The mobile units were empty and dark now, and there were no other vehicles parked in Mariner’s Wood. The place was quiet.
Harris maneuvered until he was standing just inside the opening of a narrow tunnel at the back of the hospital, and then waited for two long hours. He grew weary of the fruitless night vigil. People were seeing things. There was nothing out here.
Then something caught his eye—movement in the trees behind the building. He watched attentively for another thirty minutes. Then, a faint glow of light came and went in a fraction of a second. It was a burning cigarette.
With his pistol drawn, Harris quietly left the tunnel entrance and walked to the edge of Mariner’s Wood, only fifty feet from the rear of the building. He stood behind a large red oak tree and peeked around. He smelled tobacco smoke. Someone was close.
Suddenly, the tobacco smell intensified and a limb cracked. The person was behind him. Harris aimed his pistol as he turned to face his attacker. In that moment, the palm of a large hand slapped down hard on the top of his head. The extraordinary downward force instantly shattered his spine and compressed the spinal nerves. Sharp pains shot from his back and into his arms and legs, even into his hands and feet. Harris tried to fire his gun but he couldn’t pull the trigger. He was paralyzed.
Coarse fingernails dug into his scalp. A heavy, half round, ten-inch blade sliced his throat to the bone. A second thrust found the space between two vertebrae and cut entirely through the neck. Harris’ body fell to the ground.
A black SUV drove slowly into the woods. The driver and the killer threw the body and head into the trunk.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Keyes’ Apartment
8:05 am
KEYES WAS STILL IN my bed when I awoke the morning after our night of lovemaking. I turned and kissed her. “I’m glad I didn’t succeed in knocking myself off. It would’ve been a shame to miss last night.”
Keyes held me tightly and whispered, “I feel good today, better than I have in a long time.”
“Me too,” I said, stroking her hair from her face
I opened my mouth to speak, but she shushed me with a kiss.
“I’ll make breakfast,” she said.
As we ate, I looked into her sparkling eyes. They were so inviting.
God knows I needed an ally, so over breakfast, I filled her in on my situation. “I know Waters had a hand in Dr. Carey’s and Willie Wilson’s murders. He’s the only person I can think of who would try to kill me or discredit me,” I said. “I wrote that letter to the paper about all the shady stuff that’s been going on since he’s been running the show at the hospital. Now he’s trying to sell it. Somewhere along the way, there has to be something that could expose Waters’ dealings.”
“Maybe I could find a way,” she said.
Thirty minutes later, enough time for me to clean up the breakfast dishes, Keyes walked into the living room wearing form-fitting white jeans and a sheer, ruffled, sky-blue blouse, one that brought out the green in her eyes. Her hair and make-up were flawless, and stunning emerald earrings dangled from her ears. She could’ve stepped out of an issue of Vogue.
“Where are you going?”
“I have to run an errand.”
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Air Harbor Airport
Greensboro, North Carolina
Noon
KEYES QUICKLY CLIMBED THE steps and entered the private Learjet parked adjacent to runway eight.
“I’m so sorry I didn’t have time to get more dressed up, Omar,” Keyes said as she sat at a round table laden with a lavish spread of foods and wines. She was gorgeous. Her blue blouse ballooned out at the waist, accentuating her breasts. Her blonde hair fell, elegantly, straight to her shoulders.
“Omar, I’m still having some … issues … and need a little more time. Will you please ask Hormand for an extension for me?”
Omar Farok wore a white suit and an open-collared white shirt, expertly tailored to fit his trim, five-foot eight-inch body. He ignored the question and leaned over the table. He grasped her fingers tightly in his small, oiled, manicured hand. A wide-banded gold ring with a sparkling five-carat blue white diamond flashed on his ring finger. His long, thin face was smoothly shaven and splashed with sweet-smelling aftershave lotion. His thin lips barely moved as he said quietly, “You, my dear, have always been beautiful, every second of your life since you were born.”
“But the deadline—”
“Shh … I want you to have something to enhance your beauty.” He looked upward, his eyes catching the gaze of his well-groomed servant wearing a white thobe, with a red and black embroidered waistband.
The servant walked to the table, his outstretched hands holding a shiny object. Farok took the gold and platinum Rolex watch. It was covered with diamonds and emeralds. Looking into her eyes, Farok clasped the watch onto Keyes’ wrist. “My dearest, I have loved many women in my life, but you are my most precious gem. I want you to be mine, heart and soul. This gift to you is but a token of my forever love for you. It is important to me that you always wear this symbol of our love and that you promise never to remove it from your arm, whether you are at a party with the Queen or planting flowers in your garden.”
She smiled as she touched the treasure he’d given her. As beautiful as it was, her sole objective tonight was to escape a horrible death. Her deadline had expired. She was here to beg for mercy.
Returning his gaze, she said, “Omar, it is gorgeous. I will never take it off, if that is your wish. But please, give me a few more days to find Alpha Charlie.”
Farok looked up as a second servant appeared, lifted a bottle of champagne from the ice, and poured it into their glasses.
Holding his glass high, Farok said, “When you return home, we will have the most elegant wedding ever held in the Sudan, and you will be my wife.”
Was a marriage proposal her escape from her death sentence? She tried to smile. After drinking the champagne, Farok took her hand and led her to the bedroom of his Learjet. His eyes never left her face as he undressed and lay down with her.
She cringed at his touch. Her mission tonight was to have Omar intervene and spare her life. Lovemaking was not on her “to do” list.
His hands moved slowly over her body. “Oh, my,” he uttered, as his hands caressed her breasts. “I love your breasts. And your face is prettier than ever.”
Her body stiffened with Omar’s every touch.
“My God,” he said as he felt the silky smooth skin of her delicious womanhood. “I love it.”
“Please … about Hormand’s deadline?”
She asked again, her voice now shaking.
He never responded.
After he’d had her, he lay at her side, breathing heavily. A smile crossed his usually neutral facial expression. Before he went to sleep, he said again, “Never, never remove my love token from your arm.”
She asked again, but he made no comment or concession about her request for an extension of Hormand’s deadline. She was trembling as she left the bed and put on her clothes.
What was she going to do now?
CHAPTER FIFTY
Jackson City Police Station
9:30 am
KEYES DIDN’T COME BACK that night, and in the morning she still wasn’t in the apartment. I walked to the police station to see Harris.
I waited at the door of his office, while busy police personnel and civilians alike paid me no attention. I looked at my watch several times. By 9:30 I was antsy. I had to check in with Harris and update him on the movements of Keyes.
Finally, I gave up on waiting. I looked around to see if anyone was watching, then peered into his office window, cupping my hands to the glass. A partly opened folder on the desk caught my attention. It was labeled “Dr. Scott James.”
An officer walked by slowly and
put his hand on my shoulder and I jumped.
“What, exactly, are you doing?”
“Harris told me to meet him here in his office. He said he had things to tell me, about the terrorists. That folder on his desk has my name on it. He wanted me to read it. We were investigating a terrorist cell together … ”
“Terrorists? Pete never said anything about terrorists. You’re full of shit. Get out of this office!”
“Okay, okay.”
“And don’t take anything.”
Another policeman walked over and asked, “Any trouble here?”
“No problems. I was just leaving,” I said as I walked by the policemen with my head raised high.
I felt my pulse. Seventy. I was pleased. I was almost thrown back in jail but I’d remained calm.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Scott James Surgery Center
7:31 pm
KEYES HAD DISAPPEARED. I hadn’t seen her for over twenty-four hours. Celena’s deadline, whatever it was for, was today.
I’d spent the day looking for information about Keyes and about Dr. Carey’s murder.
I went to my office. I hadn’t paid any of my bills and was pleased that the power company had not yet pulled my power plug.
As I opened the front door, I walked by a few dozen pieces of mail piled just below the slot on the door. After my last episode of reading mail, I had no desire to open any more letters.
I’d previously searched Keyes’ empty staff locker, looking for information about her missed ride, Anna Duke. I’d also looked for anything that might need reporting to Harris. Nothing had come up. But I hadn’t searched her office, at the front of my suite.
I spent an hour or so just rummaging through her desk, where I found a black wig in one of the drawers. I looked at the names and numbers of my patients. I read them, hoping to find one that revealed Keyes’ personal contacts.
Shortly after dark, as I was still working, I heard a sound at the front door. I peeked out of Keyes’ office. A man with a gun in his hand was coming right for her door. He saw me and shouted. He raised his pistol to shoot. He was an African, a big man with a wide, round face and a French accent: “WHERE IS ELIZABETH KEYES?”
I ducked back into Keyes’ office just as the gun fired. The sound of the shot exploded in the narrow hallway and blew a hole in the wall.
I locked the door and threw her desk on its side, then shoved it against the door. I heard the man running to me, shouting, “WHERE IS SHE? WHERE IS ELIZABETH KEYES?”
I had no defense. I looked around for a weapon. The only thing I saw were two empty oxygen canisters awaiting refills, a defibrillator just back from maintenance, and a broken IV pole needing a replacement.
The gunman reached the door. I ducked behind the overturned desk as he rapid-fired six times. Four bullets whistled over my head, two of which shot through where I was crouched, but were stopped by the thick desktop. The huge man slammed his shoulder into the door. The flimsy door lock shattered. The desk held firm. I looked for protection. The oxygen tank!
I grabbed the heavy tank, and just as the door broke open, threw it through the window.
The window shattered. The assassin reacted by shooting at the tank and I grabbed the broken IV pole and lunged at him, right as he turned to face me. Two bullets passed within inches of my ear. The makeshift spear smashed through his shirt and into his chest, ramming all the way through.
His knees buckled. He looked at me with glazed eyes. Blood coughed from his mouth, and he fell.
Behind the broken debris came the sounds of someone else running in the hall. I jerked the gun from the dead man. Dear God, please let there be more bullets in this gun.
A second man suddenly appeared in the doorway. He saw me and raised his gun to fire. Like any other kid who grew up in my area, I knew how to shoot. I raised the pistol and fired twice, the sounds deafening, BOOM BOOM …
Then the semi-automatic weapon let out a click. The clip was empty. But both bullets had been in the chest. He fell backward, dead.
I sat down. I was trembling. Sweat poured from my body. Now I had two more bodies to deal with—two more murders.
If I told this to anyone but Harris, I’d go back to jail for certain. I tried to phone Harris’ office but I was so shocked and traumatized that for moment I couldn’t punch in the numbers.
Still no Harris. He still hadn’t returned.
I thought about how to dispose of the bodies. Drug deals regularly occurred at the East End Apartments, three miles from my office. Four months ago, two men were shot and killed and left in a car there. Those bodies weren’t found for three days. Three days would help me a lot.
I slapped on surgical gloves, shoved one of their pistols in my belt, and searched the bodies for ammunition. I found ten clips of ammo.
I bundled the men in sheets, and dragged the bodies to the trunk of their new BMW 7000.
I drove to the East End Apartments and parked in a section where there were no lights or people wandering around. Continentals, Jaguars, and Cadillacs were parked in the complex where drug dealing was common. The BMW was not conspicuous.
I jogged back to Keyes’ place, taking the cool air deeply into my lungs and feeling very lucky to be alive.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Keyes’ Apartment
10:00 pm
SURPRISINGLY, I FELT NO guilt about killing the two men. They had come to kill me, and I did what I had to do in order to survive. The strenuous workout of loading the pair of 200-pound bodies in the trunk of the car, and then jogging all the way back to the apartment, actually raised my spirits.
It certainly stopped my hands from shaking.
I had only one regret: that the men had nothing on them that linked them to whoever was behind all this. Now, after taking a hot shower and drinking some coffee, my mind was clear and my motivation strong to figure out who was trying to kill me and why.
I began making a list of the events that had happened in the last two days, when Keyes, at last, came through the door. She walked in, stopped, looked at me, then walked over to the table where I was writing my list and picked up the pistol I’d taken off my would-be killer.
She raised the barrel of the pistol and held it two feet from my head. My eyes followed the pistol up Keyes’ arm and into her face. Her stare was fixed on me, and the muscles in her jaw stood out. “Who gave you this gun?” she demanded.
“It’s mine. I had it in my office. Please don’t point that at me.”
She kept the pistol aimed at my head. “I never figured you’d own a pistol like this.”
“Why?”
“It’s a custom-made, Browning BMD, 9 by 19 mm. It had to cost ten grand. This has a fifteen-shot clip, and it was made in 1998, when it took a dealer’s license to buy it. Until 2004, only the ten-in-a-clip models were sold to the public. You didn’t buy this gun. So, now, you want to tell me how you really got this?”
“Considering the line of work your presently in, I’m not shocked you know that.”
According to what she just said, the gunman in my office shot at me thirteen times. Thank God there were fifteen bullets in the clip. The last two shells had taken the second killer’s life and saved mine. Avoiding her question, I said, “Someone in my office tried to kill me with it this evening at about seven. He failed. I got the gun. Satisfied?”
“Who tried to kill you?”
“What difference does it make?” I said.
I had been told by Harris to play it cool, but I couldn’t help it any more. I turned the heat up on her. I had to have the truth. “I’m not so sure about your CIA story.” I paused. “And why don’t you tell me about your connection with Waters?”
To my surprise, instead of pressing me for an answer to her question, she answered mine. “He and I were friends—or rather, acquaintances—for two month
s. That’s all.”
She turned from me, threw the pistol on the couch, and walked to her bedroom, slamming the door behind her. I looked at the gun with more respect than I previously had.
From down the hall, I heard Keyes begin to cry. I went to her room. The door wasn’t closed and I didn’t knock. She was lying face-down on her bed, sobbing uncontrollably.
“You okay, Elizabeth?” I said as I sat down on the bed and laid my hand on her shoulder.
She turned over and looked at me through her tears. “That’s one of Farok’s guns! Omar Farok, the ISIS commander! The bullets in that gun were meant for me. I’m the one they were after. My deadline is over, and it’s only a matter of time before I’m dead!”
“Then, you’re Celena?”
“Yes. I lied to you.” She burst into tears and held me tightly. “I’m not working for the CIA. I work for Omar Farok. Farok is now ISIS. He’s the one planning the attack. I met him when I worked as a courier in the Middle East. He was the pilot who flew me back and forth between Damascus, Yemen, Kandahar, and Syria. I was paid by Al Qaeda. I even went through two months of military training with them. But I was only a courier, never a soldier. But you have to believe me. I don’t want anybody to die. I’m just doing this one thing, and then I’m going to hide in South America.”
“You can’t just give them information that could cause the deaths of thousands and then just run away.”
“I have no choice! They’re going to kill me if I don’t help them. I have a contract on my head!”
“I don’t know what to believe anymore.”
“Well, you can believe this: The assassin that came to your office for me, wasn’t going to shoot me there. He was going to take me to Omar.”
“What does Farok want with you?”
“He likes to watch his bodyguards rape and torture women. They cut a woman to pieces before she dies. They killed my best friend like that last year. And I’ve heard of others. It’s horrible the way they’re killed, and I know Omar plans to do that to me. I’m so scared of dying that way. That’s why I’ve done everything he’s told me to do. I’ve tried to escape several times, but you cannot escape from Omar.”
The Missile Game (The Dr. Scott James Thriller Series Book 1) Page 12
