by Scott Blade
The Range Rover hopped the curb and skidded in the grass like a dramatic scene from a bad movie. Four guys jumped out. Mercenaries from the looks of them. Two had M9 Berettas and the other two had MP5s. No suppressors.
The one driving popped out fast. He hit the dirt and scrambled around to the hood. He extended his arms across the top of the truck and pointed his M9 at Cameron.
“Drop it son!” he shouted in a thick, British accent. He didn’t repeat himself. He was confident. Cameron figured he must be the wrangler out of the bunch, the guy behind the guy. He was probably the Second Lieutenant.
Looking over his left shoulder, Cameron saw that Lane had made a half circle around the tree and was now pointing his gun at Cameron’s head from a distance of twenty-five feet or so. No chance he was going to miss his aim, no matter how little he might’ve practiced his shooting skills. Even in the darkness, there was still plenty of city light on the horizon that it wasn’t completely black. And the bright lights from the Range Rover had Cameron lit up like a spotlight on a stage. There was no way out, and he knew it.
He tossed the SIG Sauer to the ground and stayed standing.
Grant screamed, “Get down!”
Cameron stayed quiet and didn’t move. He kept his hands by his sides.
Lane said, “Do as he says!”
Cameron stayed standing.
Grant repeated his orders. “Get down!”
Cameron said, “I’m not getting down. You have me. No need to treat me like a dog.”
Lane looked at Grant and shrugged. He said, “Put the cuffs on him.”
Two of the other mercenaries moved closer. They stumbled slightly, but it wasn’t complete blundering, more like they’d just woken up. Or perhaps they were a little drunk.
Cameron held his hands down and said, “You can put cuffs on me, but you’ll find that won’t keep me submissive. If you want me to cooperate with no trouble, let Agent Cord live.”
Lane closed in and lowered his weapon but stayed too far away for Cameron to reach him. Smart.
Lane said, “Trouble? You think that you can cause trouble for us? We aren’t just five guys with guns. We’re five ex-Special Forces guys with guns. You’re not going to cause trouble for any of us.”
Cameron said, “That’s what your little brother thought.”
Lane flashed an angry scowl and said, “They told you about that?”
“Yeah. They told me. At first, I wondered why Jack would kill some guy I never heard of in England. But now that I see you. I think maybe he killed him because he deserved it. He probably killed him thinking he was eliminating the family line. Probably shot him dead to spare the rest of us from ever seeing any products of your ugly genes again.”
Lane’s scowl highlighted a face he had practiced keeping away from public view. It was a look that said he’d thought about nothing but revenge for a decade. He said, “It’s a shame your old man won’t ever know about his son. Or about his death.”
Cameron said, “Tough talk from an ex-Special Forces guy holding a gun.”
Lane said, “Oh, you think you can take me? You want me to put down the gun and fight you? Some kind of deal where you and your friend walk free if I lose?”
“You would lose.”
“There’ll be plenty of time for chitchat later. Right now, I’ve got to deal with another dead president.”
Cameron said, “Let Cord live, and I won’t cause you any trouble.”
The two mercs neared Cameron. One had the handcuffs in his left hand while his right hand was held up like he was trying to tame a lion. The second guy stood five feet behind him, a gun aimed at Cameron’s center mass.
Lane said, “We’re going to kill him now. And you will die much later.”
The first guy reached out to grab Cameron’s wrists, which were extended outward, limp and submissive. He stepped up and grabbed Cameron’s left wrist with his right hand.
Cameron took the chance and jerked his arm straight down, delivering a perfectly timed head-butt straight to the guy’s forehead. He had been blessed with a head like concrete, which made for a pretty good weapon—and one that couldn’t be taken away from him. However, his head wasn’t designed to stun. It was meant to be a finishing weapon, usually delivering a fatal blow. But he didn’t want to kill the guy—he needed him alive. So he pulled back on the head-butt so that it had just enough force to stun him yet still enough power to shatter the bones in the guy’s nose. Blood spewed from the center of his face in a gush like a red waterfall.
Cameron pulled back and spun the guy around. He clamped his left hand down over his hand, and the guy dropped the handcuffs. Cameron pulled his hand across his chest and over his shoulder then pulled the guy in tight and squeezed the bones in his wrist.
The guy’s nose was broken from the impact of Cameron’s head, and he was eager to grab his nose and pinch it—a normal reaction to a nosebleed, but not realistic here because he couldn’t release his hands from Cameron’s grasp.
Cameron was thankful the guy wasn’t drunker. Unconscious people and drunk ones were two of the worst types of people to use as hostages. You can’t hold up an unconscious person and cover your body with them like a human shield. Dead weight was heavy and could often be immovable. A drunk person was just as bad. Their body movements were unpredictable, and their behavior erratic.
Cameron pulled hard on the guy’s wrist. He screamed in agony.
Cameron looked over his shoulder at the others. Lane was still behind him, but he was counting on him not to shoot. Lane wanted him alive and unharmed because his plan was to do all the harming later.
One of the other mercs stepped forward and away from the others. Cameron’s eyes were dead in the sights of his M9. In his British accent, he said, “Let him go, son!”
Lane said, “Don’t shoot!” Then he said, “Cameron, let him go. I can shoot you right now in the back, and then we’ll have to haul you around everywhere. You won’t like it. It’ll be more uncomfortable for you in the long run.”
Cameron said, “You won’t shoot. I weigh two hundred and fifty pounds. I’m heavy. It’ll take all day to drag me around. Let the agent live, and I’ll let him go. I’ll come with you of my own free will. No hassle.”
Graine said, “I’ll kill him if you don’t let him go!”
Lane said, “Shut up!” Then he said, “Okay. Okay. We’ll let him live. We’ll take him with us. You’ve got my word.”
“You’ll let him and the girl live?”
Lane paused a beat and said, “Now, you know I can’t promise you that.”
Cameron knew he’d refuse, but he wanted to try. In his experience, it was better for the bad guy to assume that you knew you were completely hopeless. He wanted Lane to think he was holding all the cards.
Cameron said, “Then promise me they’ll live longer than me. Promise you’ll keep them alive and consider letting them go. After you get what you want, what difference will it make to let them go? People are going to know who you are anyway. No way will you get out of the country without people knowing your identity.”
Lane said, “You’re right. Fine. You’ve got my word. I’ll let them live if you give up.”
Cameron acted like he was considering it, and then he squeezed the guy’s wrist one more time—hard. The guy screamed, and Cameron let go of him. He dropped to the ground and cupped his nose with his other hand.
Grant said, “Cuff him!”
The guy with the MP5 walked over to Cameron with his gun extended, which was a big mistake. It gave Cameron a second opportunity to escape. The guy must’ve been a little drunk as well—or perhaps he’d been absent on the day his Special Forces buddies were taught how to secure a prisoner. Cameron could’ve taken the weapon from him. He could’ve shot him in the chest and knelt fast, switching the firing selector to full auto. Then he could’ve opened fire on the British guy and snapped to the left and repeated the action on Graine. But John Lane was still behind Cameron. Depending on how fast
he reacted, which probably would’ve been plenty fast, Cameron would’ve been shot in the back and dead before he got to the guy on the left. And even in the best of circumstances, Graine would’ve killed Cord for sure.
So Cameron let the handcuffs lock down on one wrist and then the other.
The guy grabbed the chain that linked the cuffs and jerked Cameron forward.
Lane said, “Grant, pick up Valentine!”
The British guy said nothing but holstered his Beretta behind the small of his back and walked over to Valentine. He reached down, grabbed the guy by the arm, and juddered him up to his feet. Grant said, “Walk.”
They walked back to the Range Rover, and Grant shut Valentine into the backseat. Cameron saw Valentine reach up to the console. He pulled out a white rag and held it to his nose. Then he leaned back against the seat.
Lane came up behind Cameron and holstered his gun. He said, “When Graine told me about your existence, I gotta say that I thought so what. I mean, you aren’t your father. And he’s the guy that killed my brother. I have no beef with an eighteen-year-old kid.”
Cameron said, “Nineteen.”
Lane nodded and said, “Whatever. Point is that at first I thought killing you would just be a bonus to killing the president. But you might be the best part of this whole mission.”
Cameron said, “Don’t forget your promise.”
Lane nodded, but it wasn’t reassuring to Cameron.
The guy who had put him in cuffs, whose name Cameron hadn’t picked up on, hauled him down to the Range Rover and lifted the rear gate. He shoved Cameron in.
Cameron sat upright, back against the back bench. He had to cross his legs up Indian style to fit. The guy slammed the hatch down, and it snapped shut. He watched as Lane went over and talked to Graine. This was the moment that scared Cameron because he was gambling that Lane was a man of his word. It turned out to be a safe bet because Lane pointed at Cord, and Grant placed handcuffs on him as well. They removed his bulletproof vest first and tossed it into Graine’s vehicle. Then they turned Cord over onto his stomach and handcuffed him with his hands behind him, which they should’ve done to Cameron.
Next, they rolled Lucas’s body over, and Grant and the other guy lifted him by the arms and legs. They carried him back to the open garage of the house from which Lane had emerged. They disappeared inside and came out a few moments later without the body. They had left Lucas behind, abandoned like a dead piece of meat. Lane shook hands with Graine, who got back into his SUV after collecting the MP5s with the missing firing pins and tossing them onto the backseat.
Cameron watched as Graine drove past him. They didn’t make eye contact.
Lane and Grant returned to the Range Rover, dragging Cord along with them. They put him in the back with Cameron. He lay in pain across Cameron’s lap. Then they went to the front of the truck and got in, Grant in the driver’s seat and Lane in the front passenger. The other guy got in next to Valentine.
Lane turned and looked back at Cameron. He said, “We’ll get to know each other soon enough, but for now, just relax.”
Chapter 36
CAMERON HAD MADE A MISTAKE and so had Cord. They had assumed that after Cameron traded himself over to extend Raggie’s life, Lane would take him back to where they had stashed her. He didn’t.
Instead of driving to Raggie’s location, they took the Range Rover down the street and turned a corner. The unfinished, abandoned subdivision project was much larger than Cameron had guessed. They drove for at least ten minutes before they rounded another empty block with high trees and undeveloped land, coming to a stop at a house that looked finished as far as the exterior went. They pulled into the driveway, and Grant killed the engine on the Range Rover.
Cameron looked at Cord. The agent’s eyes were open, but he looked like he was in a great deal of pain.
Cameron asked, “Does this hurt?” He poked gently at Cord’s ribs, first the upper and then the lower.
Cord squirmed in agony both times.
Cameron said, “Looks like they’re broken. How’s the shoulder feel?”
“Hurts like hell.”
“We need to dress it before you bleed out. I need to flip you and check to see if the bullet came out.”
Cord nodded and said, “We’re stopped. Better do it now.”
Cameron nodded and grabbed Cord’s arm. He hauled him up and flipped him over for a second then gently rolled him back.
“It went through, but we gotta wrap these wounds.”
The rear hatch swung up, and the guy whose name Cameron didn’t know said, “Time to go in.”
He grabbed Cord by the arm and pulled him up and out. He said, “On your feet.”
Cord struggled but made it to his feet.
Tough old guy, Cameron thought.
“He needs his wounds cleaned and bandaged,” Cameron said.
Grant said, “No way! He can suffer!”
Lane said, “That’s not necessary. If the kid wants to clean him and bandage him up, let him. There’s a first aid kit in the truck. Get it for him.”
Grant turned and walked to the rear of the truck. He leaned inside and came out with a white box with a red cross on the lid.
Lane said, “Take ’em to the room and let ’em figure it out.”
Grant nodded toward Valentine and said, “What about his nose?”
“Take out the tape and some bandage. Leave the rest. They’ll need it more.”
Grant opened the kit and took out a couple of large bandages and the medical tape. The rest he shoved into Cameron’s cuffed hands.
Cameron took it and walked behind the guy and Cord. They entered the house. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that Lane wasn’t stupid. He followed right behind with his gun drawn.
The inside of the house was nothing but some unfinished cabinetry, unfinished walls, and concrete floors. The stairs were plain wood and had no railing. The guy with no name started to take them up the stairs, but Cord groaned at the bottom.
Lane said, “Not up there. Take them to the master.”
The guy shrugged and led them down a hall that did have walls although they were unpainted. In the master, there was no furniture except for a couple of folding chairs. The wall near the bathroom was lined with exposed beams.
Cameron heard the sound of a motor humming. The noise was coming from an external generator. Cameron had no doubt about it. Growing up in Mississippi, he’d been exposed to plenty of generators due to the tremendous number of storms that passed through the state from the Gulf.
At the far end of the wall, there appeared to be some kind of command center set up. Two MacBooks were open and running programs. He could see that one was a CCTV feed of some kind. Cameron focused and saw Raggie. She was alive in another location in the dark. She probably had no idea she was on camera. The picture was grainy, and the screen was dark green, so the camera must be set to night vision. Blackness shadowed the outskirts of the screen. There was no sound.
The other guy said, “Have a seat,” and pointed to a long wall with no windows.
Cameron looked around the room. Checked out the bathroom. And then he said, “Where’s the girl?”
The guy said, “Forget about her. Sit down.”
Lane walked into the room and said, “Did you think we were going to take you to her? That would’ve been dumb on our part. We can’t have you knowing where she is. Like I said, I underestimated you once, but I’m not doing it a second time. Not that you’ll escape, but in case you get a lucky break, I don’t plan on having you anywhere near her.”
Damn! Cameron thought.
Lane said, “Sit down.”
Cameron said, “I need the cuffs off of both of us so I can help him.”
Lane nodded and said to the guy, “Toss him the key. Don’t hand it to him. Stay out of his reach.”
Smart guy, Cameron thought.
The other guy threw the keys to Cameron. He kept the MP5 pointed downward, but his trigger hand was
on the gun and ready. Cameron could tell he’d been startled sober by Cameron’s actions at the other house and wasn’t going to let him take advantage. He was going to make it harder for Cameron, but Cameron wasn’t worried.
Cord couldn’t stand anymore. He dropped down to his knees and turned his hands out toward Cameron. Cameron put down the first aid kit and picked up the keys from where they’d landed. He unlocked Cord and then himself, which was a bit awkward and took him a moment. Cord had stumbled back against the wall. He grabbed his shoulder.
Cord said, “Cameron, I’m feeling woozy. Not sure how much longer I’ll be conscious.”
Cameron said, “Hang on.”
He dropped the handcuffs and the key to the ground and opened the first aid kit. Inside, there was gauze, some dressings, and a roll of bandage. There was a sewing needle and some black string, probably for stitching. There was also a bottle of rubbing alcohol.
Cameron grabbed the bottle and said, “Take off your shirt.”
Cord struggled to lean forward, and he unbuttoned several buttons.
The process was too slow, so Cameron said, “Move your hands.”
He grabbed both sides of Cord’s shirt and pulled them in opposite directions, ripping the buttons right off. He released the fabric, and Cord pulled his arms out of the sleeves. Underneath it, he wore a white cotton T-shirt that was now soaked in blood. He pulled it over his head and kept it balled up in his hand.
Cameron picked up the bottle of alcohol and said, “This’ll hurt.”
Cord nodded.
Cameron poured a quarter of the bottle over the entry wound from the gunshot.
Cord screamed in agony.
Then Cameron turned him over and did the same to the exit wound. He examined both wounds and then pushed his hand down on the back wound, pressing hard to stop the bleeding. He kept his hand there and said, “We need to stitch up the exit wound. It’s pretty big. I think the front will be okay with tight wrapping.”
Cord said, “Do it!”
