On The Black: (A CIA Thriller)

by Theo Cage

  Rice turned left, towards lights in the kitchen.

  “The retreat was built on the foundation of a colonial mansion built in the early 1800's,” he said.

  They came to a large galley, a row of stainless steel gas stoves running off to their right. Rice stopped, searching for a light switch.

  “Aren't you worried they have soldiers down here waiting for us?”

  Rice shook his head. “There are only two ways out of here. The service elevator or a back stair, which goes up to an employee entrance. I'd station one man at the back door if I were them, back about a dozen feet by a thick hedge. We’d never get out that way alive.”

  Britt stopped him, noticing for the first time they were holding hands.

  “Then where are we going?”

  “A third exit. One they don't know about.”

  Rice had first read about the Underground Railroad when he was twelve. The Underground Railroad was a network of secret routes, meeting places, and safe houses used by 19th century slaves to escape to Canada. As many as 100,000 slaves found freedom with the support of Northern blacks and local clergy. Casey’s Mill Lodge was owned originally by a Quaker abolitionist who was responsible for housing and feeding as many as five thousand of them.

  Rice pulled Britt through the kitchen and into a large storage room. Right away she noticed the difference. The basement walls were built from rough-hewn rocks and jagged mortar. A heavy lintel was built into one wall with a massive oak door. Rice pried it open. They squeezed through and he closed the door behind them. The darkness was complete except for a thin slit at the bottom of the door.

  “Let your eyes adjust,” he said, his arm around her waist. She put her arms around his neck and moved closer in the dark.

  "Any idea how these men were able to find you here?" he asked.

  "I did everything you suggested. I didn't see anyone on the highway following me."

  He took her hand and ran his fingers between the knuckles and up to her wrist, then turned her hand over.

  "You left everything behind, right?"

  "Everything," she said, distracted by his hands on her, the touch of his fingers on the skin of her forearm.

  "Yet they found us." He kept probing. Then he turned her gently around and ran both hands along her shoulders, his thumbs on her neck, pressing up along the knots of her spine.

  "Were you unconscious or sleeping at any time while they interrogated you?"

  She hesitated for only a second of two. She was with Brent Razer and his men for almost twelve hours. Could she account for every minute? At one point she might have dozed off. But for how long?"

  He had his right hand high on her neck, sliding one finger along her skull below the lambdoid suture, the lowest plate of bone just above the spinal column.

  She leaned her head forward automatically, feeling the careful foraging of his fingers through her hair.

  Rice spoke directly into her ear, his voice low. "You know more about Propofol than I do. Could you inject someone without them knowing?"

  Britt had extensive clinical experience with the anesthetic; the same drug that killed Michael Jackson. Doctors called it milk of amnesia. Patients treated with Propofol had no memory of being under, which made it ideal for treating short term procedures like electro cardiac shock or re-breaking a fractured bone. The drug also exhibited characteristics of a truth serum. Patients blabbered on endlessly under the influence: telling family secrets, confessing affairs, admitting to crimes.

  Rice's hand stopped. Britt could feel the pressure, a tiny pinprick of pain at the point where her neck met her skull.

  "You have an implant."

  "What?"

  "They inserted a tracking chip under your skin. I can feel it." He took her left hand in his and guided her fingers to the spot. When she touched the raised bump, she let out a gasp. Rice felt her breath on his cheek.

  "What do we do now?" she asked.

  Rice put his arms around her and pulled her closer. They stood that way for a moment listening for sounds beyond the door. Britt could hear muffled voices in the distance.

  "I never want to lose you again," he said. Britt squeezed him harder.

  "What do we do?" she asked again, this time sounding more anxious.

  "It's a simple procedure. We don't have much time, and we don't have any antiseptic."

  Britt looked up at him in the dark, curious. She tried to imagine him cutting out the object with a pen knife or a rusty nail. Instead, he raised his hand to her neck again. She felt his fingernail on her skin. He pressed down hard, his nail scraping across the skin, forcing the implant down across her skull and out through the partially healed incision. He flicked the object across the room.

  Britt resisted touching the point of pain knowing she would only increase the chances of infection. She shook her head, a vague sense of violation like a bad taste at the back of her throat.

  “How do you know about this place?” she whispered.

  “I visited here once when I was younger. I was on assignment near here and couldn't resist seeing the place for myself.”

  He moved away from her reluctantly. “We need to go. They're going to get suspicious when they find the bodies on two. They may get impatient and come looking for us instead of waiting for us to flee. Sooner or later the police will have to show up, regardless of how much they've been bribed or threatened.”

  Britt could see the tunnel now. She could smell the wet earth and the old lumber. They both ducked and headed north.

  “This was used to transport slaves to freedom in the mid eighteen hundreds. It's one of the reasons for the battle near here. The owner was a notorious enemy of the south. They knew he was spending his millions to hide and transport slaves to freedom.”

  Britt pulled out her phone and turned it on. The light from the tiny LCD screen helped light the way as they followed the meandering tunnel to their own freedom – however brief that might prove to be.

  CHAPTER 91

  Casey’s Mill Lodge, Indiana

  TRENT COULDN’T REMEMBER the last time he was this angry. He was standing by his truck near the Lodge, talking on the mobile to one of the contractors, fighting the urge to toss the device into the trees.

  “Look again,” was all Trent said to the killer-for-hire and clicked off the transmission. He looked around for something to break, something to stomp into oblivion. Rice had disappeared again, along with the bait – the pretty nurse from Bismarck. There was no way for Rice to escape so he had to still be in the building. They had torn the second floor apart including the three rooms Rice had booked under different names. They were wasting too much time.

  The information they beat out of McFee was just as useless. The cell number he gave them was untraceable – the calls routed to a VoIP network with end-to-end encryption, a trick Trent had used himself. Rice had help. This person called Jimmy must be some kind of hacker.

  The mobile chirped at Trent. He had to assume it was more bad news.

  “The owner wants to talk to someone in charge,” said one of the team leads. Trent grunted his agreement and spit on the ground.

  “Who's paying for all this damage? You didn't tell me you were going to destroy the Inn.”

  “Mr. Franklin. You will be reimbursed.”

  “What kind of government agents shoot up an entire building to arrest one man? You needed an armed division for one terrorist?”

  Trent felt a sharp pain in his stomach; one of the first places stress always affected him. He leaned forward to lessen the pain. “Mr. Franklin. Do you have any idea where the terrorist might be hiding?”

  “Any place I suggest will just be demolished. Did you see my lobby? And what about my guests. They’ve all left. Some are going to sue me. You ripped up every room. And where is my night receptionist? He’s disappeared.”

  Trent wanted to say, “Check the morgue,” but he knew that would only upset the owner more. And he wanted his cooperation.”

  “I can't di
scuss details right now. This is a national security matter. But you will be paid for all renovations and loss of business. And your country thanks you for your cooperation.”

  Mr. Franklin went silent for a moment, probably imagining all the ways he could overcharge the government for damage they did. “You blocked the lobby and the side exits?” asked Franklin.

  “And the employee entrance at the back leading to the kitchen?”

  “There's no other way in or out of the Inn,” said the owner. “Except for the escape tunnel of course.”

  “Tunnel?” asked Trent, his hand tightening on the phone, his knuckles suddenly white.

  “But there's no way your terrorist could know about the tunnel, or know how to find it. Unless he was a Civil War buff.”

  CHAPTER 92

  Casey’s Mill Lodge, Indiana

  IT WAS THE LAST PLACE Britt imagined she would be a week ago - wearing a dark-grey slicker over jeans and rubber boots, sitting in an aluminum boat and holding a fishing rod over the side. Rice was seated in front of her, their knees almost touching. The rain was sporadic, but the sky relentlessly grey and soupy.

  “I feel like a sitting duck,” said Britt, feeling the boat rock slightly in the wake of a powered fishing boat passing by.

  “They're going to expect us to run once they find out about the tunnel. They'll have local roads blocked. They may even enlist a plane or a chopper to cover the area. Give them a day and they'll lose interest,” said Rice.

  “In the meantime, you can teach me the joys of fishing,” said Britt.

  “Fishing is not about the fish as much as it's an American form of meditation. You sit quietly, hardly talking, clearing your mind. It's very therapeutic.”

  “You can say that. But isn't it usually the woman who gets to clean the fish?”

  “Dinners on me tonight. But I'm guessing it will be pizza because we are in a terrible fishing spot. It's too noisy here.”

  Britt lifted one eyebrow. “You think I'm talking too much?” Rice smiled. “I meant the boat traffic. But I don't want us too far away from witnesses if they do happen to show up.” Rice bobbed his line up and down a few times. Britt watched him, then did the same.

  “When are you going to tell me why everyone wants you so badly?” asked Britt.

  “Best thing for you right now is to know as little as possible.”

  Britt gave him a long look. “You're a rare man if you think you know what's best for a woman.”

  “I'm trying to protect you.”

  “Is that what you were doing inviting me to the Shooting Arcade Hotel? You really know how to show a date a good time.”

  Rice wiped the rain off his face and looked down into the dark water. Could he tell Britt enough to make her understand without endangering her life anymore than it already was? “For years I worked for a division of the government no one talks about. We considered ourselves the ultimate patriots. We were led by a man named Kreegar who was this genius strategist. They used to say he was the Stephen Hawking of the Intelligence world.”

  “What did you do?”

  “We moved chess pieces around.” He looked her in the eye when he said that. They both knew it was a euphemism for something darker and bloodier.

  “But why are they after you now?” she asked.

  “I’d had enough. So I left. And you never leave Kreegar.” Britt’s eyes never left his. They were burning a hole right into his soul. Rice never felt so naked. “I also know where all the bodies are buried, ” he said, unable to stop himself. Britt seemed to shrink back into her rain poncho.

  “Bodies?” she asked.

  Rice blew out a breath of air. They both saw the fog of his exhalation hang in the air in front of them like a tiny ghost. “A thousand bodies.” said Rice. “At least a thousand.”

  CHAPTER 93

  Casey’s Mill Lodge, Indiana

  TRENT WAS STANDING IN THE DRIZZLING RAIN, staring down at the ground, watching the water pool in the long grass. The tunnel from the Lodge exited a quarter mile from the north foundation wall, at the bottom of a depression filled with rocks and broken lumber cleared from local land. Apparently Rice and the woman had moved aside tree branches covering the hole and escaped across a field. Trent had a helicopter circling the area looking for two people on foot or a vehicle moving away from the Inn. Brent was in the air, searching. They hadn’t found anything yet.

  Trent studied the surrounding ground looking for footprints, any indication of a direction that could narrow their search. Rice was at least a half hour ahead of them, maybe more.

  Brent was on his cell phone talking fast. “We traced the truck we found parked down a private road about a half mile south of you. Purchased by our friend Ray Martin. Two days ago. Paid cash.”

  “So Rice and his girlfriend are on foot?”

  “I’ve got our people going door-to-door right now. It won't take long. The area is sparsely populated. Mostly farm land.”

  “That's all we ever do anymore. I feel like I work for the Census Bureau.”

  “He's not hiding out in a city now. There are few places to disappear to, two strangers on foot.”

  “Trent. We sent twelve highly trained, experienced Homeland Security agents and Navy Seals into the retreat. Rice killed five of them and escaped the rest.

  “That Johnson woman also set us up. She led us to a building Rice had prior knowledge of. He booked several rooms, had passkeys made ahead of time. And he knew about the goddamn tunnel.”

  “Are you going to tell Kreegar that story? All he has to do is make a few phone calls and we will never work in Washington again. Ever! We might as well go and work for the Census Bureau.”

  There was a long silence on the phone. “Do you know anything about fishing?” asked Brent.

  “This is not a good time,” said Trent, distracted.

  “Do you fish near a busy channel in a river or find a quiet spot near the weeds.”

  Trent thought this was Brent thinking out loud; using some kind of metaphor for their search strategy.

  “What are you trying to say?” asked Trent.

  “Fuck, you're thick, brother. I see a couple sitting in a boat in the channel, fishing.”

  “Then have them checked out. We've got to have a dozen agents at our disposal. But be careful. Don't underestimate him.”

  Trent hung up, concerned his batteries might die. He couldn't picture Rice in a boat in the rain, waiting for them. But with this guy, you never knew.

  CHAPTER 94

  Indian Creek, Indiana

  RICE HAD A THEORY ABOUT HELICOPTERS and how useful they were in combat. They were quick to deploy and flexible as hell, but easy targets. He knew a combat pilot once. His cockiness was legendary. He lasted eight missions.

  Rice could hear them in his sleep. They were a constant buzzing in his dreams. Sitting in the boat, the rain running down his neck, he felt the first pass almost subliminally. Even though the drone of a helicopter was probably a rare event in this part of the country, he automatically discounted the first flyby. Out of habit. Though it did nag at him like a black fly that kept circling your head, never landing.

  The second pass was a different thing entirely. Rice felt a surge of adrenaline, his fingertips vibrating.

  The chopper was coming back for a second look. A dreary expanse of water didn't seem to Rice like a good use of their search time. He was hoping they weren't looking for two people, but that was just wishful thinking. They had followed Britt. She led them to the retreat. They had to assume they were together. Like they were now, sitting in a fishing boat about ten yards from a weedy shoreline.

  He had seen the extent of their commitment at the Lodge. They had gone in, guns blazing. Someone had decided they no longer needed to talk to him. They just wanted him dead now. Which made sense.

  He peered up at the fuzzy dot on the horizon through the curtain of drizzle. He had sat in many helicopters, staring down at unbroken desert and barren hills, searching for movement
. He was imagining what the pilot could see through the rain from that distance. Not much yet. If Rice was going to react, it had to be now.

  Rice turned to Britt. “Can you swim?” She nodded. Rice pushed her over the side and followed her in. The water was colder than he expected. Britt came up, her plastic poncho pulled down over her face, coughing up lake water. Rice grabbed the gunnel of the boat and flipped it up in the water and over on top of them. For a few seconds, they were plunged into complete darkness. Then, as their eyes adjusted, they were aware of light reflecting from below them. The bottom became clearly visible about ten feet below.

  “What the hell was that all about?” gasped Britt.

  “Listen,” said Rice. Britt stopped thrashing in the water and reached up to grab the edge of an aluminum seat hanging above her. Rice could see on her face her ears had picked up the growing thrum of a helicopter turbine.

  “Is that them?” she asked.

  “Second fly over,” said Rice.

  “Damn. I heard nothing.”

  “I figure being unseen is better than visible, although I'm guessing they're going to figure out that we're under here.”

  “And?”

  “And they're going to open fire. So we need to swim away from this boat.”

  “To where?” Britt didn't look happy.

  “See those weeds down there? Swim down and grab them. If you’re six feet under, bullets won't penetrate.”

  “I'm not a fish,” she said.

  Rice listened, his breathing echoing in their aluminum cave. The chopper was still a quarter mile away. “Do this,” he said. “Hyperventilate.” He breathed deeply four times. “It fills your blood full of oxygen. Then one final breath. Deep as you can. Then follow the anchor chain down. Try to relax your body. You’ll use less air. And watch me.”

  Britt was taking in great gulps of air.

  “OK, big breath. Now!”