The Bermuda Connection (A Nick Randall Novel Book 2)

by Robert Rapoza

  He picked up his phone, punched in a series of numbers, then waited. Someone on the other end picked up on the third ring.

  “Get the prisoner ready. I’m coming over to interrogate him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hanging up the phone, he picked up his hat and placed it on his head. Looking into a mirror on his desk, he adjusted it to a rakish angle and decided that a cigarette in his mouth would add just the right dash to the reflection staring back at him. He fished one out of the pack and lit it with a match, which he shook out with a cupped right hand. He tossed the spent match into an ash tray and walked out of his office.

  The night air was invigorating. He thoroughly enjoyed his walk over to the holding area. Shaw didn’t anticipate any problems getting the information he wanted out of his guest. Again, the men of today didn’t hold a candle to the tough guys of his era. Hell, we helped make the world a free place so these young idiots could text smiley faces to each other all day.

  He arrived at the cell a moment later. “Is the prisoner ready?”

  “Yes, sir, he’s waiting for you.”

  “Carry on, solider.”

  “Thank you, sir!”

  The colonel punched his code into the electronic lock and was rewarded with a faint hissing noise that announced the opening of the cell door. As he entered, he found the prisoner seated on the steel bench inside, hands bound behind his back and handcuffed to a metal rail. The holding area was a sterile gray color, with bare and windowless concrete walls. White fluorescent light fixtures hung from the ceiling and a single security camera was tucked away in the far corner. The floor was also painted gray, adding to the coldness of the room. The colonel removed his hat and brushed his short, neatly trimmed hair back with his free hand. Striding purposefully, the colonel walked over to the prisoner and stood towering over him.

  “Have you decided to talk to us today Dr. Taylor, or do we need to provide you with some more convincing?”

  Taylor looked up at Shaw, his eyes sunken into his head. Dark circles under his hazel eyes attested to his fatigue. His clothes were rumpled and disheveled, and his face sported recently acquired bruises to go with two days of untrimmed stubble. He gave the appearance of a vagrant who had consumed too much cheap booze and fallen asleep in the first convenient spot he could find.

  “Go to hell, you asshole!”

  “Tsk, tsk, tsk doctor, that’s no way to speak to your host.” The colonel struck the man across the chin with his left hand, the ring on his finger leaving a small dimple where it connected with the man’s face. A small trickle of blood ran down his chin. Taylor moaned in pain.

  “Care to try again? We have all of your research, except for one critical piece. Oddly enough, it’s not on the network or the electronic archive. Where is it?”

  “I already told you, I don’t know where it is. Most of our records were digitized, but some weren’t. I didn’t even know they were missing.”

  “Wish I could believe you, but unfortunately I don’t.” The colonel unleashed another backhand, leaving a matching dimple just above the other. More blood trickled down Taylor’s chin and onto his wrinkled white shirt.

  “I can do this all day.” The colonel smiled, almost hoping that his prisoner wouldn’t talk. He derived great pleasure from these episodes.

  Spitting blood now, Taylor said, “Look, the only people who had access to the files were my partner Dr. John Randall and I. I don’t have it and protocol over the handling of files is very strict, so the only other place it could be is in John’s office.”

  “We checked. It’s not there.”

  “Then I don’t know where it could be. I’m telling you the truth! Please, my fiancée and parents are probably worried sick. You have to let me go!”

  “Go? Oh no, doctor, we can’t have that. You’re going to be staying as our guest for a while.”

  The colonel placed his hat on his head and walked toward the door.

  “Wait, please, I just want to go home. You can’t keep me here. I’m an American citizen. I have rights! I want to see an attorney!”

  Turning, the colonel looked at Taylor with mock concern. “I’ll see if I can find one for you as soon as I can. In the meantime, do try to get some rest, you look terribly tired.”

  He smiled, turned toward the door and walked out.

  Chapter Seven

  Randall sat in the motel lobby staring out the window. Using what cash he had left in his wallet, he had rented a room under a false name. One of the few advantages of staying in a run-down motel in a shady part of town was the anonymity provided by innkeepers, when a guest paid in cash. Randall strummed his fingers as he waited for the ancient computer to come to life. A relic from a bygone age, the computer was part of what the motel owner referred to as its business center. After what seemed like an hour, it was finally ready to use.

  Randall opened the web browser. Feeling a bit sheepish, he began searching for reports of abductions, hoping to find something that might match his nightmares. As strange as it seemed, he had a hunch that his dreams were more than just nocturnal recaps of his recent adventures. His first searches turned up entries of individuals claiming to have been probed, poked, sliced, and diced by an assortment of otherworldly creatures who had snatched them from their slumber.

  Some accounts appeared to have been written by rational, normal people, while others seemed liked the ravings of lunatics. Unfortunately, none of them matched his recurring dreams. After nearly an hour of searching the web, he was no closer to an answer. Frustrated, Randall closed the browser, rubbed his eyes, and decided he needed to take a break.

  Pushing himself up from the desk, Randall strode to the front counter where an old coffee machine sat with black liquid resting in its well-worn pot. He thought for a moment and decided to give it a try. No sugar or cream, just black. Much to his surprise, the flavor of the coffee wasn’t bad. Taking the cup, Randall walked around the small lobby, examining the décor. He decided it was decorated in an eclectic, seventies motif, complete with faded faux wooden paneling, shag rug, and avocado-green furniture. The proprietor was either a genius decorator who loved the retro look or was just plain cheap. Randall decided it was the latter.

  He returned to the computer, reopened the web browser, and started his search again. This time he landed on a site called MUFON, the Mutual UFO Network. MUFON had a search engine that allowed users to enter criteria and search for incidents.

  What have I got to lose?

  Once again he searched and once again, no luck. After more browsing, he still hadn’t found anything that seemed remotely similar to his nightmares. He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes, which ached from staring at the computer for so long.

  Doubt crept into his mind. If he couldn’t find an episode that matched his dreams, what would he do? Randall took another sip from his coffee, which had grown considerably colder since his last drink. He contemplated giving up but realized that he didn’t have other options, so he dove back into his research.

  After another thirty minutes of searching, he found something that sparked his interest. A young woman named Jamie—she didn’t provide a last name—had several entries describing recurring abductions. According to the information, Jamie was in her thirties and lived in a small town called Hamilton near the ocean. She didn’t specify where the town was located, but the description of her experiences caught Randall’s attention. She described, in painstaking detail, her most recent encounter. It had transpired in her second-story apartment. The open window overlooking the water, the feeling of dread, and the late hour of the occurrence all matched Randall’s latest nightmare. But the thing that sent cold shivers down his spine was the date of her latest abduction. It had happened two nights ago, the same night as his latest dream.

  Randall stared at the computer, unsure of what to make of this revelation. Finally, he realized what he had to do.

  Minimizing the MUFON window, Randall began searching the web for English speaking
cities named Hamilton near a major body of water. It didn’t take long to find his target. Several listings down on the first search page was the result Bermuda’s City of Hamilton. Randall searched real estate listings for apartments in the area and scoured pictures posted by agents, hoping to find one that matched the room in his nightmares. Without finding an exact match, he discovered several views that were very similar to those he had experienced in his visions. There was a very strong chance that this was where Jamie lived.

  He opened an airline site and began checking flights to Bermuda. He found one leaving later that evening.

  Chapter Eight

  John drove his truck toward the underground parking structure of his research facility at Alpha Genetics. He was tired, having not slept well the previous night. Too many thoughts had fought for attention in his foggy mind as he tossed and turned throughout the evening.

  A guard stopped him as he approached the parking booth. John noted that there were now four guards at the entrance instead of the two that had been assigned prior to the break-in. He also noticed that they were heavily armed unlike the previous day. The company was taking yesterday’s incident seriously.

  Good. I lost two years’ worth of research in the blink of an eye.

  John glanced down at his knuckles, which were white and trembling with anger. He breathed in deeply and exhaled, relaxing his grip. As he pulled up to the concrete booth, the guard gripped his gun more tightly with one hand while the other went to his earpiece. The man’s body language conveyed a seriousness that made John shudder. Another guard approached the driver’s side door of his car and motioned for John to open the window.

  “Name?”

  “Dr. John Randall, I work in Building D.”

  The guard placed his right hand on John’s open window. His left hand went to his earpiece where he depressed a small button, which activated the microphone in front of his mouth. His eyes never broke contact with John, who suddenly felt very exposed.

  “Randall, John, Building D.” After an excruciating several seconds, the guard spoke again. “Go ahead.”

  The guard waved to another man in the booth, signaling him to raise the barrier. As the large wooden arm slowly lifted, an eight-foot strand of large metal bollards, spanning the length of the entryway, disappeared into the ground. The guard looked back at John, motioning for him to enter, his gaze boring into John’s face. John coaxed his truck through the narrow entryway as a shiver traveled down his spine.

  The facility’s protection by armed guards had initially seemed an appropriate response to yesterday’s events, but now he wasn’t sure. As John wound his way down the concrete tunnel into the underground parking structure, a strange thought played in the deep recesses of his mind: Are they trying to keep someone out or someone in? He wasn’t sure why the thought occurred to him, but something gnawed at the pit of his stomach. He quickly dismissed it as paranoia.

  John parked his Toyota FJ Cruiser in his assigned parking spot, turned off the ignition, and sat with his hands folded in his lap for several minutes. Not one to give in to worry, he couldn’t help but feel that he was missing something important. In a little more than a twenty-four-hour span, Jacob had disappeared, someone had stolen two years of his research, and his father’s house had been ransacked. Worse still, the last time he had spoken to his father, he had been overly concerned about John’s safety. In fact, his dad had been downright paranoid about him being inside his home.

  Suddenly, a thought occurred to John. His father had never told him where he was when John had called him. In fact, his dad hadn’t called him back. John picked up his cell phone and dialed his father’s number. The phone rang and went to voicemail. He tried again with the same result. John smashed his phone onto the gray, leather console of his truck. He heard a snap. Lifting it, he saw that the glass was cracked.

  Dammit!

  Cursing under his breath, he exited the vehicle, slamming the door in the process. Taking long strides, John chose to use the stairs instead of the elevator. He made short work of the steps. Reaching his floor, he grasped the door handle with one hand as he swiped his ID card through the card reader. A red light indicated that his card hadn’t worked. John gritted his teeth. He tried his card again with the same result. Sighing, he turned and trudged down the four flights of stairs back into the parking garage. He reflected that, if this was any indication, today would be no better than yesterday.

  Instead of trying the elevator, John decided to enter through the main lobby of Building D. As he exited the parking garage, a cool breeze washed over his face. He closed his eyes, breathing in the fresh air. He started feeling better almost immediately.

  The parking structure fed into the main courtyard of the facility, which was laid out in a circular pattern with Building A resting squarely in the center. The other buildings encircled Building A with passenger breezeways spaced out on various levels connecting them. The result was a pattern, which, if viewed from directly above, looked like a bicycle wheel with the breezeways serving as the spokes connecting the outer five buildings to the central hub.

  John strode through the double glass doors of the lobby and approached the front entrance, which now had additional security as well. He didn’t recognize any of the new security staff, but caught a glimpse of a familiar face moving through the lobby. Jeff Stinson was medium height, medium build with strawberry red hair and a beard. John noticed that he was practically jogging toward the newly reinforced security detachment. He figured that Jeff must be late for a meeting. John matched his pace and caught up with him.

  “Jeff, what’s going on here?”

  “Hey, John. After the break-in yesterday, I guess they decided to increase security around here.”

  “Yeah, I tried to access my floor through the stairwell in the parking garage, but my security code wouldn’t work.”

  Jeff flashed a knowing smile. “Me, too. They must have restricted access to the main lobby. I guess they don’t want our new friends here to get lonely.” Jeff gestured at the hulking, unsmiling faces now positioned between the front entrance and the elevator banks.

  The two stopped as they reached the line feeding into the checkpoint.

  “Sorry to hear about Jacob and your research, that’s a real shame,” Jeff said.

  “It gets worse. Sounds like they’re pulling my funding, too.”

  Jeff shook his head. “When it rains, it pours.”

  As they spoke, the line inched forward until they finally reached the front. Jeff answered questions from the security detachment and walked through. He waited on the other side as John stepped up to the guards.

  “Name?”

  “Dr. John Randall, my offices are on the fourth floor.”

  The guard glanced down at John’s identification badge and then looked directly into John’s face without saying a word. He glared at John’s face as if trying to memorize every feature.

  “Is there a problem?” John asked.

  “You’ll have to come with me.”

  “Why? What’s going on here?” John glanced at Jeff, who shrugged.

  A second guard joined the first, gripping John’s elbow in his meaty right hand.

  Surprised, John turned to look at him. “What are you doing? Let go of my arm.” John jerked his elbow free, frowning at the man.

  The two guards, scowling at John now, were joined by another man who was older and slighter of build.

  “Dr. Randall?” he said. John turned to face him. “My name is Rodrigo Alonzo. I’m in charge of security now, and my men and I are here to escort you to your office.”

  “I’ve watched other people who were just checked by your men and let through. Why am I being singled out?”

  “You’re being singled out because of the circumstances surrounding your partner and your research. Yours is the only research taken from the archives and your partner has disappeared … yet nothing has happened to you,” Alonzo replied.

  “Are you accusing me of h
aving something to do with Jacob’s disappearance?”

  “That’s not for me to say, but someone is waiting to speak with you in your office.”

  “Who?”

  “I cannot disclose that information.”

  “If you think I’m coming with you, you’re crazy.”

  “Fine, we can simply call the authorities and have you arrested.”

  “For what!”

  “Your fingerprints were found on your partner’s door handle, and you were the last person to speak with him in his office the day he disappeared. We confirmed this with video footage taken from the hallway outside his door.”

  “Of course I spoke with Jacob! He’s my research partner!”

  “Nevertheless, this makes you a person of interest in the eyes of the company. Now, you can come with us to your office or I can call the authorities, which will it be?”

  John looked up to see Jeff still standing on the other side of the barrier, his face ashen.

  “Fine, I’ll go up to my office, but tell your pit bulls that I won’t be man-handled.”

  “Very well, Dr. Randall.” Alonzo gave his men a withering look and they grudgingly backed away from John. The four walked over to the nearest elevator bank, where one of the guards pushed the round elevator call button. A single ping announced its arrival. As the door slid open, John felt a hand grasp the back of his arm. He instinctively swatted it away.

  He turned and stared at the guard. “I told you to keep your hands off me.”

  The guard replied with a condescending smirk and gestured for John to enter the elevator. The four men made the rest of the trip in silence. As he exited the elevator, John realized that something was wrong. The normal bustle of personnel going about their daily business was absent from the fourth floor. Only he and his escorts were present today. He immediately felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

  As they walked through the hallway, the everyday sight of the facility took on an otherworldly sensation. It was as if he were seeing it for the first time. Offices were ghostly quiet, the walls stark and sterile in spite of familiar pictures he had seen for years. Just before they entered his office, the group passed an empty stainless steel medical cart; its clean metallic surface gleamed in the cold fluorescent light. The strong smell of disinfectant, mixed with cigarette smoke, hung in the air. It wasn’t immediately clear where the smoke was coming from. The lab, being a clean environment, was a smoke-free zone.