DREAM ON (Mark Appleton #2)

by Patterson, Aaron

  I jumped up and rushed to the front of the plane, trying to find the flight attendant that’d made the announcement. “What’s going on?” I asked the first one I saw.

  The skinny woman held up her hand in a calming manner and looked into my eyes as if she’d experienced things like this a thousand times before.

  “Mister, we just got the report in from the tower, and if there is still a tower to report to us, well, then, the bomb couldn’t have been that big.” Her dark brown eyes had a cool, hard edge to them and I knew she wouldn’t give me any more information.

  I could feel the G5 bank toward the south and begin to descend. “We have a friend we are meeting in Dushanbe. He flew in before us. Is there any news on where exactly the bomb went off?” Isis asked as she put her hand on the brown-eyed flight attendant’s arm.

  “I do not know, but I can ask the pilot for you. I know you must be worried, but after all, this is the Middle East.” She shook her head and patted Isis’s hand like an old woman trying to comfort a child.

  The speakers crackled again and the copilot came back on with a tinge of fear in his voice. “The alternate airport is full due to the bombing, so they’ve opened an abandoned runway in a field to the west of the airport. Just so you know, it’s dirt, and it could get a little bumpy. The flight attendant will instruct you in the emergency landing procedures.”

  My heart sped along, and my mouth was so dry that when I licked my lips, it felt like sandpaper on rough wood. Isis seemed calm and collected as usual, and that made me feel better. No use worrying about something I couldn’t control, and I didn’t know how to fly a plane, so I listened to the skinny brunette as she showed us how to hug our legs and tuck our heads between our knees.

  I could feel the engine begin to power down, and for an instant, I glanced out the window. The desert below had jets, small aircraft, and a few big jumbo jets lined up on the available runways. To my dismay, a 777 stood off to one side in the dirt, wingless and on fire. Must be the alternate runway. Then the flight attendant tapped me on the shoulder. “The bomb went off in baggage claim. That is all I know.” She smiled with perfect teeth.

  “Thank you.”

  “Remember, keep your head down.”

  The jet slowed, and when we touched down, the airplane jerked to the left and pulled me up hard. The breath rushed from my lungs, and I sucked in, trying to keep my head down as instructed. The sound of rocks and dirt hitting the underbelly of the jet made me think of gunshots.

  Bouncing and jerking, the plane finally came to a stop and I looked up. Everyone was alive, and the copilot came back on the overhead speakers. “Okay, then, we made it. We don’t have to taxi because we’re in a field.”

  Isis hugged me as soon as we were safe on solid ground. I held her and felt a shake in her core, and then it was gone. I wondered if it had just been my imagination. She pulled away and we headed for the main lobby of the small airport. “You sure know how to show a girl a good time,” Isis joked as she pushed through the glass door that led into a small, concrete-lined entryway.

  “I planned the whole thing. I thought, what better way to add excitement to the mission than to have an emergency landing in a field?”

  Over my shoulder, thick black smoke billowed from the broken wing of the 777. People ran from the airplane like ants, and a ragtag fire crew sprayed water on the flaming wing. I considered helping out, but it looked as if most of the passengers were out and not in any real danger. I walked toward the east end of the airport to see about a rental car.

  After some bartering and a few hundred dollars, we climbed into a late-seventies Volkswagen Beetle. It was yellow, with rust crawling up the fenders like a virus, but overall, it ran and had a full tank of gas. I figured it would take us as far as the Dushanbe airport, but after that, I didn’t expect anything more from the worn out car.

  The old Bug smoked and sputtered, but it did the job. We rumbled on a dirt road with ruts and potholes, some just as big as our car. I could tell that Isis was nervous. She had met detective Weston before. When she was undercover, he had showed her a picture of her standing in the Merc building. Kirk Weston would know exactly what we wanted with him as soon as he saw Isis.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  “Yeah, just nerves. I just hope he’s alive.” She checked her watch and gear to make sure we had everything.

  “I think the detective has a few more lives in him. If he could survive one bombing, then I bet he can make it through a second one. He’s unlucky, but very lucky at the same time.”

  I sent a text to our handler to let him know we were okay and on our way to the airport.

  Every agent had a handler, someone who tracked our movements and kept us up to date on anything we needed to know. Mine was an Australian named Euon. He was the funniest person I had ever met. If something was embarrassing or could be turned into a joke, he was all over it. When I checked in, he promptly asked if I had wet my pants during the crash landing, because stains are hard to get out, and he would not wash my clothes no matter how much I begged.

  Forty minutes later, we came up over a small rise in the landscape and the smoking airport came into view. It looked like a big hand from the sky had ripped off the west side of the building. Black smoke poured from the center of the blast, and screaming lights from fire trucks and local law enforcement cars flashed in the distance.

  We drove right up to the smoking building and mixed in with the wandering victims and emergency personnel. People sat crying or walked around searching for a loved one. All had a look of pure terror on their faces.

  After an hour of searching for Weston, we turned up nothing. Isis looked worn out and I called in to headquarters to report that we couldn’t find Detective Weston anywhere. We were going to have to spend the night and check the hospitals in the morning.

  Isis looked at me with dark soot smeared on her face. I knew what she wanted, and I shook my head. “I can’t. If it comes on its own, maybe we will get lucky, but I can’t force it.”

  “Try. We need him and you know it. All I ask is that you try. Please!” Her pleading eyes stared at me, and I knew I had to give it a shot. I nodded, smiled weakly, and took her arm.

  “Let’s go, I need some sleep.”

  * * *

  TARAS KARJANSKI SAT IN his hotel room watching the six o’clock news. He smiled at the news reporter and all her blather and babble. He hated America and everything about it. The only good thing was how dumb and gullible everyone was. He had transferred the oil tycoon’s shares, took the fake deeds to his companies, and thrown them into the fireplace. He had shot that pompous know-it-all in the middle of a crowded restaurant. You’ve done it now. Everyone will be looking for you! What kind of game are you playing? I am invincible! Who can stand in my way now?

  He looked at the New York Times stock exchange numbers and laughed. He owned most of the stock in all but one oil company in America, but that would change soon enough. You think gas prices are high now, just wait until I am done! You’ll pay anything to get your precious oil.

  The penthouse suite was quiet and the room was a perfect sixty-eight degrees. His limbs were tight from the long, taxing day, but he didn’t show it. He was always tense and just a little scared after he killed someone. That was what made killing fun. The feeling, the rush, gave him a feeling like nothing else. What was the word for it? Power? No, it was more than power. It was a creative act. He was God, and he created and destroyed at his will. He could still see the eyes of everyone he had killed, the spark of life as it was extinguished forever.

  A hot bath waited. He grabbed a bottle of 1945 Mouton. The price tag was more than two hundred thousand dollars per bottle, but excellence was worth it. Taras popped the cork and poured a small amount in a wine glass. As he swirled it around, he breathed in its scent. The wine was even better than Taras had expected, and it went well with the book he was reading, The Art of War. A nice pair.

  He liked the book, but it angered him at time
s. To think that this Chinese guy thought he was some kind of war expert. He found flaws in the book, and mocked the author’s simple ideas and how he presumed to know the true secret of warfare. Taras, the Red Dog, was the god of war. He was a master of fear and influence. So he told himself, and so he believed.

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAOS HAD WORKED IN a group for so long that it felt a little weird to be alone on this adventure. But it was time to do something drastic, time to step it up a notch. The Manhattan Mall was bustling with people, as it should be. The weather was warming up, and summer was coming on quickly, so everyone was getting ready for the warmer weather.

  The killer looked at the brand new watch. It was almost lunchtime. The Swiss sure did make a good timepiece. Chaos liked the feel of the finer things in life, and spending a few grand on a watch was one thing this killer had no problem doing.

  Most good plans involve many people working together to accomplish one, simple goal. This plan was not like that at all. This was a one-person-gets-in-gets-out-and-makes-a-point kind of a plan.

  This spot will work perfectly. The food court began to fill up as weary shoppers stood in line to get a bite to eat. No wonder they’re all so fat! Try eating something good for you, ever try that?

  Chaos clutched a brown paper bag that looked like a sack lunch. Inside the bag were two pounds of plastic explosives and a twenty-minute timer. The killer walked up to a trashcan next to Arby’s and dropped it inside.

  The mall was big, so it took Chaos almost ten minutes to get to the parking lot. After waving down a cab, the killer asked the cabbie to hit the expressway. Time to get some writing done. The newspapers would want an inside look into the bombing.

  * * *

  I SAT ALONE IN the hotel bedroom and closed my eyes. Tonight, I was going to try to think of Detective Kirk Weston, try to will myself to find him. I had my doubts that it was even possible, but it was worth a try.

  The room was dark, and I turned on the TV. How it ever became the American pastime was beyond me; it always put me to sleep.

  I could see Kirk’s face in my mind. I looked into his eyes and thought of how he had put his life on the line for my wife. He had been kidnapped by The General along with my wife and daughter, and he had tried to rescue K and Sam even after he had been beaten half to death.

  Come on, Mark, just think about him…see him in your mind. Feel him! It was getting late, and I was very tired. I didn’t think it would work, and I wondered if my doubt would affect the outcome or if it just happened on its own. I still didn’t know the full extent of my so-called power. All I knew was Detective Weston could be trapped in that mess of an airport, and I was his only hope.

  * * *

  “THIS IS TERRIBLE!” THE CBS news anchorwoman looked shocked and even a little upset at what she was reporting. “It appears a bomb exploded in the Manhattan Mall just twenty minutes ago. The scene looks like sheer pandemonium out there, and we still don’t know if this apparent terrorist attack is the only one, or if there are more bombs to come.”

  Taras looked up from his late breakfast and toasted the television with his glass of orange juice. He liked to see Americans suffer. It bothered him that he had nothing to do with the bombing, and he wondered who was behind it. A shopping mall at lunchtime. Very nice. The story unfolded with the usual media coverage. They killed it, kicked it some more, and then got a panel of experts to give their opinion. In addition, to make sure people stayed tuned, they brought up 9/11 and showed pictures of the last ten bombings to get everyone in a tizzy.

  The bomb had taken out fifty-six people, four of them children. Taras tipped back the last of his orange juice. Good for them. Not that impressive, but not bad.

  Getting upstaged again? You’re the Don of the Russian Mafia and the most powerful person in the world. And no one knows it!

  The voices in his head gave Taras a headache. It was as if a lunatic lived in his skull and demanded to be in control. He had seen what was possible if he released him, and didn’t like it. Then again, maybe he wasn’t sure how he felt about it. Sometimes it was a good feeling. He would have to keep his feelings in check if he was going to—

  A knock at the door brought Taras back to reality.

  Taras opened the door and a tall, thin woman stood in the doorway. She had on a black dress that fell just above her knees, and high heels. She smiled and threw herself into his arms. Taras kissed and hugged his wife.

  “I’ve missed you so much!” The beautiful blonde kissed her loving husband back and stared up into his dark eyes.

  “I couldn’t wait to see you,” she said. “The flight was so long, and I hate to be away from you for that long.” She sighed, and as she looked into his eyes, something made her stop. Did she notice he was different? Did she see the Red Dog in his eyes? But she brushed it off with a shrug and smiled up at him.

  Taras smiled as he pulled her closer. He had always wanted her. She’d been the daughter of another Russian mob boss, and he’d wooed her right under her father’s nose and, after they’d eloped, he utterly destroyed her father’s business. With her blessing. That had been ten years ago.

  “You look ravishing!” Taras said.

  Her smile could light up the room, and it did just now, making his heart thump in his chest. “Well, you don’t look too bad yourself. I guess you will do.” Taras and his wife liked to meet up in different cities and make mini vacations out of it. Since they didn’t have any children they weren’t held down by anything.

  Two years after their elopement they’d had a baby girl. Nayda loved her baby but the Red Dog hated the poor thing with every fiber of his body. He tried to hide his feelings, and did so successfully, until he found out Nayda could not have any more children.

  “And what would you like to do today, my love?” He asked in a gruff voice.

  Nayda rolled her eyes and pushed Taras onto the bed.

  “How about we go see a movie, then go downtown and shop. I want to get a new dress for the party this weekend! We’ve been invited by the Hughes to a benefit. It’s at the grandest resort in the area.”

  The Red Dog wanted to scream at her to stop babbling and shut up. There were many things he wanted to do with her. He hated shopping and didn’t want to go to a horrible party with all her arrogant friends.

  “That sounds wonderful, you look wonderful!” He was glad he only hated his wife half the time. Taras loved her and could not live without her, maybe that was why Red Dog hadn’t killed her yet. “You hungry? I ordered scrambled eggs.”

  Nayda laughed and looked at her husband. “You and your breakfast. I would love some scrambled eggs.”

  “Coming right up.”

  Taras scooped the eggs onto a plate and put two pieces of bread in the toaster. He looked over at his beautiful wife and thought about his daughter’s face. He could still see the look of terror as he—

  You are a monster! I hate you! He could feel the Red Dog inside him moving around in the back of his mind. He was up to something. He did not trust it, and then he thought of Nayda’s lips on his and how they felt. If it wasn’t for him, he would never have Nayda in his arms.

  CHAPTER TEN

  THE SMELL OF BURNT rubber and smoke filled my head as I looked through the rubble that used to be the Dushanbe airport baggage claim. Isis pulled a chunk of metal off a pile of broken cinderblock and waved me over. She’d found him.

  Blood caked Kirk’s face and one eye was swollen shut, making him look like a boxer after twelve rounds. Something exploded behind me and my heart hit the wall of my chest. The noise all around us screamed for attention. Police cars, fire trucks, and ambulances blared, and then there was the undertone of people crying and yelling for loved ones in about five different languages.

  Detective Weston was under a mass of debris, hanging on to every breath with fierce determination. It was so real, as if the thick black smoke was right there in my eyes burning them, and yet it wasn’t real.

  I woke with sweat drippi
ng from my nose. I was laying in a queen size bed in a hot hotel room with the lights off and a faint smell of mold hanging in the air. Jolting out of bed, I called Isis in the next room. We headed over to the airport at the blessed hour of three in the morning.

  We reached the bombsite and we both winced when we saw the mass of burning cars and rubble scattered everywhere. I was amazed at how the fires and destruction in a few short hours had grown as if the bomb had unleashed a hungry monster. I pulled the Bug over to the south side of what used to be the baggage claim area.

  Isis jumped out and ran toward a burning, upside-down sidecar. It was all but twisted off the motorcycle. Police and fire crews still worked through the site trying to put out the fires. No one noticed a few more people running around, so we blended in with the rest of the rescue crews and local people who were helping out as best they could. Most of them were looking for loved ones, and by the cries and wails filling the air, I had a bad feeling that many families would go home tonight missing someone they cared about.

  Isis dug frantically, tossing chunks of concrete to one side. “I think I found something!”

  A family station wagon lay on its roof, still smoldering from the blast. It reminded me of toy that a boy had tired of, so he stuck a firecracker inside just to see it explode.

  “I see him, Mark, he’s here!” Isis looked up as I bent over to see where she was pointing. I could see a hand, about four feet below where we stood. It was lodged in between the car and the concrete. It was impossible to move very fast. I grabbed a chunk of metal rebar and began to pry up the largest piece. Come on, hang in there, Weston.

  I dropped to my belly and stretched down to reach the unmoving hand. Almost. “I can’t reach him. Keep digging.” I wanted to check his pulse, but I just couldn’t reach him. I pushed again on the rebar and it groaned like an old woman, but the wagon did not budge.