The Cadillac hurtled toward him. There wasn’t much time. Randall caught a glimpse of a wondrous sight: a fire escape. He sprinted toward the metal ladder, glancing between it and the evil grin of the SUV. He jumped onto the bottom rung. Climbing frantically, he reached the first platform just as the Escalade sheered the ladder from the bottom of the fire escape. He continued to climb, afraid to look down. He heard the sickening sound of screeching tires as the driver slammed on the brakes.
It was a race, Randall trying to put as much distance as possible between himself and his would-be assassin. His sweaty hands grasped clumsily at the rungs above and his feet struggled to find footing. He nearly slipped off the ladder, his left foot missing the rung entirely, his sweaty hand ripping free. He hung dizzily, twenty feet above the alley, looking down at the street as two men in dark suits emerged from the Escalade holding guns.
Randall regained his composure and continued climbing as shots rang out from below. Bullets ricocheted past him. He glanced down for a moment and saw the SUV back up, under the now damaged ladder. The two men, using the Cadillac as a step stool, were now making their way onto the fire escape.
Dammit, they’re fast!
The younger, fitter men made short work of the ladder, while Randall struggled onto the rooftop, his hands and legs aching. He glanced around and saw a doorway. He sprinted toward it, pleading for it to be unlocked. It wasn’t.
He could hear the two men drawing near the top of the fire escape. Randall raced around to the edge of the building. Looking down from the dizzying height, he realized, to his horror, there was no other way down. He heard the panting of the men who had now cleared the fire escape and were making their way onto the roof. Desperately searching for a way out, he recognized that he only had one option.
He judged the neighboring building was about six to eight feet away and several feet below him. He would have to jump or face the two merchants of death. He chose the former. Backing up several feet, he sprinted to the edge of the building, jumping with his toes planted on the concrete edge. The jump felt like slow motion as he arced through the air, floating in space for what seemed like minutes. For a moment, Randall thought he had misjudged the distance between the buildings and wouldn’t make it, but he cleared the gap and tumbled onto the sandpapery surface. His body flopped across the roof until he came to a skidding halt, face down. There was no time to assess damage, he had to get moving.
He stood on wobbly legs, then steadied himself as he glanced back to the other building. The two men appeared angered by his attempt to elude them. Turning, he spotted an exit. Half limping, he made his way to the door, once again praying for it to be unlocked. The knob spun in his hand and he pulled the door open. Ducking into the stairwell, Randall heard the unmistakable thudding sound of the two men landing on the rooftop. He slammed the door behind himself, then slid the deadbolt into position.
He hobbled down the stairwell, bracing himself as he went. His leg throbbed with pain, making it difficult to run, but he had no choice. He had to keep moving. As he worked his way down the spiral staircase, he heard the sound of heavy pounding on the metal door above. The sound reverberated down the enclosed stairway like a drum. Next, he heard the unmistakable clatter of his pursuers shooting out the deadbolt.
Randall reached the ground floor and scurried across the street, dodging oncoming traffic. He entered the narrow doorway of a restaurant, working his way past evenly spaced tables as surprised guests looked up from their afternoon lunch. He stepped into the kitchen where he was immediately met with shouts of protest from the kitchen staff. Pausing briefly, he finally spotted the exit, went into the alley and turned right. The street ended in a wall of buildings.
Not good!
Randall turned, running back toward the restaurant. He covered half the distance when the door burst open and the gunmen stepped out. Skidding to a stop, he searched frantically for a way out. There was none. The taller assassin reached into his jacket and slowly withdrew his weapon, while his associate looked on in amusement. Randall closed his eyes, awaiting death. His ears were greeted by a different sound than expected: the heavy bass of a large engine followed by skidding tires.
Randall opened his eyes just in time to catch a glimpse of a dark sedan with tinted windows materialize from the adjacent street. His would-be assassins, caught off guard, turned to look at the source of the noise. A single figure emerged from the driver’s-side door, wielding an assault rifle.
“Drop the guns, before I make you see-through,” the rifleman said with a heavy Australian accent.
The taller assassin, as if testing the veracity of the rifleman’s pledge, shifted his aim from Randall. The rifleman fired a volley at the tall man, causing his body to dance in midair as he was peppered with gunfire. Randall watched in horror as the man’s lifeless body slumped to the pavement, a torrent of crimson running freely from his wounds.
“You son of a bitch!” The shorter assassin’s hand disappeared into his coat as he watched his partner complete his death dance. The rifleman responded by swinging his weapon until it pointed directly at his chest.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea fella. Slowly, put your hands over your head and drop to your knees.”
The shorter assassin complied, but not without some argument. “I don’t know who you think you are, but you just made the biggest mistake of your life.”
“Yeah, can’t you tell I’m worried sick? I’m practically shaking in my boots.” The rifleman walked over to the assassin and dropped the butt of his rifle onto the back of his head. The assassin fell to the ground like a sack of rocks, lying unconscious on the pavement next to his associate.
In shock, all Randall could manage was a muffled grunt as the rifleman walked toward him. Randall pegged him at over six and a half feet tall. His broad shoulders blocked out the sun like a giant Sequoia.
“You alright, mate?”
Randall didn’t answer, his eyes shifting from the man with the rifle to the dead body on the ground.
“Dr. Randall, right?”
Randall looked up. “What just happened?”
“Well I’d say you must have pissed off someone pretty good now.”
“Who are you?”
“Let’s just say someone asked me to keep an eye on you and it’s a good thing she did. These two blokes seemed intent on making you into Swiss cheese.”
“Who are they?”
“Well now, I think we both have a pretty good idea who sent them.” The rifleman was smiling now.
“Francis Dumond,” Randall responded.
“Right you are, mate! I’d say you better keep an eye out from now on, maybe both eyes for that matter.”
“What should I do?”
“Can’t answer that one for you, but I suggest you stay away from the places you normally go. My guess is that once they find out these fellows didn’t take care of you, Mr. Dumond will send someone else to finish the job.”
“I can’t go home?”
“Not unless you want to be on the front page of tomorrow’s newspaper like our friend here.” The rifleman gestured toward the blood-soaked assassin lying on the ground nearby. “I suggest you come up with another plan.”
With that, the rifleman walked back to his car.
“Wait! You still didn’t tell me who you are.”
“The name’s Michael Thompson.”
“What are you doing here? Who do you work for?”
“Let’s just say that my employer has an interest in your research and leave it at that.”
“So you’ve been following me?”
Michael smiled broadly. “Take care of yourself Randall.”
Randall blinked, unsure of what to do next. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.” Michael slid his tall frame behind the wheel of his still idling car, closed the driver’s side door, and slowly backed out the way he had come in.
Chapter Four
John Randall sat at his desk mulling o
ver his options. To say that this had been a bad morning would be the understatement of the year. First, he had learned that his research partner, Jacob Taylor, had disappeared. John had tried calling and texting Jacob’s cell phone all morning without luck. He had even called Jacob’s fiancée Margaret and his parents. No one knew where he was.
Then there had been a break-in at the lab with someone taking all of John and Jacob’s research. Now John’s supervisor, Dr. Monroe, had just informed him that the National Institutes of Health was pulling their funding. Apparently they no longer felt that developing a drug to erase traumatic memories was a worthwhile venture. It was a trifecta of bad news, one that was sure to make an otherwise beautiful summer day as gloomy as the first rainy Monday in September.
The sound of his phone ringing pulled John from his reverie and caused him to jump in surprise.
Now what?
He picked up the phone. “John Randall."
“Hi John, its Peter. Sorry to bother you at work, but do you have a few minutes to talk?”
“Actually, now’s not the best time.”
“I’m worried about your dad. I had lunch with him today and he looked like hell. He says he’s not sleeping well, and he had the black circles under the eyes to prove it. He mentioned something about having strange dreams since he got back from Peru. Has he mentioned anything to you?”
John shook his head. This was the last thing he needed. “No, he hasn’t said anything to me, but I haven’t talked to him for a week. I’ve called and left messages, but he hasn’t called me back. I figured he was just busy with work. You know how absorbed he can get with his research.” John reclined in his chair, frowning at the thought that his father was keeping secrets again—a habit he had developed prior to his last excursion to Peru. In fact, John still didn’t know what had happened there.
“Well, he didn’t look good, and I thought you should know. I didn’t want to bother your sister Sam with this since she and Nick just patched things up. I know you’re busy, but it might be a good idea to check in with him. He can be a stubborn old codger and he might not want to bother you with this, but he just isn’t himself.”
John rubbed the back of his neck. “Okay, I’ll stop by and see how he’s doing. Thanks for the call.”
“Take care, and let me know if there’s anything I can do.”
“Will do, speak to you soon.”
John hung up, and shook his head. “This day just can’t get any worse.”
An audible alarm from his phone reminded him that he was scheduled to take his final flight exam for his helicopter pilot’s license in a couple of hours. John frowned, realizing that, given the circumstances, making it to his flight test was at the bottom of his priority list. He made a mental note to call and reschedule the exam.
His thoughts returning to the conversation with Peter, John considered calling Sam. He dismissed the notion almost immediately. She and their dad had just gotten back to a good place and he wasn’t sure how she would take the news. Besides, it was entirely possible that Peter was just overreacting. John checked his watch: 3:27 p.m. There wasn’t anything else he could do at work, so he might as well visit his dad. Picking up the phone, he dialed his dad’s cell number. It immediately went to voicemail.
“Dammit, why aren’t you picking up?” John clicked the phone off and left his office, heading over to his father’s house.
Chapter Five
John pulled his SUV up to the curb in front of his dad’s house and immediately knew that something was wrong. The front door was smashed open and hanging at an odd angle. Clicking off his seatbelt, John hopped out and sprinted to the door. His stopped at the entryway, calling out to his father. There was no reply. He reached for his cell phone, ready to dial 911, but realized he had left it in the car. He gingerly pushed the door open and stepped across the threshold. Books and papers were strewn throughout the living room and chairs were overturned.
He turned to run back to his car and call the police, but heard a noise from the back of the house.
“Dad, are you okay?” He called out.
There was no reply. Concern for his father overrode worries for his own safety and John stepped deeper into the house.
He crept into the kitchen and found a cold pot of coffee still on the cradle. Glancing down the hallway, he strained to see into the back office where his dad normally worked. The room appeared to be empty.
Realizing he had no way to defend himself, he grabbed the largest kitchen knife he could find and moved slowly down the hallway, the stillness oddly menacing. The only sounds were his footfalls … and his labored breathing.
He reached the back of the house and peered around the doorjamb. Someone had upturned the bedroom. Drawers were open and clothes littered the floor, but still no sign of his father. Full-blown panic gripped him. He wanted to run, but he needed to know if his father was hurt…or worse.
The sudden sound of breaking glass drew John’s attention. He jerked his head up, looking toward his father’s study. He hugged the wall as he crept down the hallway, his left arm in front of him and the knife drawn back in his right. He heard the unmistakable sound of rustling.
John gripped the knife tightly as he approached the door. It was half closed. He eased the door open revealing… an empty room. John examined the study and found the cause of the sound. A broken coffee mug had apparently fallen from the desk. It lay smashed on the floor, directly in front of the window above his dad’s workspace. The window was wide open, a strong breeze ruffling the curtains.
John let out a prolonged breath. His hands were shaking, adrenaline coursing through him. The house was empty.
He walked back to the front door and heard his phone ringing in his truck. He sprinted out and answered it. His dad was calling.
“Hello?”
“John, its Dad, where are you?”
“I’m at your house and it’s torn apart. I thought something happened to you!”
“I’m okay, but I want you to get out of there.”
“What? Someone ransacked your house. We need to call the police.”
“You’re in danger! Get the hell out of there!”
“In danger from what? What’s going on?”
“I can’t explain right now, just listen to me!”
“I just got off the phone with Peter and he’s worried about you, he said he had lunch with you yesterday and you looked terrible…”
“Get out of the house! NOW!”
“I’m not in the goddamn house, I’m at the curb! What in the hell have you gotten yourself into! You don’t return my calls, you show up for lunch with Peter and have some big secret you won’t tell him, and now you’re screaming at me to get out of your house! Does this have something to do with your trip to Peru? What in the hell happened there?”
“I don’t care about any of that, I just want to make sure you’re safe!”
“Stop yelling at me! Goddammit dad, since you got back from that trip, you’ve acted weird. You don’t return my calls and you’re not around when I come to see you!”
John pressed the phone to his ear. It might not have been a fair time to hit his father with this, but he was angry and confused. His father must have gotten the message as there was only silence on the other end of the phone.
“Are you still there?” John asked.
“Yes, son, I’m here.”
John took a deep breath, sitting down behind his steering wheel. “I’m not sure what’s going on, but we need to talk.”
“I know you’re frustrated, but you’re going to have to trust me. I want you to get as far from my house as you can. Do you understand?”
“I’m in my car now.”
“Good, I’ll call you in a little while.”
John heard the phone click. He set it down on the armrest, and shook his head.
Can this day get any weirder?
Chapter Six
Colonel Shaw reclined in his chair, taking a long pull from his cigare
tte. He slowly exhaled the smoke from his lungs, his eyes closed as he enjoyed the moment. Spread out on the desk were the files his men had retrieved from Alpha Genetics the day before. Of course, he had seen the contents of some of the files previously, but recent events had accelerated the need to fully assess the situation and determine a course of action.
The first file he reviewed was labeled “Project MKUltra.” Inside was a black and white photo of a man in uniform holding pieces of a weather balloon. The photo made Shaw smile. He was one of the few people alive who knew the true story of the staged picture and the cover-up it concealed. He flipped to the next page. There was a brief synopsis of the program, which explained that the covert government program had been initiated by the CIA and involved the testing of mind control techniques on unsuspecting American and Canadian citizens. He scanned the report to refresh his memory and then picked up a more current folder labeled “Randall / Taylor Study – NIH.” He opened it and began to read.
He reflexively picked up the cigarette again, taking another long drag. Breathing out a long chain of gray smoke, he closed the folder. They had dodged a bullet. If that son of a bitch Taylor had gotten away with the information he had taken, there would have been a lot of explaining to do. Probably even a Congressional hearing like the Church Committee. But with the good doctor stored away safely, that wasn’t a concern anymore. Now he just had to tie up one more loose end.
Shaw grabbed his cigarette again. It had nearly burned all the way down, but he knew he could get one more puff out of it. He enjoyed the last pull immensely and then snuffed the cigarette out in the tray. It was a dirty habit, but everyone had their vices and he was no different. Besides, it was a reminder of the good old days, before people gave a crap about everything they put into their bodies. People were so weak these days and easy to control. They needed strong men—like him—to lead them now more than ever, and that’s what he intended to do. Whether they liked it or not.
The Bermuda Connection (A Nick Randall Novel Book 2) Page 2
