by Theo Cage
Razer was up again.
“And I know your girlfriend is down here somewhere,” said Razer, moving to his left slowly. “Probably ready to brain me with a two by four. Britt, can you hear me?”
Britt didn't answer. “You're free to go, Britt,” yelled Razer. “Just walk away. But if you aid Rice once more, then you will become a refugee from justice. A traitor. That means twenty-five years in prison. It's your choice.”
Rice and Razer were now face to face, in the center of the cluttered, musty cellar.
“Leave her out of this,” said Rice.
“Hah. I'm rescuing her. You've dragged her into your mad plan for revenge, and she just doesn't know it yet. Did you know that Britt? Rice's plan is to kill the ex-president and the former head of the CIA. Your partner is a crazed assassin. If he succeeded, which he won't, he would become one of the most hated criminals in American history.
“You don't know what you're talking about,” said Rice.
“Hey. I get it. They killed your wife by mistake. A shitty deal. But how will you honor her by killing a dozen innocent people?”
This time Rice charged, low and on the inside. Razer expected an upper cut, so he moved his head sideways. Rice plowed his raised knee into Razor's groin and pushed up, lifting the younger man off his feet. As Razor went back, Rice drove his forearm into the agent's Adam's apple. Razer landed hard, gasping for breath. His head struck the cement floor, and he lay there for a few seconds, his eyes unfocused.
Out of the corner of his eye Rice saw movement. A chunk of lumber came down and struck Razer above the temple. Rice looked up. Britt was standing over him with a crude club in her hands, still raised above her head.
Then Rice heard two shots boom and echo against the stone foundation. The paramedic was back, standing on the stairs with a gun raised. Britt let out a sigh and fell to her knees, dropping the two by four. Rice could see her eyes in the dark, the lids heavy, the light inside already fading.
CHAPTER 114
Logan Farmhouse, Ohio River Scenic Byway
GRACE HEARD THE SOUND; the heavy boom of an explosion rolling across the cornfields. Within minutes came the distant scream of emergency vehicle sirens. Three in the past ten minutes, one which flew right past her as she idled on the shoulder at the side the road.
Off in the distance the sky was smudged where the wind wiped away a veil of smoke.
Something happened in the middle of a local corn field and Grace was willing to bet Rice was at the center. So she turned the car around and headed towards the crisis.
On the way, she tried texting him again. Still no answer.
Then minutes away from the noise and confusion, she received a reply.
Trapped in the basement. Cops everywhere. Going to surrender.
Grace couldn’t believe her eyes. Surrender? If he turned himself over to the authorities he would be dead within hours. Kreegar’s men had to be close by, salivating over an outrageous termination bonus.
Grace fumbled with the keypad as she bore down on the disaster scene.
I’m almost there.
No guns. Britt is in bad shape.
You need to get out.
I’m not leaving Britt.
Grace could see the vehicles ahead lined up and parked on the side of the road. Neighbours coming to help or rubberneck. The local volunteer fire department. Maybe the editor of the community newspaper. Down the long gravel driveway were two ambulances and several police cruisers. She tried to picture the scene. How did Rice end up in a burned out basement? She could see the remnants of a building, people standing around the rubble.
They’ll kill you if you stay she wrote.
Rice didn’t answer right away. He wasn’t very fast on a cell phone keyboard. But he took longer than usual.
And you can’t do anything for Britt she tried again.
Grace hit the send button. She was right. If Britt needed medical attention, she couldn’t pick a better location. The place was crawling with medics. She just felt lousy thinking it.
She could go in guns blazing. She was a great marksman. She could wound or kill a half-dozen cops in no time at all. But she wasn’t going to kill innocent people. Half the cops in the US were ex-service men and women. She didn’t spend ten years in the military so she could mow down her brothers and sisters. There had to be another way.
She drove as far down the driveway as she could until she was stopped by a highway trooper. A shiny-headed giant with a spreading gut. He waved his arms and she pulled up beside him.
“What’s going on officer?” she asked.
“I’ll have to ask you to turn around. We need this area clear for emergency vehicles.”
“Be happy to. I’m just delivering some food for the volunteers. I know most of these people.”
“Food?”
“I picked up a few dozen donuts from the local coffee shop.” She stepped out of the car and flipped the front bucket seat forward. The thought of donuts had momentarily stalled the troopers thought process. She felt bad. Using the threat of sugar and fat on tired service people wasn’t really fair.
She pulled her gun out of the waistband of her slacks and shoved it into the policeman’s fleshy stomach. He glared at her unafraid.
“You’re not going to use that, lady.”
“You know OSUT?” she asked. OSUT was the US Army’s One Station Unit Training platform. All field Army training beyond the basic stuff.
“Fort Benning,” said the trooper.
“Good. Then you know what a marksman score of 39 means.” The trooper swallowed. Forty was perfect. He probably never met anyone with that kind of score. Grace looked down at his gut. “Not that I need to worry about hitting the target.”
“What do you want?”
“I want you to turn around and raise your arms above your head and we’re going to march over to that cluster of big shots over there. I’m going to discharge my firearm. But not at people. I want you to chill. Are we clear?” He nodded.
On the walk over Grace pecked out a new message to Rice.
Get ready for a diversion when you hear shots. Take my car.
CHAPTER 115
Logan Farmhouse, Ohio River Scenic Byway
RICE WAS DOWN ON HIS KNEES, bleeding from a cut below his left eye and his forearm, his head down, Britt’s hand in his bloody grip. His breathing was ragged. He couldn’t think. He was staring at the glowing screen of his cell phone, hardly able to make out the words or understand their meaning.
When Britt collapsed, he reached for her in the dark. Her eyes were already closed. He couldn’t be certain where she was wounded; the light was too dim. He could tell her breathing was dangerously shallow. He looked up at the volunteer who had shot her.
“She needs help,” said Rice. The man stared back into the gloom of the cellar.
“Razer told me she was a terrorist.”
Rice shook his head. Trent had played the terrorist card. “He lied. She’s a nurse. Get over here.”
The man brought the gun with him. It was a hefty 44 caliber. A cowboy gun he probably kept in his truck. He tucked it into his pants pocket.
“We need to get her to ER.” Rice took her arms - the volunteer took her legs. They carried her up the stairs into the farmhouse rubble. Rice looked around, just following the other man obediently. No one stopped them or paid any attention.
Everyone else was focused on a noisy confrontation to the south. A tall cop was standing with his arms raised and a woman was yelling at the crowd to get down. She sounded crazed. Some people were getting down on their knees but a few were still standing, looking angry.
They carried Britt’s unconscious form to the back steps of an ambulance and the paramedic climbed up into the back. They slid her onto a cot. She was pale, her clothes covered in sticky gore. The paramedic was on his radio, paging the local hospital for instructions.
Rice stood there, watching Britt, no longer seeing her chest rise or fall. The volunteer was untan
gling an oxygen mask. He felt completely helpless.
“Can you drive? I’ve lost my driver and she won’t last long. She’s losing too much blood.”
Rice nodded and ran for the driver’s door. He jumped in, saw the keys were still in the ignition. As he started the engine he looked over to see Grace, standing behind a highway trooper, her gun pressed into his back. She was yelling, the muscles in her neck bulging. All part of her diversion tactic. A dozen yards behind her was a man with a rifle, raised to his shoulder. He fired and Grace’s shoulder bucked and she spun away from the trooper and went down. Then he heard two more shots.
As Rice roared out of the farmyard, he looked back, seeing the trooper slowly lower his arms and kneel down beside Grace. Then she was gone in a cloud of road dust.
CHAPTER 116
On the highway to Washington, D.C.
ADDIE FELT LIKE A MAD DOG had picked her up in its jaws and shook her. She hurt everywhere. But not from physical exertion or the long drive. She was worn out from holding a tower of lies together.
Sumner had just deposited her in her room for the night and she was lying on a Ramada twin size, begging her eyes to close, rolled up in a fetal ball. She knew that Sumner was likely sitting outside her door right now, afraid he would lose his precious witness again. That thought alone kept her awake. Him thinking she was a victim. What a joke.
The thrill of being on the run and constantly looking over her shoulder had kept her occupied for almost two years. Now the pigeons, as her mom used to say, were coming home to roost. Just the thought of her mother started the tears flowing again.
During the long drive Addie had told Sumner her version of the events.
The night Ruffino's men killed and tortured Addie's father, mother and brother, they took Addie hostage. She told Rice she never went home that night, but it was a lie. She couldn't stay away.
They made her watch as they tortured her father, raped her mother and poured gasoline over her brother and threw a match.
When they dropped her off at Ruffino's hotel room in Orange County hours later, she hardly resembled a human being anymore. She had shut down completely. She read about the phenomena months later. Catatonia.
She had another word. Ghoul. She felt like an ugly soulless hulk. But that wasn’t right either. Because she felt nothing at all.
Ruffino locked her in a room and met her after midnight, his bodyguards stationed in the hall. She was handcuffed to a king size bed, naked, her eyes far away.
Ruffino confessed he had a fascination for her, had several photos of her taken the days before his men broke into their witness protection bungalow in Orange County. He confessed his rage for what her father had done, how he could have done the honorable thing and talked to him about the FBI's threats. He apologized for what she had seen.
Then he started to remove his clothes. Addie knew distantly what was coming. But she didn’t care. She couldn’t imagine anything ever mattering to her again. But she knew she smiled at him then, the smile she had perfected over years of practice. Indistinguishable from genuine, perfectly masking her pain and hurt. It was her masterpiece. It stunned her even today to think how she was able to produce such a complete and utter lie. She had truly reached the bottom. It sickened her. But at the same time, some fading grain of resolve refused to let her give up. If she did, Ruffino would just discard her. Her life would be lost for nothing.
They began to make love. Her feigned enthusiasm emboldened Ruffino, who eventually released her from the handcuffs. Then at a point where his mind was miles away, his eyes closed and his mouth open, she reached up and seized the heavy stainless steel lamp from the bedside table. She did this without thinking. And drove it down onto his skull with all the anger she had held inside. He fell off of her, and she saw in his eyes the beast waking. But he was stiff and sluggish from the sex, like she had sucked some of the will out of him.
She hit him with the lamp again and again until he rolled off the bed, tangled in the sheets, gurgling and moaning, blood gushing out of his skull. She was sure he was dead. Then she dressed in a fury, waiting for the goons who raped her mother to barge into the room. The men outside were already curious. One yelled out Ruffino's name.
She slid open the balcony window and stepped out into the night. She looked down. Six stories of balconies to the parking lot. And no other exit. She stared into the inky nothingness. She could end it all right here. No more memories. No more pain.
She took in a shaky breath. Years before at a school outing in Dallas, her and a friend had tried balcony diving. You crawl over the railing and lower yourself down to the bottom cross bar. You're hanging into space but the distance to the next balcony floor is now only about five feet. If you swing out and back and release at just the right time, you drop in a nice arc onto the floor of the suite below.
Or you landed on a chair and broke your leg, or slipped on a tabletop, fell back, and plummeted fifty feet to your death. Something only a teenager would consider doing.
She heard the goons banging on the door and decided to let fate make the call. She crawled over the railing, her heart tripping like a drum solo in her head. She swung and dropped. No table. No chairs. She landed in a crouch on the next landing. Then she did it again, tempting fate once more. She landed on her hands and knees this time, the balcony lit up. She banged on the patio door. A businessman in a bathrobe let her in, and she hurried out of his room to the nearest elevator.
Within minutes, she was out on the street and in a cab. Despite everything, something was still driving her forward. She put her hand to her chest and felt the guilt burning there like a live coal.
CHAPTER 117
Logan Farmhouse, Ohio River Scenic Byway
KREEGAR AND HIS TEAM LANDED in the Logan farmyard, in a horse pasture beside the barn, bits of burnt tar paper and plastic mixed with straw, whipping around their landing site.
He stepped off the bird's platform onto the ground, his focus straight ahead, his eyes behind aviator sunglasses. Behind him were three of Razer's contractors, all heavily armed and cool. As cool as you can be facing a quarter of a million dollar bonus to be the first to stop Rice’s heart.
Kreegar picked a straight line through the crowd, ending at a cluster of cops and emergency responders standing a dozen yards away from the edge of the flattened farmhouse. His team spread out. He would debrief quickly with the local authorities, but the soldiers were instructed to spread out and wait for his orders.
If Rice was in custody, sitting hog-tied in the back of a police cruiser, it didn't matter. Instructions were to terminate him. If he was standing chatting with reporters, cut him down. Damn the risk. They would have to rely on damage control later. Just end him. And if the woman from Bismarck happened to in the vicinity, that would be too bad. She should be more careful in the future about who she made friends with. If she had a future.
When Kreegar was about ten yards from the group of men, one of them turned to him. From his uniform, Kreegar guessed, the Chief of Police. He looked as pissed as Kreegar.
“And who the hell are you?” said the Chief.
“You don't want to know. I'm taking over this scene.” Two of the deputies pulled out their guns. Not what Kreegar expected.
“You get back in your bird. I don't care what government cave you've crawled out of. I will arrest you and your bodyguards, and you will spend an unpleasant night in our local jail. I've had enough of your type. I retire in a week, so I have no reluctance to fuck you over good.”
“I'm here to arrest the terrorist,” said Kreegar. “And you wouldn't even know where to start fucking me over. You've lost your puny pension already.”
The Chief of Police took a step forward, his hands on his hips. “We have a dead Marine. Two people in emergency. A stolen cruiser. And your terrorist is gone.”
“How did you let that happen?”
The Chief spit on the ground and looked over to one of his deputies, like he was hoping the officer would just
shoot the pretentious asshole. “A blond guy with a buzz cut? Goose egg on his noggin? Your so-called terrorist kicked the shit out of him?”
Kreegar looked from the Chief to the ragged cluster of people standing behind him. Hicks, he thought. He hated small towns. And from the looks on the faces glaring at him, they hated him too. For different reasons. But they let Rice go, the idiots.
“Where are they?” said Kreegar.
“Your soldier lit out of here in one of my police cruisers. I want it back.” He turned to one of the deputies. “And didn’t that woman in the basement clobber him with a fence post?”
Before the deputy could answer, Kreegar turned and marched back to the waiting helicopter, his men running to catch up.
“You so much as scratch the patrol car,” yelled the Chief, “and I'll be coming personally to collect the damages.” Without turning, Kreegar extended his right hand high above his head and gave the entire county the finger.
CHAPTER 118
Washington, D.C.
OF THE 17 SMITHSONIAN LOCATIONS in Washington, the National Air & Space Museum building on Independence Avenue is the largest and best known. Kreegar spoke to the Director of the facility and explained he needed access to the building that evening for reasons of national security. The Director was justifiably concerned, in fact, he was beside himself. Was there a threat to any of the exhibits? What was the purpose? What areas would be used? Kreegar told him he could supply zero details. His team would replace the current security detail. All video would be killed. His department would own the venue until 6 AM, and then turn everything back to the Smithsonian Security teams.
