by Jim Heskett
He had nothing left.
He knew Layne was inbound. Had to be. Corn hadn’t reported in, so he had to be dead at Layne’s hand. That meant Layne Parrish knew about this alternate house.
Ronald set down the pistol. He opened the top drawer of his desk and took out a small device, about the size of his palm, shaped like a phone. He thumbed the button on the side until the small screen came to life. Sad that it had come to this. Sad but necessary.
He tapped the button to arm the device. It beeped. Ready.
At least, he could go out in a blaze of glory.
34
On the way over to the alternate house, Layne contemplated the initials RG carved into the bedpost. Harry must have done it. There was no other reasonable explanation. But why? Layne kept thinking the answer was there, wandering somewhere beyond the edge of his memory.
The aftereffects of the dart’s sedative made thinking a challenge. Images floated up the surface and then drifted away, fleeting and made out of mist.
“We’re close,” Serena said. She pulled the car over to the side of the road. Layne didn’t know the street name, but they were somewhere near the little town of Jerome. The road had turned from trees and dirt to broken rocks and dormant construction equipment littering the sides of the road. The sort of remote place only seen by construction crews and people speeding by on the highways.
“I see it,” he said, spying the roof of a house beyond a hill to the east.
“You straight?” she asked.
“A little fuzzy,” he said as he checked his pistol, “but I’ll be fine. It’s getting better every minute.”
“We can wait.”
“I don’t think we should.”
Neither of them moved at first. Layne watched the house, letting his eyes adjust to the brightness of the area. It was smaller than the mansion, by far. This structure was two stories, with maybe four bedrooms. At this angle, he could see both the front and the back. Brick and stone, quiet and lacking external surveillance. Unlike the mansion which had been a fortress designed for a siege, this place was meant to look like any other house in this rocky area of the county. Its unassuming nature was its biggest asset.
But, it didn’t matter. Layne had found the hideout. Now it was time to end all this and bring Harry home to his family. Layne thought of Harry’s wife and son, and he wondered what they were thinking right now. They didn’t know the full extent of Harry’s situation, as far as Layne could tell.
He wondered what his own ex-wife and daughter would think in this same circumstance. When he ate a bullet and didn’t recover. Cam was still too young to appreciate something like this. Inessa would scoff and somehow feel vindicated because she had always predicted Layne would die in the line of duty. She could be cold like that. But, someday, Cameron would be old enough to understand that Layne had finally stopped eluding fate. She would know her dad died in the service of something greater. Eventually, she would think that. But, possibly only after years of anger and abandonment and distrust of others.
Layne asked himself if it was all worth it, and he couldn’t honestly answer the question.
“Layne,” Serena said, barking the word.
He jerked and turned in his seat to face her. “What?”
“Are you with me? You were staring like a wax figure.”
“Yes, I’m with you. Let’s do this.”
They both exited the car, and a wave of lightheadedness passed through him. He steadied himself with one hand on the passenger side door.
Serena frowned. “You sure you can walk? If we bust in there and you take a bullet, it doesn’t do any of us any good. It doesn’t do Harry any good.”
He breathed through it, and in a moment, the wave passed. “I’m good to go. Trust me.”
“Okay, but if you get turned around, you better not accidentally confuse me for a hostile.”
And then, like a smack upside the head, it hit him. Turned around. RG. The meaning of the initials carved into the bed.
“Not RG. GR.”
“What?”
“Garret Robinson. That’s who Ronald really is. Harry didn’t want to risk carving the real initials in the bedpost, in case Ronald saw it. Like the voicemail message, he had to write it in code and hope we could figure it out.”
Serena tilted her head a little. “Should I know who Garret Robinson is?”
“I don’t think so. Garret was Avery Weeks’ stepbrother. Or, half-brother. I’m not sure. That’s what this is all about. It’s about Daphne’s old boss and the optics of the car crash. I’ll bet there isn’t even a buyer.”
“I don’t track,” she said.
“Avery took the NSA report after the Texas op, and then two years later, he died in a car crash. You said yourself it was all legitimate, right? But, there were enough loose threads and redacted bits that it could certainly lead to a conspiracy theory.”
“I could see that.”
“I met Garret once at a party in DC, not long after we turned in the report. He’s had some work done since then. His nose, maybe his chin. When I met him a few days ago, I assumed it was vanity surgery. I didn’t recognize him, and he’s adopted this new accent, like someone from an old movie. But now that I see it, it’s him. Definitely him.”
“So this Garret person thinks the report still exists, and he wants it as… what? Some sort of justice? Trying to prove the government killed his step-brother?”
Layne nodded. “Probably. Something like that.”
“How does this help us? What does this mean for Harry?”
“I don’t know. I’m going to call Daphne and let her know what’s going on.” Layne paused as he eyed the house. He could see one person on the roof from here, a sniper rifle clutched in the man’s hand. “And then, we get Harry back.”
35
Outside his room, Harry listened to a flurry of activity. Many voices, feet shuffling along the hallways. He didn’t know what was happening out there, but it wasn’t a small deal. While the individual words were lost through the thickness of the front door, he could feel the panic. The constant motion, moving, changing, getting ready for some kind of monumental shift.
Something big was coming.
He wanted to tell himself that the feds were about to break down the door and rescue him, but he couldn’t do that. No guarantees. Just as likely, a rival gang or some other group was preparing to assault this house. And, in that case, no one would care much about where their stray bullets landed. No one would ensure the worthless prisoner would live to see another day.
Harry thought about his wife and son. They’d taken his watch and phone and this room had no clock, so he didn’t know what time it was. He had only known before by the routine of Ashleigh bringing him his meals, but Harry hadn’t seen her in a while. He hadn’t seen Cornelius all day, either.
Harry knew today was Friday, maybe sometime in the afternoon. His son would probably still be at school, his wife at work. Hopefully, they weren’t sitting by the phone, waiting for news about him. He’d been missing for five days now. They would have to know he’d been taken. He hadn’t checked in like he’d said he would.
How much would Daphne tell them? Harry didn’t trust his boss to handle the situation with great tact. Maybe she’d told them a lie, that he was unable to check in for some reason. And maybe that would be better. Maybe better to find out after he died rather than spend the whole week worrying.
He turned his head left and right to crack his neck, and then he noticed something interesting along the wall. A line. He stood and grabbed the hanging bulb, then pointed it in that direction. A line in the exposed drywall, running from the floor to the short ceiling.
Harry knelt next to the drywall and dug a fingernail into the line. It flaked off, a chunk the size of his thumb plinking to the floor. He dug again. This time, a fist-sized chunk came loose. A mist of powder floated into the air, activating his allergies and making him gag.
He could see inside it. A dark space.
He now went at it with both hands, his heart thumping. Ignoring the pain. For the first time today, a glint of hope. No telling what he would find in the wall, but he was actually making progress.
He ripped out enough of the drywall to reveal the frame. A deep hole behind the drywall. And there, sitting in the cavity between the drywall and the wall, was a loose 2x4. About two feet long. He had to strip out another six inches of the crumbly material to get at the board, but then he hefted it.
Harry stood tall, despite the lingering pains across his body. He swung the board and the whiffing sound it made as it moved pleased him. It also made his left hand ache since he was still feeling the effects of Garret/Ronald’s brutal punishment with the marble-topped umbrella. The pain made him swoon.
Harry had to pause for a few seconds to let the throbbing in his hand subside.
He turned and faced the door. Raising the board, he limped across the small room. This was it. His chance.
He bared his teeth. Grunting, he brought the board down on the doorknob. Pain vibrated up through his forearms and into his shoulders, but Harry ignored it. He brought the board down again, and again, and after five whacks, the doorknob cried and then broke.
“Holy shit,” he said, panting. “It worked.”
Harry knelt and then stuck a hand into the hole. With trembling fingers, he poked around until he found the lock mechanism. He turned it, and the door unlocked. The pain in his hand brought tears to his eyes, and he had to suck in deep breaths for a few seconds to calm down.
Despite that, he let out a chuckle. The door was unlocked. He could escape.
But, he knew his troubles were only starting. He had to find a way out, and there was an unknown number of hostiles between him and where he needed to go. Plus Garret AKA Ronald and his umbrella or whatever other implements of pain he carried with him.
Layne and Serena were so much better at this action stuff than he was. He wished they were here. But, they might not come. Harry might have to do this himself.
If he walked out of here and saw Ronald, would he be able to swing the 2x4 at his kidnapper? If he had one chance to neutralize that evil man, would he be able to take it?
Harry wanted to answer with a resounding yes, but he didn’t know if he could. Just the thought of seeing the venom lurking behind that snake’s eyes made Harry shudder.
But, none of that mattered right now. Harry had a way out, and he had to take it. Either that or sit in this little room and wait for death. Whether he had to face Ronald or not, Harry had to go, now.
No more time for debate. Time to go.
He pushed open the door and hoisted the board above his head as he rose to his full height. All 5’8” of him, chest puffed, teeth gritted.
He could hear voices coming from the left and right, but nothing in this immediate hallway. He had to make a choice. His feet turned left, into a hall with other branching hallways. This house was darker, with deeply stained wood, unlike the light colors of the last place they’d kept him.
An open door appeared in front of him, and he crept up to the edge and then peeked inside. 2x4 raised, his arm tensed.
What he saw there made his jaw drop.
Ashleigh, dead on the floor. Her neck red and purple. She’d been strangled. Windpipe crushed.
But, also, only a few feet past her, a pistol sat on a desk. Harry shuddered as he stepped over the corpse on the floor and picked up the gun. He’d had handgun training, of course, but he always hated these things. He hated the feeling of pulling the trigger, the shocking intensity of the sound, the way it jumped in his hand like a wild horse whenever he pulled the trigger.
But, he set down the board and picked up the pistol, anyway. And, he even remembered to check the magazine. Full of bullets. No safety on the side.
Harry turned and walked toward the door. But, the sound of something came from down the hall, beyond what he could see. The blast of a pistol, then a woman’s yelp. It sounded like Serena.
INTERLUDE #8
Littlefield, TX | Eight years ago
Layne runs. Behind him, the tunnel has collapsed. His operational partner Juliana is not responding. Could she have survived a mountain of clay dirt collapsing on top of her? It’s not likely, but Layne’s not ready to give up hope yet.
They’re aware of him and are on his tail. An unknown number of hostiles pursuing him through this dark maze of underground tunnels. So far, Layne has avoided them in the labyrinth, but, due to the explosion, anyone who is able will be on their feet, looking for trouble. He can hear voices, at least a dozen of them. A swirling mass of chaos and activity.
Whatever else happens, Layne has to recover the NSA report. It’s the only thing left of any importance.
Layne pounds the dirt under his feet, and his current tunnel ascends. It’s a slow incline at first. A door opens to his right, and someone leaps out into the dark hallway. Layne raises his shotgun. He hesitates before pulling the trigger because he realizes it’s the same Latino man he’s been tracking for the last couple days.
But, the man has a Heckler & Koch UMP45 in his hands. Finger moving toward the trigger.
Layne blasts the shotgun, sending the man back into the room. Layne passes to check the room, and there’s nothing else in there. It’s a storage room of some kind. Shelves and stacks of boxes. Not worth the time it would take to explore them. This report will not be sitting in a random crate.
No time. No, Layne can’t stop until he finds Vixen and the report. She’s here with it, somewhere.
He continues up the tunnel. Hamstrings pulled tight as he moves higher and higher. The ascent steepens, and Layne can see a trapdoor in the ceiling, just like the one he and Jules descended to enter this underground meth lab complex.
Layne stops right before it, chest heaving. He turns back around to check, and, for the moment, no one is on his tail.
After a few more seconds to catch his breath, he checks his phone. He still has service, but the call he was on with Jules has disconnected. He dials her number again, and it rings. And rings. Eventually, it goes to voicemail.
“Damn it,” he says. He can’t say for sure, but given the violence of the collapse, he suspects Jules is buried back there. No way he can dig her out. That’s why he needs to finish this and call in support. If she’s still alive, she has to be running out of air. Maybe only a few minutes left.
And, part of him knows that’s false hope. No way she could have survived it. No way.
Layne looks at the trapdoor. This is the way out. But, does Layne want to leave? Down here is a flurry of activity and an unstable tunnel, but the report could still be down here, somewhere in this maze.
He makes a decision. Check what’s on the other side of this trapdoor, then call for help, then come back down into the tunnel, if possible.
Layne pushes up the trapdoor with his shotgun. Just a couple inches, but enough to see. Light floods his eyes, and he has to blink a few times. Based on the distance he ran underneath the tunnels, he thinks he’s at the house, but he can’t be sure. The tunnel collapse put him into frantic mode.
When he can see, he focuses. It’s the house. Kitchen. He spots an oven and a refrigerator. A table and chairs on linoleum flooring.
He’s crouched at the top of this tunnel, and the trapdoor is right above his head. He can open it and burst forth in one movement, so he readies himself.
Layne gives the trapdoor a hard thrust and then leaps up and forward, into the kitchen.
Table, chairs, kitchen open on two sides of the room. Opposite him, standing in front of the fridge is a stocky white man. A carton of milk in one hand. A look of terrified confusion on his face. Maybe up here, they didn’t even feel the rumble or hear the explosion.
The man lifts a pistol in one hand as he lowers the milk in the other. Layne moves first. He blasts a hole in the guy’s chest. The man stumbles back, knocking magnets off the fridge. Milk carton slipping from his hand, sending a white splash onto the floor.
The rumble of the shotgun in this small room makes Layne’s ears pulse, and a couple of framed pictures on the walls shake. A calendar with several dates circled comes free of a thumbtack and sinks to the floor.
Layne sees a burn of motion out of the corner of his eye. He turns to follow a woman with curly hair running across the living room. Her feet are pumping, her face obscured, arms flying as she flees around a corner and out of sight. Layne runs after her. For a second, she seems familiar, even though Layne only caught a fleeting glimpse of the side of her face.
Out of the kitchen, he scrambles under an arch, along a dark hallway. He turns after her, into a bright room.
Layne takes two steps into the living room and sees a tall African-American man. Not Vixen. Not the curly-haired woman from a second ago. Where could she have gone so fast? How did this man get here? Layne only now realizes there’s music playing from somewhere. A back bedroom, maybe. Twangy country music, slide guitars and a fiddle. It’s loud enough he can’t tell where other noises are coming from.
He wonders if he actually saw Vixen a moment ago, or simply confused the blur of flesh and clothes with this person standing in front of him. The man has something clutched in his hand. He’s pivoted away from Layne, his head pointed to what appears to be the front door of the house, at the far side of the living room.
“Freeze,” Layne says, tracking the guy with his shotgun. The music still plays on, with a male voice wailing something about purple sunsets and barbed wire fences. “Don’t move.”
After another step, the man does stop. Panting, frozen in place. Facing away from Layne.
“Drop the report. Open your hand and let it fall to the ground.”
The man shakes his head. “I can’t do that. I can’t let you have this.”
“Who are you? Where is Vixen?”
The man shrugs. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. My name is Tommy, not Vixen. Nobody here goes by that name.”
