by L. T. Ryan
His cell phone rang. Both of them stared at it. He answered it and held it up to his head. The only words he spoke were yeah and no. He stared at her for the duration of the call.
He hung up, lowered his gaze to the floor. He brought his right hand to his forehead and rubbed his eyes. He shook his head back and forth.
“What is it?” Clarissa asked.
“Bad news.”
“What kind?”
“The worst kind.”
“Involving me?”
“Yeah.”
“What?”
He looked up, still shaking his head. “I have to keep you in Paris with me for a week.”
CHAPTER 19
The door creaked open, rusted pins on rusted hinges. Four men, Middle Eastern, walked into the warehouse in single file formation. Jack recognized none of them. They huddled together in the middle of the room, smoking and talking in hushed tones. They spoke in a foreign tongue, one that was not familiar to Jack.
Minutes later, another Middle Eastern man walked in. He had a commanding presence. The men in the room fell silent, separated a bit from one another. All turned toward the new guy. He spoke, but again, foreign words that were meaningless to Jack.
One of the guys headed toward the opposite end of the room. He slipped around the side of the office, climbed up the ladder.
Jack reached for his MP7, pulled it forward a few inches. He had thirty rounds in the magazine and the weapon was set to three shot semi-automatic bursts. He’d aim for the man he presumed to be the leader. Maybe one of the other guys would step up, take a bullet. Jack doubted that, but either way, first shot would take someone out. How would the men react? His gaze shifted from man to man. They had the look of battle hardened warriors. Perhaps not conventional warfare. But what was that, really? It changed over time, and if nations wanted to survive, they adapted.
Jack wondered how fast another man would react after that first shot? How quickly would they figure out where the shot had come from? How many more men could he take out during that time? One? Two? All four of them?
The man at the south end of the room who had climbed the ladder now stepped onto the catwalk that crossed over the office, headed for the metal enclosure.
Why? Did Mason rat him out? It seemed odd that the first thing they did was head for the box. Not the office. The inconspicuous metal cage in the corner.
Jack waited for the guy’s next move. If he stopped at the cage, then he was just being cautious. If he continued down the catwalk, then Jack would presume they had inside info and knew he’d been planted there. And if that was the case, then all bets were off. He’d start with the leader and work his way out from there.
But he didn’t see where the guy would go next because the guy never made it to the cage. He hunched down in the middle of the catwalk, directly across from Jack. And he did so because the front door opened and three more guys entered. The first two were carbon copies, short, stout, white. Most likely ex-special forces. The third guy was fit, but older. And Jack recognized him.
Thornton Walloway, welcome to the show.
The first group of men formed a line, with the leader in second position from Jack’s point of view. The guy held out his hand. Thornton stepped forward and shook it. Across from Jack, the man on the catwalk stayed low.
No one looked up. Not Thornton and his men, because presumably they wanted to keep their eyes on the other guys. And the other guys didn’t want to give the Brits a reason to look up, so they kept their eyes fixed and level.
The stand-off benefited Jack. But the guy across the room didn’t. Now Jack had to monitor the floor and the six men there, and he had to keep an eye on the guy laying low on the catwalk. What was his purpose? Was he going to investigate the metal cage? Or was he going to take position in it? Was he up there to provide extra security? Or to take out the other group of men?
Jack’s gut feeling was that the guy hadn’t gone up there for Jack. It was for security purposes.
With the man across the way, Jack knew that pulling off the hit with his M40 rifle was no longer an option. He had to slide back to get into position. Not a problem if all the men were on the ground floor. The ledge of the overhang blocked most of his movements. But the guy across from him had a perfect view.
So Jack moved slowly, and he pulled his MP7 closer and retrieved his Beretta M9 pistol. The former inches to his left. The latter remained held tight in his hand.
Then the leader of the Middle Eastern guys began talking loud enough for Jack to hear.
“Did you secure the materials?”
“Not yet,” Thornton said.
“Why not?”
“It’s not like I’m walking into a drugstore and picking up some cough syrup, Naseer.”
Jack went to work on the name Naseer. He had no recollection of it, though.
“This is radioactive material,” Thornton continued. “It takes some time.”
Naseer placed his hands on his hips, straightened his back, rotated his head left then right. “I chose to work with you because you said you could make things happen.”
“And I have. You needed muscle, I got it for you. You needed ins with politicians, MI5, I got them on the hook for you.”
MI5? Mason?
“But you failed to deliver what I need for an RDD.”
RDD? Jack replayed the word over a couple times. He knew it. Radioactive dispersal device. A dirty bomb. The guys were terrorists, and Thornton was right there in the middle of it.
“It’s coming,” Thornton said. “I just need another few weeks.”
“I’m running out of time,” Naseer said. “I have other sources, you know. They are outside the country, so a new set of problems presents itself. But with the contacts you’ve given me, I can get it here in under two weeks. You know what that means, right? You’ll no longer be required.”
“Then I’ll deliver in a week.”
No one spoke for a minute. Jack noticed the man across the way lift his torso, resting on his elbows. He wondered if the guy had taken notice of him, or if Naseer’s silence was a cue for something. He pulled a scope from his pocket and aimed it at the guy. Saw him looking down. Saw his hands empty.
Saw a chance to put his rifle into a better position. The way this job was shaking out, shooting his way out would be Jack’s only option.
So he reached behind, pulled the gun forward, scooted his body further into the canvas tarp. His left hand cradled the M40’s barrel. His right index finger rested on the trigger, squeezed out the eighth-of-an-inch of slack. Naseer would be first, then Thornton.
Screw Mason. He’d kill them all.
Jack heard for himself that MI5 was in Thornton’s pocket, and they now supported Naseer. Maybe not the entire group, but someone inside it.
Thornton must have heard of the plot to end his life. He contacted Mason, who followed Jack. The guy said he wanted Thornton taken out, yet he intervened when Jack was about to pull off the hit in the middle of the city. The guy sent Jack on a suicide mission. Why had Mason cared if Jack got caught or not? He didn’t. And he sure as hell didn’t care about putting Jack into a no-win situation in the warehouse.
Jack had expected three guys, hoped for two, planned for four. There were seven in the warehouse, not including himself.
Bad odds for anyone.
He had expected to be able to shoot from the safety provided by the metal cage.
It had been locked.
Did Mason know? Had he scouted the place ahead of time? Had Mason and Thornton picked it for that very reason?
But that didn’t explain the man on the catwalk above the office. He had a purpose. What, though?
“A week is not good enough,” Naseer said. “You’ve got four days.”
Thornton turned, huddled with his two men. After a minute, he turned, said, “Piss off, Naseer. You’ll get it in a week.”
Naseer took a deep breath, exhaled loudly. He nodded twice, exaggerated movements. Thornton smiled,
pleased with his small victory. The guy was a billionaire and not used to being told no, or that his option wasn’t the best.
Then, it hit Jack. He knew the name Naseer. Had read a write up about him a few years ago. Naseer was a billionaire, too. Old money from what he recalled. A powerful man. He had the resources to buy anyone with a price tag. Getting materials into the country should not have been a problem for the guy. What did he want with Thornton?
Naseer smiled.
Thornton smiled.
The men behind Thornton smiled.
Jack looked across the way, scope to his eye, and saw a grin on the face of the guy on the catwalk.
Had someone opened up a bottle of nitrous oxide, or was Jack missing something?
He adjusted his stare and saw one of the men behind Thornton reach inside his coat, pull out a gun. The guy took a quick step forward, placed the barrel of the gun to the back of Thornton’s head, pulled the trigger.
Two of the Middle Eastern men flinched to their left, bringing their right arms up to cover their face. Naseer’s movements were opposite. He flinched right, shielded with his left. A leftie, Jack figured.
All that remained in the spot where Thornton had stood was a pink cloud of mist. It hovered in the air before settling on Thornton’s lifeless body and the surrounding floor.
Naseer straightened, resumed his stance, looked down. Disgust spread across his face.
“Dammit, my shoes are ruined.”
He doesn’t care about the dead man, Jack thought, only his precious shoes.
“Well done, Owen,” Naseer said, nodding to his right. “I didn’t think you’d do it.”
The man on the catwalk rose, headed toward the ladder.
“I gave you my word,” the man named Owen said. “You didn’t need that guy up there.”
Naseer shrugged. “I’ve seen men crap on their word before. Until proven, a man’s word means a little less than nothing.”
“It means everything with me, Naseer.”
“Did you ever give your word to him?” Naseer gestured toward the dead man on the floor.
Owen dropped his head, lowered his stare toward Thornton’s lifeless body.
“That’s what I thought,” Naseer said. “Regardless, you’ve demonstrated your loyalty to me.”
Owen nodded. So did the guy next to him.
“Now, the money?” Naseer said.
“I’ve begun the transfers,” the guy next to Owen said. “We should have twenty-five percent transferred by noon. The rest will take a few weeks.”
“Why a few weeks?” Naseer said.
“We don’t want it to look too suspicious,” the guy said.
“But within two weeks they’ll know he’s dead.”
“Transfer it all,” Owen said.
“We can’t do that,” the guy said.
“Do you know the codes, Owen?” Naseer said.
“Yeah.”
Naseer nodded.
Owen spun and shot the other guy in the forehead. The man stood there for what seemed like two seconds too long. His wide lifeless eyes locked onto Owen. The horrified expression frozen on his face. He fell to his knees, then collapsed forward. The pool of blood that leaked from his forehead merged with that of Thornton’s.
“I knew I was right about you,” Naseer said.
“What’ll we do about the bodies?” the guy from the catwalk said as he crossed the floor toward the group in the middle.
Naseer looked around, his stare stopping close to Jack. “Those tarps up there.”
An icy chill traveled down the length of Jack’s sweat covered back. He had nowhere to go. His only option would be to fight. He pushed the M40 aside in favor of the MP7. Thirty rounds in three-burst shots. Ten chances at five guys who were likely all armed.
The guy who had been on the catwalk walked toward the office, veered to the left, climbed the ladder. He walked toward the metal cage.
“Yafi,” Naseer said.
The man on the catwalk stopped, placed his left hand on the metal cage, cupped his right hand over his mouth. “What?”
“Forget the tarps. It’s too risky to take the bodies. We’re going to burn the place down.”
So Yafi turned and crossed the top of the office and climbed back down the ladder. He met the other men in the middle of the room. He and another guy moved the bodies beneath the overhang. Jack heard what sounded like crates and pallets being tossed around.
Old dry wood. A makeshift funeral pyre, he figured.
Then Owen left, followed by Naseer and the rest of the men. The door slammed shut. A clattering sound followed. Chains drug through welded-on door handles. A heavy clicking sound reverberated through the warehouse.
Jack realized he’d been locked inside the warehouse. He strapped the MP7 across his chest, tucked the M9 pistol in his waistband, held the M40 rifle in his left hand. There were two ways off the platform. The catwalk and a fast drop. He chose the drop. Quicker was better. He turned and let his legs slide off. He placed the rifle on the edge and lowered himself. Eight feet of emptiness remained between his feet and the floor. He reached over the top and grabbed the rifle, then dropped to the ground with bent knees. He rolled to his right, came to a stop and rested on his back. Pain lingered in his left knee and both ankles. His lower back felt like a weight bore down on it. He sat up, turned his head. Behind him were the bodies hastily covered in flammable materials.
He waited for the smoke and the flames. The warehouse remained dim and dusty and quiet. He took a chance and forced one of the windows open. The window was practically glued shut by years of dust and grime. After a minute of struggle, it gave way an inch. The sounds of industry at work flooded in. He rose up, peeked through, saw no one. He tried the door, which, as he suspected, bent but did not give. Chains rattled as he pushed. The men must have planned to return later to set the place ablaze.
It made sense. The best option was late at night. It’d be dark and semi-deserted. The fire would have time to spread and do the damage they needed it to do.
Jack returned to the window, took one last look around the warehouse and stared at the pile of kindling atop two lifeless bodies. Jack noticed Thornton’s Breitling Chronomat. Stainless steel case and band, blue dial, black sub-dials. A good looking timepiece. It easily cost eight thousand dollars. Jack pulled it off the dead man’s wrist and stuffed it in his pocket. He’d let Dottie decide what to do with it. Then he found each man’s wallet, removed their identification and money and credit cards. He tossed the empty wallets on the bodies and replaced the wood he had moved.
“Good riddance,” he said as he turned away.
He hid the M40 in the corner behind an undisturbed pallet, then he forced the window open a few feet and climbed through. The soles of his shoes hit the street with a heavy thud. He looked left, turned right, began walking.
CHAPTER 20
Three hours later Jack stood in the middle of the road two blocks north of Dottie’s house. He stepped to the front of the cab, handed the driver four ten pound notes and thanked him for the ride.
By this point, there were a few things Jack had accepted as fact.
Mason had known why Jack was in town. If the guy had a part in what Jack had just witnessed, then he might be waiting for him at Dottie’s. The guy might have even tied up any loose ends there. In fact, Dottie had told Jack not to return to the house. She wanted him to stay at a hotel. She’d feared for their safety from the beginning. Why take such a risk? Thornton had already placed himself on a bad path, one that led to his death without any intervention.
The house stood on the east side of the street. Jack walked on the west. He passed by, not too fast and not too slow. He glanced over every few steps. The semi-circle driveway appeared to be empty, but high hedges blocked part of it. The house appeared empty too, at least from what he could see. The drapes were drawn, the windows closed. After he passed the property, he crossed the street and turned left, then left again, placing him on the street th
at ran parallel behind the house. He recalled that the lot behind Dottie’s had been vacant. Nothing but trees. The dense woods offered plenty of cover. Every step Jack took, he veered to his left a little until he found his elbow rubbing against a tree. He took one quick look to his left, then vanished into the wooded area.
The woods were thick, but the ground manicured and free from roots and shrubs. The air smelled sweet, naturally so from trees and flowers in bloom. He jogged a couple hundred feet and came to a stop ten feet from the edge of the woods. He pulled the scope from his pocket and put it up to his right eye. The windows were shut, but the blinds and drapes were open. The bedrooms appeared empty. The living room, too. He checked each kitchen window, expecting to see Dottie and Leon at the table or by the coffee maker. But they weren’t there.
No one was.
Please tell me they got out in time.
He took a few steps forward, hid behind a thick oak, closed his eyes and listened. Heard a lawn mower off in the distance. Children playing. A dog barking. Wind chimes blown into motion by the light warm breeze that brushed Jack’s face with air carrying the fragrance of cherry blossoms. Nothing out of the ordinary. And that was good enough for Jack.
He crossed the lawn and climbed the stairs to the door that opened up across from the kitchen table. He turned the knob, surprised to find it unlocked.
“Hello?” he called through the two inch opening. A risk, for sure. Mason or one of his men could be inside. He figured it better to draw the wolf out from its den rather than to walk right into it.
There was no response.
He pushed the door open and stepped into the kitchen. It smelled of disinfectant with a hint of lemon. The coffee pot was empty, the maker disassembled, a stack of brown filters neatly set to the side.
“Hello?” he called again.
And again, no response.
Then he saw something that he was certain hadn’t been there before. A teddy bear atop the kitchen table. Brown and ragged and dressed in a pair of blue overalls. Dottie didn’t have kids of her own, so it didn’t belong to a grandchild. He didn’t take Leon to be a father, not with the dedication he showed to Dottie. Maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe it belonged to one of the maids’ kids.
