Martyr's Inferno

by Scott Gamboe

  He was already six blocks from the restaurant when the first police car appeared, red and blue lights flashing. Jim pulled their borrowed van to the side of the road. He planned his next move as the police car sped past in the opposite direction. He knew it was only a matter of time before the owner of the van asked a police officer about getting his vehicle back. Then his charade would be over. They needed a place to hide, and they needed it soon.

  He drove the van into a shopping mall and parked in the midst of a crowd of cars. Krista remained almost unresponsive to his voice. With his help, she managed to step out of the van and hobble across the parking lot. His plan was to find an anonymous way to get across town, far away from the van in case it was discovered. They would spend the night in a hotel. By morning, Krista ought to at least be functional again. They could see about contacting her father for help.

  His thoughts raced with reckless abandon whenever he tried to figure out who was helping Tony locate him. It seemed that at every turn, Tony's henchmen found Jim and tried to kill him. First, there had been the repeated attempts to intimidate him, and then they had broken into Jim and Matt's apartment the night Jim was shot. The solution there was easy. Matt had called Tony and told him when and where to send someone.

  But the betrayals had only begun. When Jim and Rich searched the streets of Bloomington, Tony's men ambushed them in an alley. Could Rich be Tony's source? The shootout in the alley had put Rich in as much danger as Jim. After all, if Rich wanted him dead, he'd had ample opportunity to kill him, especially while Jim was unconscious following the shooting at the lake.

  Someone had tried to kill Jim at Krista's apartment. Again, Rich was a definite possibility. After all, Rich returned late that night. Wasn't it possible for him to have been deliberately late? It was possible, but Jim believed Rich loved his sister too much to put her life in danger by letting Tony go after Jim while Krista was there. Nick knew where Jim was, but why give Jim a loaded pistol, if Nick planned to have him killed?

  Then they had driven to Saint Louis, and again, Tony's men were there. They had pursued and found Jim and Krista on the interstate. Rich knew where they were going, and so did Nick. That left either of them as a possibility.

  The Mexican police had also become involved. One officer freely admitted to working at Tony's behest. Somehow, Tony had known where they were staying in Playa del Carmen. Only two people knew where he and Krista were: Rich and Nick. It was a common theme.

  When they returned to the United States, they had told both Rich and Nick that they were in Fairview Heights. They went to dinner and someone planted a bomb in Krista's car. Obviously, Jim was the target, but the more terrifying aspect of the situation was their assailant's total lack of regard for innocent bystanders.

  Krista leaned heavily against Jim for support. They crossed the parking lot of a donut shop, where an elderly couple was ambling to their car, coffee in hand.

  "You folks okay?" the man asked.

  "My wife is ill," Jim told them. "We're from out of town, so we don't know the streets that well. We're supposed to meet some friends over at the shopping mall right off I-64."

  "Well, hop in, you two. We're heading that way anyhow. We can give you a ride."

  Jim thanked the couple profusely and offered them gas money, which they refused. He had a small deception in mind, which he hoped would throw Tony off their trail. They would choose another hotel, this one across the street from their original hotel, and pay cash. If Tony did know where they had reservations, he would expect Jim to run far, probably even leave town. He definitely would not look for them to cross the street and find another room.

  The drive across town took only ten minutes. They entered the mall parking lot. Jim selected a place at random for the couple to drop them off. He waited for them drive away and head for the interstate. He took Krista by the hand and led her away from the mall. She was able to walk more or less on her own. When they reached the lobby of the hotel Jim had chosen, he guided her onto a bench in an alcove, far from the receptionist's desk. While he might be able to explain her lethargy as fatigue, he did not want some overly enthusiastic desk clerk to call for an ambulance. He headed for the desk.

  Fifteen minutes later, the elevator opened on the third floor, not too far from their new room. The door clicked open in response to the key card. Jim helped her inside, and led her to the nearest bed. He covered her with the blankets before taking a much-needed shower. The steaming hot water soothed his aching muscles and relieved his headache. Although he had the urge to stay and savor the moment, his body protested with the need for sleep. He sat on the edge of Krista's bed to admire her in the dim light. He gently brushed a lock of hair out of her eyes. She was asleep, or at least she seemed to be. Jim hoped she would find some measure of inner peace. He kissed her on the forehead, and then he shut off the light. He almost climbed into the other bed, but stopped. He slid into bed beside her and enfolded her in his arms.

  Despite the shower, he still felt tense. His thoughts dwelt on the matter of the identity of the person who was helping Tony find him. Was it Rich? Was it Nick? Oh, God . . . was it Krista? The thought struck him with the sudden force of a pile driver. She was the one constant through all the betrayals. She had even been at the lake when he was shot, and had done nothing about it. Was that part of why she was in a near-catatonic state? Was she feeling guilty about her brother's death? After all, she had tried to get Jim to retrieve the car, instead of Rich.

  He was startled by the ringing of the satellite phone. He stepped into the bathroom and closed the door before he answered the call.

  "Hunter."

  "It's William Lakin. I saw the news on television, about what happened to Rich. Are you guys okay?"

  "Yeah. We're in hiding right now. Krista is still pretty shaken up, but I think I've gotten her to sleep finally."

  "I'll make this short. I checked into this Agent Nick Halliton of yours. My CIA contact called several friends in the FBI, and they all assured him there is no one working for the FBI by that name."

  Jim felt a wave of relief wash over him. He was certain Nick was Tony's source, and the knowledge that Krista had not betrayed him sent a wave of tranquility rippling through his body. He was concerned, however, about what Nick already knew. Did he have the names of their other aliases? Jim could not remember. One thing was for certain, however. Once Krista managed to compose herself, they would contact Joseph Marcel, get a new car, and not give Nick the opportunity to betray them again. In fact, now that he knew who the source was, he could feed false information to Tony, possibly leading him into a trap.

  He used Krista's laptop to access the internet through the hotel's wireless server. While definitely lacking Krista's savvy with a computer, he still knew how to find information. He ran a Google search on a certain FBI agent named Nick Halliton. To Jim's consternation, there was no shortage of information about him. The first few articles he checked served only to deepen his confusion. There really was an FBI agent named Nick Halliton. He worked out of the Springfield Field Office in Illinois. This contradicted what Lakin had said about there not being an agent by that name.

  Further down the page, he found the answer he sought. Ten years prior, there had been a series of bank heists, which Nick was assigned to investigate. His work led him to predict where the robbers would strike next, and Nick was there. Unfortunately, the suspects were ready for him. Nick was killed in the line of duty. Two of his killers were shot to death that day by police, and the other surrendered. The lone surviving gunman was prosecuted federally; therefore, he was not included when then-Governor Ryan had commuted all Illinois death sentences to life without parole. He was still on federal death row.

  So who was this person who claimed to be Special Agent Nick Halliton of the FBI, dead these past ten years? He had FBI identification, so he was not just some two-bit thug off the street. What was his angle? Did he work for Tony? Jim knew he would not find the answers that night.

  Al
though he had no reason to believe they were in any danger, some sixth sense warned him not to take chances with what they had learned. He used a utility knife from the backpack to cut a small slit in the edge of the other mattress where it met the headboard. He slipped Krista's computer and their satellite phone inside. He replaced the fitted sheet and slid the mattress back against the frame.

  He lay down once more and stared at the ceiling while his heart raced. With a sigh of frustration, he turned on his iPod and speakers, then slipped under the covers once more and waited for sleep to take him.

  #

  A rusty, powder blue panel van took the Fairview Heights exit off Interstate 64 and paused at the traffic lights, even though the signal was green. The driver looked around to get his bearings. His passenger held up a small digital display screen and pointed. The driver nodded and turned left, following the street only a short distance before turning into a hotel parking lot.

  The side door slid open. The track was well-lubricated to provide silent operation. Eight men dressed in dark clothing leapt to the pavement. They rushed up against the building to gather around a rear door. One of them produced a computerized device resembling a personal organizer. It was connected to a key card by a thin, gray ribbon cable. He punched several keys on the computer, then swiped the attached magnetic card through the reader mounted next to the door. The security system's tiny red LED turned green. A buzzing sound indicated the release of the lock.

  They swept up the stairs, hidden weapons emerging into view. The first man followed directions provided by same device that had guided them to the hotel. They left the stairwell on the third floor. The group eased down the hallway and stopped in front of one of the rooms. The man with the digital screen stared intently at his display for several seconds. He nodded as he stepped back.

  The one carrying the key card stepped to the fore once again. He scanned the lock and swiped the card. As before, the light turned green. The latch released with a metallic click.

  CHAPTER 12

  Jim came awake with a gasp. His pulse raced as he groped for his weapon. In a flash, he realized he had left it on the counter in the bathroom. The door to their room creaked open a short distance before it hit the security bolt. There was a bright flash of light accompanied by an airy hiss. The door flung wide open.

  Jim leapt from bed as he called for Krista to get up and run. He lunged for the bathroom, but the first man into the room was quicker. An arm caught Jim around the waist and tackled him against the desk. The backpack tumbled to the floor. Jim slammed his elbow sharply to the rear. He heard a grunt of pain when the elbow struck something solid, and the arm around his waist went slack. He scrambled back to his feet and bounded once more for his weapon.

  A sharp pain lanced through his side. It seemed his entire body was on fire. Every muscle convulsed as he tumbled helplessly to the tile floor, growling his agony through clenched teeth. After a few seconds, the pain subsided. He gathered his hands under him to make a third try for his pistol. This time, he heard the telltale crackle of the Taser. He fell to the floor once more under the unrelenting onslaught of two thousand volts.

  Then there were bodies on top of him. Someone forced his arms behind his back and secured them with plastic ties. He lashed out with his feet to kick his unseen assailants, but someone trapped his legs. They, too, were secured with ties. A hood went over his head, and his world plunged into darkness. The insipid fear rushed over him as he fought for air. When he tried to roll over, he was rewarded with a series of punches and kicks.

  Three sets of hands rolled him into a blanket. Jim roared his rage, thrashing about uncontrollably. Repeated blows from his captors did nothing to slow him down. He was suffocating. Not enough air would reach him, and he would die.

  "You two grab the girl," he heard a muffled voice say. "Let's get out of here before somebody sees us."

  The men carried Jim into the hallway. The door to the stairwell echoed hollowly when they opened it. He continued to thrash and yell as they jogged down the stairs. Someone opened the outside doors. A rush of hot, muggy air came in through the end of the blanket. While excessively warm, the air brought Jim a small measure of relief. He heard the rattle of a ring of keys before he was tossed onto the hard floor of what was probably a van. A few seconds later, he heard Krista cry out in pain when she was thrown in next to him. The doors slammed shut. One of the men in the van removed the blanket, but left the hood in place. While it was still stifling, it was an improvement.

  #

  Across the darkened parking lot, a black pickup truck edged forward. With the headlights extinguished, the driver crept across the pavement. He kept the speed slow while he tracked the van racing from the hotel. He allowed them to drive away until they were almost out of his sight. After a few moments, he put the truck in gear and followed the van at a discreet distance.

  #

  "Krista, are you okay?"

  "I'm all right."

  Jim could hear the strain in her voice. He was just glad she had recovered from her near-catatonic state, if only momentarily.

  He received a sharp kick to the ribs. "No talking."

  They drove for about twenty minutes. The van finally rumbled to a stop. The silence seemed almost palpable. Jim wondered what was next. Would they execute him, as they had tried weeks before? If that was the case, why hadn't they killed him at the hotel? They must have something else in mind for him.

  As for who their abductors were, he had no doubt. More of Tony's henchmen, of course. It was possible that Tony himself might have participated in the attack. Matt was likely there, since someone had used a Taser on him.

  The doors opened once more. Someone dragged him out of the vehicle and dropped him onto a hard floor. The room resonated with the sound of distant footfalls. What little air flowed in through his hood smelled of concrete and rusty metal. He decided he must be in a warehouse. Two sets of hands carried him a short distance, then tossed him to the ground once more. He could not see who forced him into a chair and secured his arms and legs. Footsteps faded into silence with the slamming of a metal door.

  "Krista, are you in here?"

  "I'm here, James." Her voice sounded stronger. "They've tied me to a chair, and I have a hood over my head."

  "The same with me. We'll find out soon enough what they want."

  He tested his bonds, but they held him fast. He had used the plastic zip-tie restraints before and knew there was no way for him to break them by strength alone. The inability to move his limbs only amplified his claustrophobia. Breathe in, breathe out.

  He spent several futile minutes trying to slide a hand or foot out of the restraints. They were simply too tight. He would have to wait and see what his captors had in mind.

  The minutes dragged on. He had no idea how long they sat in the room, or even if someone was in the room with them. At last, the door to their prison creaked open. Footsteps approached his chair. He tried to make a guess at how many of Tony's people were in the room. His most conservative appraisal was four.

  "James, where are they taking me?" He heard Krista's chair screech as it slid across the floor. He struggled against the restraints holding him fast, to no avail. A solid blow struck him in the stomach, forcing the air from his lungs.

  "Sit still, or you'll get some more."

  One set of footsteps moved behind him while another entered the room. The man behind him removed the hood. He squinted into the sudden light. Some of the tension left his shoulders as he breathed the relatively fresh air. There were two men he didn't recognize, one standing to either side of him. Tony Marcel stood in the doorway, scowling, with his hands in his pockets as he leaned against the doorframe. Jim glanced to his rear. He was not surprised to find Matt standing behind him.

  "Hey, Matt! How are you doing? Tony's still holding your leash, I see."

  Matt struck him solidly with a back-handed blow to the side of the head. "Watch your mouth, Jimbo. Tony wants you alive, for now, but as l
ong as you're able to talk, he doesn't care what else I do to you."

  "Well, that must make your mom really proud. Here you are, a crooked cop in the pocket of a two-bit crime boss. Now you're reduced to threatening a helpless captive to inflate your worthless ego."

  The blow came again, this time with a closed fist. It left Jim's ears ringing. He forced a grin across his face and winked at Matt. "So, Tony, how are things? I'm glad you're here. Matt sometimes forgets these things, so I would like to take this moment to thank you for the loan of your condominium down in Playa del Carmen. There's a great bar right next door. The beach is wonderful."

  Tony frowned as he took small steps into the room. "Well, Mr. Hunter, you've led us on quite a chase, haven't you? You've dodged my hitmen from Bloomington to Mexico. You're quite a thorn in my side."

  Jim met Tony's gaze. "I try. I've had quite a bit of help, though. The FBI agent who has been helping me would be touched to learn of your concern for my health."

  "Nice try, Hunter. Rich already told me about your phony FBI agent."

  "Oh, he managed to call you before you killed him?"

  This time, it was Tony who struck the blow. His fist split Jim's lip open and left a trail of blood on his chin. "Let's get one thing straight. I did not kill my brother. He killed himself."

  "Oh, I see. I guess the whole 'accidental suicide by car-bomb' thing threw me off. Normally, suicide bombers make sure their target is within range before setting off the bomb."

  "He was supposed to let you be the one to open the car door. Then we wouldn't be having this conversation. I guess he had an attack of a guilty conscience and decided to try to disarm the bomb by himself."

  "So you're trying to say Rich was on your side the whole time? You're full of shit, Tony."

  Tony regained some of his composure. The angry sneer melted away to a countenance of measured, almost exaggerated, calm. "No, not the whole time. Actually, he was working for my father, against me. But he and I had a little talk. He agreed to switch sides. It cost me quite a bit of money, but I convinced him that I will still be in business long after our father is in the ground. I got to him while you were in Saint Martin. You know, it's too bad you left that island when you did. I went through all the trouble of sending a hit squad to your hotel." Tony licked his lips and looked up to the ceiling. "Oh, well. At least your absence gave me time to work on my other plans, like taking care of my father."