Martyr's Inferno

by Scott Gamboe

  Silence greeted her. Finally, muffled voices sounded in the background, but they were difficult to understand. She saw Ryan's raised eyebrow and handed him the phone.

  "I think I heard Jim's voice."

  Ryan pressed the phone to his ear and frowned. "I think you're right. He's talking to someone else. Whoever is with him is close enough for his voice to be heard over the phone. There's no way he is sitting in the back of a squad car. I think he has somehow been set free."

  He returned the phone to Krista. He pulled out his own and dialed a number. "Hi. This is Special Agent Nick Halliton of the FBI." He winked at Krista, who gave a weak smile. "That's right, I'm the one who is picking up your prisoner. Can you ask your officer to make sure everything is ready? I'll be there in just a few minutes. I'm in a bit of a hurry."

  He covered the microphone and leaned closer to Krista. "She's checking." His frowned deepened as he sat listening to the phone. He finally pulled over and shifted the car into park. "Okay, thanks. Keep me posted."

  He handed the phone back to Krista, rubbing his chin with one hand. "They can't raise the officer on the radio. I think someone broke Jim out. He may be in trouble. I suppose it's possible that your phone was called inadvertently by an accidental redial. But my guess is that Jim knew something was wrong and called us on purpose. Hopefully we can hear something to give us an idea of where he is going." He pulled a small device from under his seat. "I'll use this to get his location off the satellite phone, but it would be better to know his destination."

  #

  "Do you golf?" Jim tried to make the conversation sound casual to keep William from guessing his intentions. He edged the phone back out of his pocket to expose the lower half and, hopefully, the microphone.

  "Some. It comes with working for a politician, I think. If you want to spend time with your boss, you have to know how to play golf."

  "The reason I ask is that we just passed Stonewolf Golf Course. A friend of mine played there once, the day after the course opened. He wouldn't stop talking about it."

  "I've never played there." He stared out the window. "So what did you find on Tony Marcel? He's been expending an awful lot of effort to kill you."

  "Sorry. I need to keep it to myself for now. That little secret has saved my life twice now."

  "Suit yourself."

  They drove for another fifteen minutes before William slowed the car. "Our target is just ahead on the right, about a half mile further. We'll park here and go in on foot."

  William turned the car onto a narrow, grassy farm road. He turned off the lights and drove a short distance into the field before stopping the car. They stepped out, guns drawn. The pair walked deeper into the field. The waist-deep weeds whispered softly against Jim's pants at his passage. Soon, his clothes were damp with dew. A light mist floated lazily in the air, hugging the ground and roiling about them as they passed.

  Jim tried to think of a way to give Krista their location. If he spoke loud enough to be heard over the phone, William would know something was wrong. He just had to hope Krista could figure it out on her own.

  An aging barn materialized out of the darkness. The wood forming its sides had been bleached by the sun until it was almost white. The colorless paint dangled in long, curling strips. The smell of fresh-cut grass reached his nose. H placed a finger against his nose to stifle a sneeze. A soft glow emanated from the barn, visible through gaps in the wood and from an open door at one end. In a low crouch, he followed William across the field. They waded through the damp grasses until they were up against the side of the barn.

  At a gesture from William, Jim took the lead, his pistol firmly gripped in both hands. He eased closer to the open doorway with a gradual sidestep, careful not to cross his feet, and reached the corner of the decrepit outbuilding. After a brief glimpse in the open, he stepped around to within a few feet of the entrance to the barn. At a nod from William, Jim drew even with the doorframe. He launched himself through the opening.

  Several bare light bulbs dangled from rickety fixtures. Three horses stood behind the gates of their pens. The ground was covered with straw, littered here and there with droppings left behind by farm animals. Shovels, scythes, and other rusty implements hung from nails along the walls. Wooden slats nailed horizontally to a pair of painted posts provided a crude ladder to the second level, which was fronted by a black metal railing.

  The barn was empty. Or at least, it appeared to be. The horses were the only other living creatures inside. One nickered softly from his stall, but the others did not react to the newcomer. He edged deeper into the barn. His eyes darted from one shadow to the next with his gun held low but ready to cover anyone who might appear. He slowly turned in a circle as he watched both the ground floor and the balcony. William, who was framed in the doorway, pointed to himself, then to his eyes, then to the area just outside the barn, through the doorway where Jim had entered. He nodded; William would watch for anyone who might have followed them, while Jim cleared the building.

  He edged over to the left side of the barn and reached the halfway point. The door on the far wall loomed closer. There was enough light to allow him to see between the boards forming the gates for the horses' pens. No one hid among the animals. He would finish clearing the ground floor first, then climb to the balcony before he declared the barn secure. The final two stalls were empty. He tried the door. It was barred from without and would not budge.

  He spun and dropped into a crouch. He swept his pistol from side to side and floor to roof. There was no reason for one end of the barn to be wide open while the other was locked down from without, unless . . .

  William stepped through the doorway, then moved off to one side, his gun held negligently in one hand and pointed at the floor. Three armed men entered, rifles cradled across their elbows, blank faces unfamiliar and unreadable. But the next two who came into the barn were very familiar.

  "Ah, Jimbo, so glad you could make it!" Matt smiled as if renewing an old friendship. He held Jim's stolen pistol in his right hand.

  Jim brought up his own weapon and sighted at Tony's chest. "What do you want, Tony?"

  Tony crossed his arms. "We need to continue that conversation we had yesterday."

  "Jimbo, Jimbo, Jimbo." Matt shook his head. "It was so rude of you to leave without telling me. And after I had arranged such comfortable accommodations for you."

  Jim reached with his thumb and secured the hammer of the Beretta nine millimeter pistol. He pulled it to the rear with an ominous click. "Stay where you are. Tell your men to put down their weapons."

  Matt laughed. "Go ahead, Jimbo. Shoot him. I don't think you have it in you. You're a coward."

  Jim's index finger slipped down to the trigger and slowly tightened its grip. He wondered if he could, indeed, pull the trigger. He changed his mind and swung the pistol around to cover Matt.

  But Matt only laughed harder, wiping his eyes with mock sincerity. "Aw, now you're going to kill me, too? And here I thought we were friends. Oh well. I guess I won't get to entertain Krista. And I was so looking forward to it."

  Something snapped within Jim. His last measure of resistance and humanity crumbled. He squeezed the trigger. But instead of the earsplitting report and the thrust of the recoil, there was only the click of the hammer. He yanked the slide to the rear, ejecting the round from the chamber. He tried the pistol once more. But again, nothing happened. Tony's men leveled their rifles while Matt slowly shuffled forward.

  "William is such a good actor, isn't he? He certainly had you fooled. He deceived Richard, too, for that matter. He's quite an asset." Matt slid his pistol beneath his belt. "We debated how best to earn your trust. We finally decided on the pistol you now hold. It had to be loaded, of course, because you would check that. And it needed live rounds. After all, there was always the risk you would come up with your own ammunition and replace the ones we gave you, so blanks wouldn't work. We decided to gamble on you not noticing that the firing pin was filed d
own, just enough to keep it from hitting the primer. Clever, no?"

  Jim allowed himself to be disarmed. He met Matt's smirking gaze with a rock-hard stare of his own, never breaking eye contact. His arms were forced behind his back. One of the men patted him down. Matt removed the satellite phone from Jim's pocket and smashed it under a booted heel. Jim forced himself not to react to the destruction of the phone. He had to hope Krista heard what he had said, and that help was on the way.

  "We had hoped that you would tell William what you've learned about our operation," Matt said. "But you're just too close-mouthed for your own good."

  Two of Tony's henchmen tied Jim's arms spread-eagle against the gate of an empty stall. Tony crossed the floor with a long, deliberate stride. Jim discovered a distinct difference between the personalities of Matt and Tony. Matt always had a grin on his face, even when it appeared forced. Jim thought Matt was trying to intimidate friend and foe alike by an outward show of calm, stoic confidence. Tony, on the other hand, seemed perpetually angry.

  Such was the case as he stood nose-to-nose with Jim. Jim met the hostile posture with a pose of his own in an effort to hide the fear he hid inside.

  "Mr. Hunter, we have quite a score to settle."

  "We agree on that, at least."

  "I blame you for the death of my brother, because he killed himself trying to protect you. And I blame you for the death of Krista, as well."

  "Come on, Tony. I just left her. I know she's still alive."

  "For the time being. But because of you, her death has become necessary. My own sister!" He struck Jim in the stomach with three rapid blows. Jim sagged against his restraints and gasped for breath.

  "Matt wanted to shoot you and be done with it. But I would still like to know what you've found out and who you've told. So this is what we're going to do. If you cooperate, I'll kill you quickly. Refuse, and you'll be in for a night of torment that would have made the most vile medieval torturer proud."

  Jim was spared the necessity of an answer when another man entered the barn and waved frantically to Tony. "Mr. Marcel! He just called. He'll be here in five minutes."

  Tony patted Jim on the cheek. He pointed at Jim's face with a narrow index finger, then briefly left the barn. When he returned, he was carrying a pair of identical briefcases. Jim assumed they were the ones sold to him by Grigory. Tony placed the briefcases on a table near one of the stalls.

  He grabbed one of his henchmen by the arm. "Did you put the GPS tracking devices in the briefcases?"

  "Yes." The man reached into his pocket and handed Tony a wallet-sized black box. "If they try to double-cross you, we can track the briefcases with this."

  Tony dispersed his men around the barn. Two of them flanked the doorway, while the other two took up positions in the loft where they could see but remain hidden. Matt tried to focus on their preparations, but Jim noticed Matt's gaze constantly fell on the briefcases. Matt's brow furrowed slightly. Jim realized his former partner had absolutely no idea what the briefcases contained. The first glimmer of a plan of disruption began to appear. He knew he had to put it in motion now, before the buyer arrived. He would make the rest up as he went along.

  "So, Matt. I guess you're wondering what's in the briefcases."

  Matt flinched, then straightened as the smirk returned to his lips. "Not really. I just want to get paid. And kill you when it's over, of course."

  "So you really don't know. I wondered how you could be a part of such a scheme. I mean, I know you're enough of a scumbag to help a drug dealer, but this . . . It's beneath even your dignity. It takes a snake like Tony to deal in this garbage."

  Jim knew he had him. Matt's façade slowly crumbled away as his natural curiosity took over. He edged closer to the briefcases, licking his lips and rubbing his hands together.

  "I don't think you want to do that, Matt. You might find out you actually have a conscience. How could you enjoy the money Tony is paying you, with so much blood on your hands?"

  Matt froze. He thrust his hands onto his hips as he twisted around to face Jim once more. "What in the hell are you talking about, Jimbo?"

  "Martyr's Inferno! What do you think that means, Matt? You think it's a new brand of hot sauce? Maybe some Ecstasy with an extra kick? Wake up! You bought the briefcases off a man from the former Soviet Union. You're about to sell them to someone connected to Middle Eastern terrorist groups. Can you do the math, or should I spell it out for you?"

  Matt looked rapidly back and forth between Jim and Tony, who had just reentered the barn. Matt's perpetual smile was gone. His frown was as dark as the night sky outside the barn.

  "Go ahead and tell him what's in the briefcases, Tony. In fact, why don't you tell us all? What is it, smallpox? Ebola? Come on, Marcel. Don't keep Matt waiting."

  Tony studied the two former friends, his eyes darting back and forth. Jim saw the pulse at Tony's throat quicken. He knew Tony was worried. But before he could press the matter further, Tony turned to Matt.

  "If he talks again," he said, motioning to Jim with a jerk of his head, "shoot him." Tony turned toward the open doorway.

  Matt folded his arms, his feet spread wide. "Wait, Tony. What's in the briefcases?"

  Jim licked his lips, watching the dissention rise. Tony stopped where he was, not looking back.

  "Matt, I really don't think you want to know."

  "Is he right? Are there biological agents in there?"

  Again, Tony stared straight ahead, not facing his partner. "No."

  "I'm not sure I believe you. I won't have any part in passing Ebola to a terrorist group."

  "Such weapons are too volatile, Matt. They pose a danger even to the courier. I would not subject anyone in my organization to such a risk. You don't reward loyalty with senseless death."

  Tony stood immobile. The sound of approaching footsteps broke the silence. Matt gave Jim a pleading look and a shrug. His wide eyes showed the doubt he felt. Jim mouthed a single word, his raised eyebrows making it into a question.

  Chemicals?

  Matt turned to Tony once more. "What about chemical weapons, Tony? Are you selling weapons of mass destruction?"

  Tony whirled about. He stalked across the distance between them to stand within a hand's breadth of Matt. "Let's get one thing straight, Matt. No, these are not biological weapons. They are not chemical agents. I suggest you keep your mouth shut, if you expect to receive payment for your part in this transaction."

  They turned their attention to another newcomer, a well-dressed man with a dark complexion, a rather large paunch, and a neatly trimmed beard. Two other men, assault rifles held at the ready, trailed behind him. Both constantly scanned the barn for hidden dangers.

  Jim had trouble concentrating on what was taking place in the doorway, however. What Tony had told Matt seemed to have put Matt at ease. But Jim's heart pounded in his chest as fear and revulsion rose to the surface. He was firmly convinced that what Tony said was the absolute truth. But it terrified him more than anything ever had.

  Tony extended a hand in greeting. "We meet at last. I'm Tony Marcel."

  The other accepted his hand. "And I am Othman Ahmad bin Fouad. It is a pleasure to meet you at last, my friend." He shook hands with Matt. He took note of Tony's guards, then his eyes fell on Jim. His friendly demeanor melted away as his mouth dropped open.

  "And who is this?"

  "A thorn in my side, friend Othman. One I will soon be rid of. When we conclude our business, I will have a little conversation with him." He withdrew a cigarette lighter from his pocket. "He will be consumed in my own version of 'Martyr's Inferno.'"

  Othman eyed the dry, well-seasoned wood of the barn, and the smile returned. "Well, then, to business. Those are my packages?"

  "Yes." Tony led the newcomer to the far side of the barn, where the briefcases lay on a table. He dialed the combination into the locks, releasing the hasps. Matt moved closer. He leaned to one side and rose onto his toes to get a better view of the content
s. Tony scowled at him but said nothing. Jim decided that Tony was afraid to show dissention in front of his customer.

  Othman lifted the two lids simultaneously and smiled broadly. Even from where he stood, Jim could see the glimmer of LED displays. Tiny readouts blinked and flashed with a steady cadence. Matt's entire body went stiff. He staggered back a step, almost falling before he caught himself.

  "What . . . what kind of bombs are those?" Matt asked, slowly backing away.

  "The kind that will forever drive the Great Satan from the holy lands." Othman’s eyes came alight with religious fervor. "When I use these devices, New York and Los Angeles will be devastated. America will answer for meddling in our affairs!"

  Matt's face went pale. "Nukes? You're selling nukes to a terrorist? Tony, you're insane!"

  With a snarl born of rage, Tony snatched his pistol from its holster. Matt saw the movement and reached for his own weapon. The two adversaries brought their pistols to bear.

  Tony's pistol erupted. Matt lurched backward as his body twitched in a macabre dance. Tony stood over him and fired three more shots into Matt's chest until he lay still. His body was grotesquely twisted from its final death throes. Tony stared at the recumbent form for several seconds before he spat on the body. He returned to the table.

  "My apologies, Othman. But I cannot allow such insubordination from my people."

  Othman nodded his approval. "The devices are both intact, my friend. Let me step outside to make a phone call. The money will be transferred to your account. I'll be on my way, and you can return to your . . ." He gave Jim a meaningful look. "Entertainment."

  Othman stood just outside the door to the barn, carrying on a phone conversation in harshly accented Arabic. He shouted at whoever was on the other end, but Jim knew it was only a cultural affectation. Othman paced back and forth as he gesticulated wildly.

  A single gunshot exploded from the darkness. Othman sprawled back into the barn. The phone tumbled away as his blood-soaked body crashed to the floor. For a moment, no one moved, stunned by the change of events.