear and clean as a prairie sky. He deserved one day like that before he died or retired or fell to the pavement clutching his chest. With Rice gone, he could
destroy the last of those mission files, his superiors satisfied that no assets needed continuing coverage. He could sit on his boat, fishing rod in hand, a cold beer in the tub, his heart not lurching and jumping like the floundering small mouth bass he’d just pulled from the lake. Shit, he could go for some that.
He put the car into gear and pulled back onto Washington Square. The windshield was fogged with his breath, his frustration forming a haze that made the oncoming headlights blur. As always, he fantasized about looking after Rice himself, but he was a fool to think that. He was never an operative; only a backroom analyst. He had to depend on his team. They were being paid well and they knew the ins and outs of wet work.
He pressed the Sync button on his steering wheel.
“Call Wheeler Mobile One.”
The automated system dialed the ex-President. Wheeler picked up, his voice filling the leather appointed interior with his impatience.
“We’ve lost him again,” said Kreegar, feeling his chest tighten.
Wheeler huffed into the phone. “Where do you think he’s headed?”
“My people think he’s on mission.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“They think he’s enroute to D.C.”
“Fine. This is a simple revenge game now?”
“We caused the death of his wife and ended his career. People kill for a lot less. But I know him. He’s an end game type. He has a goal and nothing will stop him from achieving said goal. That’s why he was so valuable to us in the past.”
“But this guy is smart too. He never took insane risks. He really thinks he can take us on?”
“He’s not a career agent anymore. He’s on the run and things don’t look good for him if he’s caught.”
“So I have to assume you’ve considered all of the possibilities and that you have taken every possible precaution?”
“We’re running a code 9 on Rice. There is no code 10. Maximum engagement.”
“Don’t feed me that military bullshit. Call it what you want. Maximum engagement? Rice has a plan A and a plan B, and a C, and D. The whole fucking alphabet. He’s spent 10 years figuring all this out. You are as far behind this as a drunk tourist who just fell off a cruise ship in the Bermuda Triangle. You need to know that. You need to feel it.”
“He’s not a superhero, sir. He’s an over-the-hill bureaucrat.”
Wheeler breathed hard. Even puffing, Kreegar detected a Southern twang in his voice. “George. He’s going to snap your neck like a piece of dry spaghetti. I’m wasting my time prepping cannon fodder. Find me someone who’s as smart and pissed off as Rice and I might have a chance of living until the weekend. That’s your last assignment until he finds you.”
CHAPTER 51
Bismarck, North Dakota
THE AGENT IN THE ARM SLING WAS AN EX-COP. He’d served in Washington for a couple of years, mostly on surveillance gigs, then joined Razer’s team of freelancers. The pay was good, but the medical benefits left something to be desired. And he was obviously no match for an ex-Navy Seal like Rice.
He helped his crew bring in the woman who put Rice back together after the crash. They called her Florence Nightingale. An ER nurse. She was seated in one of the back rooms, the ones that had door handles only on the outside. The inside handles had been crudely smashed off with a hammer the day before.
“This is a case of national security, Ms. Johnson. Do you know why you’re here?” Brent Razer asked.
“You’re not the police. You have no right to hold me,” she said.
“This is a military investigation. We have every right. You aided and abetted a terrorist. That means we can hold you without bail for as long as we want. You’ve heard of Guantanamo Bay? I can make reservations for you right now.” He held up his cell phone.
Britt looked at Razer long and hard. “I didn’t think they still made Blackberries.”
Brent Razer took off his jacket, despite the chill in the room. He was wearing a black T-shirt underneath, muscles bulging in his arms and forearms.
“We checked. We’ve been told you’re very good at what you do. One of the most respected nurses at St. Alexius ER. Every day you’re not on duty, it’s a loss to your community.”
“If you’re so worried, let me go.”
“Did he threaten you?” asked Brent.
“No. Why would he?”
“Because he’s a very dangerous man.”
“He crashed in my backyard, a bloody heap. So I nursed him back to health. How would I know he was dangerous?”
“Why not call the authorities?”
“He asked me not to.”
“And you didn’t find that suspicious?”
Britt looked down at her hands for a few moments. She didn’t look up when she answered.
“This is going to sound crazy, but at first I thought he might be a visitor from outer space.”
Brent pushed back from the interview table and stood up.
“You really expect me to believe that?”
She looked up at him, a whimsical smile on her face. “You want me to believe your fairy tale. That you work for Homeland Security and you’re searching for terrorists in the backfields of North Dakota along Roughrider Trail?” She raised her hand in an arc above her head. “This is an old used-car dealership. Used to be owned by a cousin. I think his name was Walt or Wally. I hadn’t heard that they sold it to the Feds. Who are you, really?”
"Do I look serious to you?" he asked. She didn't answer. "You're right. I'm not Homeland Security. I'm at least three steps up the ladder from HS. The man you harbored poses such a serious threat to this country that the President himself has ordered his capture." Brent let that sink in. She shook her head. She was a hard sell.
"One man? One ex-soldier? And all this attention?" Britt said.
"One man flying a top secret plane. Which he stole." She looked up at him. "Don’t give me that look. Do you think he just put it on his credit card? That's a fifty million dollar prototype."
Brent could see her eyes slowly filling with tears. He almost had her.
"Did Rice tell you his destination?" he asked. She shook her head; her lips tightly closed. Rice? She hadn’t heard that name before. He’d lied to her.
"Washington." One tear ran down her cheek. She blinked and another formed. "He's going there to kill the head of the CIA. The Director. He has a list."
Britt stared at him, her lip quivering slightly.
"What do you want from me?" she said.
"For you to do your duty as an American citizen."
"How?"
"By helping us catch him."
CHAPTER 52
Butte, Montana
THERE WAS A WELL-UNDERSTOOD FBI PROTOCOL for losing an asset.
First, beg for forgiveness.
Then work seventy-two hours straight to make up for your sins.
Sumner had skipped number one. He had conveniently forgotten to tell his Division Director that he had lost Addie. The only other idea he had was to draw a straight line between where the stealth copter had lifted off and Washington D.C.
He came to this conclusion because a company in Virginia called GoFlight had a prototype helicopter posted on their website that looked strikingly similar to the machine Addie had escaped in. GoFlight was a startup company that developed graphite military components. They had started years before, building bicycle frames for racing, then branched into lightweight airplane parts. The Z19 was built on a composite frame using stealth design ideas developed during the creation of the Grumman B2 Spirit.
Sumner had no idea who was driving the commercial rig Addie was a passenger in. Or who was piloting that high-tech flying machine she escaped in. The authorities had no trace on the copter. And he had no idea how a trucker picks up a piece of military ordinance. Could he have been shipping the vehicle for the Air Force? Or hijacked a delivery?
Sumner checked with a contact at Quantico and they couldn’t find anything on the topic. No bite f
rom a number of military insiders and GoFlight was offended by the thought that they had misplaced a highly secretive multi-million dollar experimental aircraft. A dead end.
Sumner’s head was swimming. The girl has been on the run for two years - the Ruffino family offering a significant reward for her capture. Nobody could understand why she didn’t turn herself in to the authorities so they could protect her. Of course, that didn’t work to protect her parents and her brother, so maybe she had just lost faith in the Witness Protection program. Sumner would love to ask her, if he ever got a chance.
So she is a mystery enough. But to top that off with an escape from a mob of bikers in a stealth copter that no one has ever heard of, was just too much to process. Was the pilot of the copter somehow connected to her past? Would that explain these other men who were following the semi-trailer down I-90? Sumner wasn’t the conspiracy type, but he had to admit his imagination was in high gear.
The money question, the puzzle of the week, was where were they headed? The Ruffinos were in Nevada and New Mexico so it only made sense that Addie would avoid the southern states. Sumner was sure that was why she had headed to Washington State. But the Ruffinos were heavily connected and met annually with other organized crime families in various cities. If the mob was serious about finding her, they would have a reward out for her.
Sumner had tracked down the eighteen-wheeler’s registration to a Ray Martin in Orlando. A dead end. Quantico guessed the lightweight helicopter had a potential range of five hundred miles, a wild estimate based on the surmised information. Drawing a circle that big covered a lot of ground and encompassed a number of cities.
And the other tracker? The male in the pickup truck? The rental had been returned to Hertz in Butte and was registered under a company in Virginia. Trent Razer of Global Imperatives.
