Martyr's Inferno

by Scott Gamboe

  "Well, I guess someone has to go to Saint Martin. What do you think, Krista? Can you survive without me for a day or two?"

  "Absolutely not. I'm going with you. And I think it's the other way around. You can't last without me."

  "One problem, there," Nick pointed out. "Jim is a wanted man. No one can pick up airline tickets without a photo ID. They would be alerted to who he is right away. Not to mention having to have a passport to get through Customs."

  "That's not a problem. Between my dad and my brother, we can whip out a few identification cards."

  "Passports?" Nick's mouth was open wide, and he struggled to find words to speak. "How in the world can you . . . no, never mind. I really don't think I want to know."

  She frowned. "I've been trying to keep my distance from their activities, but I don't think we have a choice. I'll make some calls to the Family, and we'll have everything we need in the morning."

  Nick removed a bulky cell phone from his pocket. "Here, Jim. I want you to take this. It's a satellite phone. We usually give them to informants, but in this case I'll make an exception. You can keep in touch with me this way, so don't use public telephones. Or your own cell phone, for that matter. My number is programmed into it on the speed dial."

  "Are you leaving, then?"

  "Yeah. It's late. Keep me posted on anything you find, no matter what time it is. One other thing. I honestly believe Krista is not involved in the Marcel Family. But Richard is. Please, don't mention me to him. I could be in enough trouble over this as it is."

  They shook hands, and Jim watched him leave. He looked back to Krista. He saw the question in her narrowed eyes even as she voiced it. "Are you sure we can trust him?"

  "As much as we can trust anyone, at this point. For now, he is the only law enforcement person we can even have contact with. Hopefully, that will give us some kind of an advantage."

  "Like what?"

  Jim stood and rubbed the stubble on his chin. "There's one thing that bothers me about this. I became involved because Tony murdered a retired college professor. Shortly after I initiated a homicide investigation, these attempts on my life began. At first, I assumed Tony wanted to kill me to avoid a police presence while his big shipment is on its way. But that really doesn't make sense. I had nothing on him, other than his car being seen in the area. He could have still conducted his business while I floundered around without any information.

  "No, I think there is more to it. I believe there might be a connection between what the professor was working on, and why Tony murdered him. Otherwise, why would Tony steal Professor Perkins's plans?"

  "Is there a way for you to find out what he was working on?"

  He nodded slowly. "At the murder scene, we collected a computer, which our cyber crime experts were supposed to examine. Hopefully, they will have recovered some of the professor's notes by now."

  Krista ran her fingers through her hair. "Maybe Agent Halliton can find out."

  "Possibly. There's also one other area where he might be useful. We thought the professor might have sent the specifications for his latest project to the U.S. Patent Office. If he did, there would be a record of it."

  "I'll tell you what. Write down all of his information you can remember, then get some sleep. I'll stay up for a few hours and see what I can come up with. I can fill you in tomorrow morning."

  He rubbed his eyes and stretched. He was surprised that his headache had not started to fade. After a moment's consideration, he wrote down a few notes. She offered her room, saying she would sleep on the couch, but he waved her off. He would be more comfortable in the larger room. He grabbed an extra pillow and blanket from a closet and curled up on the couch. Sleep refused to come to him, with so many unanswered questions. He reached over to the coffee table. With the tap of a button, he turned on his iPod. It was a long time before he faded off to sleep.

  #

  Jim had never believed in ESP, but neither could he remember hearing a noise to rouse him from his slumber. Sometime during the night, his headphones had fallen off. He eased the iPod and headphones back into the small pack Krista had given him. He reached under the pillow to find the Glock pistol and closed his eyes.

  This time, he heard the unmistakable click of the lock on the door releasing the deadbolt. He slid the gun out from under the pillow. The light of the full moon filtered in through the drawn blinds. It wasn't much, but there was enough light for Jim to see by. He hoped whoever was coming in had not allowed enough time for their eyes to adjust to the darkness. He lay still and waited.

  Two figures skulked into view, both with long knives in hand. One had a flashlight with a red lens cap, which threw a small amount of light across the floor. They prowled across the room as the beam from the flashlight swung back and forth. Jim almost ordered them to stop where they were, but he hesitated. Matt had told him he had to abandon the rules of a police officer if he planned to survive his ordeal. The two men were there to kill him. He must strike first. His finger slipped from along the slide and found the trigger. He brought up the Glock. The glow of the Tritium sights stood out in stark relief against the darkness of the room. He aimed directly at the torso of the man with the flashlight.

  But he could not pull the trigger. Despite the obvious intentions of the two invaders, both armed with knives, he could not kill them in cold blood. He stared along the weapon's sight posts, caught up in indecision.

  In the next instant, the choice was made for him. The man closest to him noticed Jim's concealed form lying on the couch, and he dropped into a crouch. "I think there's someone asleep on the couch." His voice was a hoarse whisper. The other man swung the flashlight around to cast its red glow on Jim. The first man lunged, his knife descending in a lethal stroke.

  Jim fired twice. The muzzle flash was blindingly bright in the gloom of the unlit apartment. His assailant tumbled to the ground. The knife spun away as the second man threw his flashlight. It struck the couch next to Jim, distracting him for only a moment, but it was enough. The man hurtled across the room to strike Jim's gun hand and knock the weapon away into the darkness. His other hand brought up the knife, but Jim's left hand locked onto it like a vice. The two rolled off the couch onto the coffee table, which collapsed to the floor. From somewhere off to one side of the room, Jim heard Krista shout his name.

  Jim's foe struck a glancing blow to Jim's temple, making his head spin. Jim brought his knee around to provide leverage and felt it strike a broken table leg. He seized the makeshift club in a one-handed grip. He swung at the man's head with all of his remaining strength. There was a startled grunt, and the man toppled backward.

  Jim rolled to his knees and raised his weapon into a defensive posture. With blood rushing down the side of his head and the knife still carried in his right hand, Jim's opponent tried to stand. Jim's legs tightened in preparation to throw his battered body into the melee once more.

  The sharp crack of a gunshot shattered the silence. A bullet ripped past Jim's head to strike the chest of the man before him. He toppled over backward, the knife still held in his hand as he tried to rise. Jim crawled over to the supine form. He raised up and brought the table leg down across the man's forehead. He twitched once, then lay still.

  Jim remained on all fours for several seconds. He gulped air and tried to recover his equilibrium. He heard the gun clatter to the floor. Krista stood trembling in the pale ruddy light of the flashlight, hands trembling violently, eyes open wide. He regained his feet, crossed the distance between them, and took her in his arms.

  "It's okay, Krista. You did what you had to do, okay? Those men were here to kill us. I don't know if I would have lived through that fight if you hadn't helped me."

  She nodded slowly. Jim took her by the hands and eased her onto the couch. He secured the Glock once more before dashing about the apartment to gather what items they needed. Almost as an afterthought, he grabbed the discarded flashlight.

  "Krista? Honey, can you hear me?"

>   She looked up and gasped for air. He feared she might hyperventilate, but knew of nothing else he could do for her.

  "We have to leave, okay? Someone will have heard the shots and called the cops. We need to get far away from here. Do you have any money or credit cards here in the apartment?"

  She climbed shakily to her feet. A drawer in her dresser yielded a quantity of cash and a small wallet, which she stuffed into the backpack with her spare clothes. Satisfied they had everything they could use, Jim took her by the hand and led her from the apartment. The stairways and landings were dotted with residents who had heard the shots. No wonder they were using knives . . . a quiet, easy kill, if we'd been sleeping.

  For a moment, Jim despaired. If he and Krista ran outside to her car, someone would certainly be able to provide descriptions of the vehicle and their clothing. He needed a distraction.

  "Fire!" he yelled at the top of his lungs. "Everyone out! The building is on fire! Hurry!"

  Krista's state of semi-shock added to the rouse. They sprinted for the stairs. The display was convincing enough, at least in the middle of the night. The other groggy residents joined them in the rush to leave the building. Jim hoped no one paid any attention to the pair as they raced across the parking lot to the carport. They jumped into Krista's Dodge Charger and sped away.

  With one knee tight against the steering wheel, Jim pulled the satellite phone from the backpack. He punched the speed dial for Nick's phone.

  The answer came after the third ring. "Halliton."

  "Hey, Nick," Jim said. He somehow managed to keep his voice filled with aplomb, despite the anxiety he felt. "You sound like you just woke up."

  "Hunter? That you?"

  "Yeah. We have a problem. Two guys just broke into Krista's apartment and tried to kill us."

  "Where are they now?"

  "Bleeding in Krista's apartment. Or at least, they were. I think you stop bleeding when you die, don't you."

  Nick sighed. "Do you know how they found you?"

  "I'm not sure, but I have a hunch. Tony Marcel probably knows where the safehouses are."

  "Wait," said Krista. She drew a sobbing breath. "How could Tony even know I'm with you? No one in Tony's organization has seen us together. At least, no one who is still alive."

  Jim tapped a button on the phone. He laid it on the console. "Hey, Nick, I put you on speakerphone. Could you hear what Krista just said?"

  "Yeah. Let's work through this. Hold on a minute." There was a muffled silence on the phone for several seconds before Nick returned. "Okay, I just wanted to get out of the bedroom so my wife can sleep. Back to where we were. I want you both to think about this. Who knows you two are together? And I mean everyone who knows, not just those you think might help Tony."

  Jim counted items on his fingers. "You, me and Krista. Richard Marcel, along with his driver and his two goons, although the driver and one of the other guys is dead."

  "So there are only five people who know?"

  "Can you think of anyone else, Krista?" She shook her head. "That's . . . wait a minute. When we were trying to find Tony yesterday afternoon, Richard and I talked to a few guys who were working the streets. Maybe one of them called Tony and told him I was with Rich."

  "Maybe," Krista said, "but that still doesn't place you with me. That was one of my apartments my dad leased for me. Rich has his own set of buildings. It's not too likely they would have come looking there."

  "Not too likely, but possible. Okay, you two, I want you somewhere safe. Go find a hotel. Pay cash and don't use your real names. Unless you have some nice fake ID's, you'll have to settle for a roach motel somewhere. Jim, did you know any of the street thugs you talked to yesterday?"

  "I was familiar with a few of them."

  "Okay, write down everything you know about them. I'll get with you tomorrow and pick up what you have. That way, I'll be able to look into this for you. Stay low, and be careful, all right? I'll see you tomorrow."

  The line went dead. Krista glanced over at Jim. "Okay, you know this town better than me. Where are we going to stay?"

  "I know just the place. Cash basis. In fact, we could rent by the hour, if you want."

  Krista bit down on her lower lip. "Really? Then we're going to have to make a pit stop."

  "For what?"

  "Sheets. I'm not sleeping on their filthy bed linen. And I definitely need a clean pillow."

  Jim chuckled softly. He gave her directions to a Wal-Mart, which was open all night. They paid cash for their supplies, then he guided her to the motel. There was nothing to be done about her car, other than to park it behind the building away from parking lot lights. They were both exhausted, so rather than try to take turns keeping watch, Jim chose to bar the room's only door with heavy furniture. After Krista took a shower, they were ready to turn in for the night. He had planned to sleep on the couch again, but one look at its condition convinced him to accept her offer to share a bed. They would both be fully dressed anyway, ready to leave at a moment's notice. Besides, he knew the psychological impact of taking a life. She needed someone to be there for her. He rolled to her side, and they drew each other close.

  CHAPTER 9

  They awoke to the ringing of the satellite phone. Jim yanked it out of the backpack and mumbled a greeting. He turned it to the speakerphone setting once more.

  "It's Nick. Did I wake you?"

  "Yeah. What time is it?"

  "Almost ten. Did you finish that list?"

  "Yep. I had more than enough time last night while Krista was taking her shower." She hit him across his back with her pillow. "Where do you want me to leave it?"

  "Actually, I can take care of that," Krista announced. "When I meet with Richard this morning, I'll give him the list. He can have someone run it over to you." She paused, her face creased by a frown. "Of course, there might be more bodies in the street if he reads what's inside the envelope. He might decide to take them all out, just to be certain."

  "Now that would be a real shame," Jim said. "Okay, we'll get the list to you this afternoon. And we'll keep you posted on what we find out down in the Caribbean."

  He ended the call and tossed the phone to Krista. "I'm going to take a shower. Go ahead and make whatever calls you need to. We'll be on our way in a half-hour or so. We're in a hurry, so it's a good thing you showered last night." He ducked the thrown pillow and slipped into the bathroom.

  #

  Jim blinked when the camera flashed. The sudden bright light left red spots seared into his field of view. He opened his eyes wide to restore his normal vision. The tiny bearded man turned back to his computer. The man had a strange laugh, almost a cackle. For some reason, he found humor in almost everything. A strange odor filled the air, carrying a hint of cinnamon. Jim wondered if it had to do with the printing chemicals used in the room.

  Krista perused her stack of ID cards. She had four completely different identities, all accessorized with out-of-state driver's licenses and passports for each name. In fact, the little troll behind the computer had used a different photo for each creation, with different clothing, different hairstyles, and the addition of assorted pairs of glasses. For Jim's pictures, he had added different styles of facial hair to further augment the disguises. For the final picture, he had used a "bald" wig. Jim really hoped he did not need to use that particular identity.

  Krista spoke softly into the satellite phone. Her calm voice belied the exasperation clearly shown by her sharp hand gestures. "Yes, that's right. Two tickets out of Saint Louis, Lambert Airport, flying into Saint Martin, with a one-day layover in Cancun." She rolled her eyes to the ceiling. "Which airport in Saint Martin? There's only one airport on the whole island. Princess Juliana International Airport. No, it's not in Phillipsburg." She covered the microphone and made strangling motions with her hands, eliciting a chuckle from Jim. And, to Jim's annoyance, a cackle from the troll.

  "Just use the airport code. SXM." She covered the phone once more. "I think I n
eed a drink." She rolled her eyes and shook her head. "What's that? No, we'll just pick them up at the ticket counter in Saint Louis. Thank you."

  "Miss Krista, I'm finished here. I did good work, yes? You tell your father for me?"

  She patted the old man fondly on his bearded cheek. "Thank you, Elmore. I'll put in a good word for you with my dad."

  They left the small apartment, climbed back into Krista's car, and drove away. She knew Joliet's streets. It was a simple matter for her to drive to a shopping mall, where they purchased luggage and clothing. Jim chaffed at the delay, but Krista pointed out that it would catch the attention not only of Customs, but the Transportation Safety Administration as well, if they traveled out of the country with no suitcases. Besides, they needed bathing suits in order to fit in with the other tourists once they arrived.

  They grabbed a fast-food lunch before they pulled onto I-55. They would take the interstate all the way to Saint Louis. Jim was glad Krista driving, because she would keep the car at or below the speed limit. Being a police officer, he tended to bend an occasional traffic law. The last thing they needed was to get pulled over. Their false identification cards looked nice enough, but he wasn't sure how well they would hold up under an NCIC check. The irony of the thought was not lost upon him: a fake driver's license would be caught by a simple computer check, while their passports would only be scanned to see if they were fugitives or had been banned entry to the country. Typical bureaucracy. No sense of priorities.

  An hour and a half later, they were just north of Springfield. They pulled off the highway to get gas and stretch their legs. After only a brief rest, they were underway again, this time with Jim behind the wheel. Because of his driving habits, he set the cruise control at just under the speed limit. He directed the air conditioner vent toward his face. Music from his iPod played across the car's radio. Krista crinkled her nose at his selections.