I Dare You: A gripping thriller that will keep you guessing (A Kate Blakemore Crime Thriller Book 1)

by Murray Bailey

  Lights appeared through the trees, sooner than she’d expected them, further down the track. Michelle’s back brain wondered whether the headlights must have been off—wondered if something was wrong. Then the vehicle was at the bend and heading towards the cabin, it’s lights washing through the heavy falling snow. He’s going too fast! It didn’t turn away. The vehicle came straight for the front door. Michelle’s front brain got the message. Christ’s sake, he’s going to ram the cabin! She prepared herself to leap out of the way but the Jeep slewed right, continuing the momentum of the bend and careened into the Arab’s saloon. No dramatic explosion, just the crunch of metal giving way to metal and scraping as the Jeep dragged along the other car before shuddering to a halt.

  Michelle aimed the gun, waiting for Joe to appear.

  For a moment she could only hear her own breathing. And then a noise behind her made her spin, instinctively raising her gun. The Jeep had been a distraction. Before she completed the move, a sharp blow to her arm made her drop the gun. A man gripped her around the throat tightly, leaving no doubt that he could and would do damage.

  With his other hand he reached past her and hit the light switch. He was dressed all in white, except for the hole in a balaclava around his eyes.

  “Joe?” Her voice soft, her throat constricted under the pressure of his fingers.

  He nodded. “Where’s Kate?”

  “She’s safe.”

  “Where?”

  “Close.” Ramirez must have moved her eyes a fraction, because he guessed Kate was in the bedroom to the right.

  Pain exploded in her head and her last sense was of the floor rushing up to meet her.

  Joe picked up the fallen gun and pulled off the balaclava. He checked the agent—unconscious but otherwise fine—and quickly moved to the bedroom door. He stood to one side as he opened it, unsure what he’d find. Kate grunted through the gag and jerked on the bed, sliding it from the wall. He rushed to her, removed the gag and then cut the ties.

  She threw her arms around his neck and held him tight. “Oh my God, Joe!”

  “It’s all right,” he said, reassuring in his tone. “Everything is going to be OK.”

  She gripped him hard for a moment, her tears of joy and relief wetting his neck.

  “I’ve got you. You’re safe now and I’m never letting go of you again.”

  She looked at him then and kissed him long and hard on the mouth. Then she held his face, staring deep into his eyes. “Oh, Joe, Joe. Life’s been hell since you went. I never believed them. I couldn’t believe it.”

  He kissed her tenderly.

  She pulled away to look him in the eyes. “The news report about the attack in Iraq. Was that you? Are you really Joe?”

  He kissed her again. “No, it was my brother. We’ll talk—I’ll explain later, baby. For now there are things I need to do.”

  “It’s not over?”

  “Not by a long way, I’m afraid.”

  SEVENTY

  Joe slapped Ramirez’s face until she stirred.

  Her eyes sprang open, full of alarm and determination. Joe sat opposite her, a gun by his side. Kate sat on a stool near the door. He’d asked her to sit in the Jeep, check it would still start, but she had refused. Stockholm syndrome, Joe realized. Kate felt concern for the woman who had held her hostage. Or maybe there was more to it.

  “The man out back—is that the Arab?”

  “Yes,” Ramirez said. Her eyes flicked between Joe and the gun, assessing her chances.

  “I’m not going to shoot you unless I have to,” Joe said. “You do what’s right and you’ll walk out of here.” He could see her mind processing this, doubting his honesty and judging him by her own duplicity.

  Joe said, “Did you kill the Arab?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why? Weren’t you working together?”

  “That was the idea but he was a liability. He had his own agenda.” She looked at Kate and Joe guessed the connection. “He attacked Kate, didn’t he?”

  Kate said quietly, “She saved me, Joe.”

  “Then one point to you,” he said to Ramirez. “Let’s see if you can earn another one.” He paused and saw anticipation on her face. How much did she know? He said, “Your boss wants to know what I know, right? Your job was to find that out and kill me…”

  “Not kill you,” she said, and he believed she’d somehow convinced herself that there could have been an alternative outcome. Maybe she was just a mere cog, a grunt. Maybe by killing the Arab she’d changed the game.

  He said, “Well I have more than information. I have something that your boss will want. My deal is that he can have it but I want to be paid—I want compensation for what I’ve been through.”

  Ramirez didn’t flinch. It was as though she already assumed it was all about money. She said, “I’ll let him know.”

  Joe said, “Here’s your deal: you put me through to discuss terms with your boss, you don’t cause any problems and then—when it’s all done—I let you go. Simple as that.”

  The agent looked at Kate. “Tell Kate you’ll let me go afterwards.”

  “Kate, I guarantee it.”

  Ramirez did the slight head waggle and reached for her phone. It wasn’t in her pocket. She looked at Joe and saw it in his hand. He tossed it over and she dialled. “Just so you know,” she said, “he’s already on his way.”

  “From?”

  “Washington.” She connected the call.

  “Mirrorman is here,” she said.

  Joe couldn’t hear the voice on the other end.

  She said, “He wants to deal.”

  She listened and then stood slowly and walked to Joe. He met her halfway, took the phone and pointed to the seat. She retraced her steps and sat, her eyes fixed on Joe.

  “I have something that you want,” Joe said into the phone.

  “Mirrorman?”

  Joe thought the voice sounded Southern but it was distorted. There was also a background hum that suggested the man was in a plane.

  “Yes. It’s me.” Then Joe used the code name he’d been told belonged to the traitor: “And you’re Mustang?”

  “I’ve used that name.” The distorted voice came back. “And you—you’ve been very quiet for a long time.”

  “The line is bad. We can talk detail when you get here. I trust you can arrange a money transfer at any time because I want a million dollars in my bank account by the time we meet.”

  “All right.” Easily answered, no negotiation.

  “Then, when I give you what you want, then you can transfer another million.”

  “How do I know that will be the end of it?”

  “That’s detail. You will know when I show you. We’ll meet at my cabin in the hills—it’s remote.” He provided the coordinates.

  “Can I land a helicopter there? If so, I can be with you in about four hours.”

  “I’ll mark a landing spot. I’ll be close by.” He listened to the man’s breathing for a moment, wondering what he looked like, trying to picture the face. Then he said, “No guns. If at any time I think I’m in danger, then the deal is off.”

  “Sure.” Again the easy, possibly too quick, answer.

  Joe ended the call. He said, “Now, Special Agent Ramirez, we’re going for a drive.”

  The snowfall had become a mere sprinkle and the drop in temperature had formed a light crust over six-inch-deep snow. Serious dents to the rear and side of the Arab’s car made it look undriveable. The Jeep on the other hand, though badly scarred, started first time and drove without a problem.

  Joe sat at the wheel with Kate and Ramirez in the rear. Ramirez’s wrists were bound to the door handle with her own nylon ties. She provided no resistance, accepting her fate. He assumed it was because Kate wouldn’t let him do anything bad to her.

  He didn’t trust Ramirez. He’d checked her credentials and she was genuine FBI—a trained agent. Her mind would be processing options and outcomes. For sure.

/>   They drove in silence up Bear Creek Hill, switching back and forth up the steep sections. Ramirez was the first to speak. “Where are you taking me?”

  “I’m taking you both somewhere safe,” Joe said after a long pause. “We’ll be in Wyoming soon. We’re going to West Yellowstone. There’s a quiet inn up here. You’ll be fine until I return.”

  “How long?”

  “When it’s over and I come back.”

  “And what if you don’t come back?” Ramirez asked.

  Joe thought for a long time, concentrating on the icy road. Then he glanced at Kate in the mirror, directing his words at her. “It’ll be over by morning. But just in case there’s a problem, give me until 9am. I’ll give you a phone number. If I’m not back ring the number—but only after nine.”

  Joe parked at the back of a place called Togwatee Lodge, by a small log cabin. When he opened the front door he handed Kate the key and a gun.

  She looked shocked.

  “I’m sure you won’t need it,” he said, “but I’ll be happier knowing you can defend yourself.”

  While he lit a log fire, Ramirez leaned against a wall, watching. “So what’s going to happen to me?”

  “Let’s see how this plays out shall we?” he said.

  He was soon ready to leave and hugged Kate for a long time. “It will be all right. Unless I hear something that changes my mind, we’ll let Agent Ramirez go when it’s over.” He took her hand. “See me to the Jeep.”

  They walked out and he held her face and kissed her. “I love you, Kate Blakemore.”

  “I love you, Joe…”

  For a second, he looked uncharacteristically awkward. “Ah yes… there’s something I need to explain, but not now.” He slipped a piece of paper into her pocket. “That’s the phone number just in case.” He started to get in the Jeep but stopped before he closed the door. “About Ramirez… Just be careful. I can see you like her but remember she tricked you before and she might do it again. The reason you’ve got the gun is in case she tries anything. If she does… don’t be afraid. Don’t hesitate to use it.”

  SEVENTY-ONE

  Joe stood in the open. He had made a giant “H” out of covers and blankets, black against the snow that was a couple of inches deep. He also stuck some oil-burning torches in the ground near to where he stood. The clearing was about half the size of a football pitch. Pine trees were all around, except for one side which dropped away to a small lake. The “H” was closer to the water than the trees.

  Joe was still wearing the white ski gear but he’d been outside for over an hour and a half and was starting to feel the cold. Four and a half hours had passed since the phone conversation. Mustang was late. He took Ramirez’s phone from a pocket and connected with the last call. When answered, thunderous noise in the background made it difficult to hear.

  Joe said, “Mustang?”

  “What?” Noise. “Say again.”

  “Where are you?” Joe shouted.

  “On our way. Got a little delayed. Flew into the strip at Red Lodge and picked up the chopper. How’s my landing?”

  “It’s marked. Look for the four torches.” Joe listened to the helicopter noise for a moment then said, “How many are you?”

  “Three. Pilot, me and my assistant.”

  “Why have you brought an assistant?”

  “Say again.”

  Joe repeated the question.

  “He’ll operate the computer—check your information and do the transfer. Don’t expect me to do the technical stuff.”

  It sounded reasonable.

  The man continued. “I’ll want assurance that you aren’t armed.”

  “Not a problem,” Joe said. Then: “How long will you be?”

  “Soon.”

  Joe reckoned it would take under forty-five minutes to fly from Red Lodge to the site in the mountains. A hour passed before his phone rang.

  “Mirrorman?”

  Joe could barely hear the voice above the sound of rotor blades. “Yes.”

  “We’re now on our way. You ready?”

  “I’m here. Your landing is marked.”

  Mustang said something else but it was lost in the noise and the call ended.

  There was no question, Mustang hadn’t come direct. The delay was deliberate. Keep the other man waiting in the cold—a classic ploy. With the wind chill, the temperature was about five below. Low temperatures reduce brain function, blood flow, dexterity and muscle strength. But as a soldier, Joe was trained to deal with extreme environments, to wait for hours, barely moving. The trick was to ensure the core body temperature didn’t drop, by keeping covered up, staying dry and moving. If necessary, using only small shifts in weight or flexing muscles. High temperatures were much more of a problem due to dehydration. He’d been outside for over two hours, preparing and waiting. Ice formed a thin crust in patches on his clothes. He wasn’t too cold. His brain was working just fine. He’d been in worse than this, sometimes lying still for many hours. But then Mustang could be delaying for a different reason. Joe glanced at the black line of trees. Perhaps Mustang was allowing time for someone else to get there ahead of him—a sniper maybe, to take up position.

  Joe spotted a searchlight in the distance, coming in low over the trees. The sound of the blades, first a whispering thump, gradually increased to a loud pulse, bouncing off the surrounding hills. The searchlight swept out across the lake and then back, fixing first on the torches and Joe, and then picking up the landing site.

  The pilot took the helicopter wide, slightly over the lake before coming straight towards Joe. It hovered over the “H” for a second and Joe thought he could see a man leaning forward to talk to the pilot. Then the helicopter put down, the blades immediately slowing.

  The door opened and a man stepped out. He crouched and fast-walked through the snow towards the torches.

  “Hold your arms out,” he shouted as he approached.

  Joe took two paces forward and held his arms out, open and vulnerable. The man’s face became clear, lit by the torches. Maybe early thirties, wearing an open coat over a suit, lean, round glasses, hard unfriendly features. This was not the man he expected. This was not Mustang. The assistant then. From the way he walked, Joe guessed the man was ex-military.

  He man lifted a wand from his side, a small device in his other hand. “Need to check you first,” he said, now close enough for Joe to see a ragged scar under the man’s chin.

  “Which force were you in?” Joe asked.

  The assistant ignored him. He waved the wand over Joe’s breast pocket twice. “Phone?”

  Joe nodded.

  The assistant held out his hand and took it then swept the wand over Joe’s body again. “You’re clean,” he said.

  “Ex-marine, maybe?”

  Their eyes met and the assistant gave the hint of a headshake. His breath came out like a snort. “Wait here,” he said. He stepped backwards, turned and ran to the helicopter. Joe also took two paces back to his previous spot, the torches between him and where he wanted Mustang, a clear demarcation line in the snow.

  Another man appeared from the opposite side of the helicopter. He was wrapped up like a polar explorer with just an oval of his face exposed and too far away to recognize. While the second man waited, the assistant reached inside and got something, clipboard-like, from the seat. Then they walked towards Joe, the second man’s face resolving as they approached the light.

  “Mustang.”

  There was maybe a hesitation in his step before the man stopped four paces in front of Joe. He was large, six three or four, heavy build, but not yet gone to seed. The torchlight played tricks with his features, but Joe knew who it was. Spencer Kirkpatrick. A new senator rumoured to be on the fast track to high office. Also sat on the NSC—so that would be the connection to the mission in Saudi.

  Kirkpatrick said, “Hello, Mirrorman.”

  Joe said, “You’ve done well, sir.”

  “And you survived. How’s it b
een?”

  Joe studied the man’s easy smile and confidence and then said, “Let’s cut the preamble, sir. Has the money been transferred into my Swiss account?”

  “Simmons?”

  The assistant stepped from behind Kirkpatrick and flipped round his clipboard. Only it wasn’t a clipboard, it was an iPad. It showed details of the transfer of a million dollars to his account.

  Joe nodded. He’d already had an automatic confirmation from the bank.

  Kirkpatrick said, “Of course, you know the money cannot be traced back to me.”

  “Proceeds of crime?”

  The senator didn’t respond. Instead, he said, “What I don’t understand is why you didn’t just go public with who I was. But take it as a goodwill gesture that I have paid you the million before you tell me anything. I’ve come a long way tonight, I sincerely hope for both our sakes that it was worth it. I will also need to be convinced—one hundred per cent—that this is a one-time deal. If I’m paying for it now, it had better be something that once imparted cannot be reused. I won’t tolerate blackmail.”

  “Nor would I expect you to. The information is on a secure server that can only be accessed by a passcode.” The Agency had created the site and Woodall provided Joe with the code. Woodall hadn’t known his whereabouts for the past year and was bound to be pissed, but the site was still there and the code still worked.

  Joe continued: “Once in, the user cannot download or copy the information. This means that once you have access, you can change the passcode and prevent access by anyone else. I know what it proves but I will never be able to use the information.”

  “And,” Kirkpatrick said, masking his eagerness to protect himself from whatever information was out there, “what does this information allegedly show?”

  “It shows that you knew about the activities of bin Shahd’s son. You must have known he was actively involved with al-Qaeda. You did nothing about it because you were—maybe you still are—in bed with bin Shahd. There are also documents relating to payments made to you by bin Shahd. It seems you were involved in fixing deals for him, with the US and in Iraq. You misused US personnel and information for personal gain.”