Stealth Attack

by John Gilstrap

  “Couple of minutes.”

  “Is Ciara okay?”

  The kid wasn’t going to let it go. “She was fine the last time I saw her. How else did they hurt you?”

  “When was that? When did you see her?”

  “A few seconds after you last saw her. Now please, Roman, I need to know. How else did the people who kidnapped you hurt you?”

  “If you saw the video, you saw most of it. There was a guy named Guzman who had this big hammer.”

  “I heard about him,” Jonathan said.

  Roman’s shoulders sagged. “I saw him beat a man to pieces with it. I saw him kill him with it. He threatened to do it to me, but he never did.”

  As with Erica back in the bar, Jonathan didn’t know how to form the question he really wanted to ask—the one about touching—but he decided it didn’t matter. That was territory for Father Dom and Venice to explore. Jonathan would have made the world’s worst psychologist.

  Up ahead, someone turned on a bright white light and pointed it at them. The glare flared Jonathan’s NVGs, rendering him momentarily blind. He snapped the NVGs out of the way as he heard the whizzing cracks of two bullets passing way too close.

  Jonathan pulled Roman down to the deck and fell on top of him as Boxers wheeled the motorboat hard to the right and poured on the power. A bullet excised a chunk from the gunwale, and five seconds later, it was done.

  “Anybody hurt?” Boxers asked.

  Jonathan said, “I’m good, I think.” He sat up and pulled Roman back upright onto his butt. “You okay, kid?”

  “No! Why did you do that?”

  The adolescent pique told Jonathan everything he needed to know. The kid was bruised, but functional. Not shot.

  Jonathan brought his NVGs back down and saw that the beach had turned into a line of woods. They weren’t getting shot at anymore because they couldn’t be seen.

  “Call the ball, Boss,” Boxers said. “Are we fighting or fleeing?”

  “You already know the answer,” Jonathan said. They had no choice but to finish this fight. They were too deep into enemy territory and too dependent upon cartel rolling stock as their exfil plan to try to make a run for it via the water. And they’d never stand a chance if they tried to hoof it out through the wilds of Sinaloa.

  “Bring us to shore,” Jonathan ordered. “Okay, Roman, listen to me.” As he spoke, he detached his NVG array from his helmet and handed the helmet to the boy. “Put this on and keep it on.” He found the head suspension bracket inside the large pocket on the back side of his vest and attached the NVGs to that. “There’s going to be more shooting, and you need to do exactly what I say, as I say it. Do you understand?”

  In the dark, Roman struggled with the helmet straps. “Here, let me,” Jonathan said. He settled the lid on the kid’s head and cinched the chin strap tight.

  “Did you hear what I told you?”

  “There’s going to be more shooting.”

  “Right. What was the rest?”

  “I need to do what you say.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Who’s going to be shooting at who?”

  The question took Jonathan off guard. Wasn’t it obvious? “Didn’t you see those people shooting at us from the shore?”

  Roman looked shocked. “They were shooting? I didn’t hear any gunshots.”

  That explained his surprise at being thrown to the bottom of the boat. “Too far away to hear the shots. But they’re definitely there. And we have to engage them.”

  “Why?”

  “Okay, those rules about not asking questions and doing what you’re told have just sort of come together.”

  “Can’t I just stay here?”

  “Absolutely not,” Jonathan said. “Everything we need is up on that beach. We need to move forward. You need to stay with us.”

  “But what if—”

  “And you need to stop asking questions. Right now.”

  Boxers beached the motorboat, killed the engine. “You know, Boss, the kid’s got a point,” he whispered. “Moonless nights, woods, and no night vision for Roman aren’t a good mix.”

  Jonathan heard but did not acknowledge. He understood the point from a logical perspective but not from an emotional one. They’d come this close to repatriating Roman to his family. If they kept him close, they could defend him. But if they got separated, he would be on his own, however unlikely that scenario might be.

  “We can move faster with fewer distractions,” Boxers pressed.

  “Fine.” Jonathan grabbed Roman under his armpit and helped him out of the boat. “Follow along,” he said. “I won’t let you fall.”

  They walked across the short strip of sand to the edge of the forest.

  “Put your hands out straight,” Jonathan instructed.

  Roman complied, and Jonathan led him to the trunk of a stout tree.

  “This is your tree, Roman. This is where you stay until I come back here and get you. No matter what you hear, you stay put. Do you understand?”

  The boy nodded vigorously. “Yes, I understand. Can I have a flashlight?”

  “No, you want to stay in the dark.”

  “I promise I won’t turn it on. I just . . . You know, in case.”

  Again, the kid had a point. In case covered a lot of ground, a lot of possibilities, and many of those would be mitigated with light instead of dark. Jonathan pulled his Mini Maglite from the pouch on his belt.

  “Hold out your hands,” he said.

  When Roman extended his arms, Jonathan pressed the aluminum tube into his palm. “I do this with your promise to keep it off unless there’s no other choice.”

  “I promise.”

  “We’ll be back when we can.”

  * * *

  After Mr. Jonathan and Mr. Boxers walked away, the silence around Roman became oppressive. Terrifying. Within seconds of them walking away, he found himself wishing that he’d gone along.

  In the silence and the dark, he wondered if maybe all of this was a dream. Maybe he was still in that awful barn, asleep and unable to wake up. Even better, maybe he was at home in Fisherman’s Cove, sound asleep in the mansion, surrounded by security teams with a safe room nearby.

  None of that was true, of course. He really had been kidnapped, and he really had been beaten. He’d been tied up and threatened and forced to watch a man be beaten to death with a hammer.

  And if all of that was true, then this part about being rescued must be true, as well.

  But by Mr. Jonathan? By Mom’s boss? How the hell could that—

  In the distance, the forest erupted in the staccato chatter of gunfire. He heard shouting, much of it in Spanish, so he couldn’t make out the words, but it all seemed far away. Long strings of machine gun fire split the night. Twice, three times. Four times. But then it stopped.

  Silence returned, but now the silence was bothered with a ringing sound in his ears. Maybe the shooting had been closer than he’d thought.

  Had people been killed? He hoped they had. He hoped that all those bastards had been killed. The way that Guzman killed that man in the barn.

  And he prayed that Mr. Jonathan and Mr. Boxers were both fine.

  Oh, my God, what if they’re the ones who got killed?

  The thought terrified him. He hadn’t been prepared for that. If they got killed, what was Roman going to do? Where was he going to run to? There’d be no more ransom requests, that was for sure—not if this is what became of ransom requests. God only knew what Mr. Guzman would do to him when he found out about the fight.

  Maybe Guzman was already dead. This was the second time there’d been shooting coming from the beach, the first coming right after they’d thrown him in the boat and pushed away from shore.

  Maybe—

  He heard something in the woods. Footsteps. Someone was coming.

  Roman sat as still as he could, squeezing the flashlight in his hand so tightly that the pocket clip dug into his flesh. In his mind, he could se
e it leaving a stripe in the skin across his knuckles, but the pain felt good somehow. Felt necessary.

  He tried to make his heart stop so it wouldn’t hammer so loudly.

  The footsteps approached closer.

  Then they stopped.

  Roman’s eyes strained to see through the blackness, but they saw nothing.

  Maybe it was Mr. Jonathan coming to look for him. Maybe they’d forgotten where they’d stashed him. If he called out quietly to remind them . . .

  A brilliant white light exploded in front of him, blasting his eyes and causing him to roll to his side to look away.

  A man’s voice made an animal sound, and the light lunged closer.

  Roman rolled to his stomach, and his feet found traction in the sand. He bolted blindly away from the light just as something heavy impacted the ground behind him, at the base of the tree where he’d just been sitting.

  Roman’s karate training kicked in. He fought the urge to run because there was nowhere to run to. If he turned his back on his attacker, God only knew what the attacker could do, so Roman dipped his body into a widened fighting stance, weight equally distributed, hands up in front to block an incoming blow. From this stance, he could run away if he had to, or he could duck and jink or defend himself.

  As the light came around again, Roman caught a glimpse of a sledgehammer. He also caught a glimpse of red wetness on the front of the man’s shirt. It wasn’t until the man spoke that he could confirm that it was Guzman.

  “So, we get to dance our dance after all,” Guzman said in slurred English. “We—”

  Roman launched himself at the man. Plowing his shoulder into Guzman’s gut with everything he had. Together, they drilled themselves into the trunk of the tree that was to be Roman’s shelter and tumbled onto the ground.

  Guzman’s flashlight pirouetted into the sand, its beam illuminating them both as they clamored on the ground.

  Roman heard screaming, a guttural, awful cry of pure anger as he rose to his feet and dropped his knee into the bloody spot on Guzman’s shirt. He realized when Guzman howled in agony that the scream he’d been hearing was his own.

  Guzman reached for his sledgehammer, but Roman kneed him again and the man’s hands jerked back to his belly.

  Roman dropped the Mini Maglite and grabbed the handle of the sledge.

  “You killed that man!” he yelled. “He begged for help, and you killed him! You were going to kill me!”

  Roman felt rage and sadness and hopelessness pour out of him. Suddenly, the sledgehammer felt as if it weighed nothing, but he knew the power it held. He knew the agony it could bring.

  He wanted to see Guzman’s bones break. He wanted to hear the animal beg for mercy. He wanted—

  Guzman’s head burst apart at the same instant a sharp pop from very close by.

  Roman whirled, ready to kill whoever it was.

  He saw the silhouette of a man against the dark sky. “Roman, it’s me. It’s Mr. Jonathan.” He’d taken off the night vision stuff, and it really was him. Even in the dim glow from Guzman’s flashlight, Roman could make out the blue eyes. The smile.

  “He . . . he tried to kill me.” Roman heard his voice catch in his throat. “He was . . . he killed that man.”

  “I know,” Mr. Jonathan said. “It’s over. He’ll never hurt anyone again.” He approached Roman softly and slipped the sledgehammer out of his grasp. “You’re safe now.”

  Roman didn’t know what to do. He didn’t really know what had just happened. Could it really be true that he was safe?

  “It’s really okay,” Mr. Jonathan said. He held out his arms and embraced Roman as he sobbed into the rough surface of his equipment vest.

  * * *

  Three hours later, after they were joined by a man they called Thor, Roman was airborne, wrapped in a blanket and strapped into the leather seat of the fanciest airplane he’d ever seen. They’d just taken off when Mr. Jonathan said, “Roman, I have one more thing for you to do.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  He handed Roman a portable radio. “Okay, I want you to key that mic there and say exactly what’s written on this piece of paper.”

  Roman looked at it, but he didn’t get it.

  Mr. Jonathan winked, and then he did get it.

  “Just make sure to wait for the other side to acknowledge you.”

  Roman keyed the mic. “Mother Hen, PC-One.”

  Seconds passed in silence. Jonathan nodded for him to do it again, but just as he was about to key the mic again, his mom’s voice jumped out of the speaker. “Go ahead, PC-One. Oh, my God.” She was crying.

  Roman’s voice cracked, too, as he said, “Mother Hen, PC-One is secure. I’m coming home.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Jonathan Grave sat behind his massive mahogany desk, oblivious to the swaying masts in the harbor behind him, yet very aware of the snoring and ever-flatulent Labrador retriever at his feet. JoeDog didn’t really belong to anyone, but she split much of her time between Jonathan and Doug Kramer. She had official immunity from Fisherman’s Cove’s leash laws, so it wasn’t unusual to see her soliciting tummy rubs from anyone who would offer.

  He’d been back from Mexico for nearly a week now, and the breaking news on his computer screen amused him. Apparently, the U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration had broken up a major operation of the Sinaloa arm of the Cortez Cartel. A team of unnamed operators had intercepted and destroyed over three hundred kilos of cocaine and methamphetamine as the product was being brought ashore. Officials were astonished yet pleased that the operation also sank a submarine used by the cartels to ferry imported product from the manufacturing fields in Colombia.

  Apparently as part of the fallout from the collapse of the cartel in the region, one of the known lieutenants of Santiago Pérez, a rancher named Cristos Silva, had been found murdered in his home, his dismembered limbs scattered throughout his property.

  A spokesman for the FBI would neither confirm nor deny that the Bureau was in any way involved in the operation.

  For his part, President Tony Darmond publicly praised the leaders of his administration for their tireless dedication to ridding the world of the scourge of illegal drugs.

  A knock at Jonathan’s door brought his head up to see Venice walking in. She covered her nose. “Oh, my God, is that you?”

  He laughed. “JoeDog’s under the desk.”

  Venice helped herself to one of his guest chairs. “You’ve been watching the news, I suppose?”

  “I have. Words cannot express how thrilled I am with the aggressive way that federal law enforcement protects us all.”

  “Is it safe to say you had something to do with spinning the story?”

  Jonathan gave a wry smile. “I might have made a few suggestions to Wolfie. This administration needs a few victories, and it seems the attorney general was easily sold. I understand that Harry Dawkins got a career bump, too.”

  Venice’s expression turned serious. “How long do plan to keep doing this?”

  “Sit in a cloud of doggie gas?” He had an idea where this was going, and he really didn’t want to travel there.

  “You know what I mean, Dig. This cut way too close to home.”

  “Close, but no cigar. We won, Ven. That’s all there is. We won and the bad guys lost. The world is in balance.”

  “And my son is under guard,” she said. Her eyes glistened and she wiped at them.

  “He is not. He’s going to school at RezHouse. Which, I hasten to add, scores higher on every test than any private or public school within a hundred miles. Including that intellectual prison, Northern Neck Academy.”

  “But that’s where he wants to be. Especially now that Ciara is finally back.”

  Jonathan had thought it a bad idea to bring Ciara back with the rescue team and Roman. Dawkins had left her in the care of Sister Katherine at St. Ignatius, who’d worked her magic to repatriate the girl via her underground resources.

  “Is she really back?”
Jonathan pressed. “Or has she been expelled?”

  Venice’s eyes narrowed. “Did you have anything to do with that?”

  “Absolutely not.” A statement more true than not. As a member of the Board of Regents, he had abstained from casting the vote that would have kept her from being expelled. “The Board felt that she had made a very poor and dangerous decision. And as I told you before, I recused myself entirely from the vote on Roman.”

  That last part, while true, was deliberately misleading. Offline, he’d pushed Dr. Washington pretty hard to terminate Roman’s enrollment in the Neck. The cartels were going to be apoplectic about all that had transpired, and he thought the boy would be much safer in the secure environment of RezHouse.

  “Look, Ven, I think that as time passes—”

  He stopped himself as he saw Gail entering the Cave with Doug Kramer in tow. This was a massive violation of their security protocols. As Jonathan rose to greet them at his office door, JoeDog scrabbled to her feet and beat him to it. She galloped out to meet Doug, swinging her tail with leg-breaking force.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure?” Jonathan said, extending a hand.

  Kramer rubbed a dog ear with one hand and greeted Jonathan with the other.

  “Actually, I’m here to see Venice and Gail,” he said.

  Jonathan cast a glance, but neither would make eye contact. “Do I need to step out?”

  Doug asked Gail, “Do you mind if he stays?”

  “Well,” she replied sheepishly, “it is his office.”

  Jonathan indicated the leather conversation group near the fireplace. “Take a seat,” he said. “Save the rocker for me.”

  Ever fickle, JoeDog chose to sit with Kramer at the feet of the club chair.

  “Is this official business?” Jonathan asked.

  Kramer took a deep breath and scowled. “Okay, I’ll get right to it. I saw some interesting bodycam footage from one of the county officers. It was taken about a week ago up near Northern Neck Academy. You heard the place was broken into, right?”

  Jonathan shifted his gaze to Venice and Gail, who each remained expressionless.

  Kramer continued, “You know, it’s the damnedest thing. It appears that there are two FBI agents in our area that look very much like you two.” He paused.