The Gift of the Dragon

by Michael Murray

  When he had copied the file from the Android tablet to the powerful computer workstation where the decryption software ran, Marko had opined that a copy prevention component of the encryption had randomized the data.

  “No one encrypts gibberish, Callan. The file will have to be read on the original tablet.”

  They could not find any decryption software that ran on Android that could touch the file at all. However, on the side of the tablet they noticed a unique slot.

  “That’s not a standard port,” Marko had said. “My bet is there’s an electronic key that fits that port, and that opens the file. You'll have to find that key.”

  Callan had never told Marko about the dragon necklace. It must be the key, or why would McAlister want it? Why would Sara give her life to keep it from me?

  Callan wondered what Moore would keep in a file like this. Whatever Moore had put on here, McAllister wanted it, and it seemed he wanted it badly.

  Franklin McAllister didn't lightly hire an assassin to kill his enemies. He had his own security group at Apple Creek, a subsidiary called Guardian Security, run by Laird Northwin. Franklin commanded many ways to have a person killed. The tablet contained something that McAllister needed to keep quiet. A file like that could give Callan a great deal of power. But where was the key? It must be with Alice Sangerman!

  She had escaped because he had shot her without thinking, his training taking over. The training, which had saved him many times, this one time had proven to be a curse.

  Callan stared out over the warehouse’s lot, where the large, square freeze dryers hummed along in their rows. Something unusual penetrated his internal debate. The yard looked darker than it should. The powerful halogens rarely wore out, but now it appeared several of them had failed in one night.

  “Marko—what’s happened to the lights?”

  Marko looked up from his chat session with a new mule. “No clue, man, what do you see?”

  Callan pointed. “Look over there. All the lights just went out. Is anything planned? Maintenance?”

  Marko shrugged and stood up to look. His head jerked backward with a spray of blood as the window burst inward.

  Callan shoved the tablet into his jacket pocket and threw himself on the floor as more bullets slammed into Marko's falling body. No gunshot sounds. That meant a team with silencers. Professionals. He heard his men begin to fire back at the flashes coming from below and up on the hill.

  Callan could hear his men yelling commands in English and others yelling in Spanish. He could also hear the screams of the dead and dying. He could tell from the sound level from the outside that his men were not doing well. Fewer guns were shooting back from inside with each second.

  Time to leave.

  On the floor, Marko tried to say something, or at least his lips were moving, with bloody bubbles coming out. Whatever he might have been saying, his voice was too weak for Callan to hear above the crashing glass and the tat tat tat sound of bullets hitting the walls.

  Callan stripped off his jacket, leaving his wallet with his photo ID in it while he put the tablet in the large front pocket of his work pants. He put the jacket on Marko. “Hey, buddy, this will keep you warmer until help comes.” Then he stepped back, took his pistol, and emptied the clip into Marko's head. The hollow point bullets didn't leave much above the neck. Marko had kept himself in very good shape. With any luck, the attackers would think they found Callan’s body—for a while.

  He replaced his clip and fired through the window to his left, over the lake, where the next day’s empty boxes were piled below. Callan jumped through the broken glass and into the five-foot-high tarp-covered stack of cardboard. He rolled as he hit. Beyond the pile were the docks. He could see the muzzle flashes behind him, and now noticed much more gunfire from around the warehouse than from inside it.

  My team lost.

  At the docks floated several of the open outboard boats the harvesters used. There lay also a faster Boston Whaler speedboat used to check his leased acres on the lake, to make sure none of the competition took algae that didn't belong to them. A key to this boat lived on Callan’s key chain. Several lights shone on the docks. Callan took careful aim and took out the three lights with four bullets.

  He glanced back at the warehouse. He saw flashlights in the third floor windows. People looking for him. Callan ran out on the dock to the Whaler, putting his gun away and pulling out his combat knife. He slashed down at the lines between the dock and the stern of the boat as he dashed by.

  Just then a force slammed him sideways as a shape leapt from the shadows of one of the harvest boats. A hand reached out from a black-clad body and slapped Callan’s knife away. Callan reached for the gun in his belt with one hand and turned his fall into a forward roll. He saw his attacker rolling smoothly with him. Damn ninja, Callan thought.

  Callan spun his feet under him, but the ninja moved fast and came up beside him, grabbing Callan’s hair and pulling his head back with one hand. The ninja’s other hand struck at Callan’s face with a steel tonfa club.

  They must want me alive. He drove a knee upward into his attacker’s sternum. The ninja blocked it, but it threw off his aim, and the metal club sparked off the cement dock surface instead of Callan's head. That gave Callan time to pull his gun. He emptied the remaining three rounds of his clip into the ninja's belly. He heard the bullets hit body armor, but the force pushed the attacker back and off him, the tonfa clattering to the dock.

  “Now, I’ve got you!” Callan said, reversing his gun and bringing the butt down on the stunned ninja's head.

  He heard voices yelling from the window he had left through a few minutes before and saw beams from powerful flashlights stabbing outward. Callan tossed the stunned man into the Whaler and started the one hundred–horsepower Mercury motor. He realized—as he shoved the throttle over and the engine to the right—that the bowline still tied the boat to the dock. It twanged and held for a moment as automatic rifle shots walked his way, sending splinters flying. The powerful Mercury and the well-built Whaler were too much for the old line, and it snapped. The boat leapt onto a plane, and Callan roared into the night, spouts shooting up all around him as his attackers fired at the sound of his boat. After he ran out about one thousand yards, he slowed down and spun the boat back around to face the warehouse. In the remaining dock lights, he could see shapes swarming over the harvester boats, trying to get them started. It wouldn't be hard. But it would be too late.

  Callan pulled out his cell phone and recalled his training as a Guardian many years ago. “Always have a backup plan,” old Northwin had said over and over until the words were etched like ancient paintings in the canyons of Callan's mind.

  He keyed in the number sequence. At first, only a small glow showed as the remote detonators on the big gas tanks that powered the dehydrators went off. He heard men begin to scream then. Callan covered his eyes. The warehouse flattened sideways and blew apart like so much kindling, into burning strands and small, flying specks that might be furniture or computers or limbs.

  As the flames reached skyward and debris fell back, the sound it made was more a sudden roar than a boom. Some small pieces fell in the water near the Whaler. Callan put the engine back in gear and began a slow troll back toward the docks. He saw a few shapes stumbling at the edges of the fire. A few had gotten away, then. They could take the story back to whoever sent them.

  A moan behind him reminded Callan of his prisoner. Callan bent down and tied the man up securely.

  About an hour later, Callan stopped the boat on the other side of the dark lake and turned to his bound prize. Callan flipped him over, face up. Pretending to be unconscious. Callan smiled. In the movies, people were often knocked out for several minutes, even longer. In real life, a KO only lasts a few seconds unless there is serious brain damage. Callan thought the ninja had probably awoken while he was tying him up but then had decided to play dead and wait for an opportunity.

  He went to the side of
the boat and grabbed a small bucket kept there for washing down the deck. He filled it from the lake. Then he pulled off the man's mask and sucked in a breath.

  Definitely not Japanese. “My friend, you’re no Yakuza.”

  Callan thought for a bit as the waves lapped softly against the boat. He glanced back at the burning warehouse. He could see flashing lights there now. Callan doubted the local police would think about the lake anytime soon because they had as many bodies to deal with at that crime scene as there had been during the Klamath Indian wars. Maybe more than that.

  He looked down at the broad Latino face below him in the dim, flickering light from the fire. The man had fought well, showing evidence of military training, Mexican Special Forces, most likely. Some of them took the training and joined the cartels. As California's increasingly liberal drug laws cut down on their markets, the cartels were moving into other businesses. Maybe they had decided to move in on Callan's reshipping action. That would be a dramatic move this far north, for them. More likely he is a hired gun, working for McAlister.

  Callan dumped the water on the man's face. “Opportunity knocks!”

  The man’s eyes opened to slits.

  “You and I are professionals, compadre. We work for hire. You know how this scene goes. You’ll tell me who you’re working for. This process can hurt a little or hurt you a great deal. I’ve a bargain for you. I’ve got some money you can have. Enough to get you home. You tell me what you know, it makes sense, and you can go. You resist, I can take pieces off you, a couple at a time, until I get what I need. Maybe you’ll hold out for a while. When I cut the last easy part off you, I’ll use drugs to take what is left.”

  Callan pulled out his knife and picked at the dirt under his nails. “We have two roads forward from here, compadre. You choose. Which one is it going to be?”

  The Mexican pursed his lips and spat feebly at Callan.

  “Shit. You want this to be hard. Really?”

  “You’ll kill me either way, boludo!”

  Good. Got you talking. Boludo, a slang word common in Buenos Aires.

  “What’s a well-trained Argentine mercenary doing on my dock in Klamath Falls?”

  “You’ll get nothing from me, freak.”

  Callan sighed. “Expensive, then. How about five grand? Cash?”

  “You’d never give me a dollar!”

  “Heck, you’re right. We've got a garron here, understand?”

  The man spat. “You talk like you’re from Peru.”

  Callan sighed. “Look, the information you have is important to me. I don’t want to spend the next few days extracting it from you. There’s a bridge up ahead. I’ve the money here.” Callan tapped his belt. “I’ll show you. I'll leave you in the boat and go up on the bridge. I'll drop five hundred bucks for each question you answer. Now, you could just take the boat, but you won't get far with no money.”

  “You'll shoot me.”

  “Okay, here.” He took his gun out of his waistband. The Argentine's eyes opened wide. Callan tossed the gun in the lake. Small loss. I don’t have any more bullets.

  “Look, there’s a chance I'm screwing with you. But really, man, I don't care about you one way or the other. I just want to know who hired you. You messed up the job. The cartel won't welcome you back, anyway.”

  Then, the Argentine sighed.

  That is a good sign. He is coming to see himself as a sellout, accepting it.

  “Ten thousand.”

  “Well, like I said, five hundred per question. If I've got twenty questions…”

  “One thousand per question—you get ten.”

  “Mufa, you are pissing me off, man. One grand per question. That all?”

  “I'm all tied up.”

  “I’ll throw down the knife for the first question, okay?”

  “Shit, joya.”

  “Okay, the bridge is just up here—sit tight.”

  Callan pulled the boat up next to the bridge and leapt out. He pulled it slightly onto the beach and leaned over the side. He left the engine running.

  “Hey.”

  The Argentine twisted to see him.

  “Just a minute.”

  The Argentine spat.

  Callan turned and ran up the hill, using his hands on the steep bank, pocketing a fist-sized stone on the way. The sun would rise in about half an hour. The predawn glow provided just enough light to see.

  From the deserted bridge, Callan leaned over and looked down at his bound enemy.

  “First question for one thousand—who hired you?”

  “Knife first, asshole!”

  “First, who hired you?”

  “I don't know the man’s name. He was white. American. Tall. Dark haired. Scar on his cheek.”

  Not one of the McAlister boys, then, not with Ian’s legendary white-blond hair, and anyone describing Trevor would mention his legs. Black hair and scarred face—that description fit someone Callan once knew much too well. Thorn! Northwin’s right-hand man. Maybe the attack on Blue Green Planet had come from Northwin. But is he working with McAlister? Or on his own?

  “Who’d he say you were attacking?”

  “The knife, cabron!”

  “Okay, keep your pants on.” Callan tossed the knife down. It landed point-first in the wooden seat of the Whaler. The Argentine thrashed and struggled to get it. Callan worried for a minute that the man would not be able to.

  The Argentine managed to get the knife in his teeth and then drop it over his shoulder to his bound hands. He then cut the rope and then untied his feet. He stood up in the boat. Over the grumble of the idling motor, he yelled up, “He said you took something he needed.”

  Callan rolled up some bills and dropped a thousand down. The Argentine caught the roll and counted it quickly. Ten Benjamin Franklin faces. “Looks good. Next question.”

  “What’d he tell you to look for?”

  “A tablet was one thing.”

  “Jerk!” Callan said under his breath. He tossed down another thousand.

  “What was the other thing?”

  “Two other things. One, a part-Asian man. A dog-muncher. You, I think.”

  “Stop messing around. You’re pissing me off.” “Dog-muncher” sounds like something Thorn would say. The McAlisters thought everyone equally far beneath them, but they were too snotty to use racial slurs to describe their inferiors.

  “Your deal, man.”

  Callan cursed quietly again. He could go down there, fight the Argentine again, tie him back up, and try the other way. That would take longer and likely not get any better information. He found torture too often led to a point where the victim would just tell you what you wanted to hear. A great way to get a confession for a witch hunt, but not a good way to get to the actual facts of a matter. For that, Callan needed to mix fear with persuasion. And blend in a dash of hope.

  He tossed down another ten Benjamins.

  “What was the last thing?”

  “A silver necklace. Looks like a dragon. He didn't seem to think you’d have it, though.”

  Callan threw down another roll. That sounded like what Sara gave Alice Sangerman at the dam.

  “How’d Thorn contact you?”

  “That I don't know, man. I was a soldier. My commander made the deal.”

  Time to end this. Callan made as if to get some more money out of his belt. He pulled the stone out of his pocket instead. He noted that the Argentine held the knife differently now.

  Callan brought his arm up and, in one lightning move, threw the stone at the Argentine. At the same time, the Argentine hurled the knife. But Callan had practiced this sort of thing for a very long time. He knew a right-handed knife thrower usually hits on the right side of the target. Ian stepped to his own right just before the well-thrown knife flashed by his cheek.

  The Argentine focused on the knife too long, watching it. He should have ducked as soon as he released. Callan’s stone caught him between his eyes, knocking him backward.

&n
bsp; Callan followed the stone over the edge of the bridge, landing neatly in the bow of the Whaler, which dipped like a teeter-totter under his weight. He leapt upon the stunned Argentine and slammed his head into the deck of the boat. Twice. Callan put a piece of line around the Argentine’s neck and tightened it until the man's breath stopped.

  “Thanks for the info, man. Bet you were thinking you should’ve listened to your first instincts just before you died there.”

  Callan pulled the anchor out of the bow pulpit. An average human body has twenty pounds of buoyancy. The boat’s anchor weighed ten pounds. Not enough.

  He thought a minute and then went to the plastic gas tank of the Whaler. About four gallons were left. More than enough. He gathered up his money, cut the motor, and then poured the gas over the Argentine's body. He then stepped back out of the boat and pulled out his lighter. He wadded up five hundred or so dollars and went back up on the bridge. He picked up the knife and put it back in his belt. Then he lit the money on fire. One last time, he leaned over the bridge and dropped a wad of money.

  He backed away as the boat went up.

  The authorities would report a body found in a burned boat. With luck, Thorn might believe it to be Callan for a while. He would need to check it out. That would buy Callan more time.

  Callan jogged down the road. He noted a line of smoke ahead in the distance outlined in red by the rising sun. Where there is smoke, there should be something to drive. He followed the direction of the beacon it formed.

  Chapter 4, When an Owl Calls

  Alice

  “Is that the necklace Sara Moore’s father gave her?”