On The Black: (A CIA Thriller)

by Theo Cage

  “And when we release you son? What's to stop you from coming after me again? Or Wheeler?”

  Kreegar rolled the cigar around in his mouth, removed it, stared at it briefly, then chomped down on it again. “You threatened to expose Operation Kindergarten ten years ago. You could have just shut up. You were trusted. You brought this on yourself, with your attack of ethics.”

  “Including killing my wife?”

  “Like I said. You brought this on yourself.”

  “And Scott's family?” Rice's voice was rising and echoing off the walls and exhibits in the gallery.

  Kreegar shrugged and reached inside his jacket. Rice slid his hand under his jacket. Kreegar removed a gold lighter and lit his cigar.

  “Sorry. I can't resist. I'm a man of habits,” said Kreegar.

  Rice, his hands on the grip of his gun, bit down hard, feeling his jaw muscles pulse under his cheek. It would be so simple. Just put a bullet through the man's brain. Watch the eyes roll back. Kreegar wasn't combat trained, probably hadn't fired a gun in twenty-years or more. This would be no contest. It was what Rice had dreamed about forever. Sure, it would only be the first shot in hundreds. The main gallery would turn into a shooting range.

  Jimmy was up in the balcony with Grace’s favorite McMillan Tac-50, the sight trained on Kreegar. He was fast. Not as quick as Grace, but he could retarget in a second or two, take out three to four of Kreegar's men before they had a chance to think about their next move. But there were others. All eager to kill. Who knew what this could turn into?

  “I'm unarmed, Rice. I know you,” said Kreegar. “You've got scruples. I'm here to talk, not play High Noon.”

  “Scruples,” said another voice. “I heard of those. They ain't worth shit.” Rice looked to his left. Enzo Ruffino was standing under the Lindberg display, the spirit of St. Louis suspended above him. He was well dressed too. A dark shiny suit. Black shirt unbuttoned at the collar. He was holding a fancy shotgun - the stock custom engraved and the barrel aimed directly at Rice.

  “Who's this?” asked Kreegar.

  “George. Meet Enzo Ruffino. He runs his family’s business out of Arizona. Maybe New Mexico now too. It's hard to keep track of.”

  “That explains the tan,” remarked Kreegar. “But what the hell is he doing here?”

  “Enzo is anxious to get his hands on a hostage I control,” answered Rice. Enzo nodded in agreement. Ruffino wanted one thing: Addie. He was like a collector – completing the set.

  “Sounds like you have more than one hostage,” said Enzo, chewing his gum loudly as he talked. He looked over at Kreegar. For the first time tonight, Rice saw Kreegar tense up a bit, his brow lifting. Talk of hostages was disturbing his practiced calm. He didn't expect to be facing organized crime tonight. He puffed out a great gout of white smoke.

  “Enzo. First things first,” said Rice. “Kreegar has a proposal to make. Maybe he wants to outbid you.” Rice wasn't surprised to see Enzo turn towards Kreegar, the dead black eye of the shotgun barrel now focused on the Director. Kreegar looked from Rice to Enzo and back again.

  “You start playing games, Rice, and a whole bunch of good people die,” said Kreegar.

  “You don't know good people, Kreegar,” said Rice. “And I can see by the cut of your suit, you're wearing Kevlar. It won't help. Grace has got your right eye in her crosshairs. For her, you're job-one right now.”

  Kreegar swallowed, his Adam's apple bouncing up and down. Rice smiled. Kreegar fought the reaction, but couldn't control himself. He knew Grace’s reputation. He just didn’t know she came within inches of dying at the Logan farmhouse saving Rice’s ass again.

  “So what's the deal?” asked Rice.

  Kreegar took the cigar out of his mouth and flicked ashes onto the marble floor. “You disappeared years ago. Before we had a chance to discuss your act of treason.”

  “Kreegar, you use that word one more time…”

  “Fine. Call it what you want. I don't care what the fuck you do now. Go where you want. Have babies. Run for senator. But if you say one single word to anyone about Operation Kindergarten, like the media or the police or the Feds, your brother, his wife and kids, will die. Grace will die. And your beloved ER nurse will die. You say a word or you kill me, they all die. There it is. Simple.”

  Rice didn't say anything for a long time. He wondered how many people were listening to this conversation, wondering about the background details. Most of these people wouldn't understand anyway. Like Trent, who had to be in the building. And Slugger, who was hiding somewhere. After all, he had been invited too. He wouldn't miss this.

  “Enzo,” said Rice. “Would you take that deal? You've had some experience with wiping out families.”

  Enzo huffed. “This guy, I don't trust. Look. He's smokin' a Cuban cigar. He ain't no patriot.”

  Kreegar looked mildly surprised.

  “How can I trust you?” asked Rice taking out his gun, hefting it in his hand, considering the options, many running out soon.

  “Think about it, Rice,” said Kreegar. “The same deal we made with Al Qaeda. Same rules. You fuck with me. I fuck with you and yours. And the game is already on. It started the second you walked into this building. And be careful with your gun. Has it been out of your sight in the last twenty-four hours?”

  Rice listened for a few more seconds. There was a sound Kreegar made that raised his hackles. Something in his voice he had heard for years, but always ignored. There was a disdain there. For everyone and everything. Then it struck Rice. He’d never run the psycho test on Kreegar. There was no question. He had concocted Operation Kindergarten. Others may have bought in to the plan, but only he could have dreamed up something so inhuman. He was the architect.

  Then something else struck him. The chill was like walking into an industrial freezer. Kreegar worked everything out down to the finest detail. Had Rice’s wife died by accident or did Kreegar order the hit. You and yours, he said. What’s better than killing his wife? Make Rice do the killing himself. Modify his gun when he isn’t around. Readjust the aim. Position all of the actors. Then make him live with the guilt. That was how Kreegar thought.

  Rice had the gun in his hand. Kreegar didn’t deserve to live. It didn’t matter what the consequences were. The director was behind the dispassionate execution of hundreds of innocent children. He could have called it off. There were dozens of other options at the time. Hell, they could have dropped a nuke. That would seem more reasoned.

  “And just so you understand, Kreegar. Whatever goes down here in the next few minutes, you will be the first to die. I'm betting even Enzo wants a go at you, since you are such a spectacular asshole. You reek of vindictiveness. Like that disgusting cigar smoke.”

  “Don't be foolish, Rice,” said Kreegar, not sounding nearly as cocky as he was a few minutes earlier.

  Distant shots rang out, a volley of them, reverberating through the building.

  A man in a wheelchair rolled himself into the center of the gallery - Slugger, looking pale and twisted, two Colt 45's laying in his lap. He raised his arms, one in a cast.

  “Anybody moves a muscle, they die,” said Slugger, his voice raspy and thin. Behind him stood two bikers, wearing colors, hefting rifles. An oxygen tube was running into his nose from a tank strapped to the back of his chair.

  “You!” Slugger screamed, pointing at Kreegar. “Your employees are all dead. I run the show now. You say a word and I put a hole in your three-piece. Just nod.”

  Kreegar stood there, his cigar forgotten. He hesitated, then nodded, a sheen of sweat reflecting the overhead lights off his topographical skull.

  Slugger looked at Rice. “Christ. What did you do to that guy? Drive him off the road too? I hope I look better than him after a few months. YOU FUCKER! I'm up for killing your whole family too for what you did to me.” He pointed at Kreegar. “He seems like a prick. But hey bro, I'll take up the pledge.” Slugger turned to the Director and gave him the thumbs up. “We can talk late
r.” Then he turned back to Rice, rolling closer, his head down and canted slightly to the right.

  “I pee in a bag, man. You know what that's like? You did that. And my head? I gotta turn it to see straight. You could have killed me, like a man. Like I'm going to kill you. And all your Secret agent peeps. They're going down too.”

  “I have your money, Slugger,” said Rice. “Well, to be precise, Enzo has your money.”

  Slugger turned his wheelchair around to get a better view of Enzo.

  “I didn't touch your crew, Mr. Ruffino. I heard you were here,” said Slugger.

  “You're a smart man,” said Enzo.

  “Hah. I don't feel smart. I see stars all the time now. If it weren't for crack, man, I'd be sleepin' in the hospital right now. Gettin' a sponge bath from some pretty nurse. I'm goin' to miss that tonight.”

  “Enzo has your money. Five hundred thousand. Right Enzo?” said Rice.

  “I need to see the girl.”

  “I need to see the money,” said Rice.

  “I throw the bag down on the floor, and you have fifteen seconds. You want that kind of pressure?”

  Rice shrugged. The only man in the room unafraid of Enzo was Kreegar, who was losing patience. He obviously felt like this was his party, and he didn't appreciate the uninvited guests. Rice saw his lips move. He was communicating with someone by radio. Why would that surprise anyone? Kreegar needed to improve his chances. And Slugger was wrong, maybe he had eliminated several of Kreegar's soldiers, but he had no way of knowing how many there were in total.

  Enzo nodded to one of his men, who stepped up and tossed a black Nike gym bag on the floor. The second the bag touched down, the thug who tossed it, fell backwards, a spreading bloom of dark red growing on his chest. He fell on the shiny stone floor, spread-eagled and motionless.

  Enzo turned slightly to see. Then a portion of his neck disappeared, a b right spray of his arterial blood fanning out across the room. Rice guessed one of Kreegar's remaining men was following orders. Enzo reached up with his left hand to his neck, spinning, raising his shotgun with his right. He fired two high and wide shots, the slugs tearing into the wall high above Rice's head. Then he twisted and fell back, another silenced rifle shot shaking him, a blow to his upper body punching him down into the floor.

  Rice looked over in Kreegar's direction, saw him step back, something in his eyes, a sadness or resignation showing. Maybe failure. All of Kreegar's men, less one or two, were gone or out-of-action. The shot to Enzo had come from behind Rice. That meant the shooter would have to move. Or he might be pinned down. Kreegar was pulling back. The time for talk was over.

  Rice dove backwards, but not before aiming a single shot at Kreegar. The bullet hit him high, took off the very top of his skull. Kreegar looked stunned; he wobbled on his feet for a few seconds, looking uncertain. He was making wordless movements with his lips, his hand moving up to his head but not finding it. Then Rice fell behind a display wall, losing sight of his former boss. He yelled out Jimmy's name as he felt the impact of high-caliber shells burying themselves into the stone covered walls around him.

  . . . . .

  JIMMY HAD KREEGAR in his sights when he saw the top of his head come away, revealing a mass of gray-white brain matter. A part of him marveled that genius looked just like grunt when you popped the top off. All the same in the end.

  He swung Grace’s rifle around, aware there were limited targets remaining. He quickly killed the man who had mortally wounded Enzo, one of Kreegar's soldiers. One shot above the ear. Then he brought Slugger into focus. He was rolling his wheelchair across the floor towards the gym bag that Enzo's bodyguard had tossed down, seemingly oblivious to the bullets crisscrossing the gallery.

  . . . . .

  RICE HEARD THE SILENCED retort of Grace's rifle once. He guessed that was Kreegar's shooter being silenced. That left one or two of Enzo's soldiers and Slugger's biker army.

  Rice had invited Slugger for a reason. He needed to balance Kreegar's firepower - his team alone would be no match for a dozen Special Operations soldiers. Slugger promised to bring an army, a promise he had kept. Rice couldn't guess how many had been lost, but he heard the distant roar of prolonged gunfire while they waited for Kreegar. Slugger had to have lost a lot of his men.

  “Slugger?” yelled Rice.

  “Where's the rest of my money?”

  “In an aluminum case. At the foot of the Moon Rock display! Half a mill. Plus $500 K in the gym bag from Ruffino. I kept my promise.”

  Rice heard another silenced sniper round strike something soft on the gallery floor. Rice hoped it was one of Ruffino's men. He heard a growled expletive. Sounded like Italian.

  “Are we good?” yelled Rice, the smell of blood strong in the air, feeling they had permanently desecrated holy ground.

  Slugger answered, “We're good, Mr. Secret Agent Man.”

  “You've got to leave, Slugger. More Feds are on the way. Probably the US Army.”

  “Sure. But you show your face first.”

  Rice slumped his head down. It wasn't over yet. Did Slugger still want revenge? A million wasn't enough?

  “Slugger, Kreegar would have some kind of backup plan. Maybe it's a call every five minutes or something. We don't have time.”

  “I'm not leaving, man, until I see your face.”

  Rice blew out an angry lungful of air. Slugger was a mad man. Popping his head up around the display was the last thing he would probably ever do. Or they could sit and wait until the building's original security team showed up with Washington SWAT teams to back them up.

  “I'm not going to hurt you. I know you've got a sniper someplace who will toast me in a second. I just want to say goodbye,” said the Satan’s Raider leader.

  Rice yelled into the gallery. “Snipers? You heard the man.”

  “Roger that,” said Jimmy, his voice distant and echoing through the ceiling structure.

  Rice stood up. No point in half measures. If Slugger's intent was to kill, there was nothing he could do about it. He peered over at Slugger, the suitcase and gym bag on his lap, his eyes hooded. His wheelchair had made multiple tracks through the blood-covered floor. Then Rice felt the cold press of steel against his skull.

  “Grace,” yelled Trent Razer, thinking she was up in the balcony. “I'm not going to hurt Rice. But if you shoot, I guarantee Rice will die.” No one answered for obvious reasons. Grace was at the University of Washington Medical Center recovering from multiple gunshot wounds. “I'm taking him to meet Wheeler. This will soon be over for everyone.” Still no answer, no response.

  Slugger laughed as he pushed himself back across the floor. “We're all even now. Rice, you got what you want. Razer, you too. I'm leaving. Anybody wants to stop me - a hundred Raiders will go bat shit on you.”

  Trent pushed Rice further along the walkway towards the rear exit. Then when they squeezed through the door, Trent hit Rice with his gun. It was a full-force, high arc, downward blow striking Rice on the crown of his head.

  For just a brief flash, Rice felt an enormous explosion of pain tear down through his neck and back. Then he felt nothing.

  CHAPTER 122

  Somewhere over Virginia

  THE FIRST THING RICE NOTICED was the pain - a blinding agony spreading across his forehead as if a tank track was rolling across his skull. And it was accompanied by a soundtrack, the scream of steel on steel. A banshee wail only he could hear that made him want to puke.

  The second thing he noticed was the vibration. His head was pressed up against cold metal jumping and slapping at his cheekbone. An engine was roaring somewhere. They were moving at high speed. Where? He had no idea.

  The third thing he noticed was the pain again. Impossible to ignore. But he tried anyway. He lifted his head a fraction of an inch. The vibration stopped. Then he dropped his head again. Holding it up even for a second felt impossible.

  Then he noticed a smell. Some kind of a chemical odor he vaguely recognized. If his brain w
ould only function, he'd be able to identify it. Something about that subtle stink was ringing alarm bells.

  He opened one eye, then the other. Gray carpet. Was he in a car? A van? Then the origin of the smell hit him. Jet fuel. There was nothing like it. Gasoline had a sharp, almost sweet aroma. Kerosene was oily and dark. He could almost taste the waxy residue in the back of his throat. Then Rice gagged up his dinner on the industrial carpet. He stared at it for a moment, fascinated.

  The fuel smell meant he was on a jet. That meant Wheeler's Gulfstream G150. His private plane. That was bad. That was very bad.

  Then Rice felt hands on his shoulder and a dizzying launch into space. Someone was standing him up. He saw boots near his feet. Combat boots. Trent Razer, the bastard. The guy was unrelenting. How much were they paying this asshole? Not that it mattered. Razer was never going to have a chance to spend the money. Not unless he was making a major play in the stock market in the next ten minutes. Because that was all the time any of them had. If that.

  Rice felt Razer nudge him forward, moving him along like a prisoner of war. He wanted nothing more than to lash out at the idiot. Rice had told the remaining Razer twin he was on the wrong side and Kreegar was an egotistical monster. But Trent was too comfortable with following orders. The soldier’s greatest weakness and the army's greatest strength. Just do as your told. Rice had been there. For too long.

  Rice felt the floor move away from him and for a minute he thought he would lose his balance, spend his last minutes on earth staring at broadloom. But he caught himself, rested his hand on a leather seat back. Razer let him stop for a minute, catch his breath.

  Now Rice could hear the background roar of the twin jets. Over 300,000 horsepower according to Jimmy. He sensed power everywhere. Rich appointments. The smell of expensive perfume. A flash of an expensive pinstriped banker's suit.

  Wheeler smiled. “I'm headed to Antigua. You recommended it once to me, remember? Just a brief vacation with the wife. Get away for a while until that mess back in Washington clears up. But, unfortunately, you're not invited.”