The Essential Sam Jameson / Peter Kittredge Box Set: SEVEN bestsellers from international sensation Lars Emmerich

by Lars Emmerich

  30

  El Jerga – The Shiv – Venezuelan Special Services operative, killer, deviant, and psychopath, could barely contain his excitement.

  But his years of practice and discipline kept him relatively focused and attentive to the very important matters at hand. He left the pimply-faced rental car employee asleep beneath the counter in the tiny kiosk, lowered the tire-destroying barrier, and drove the rental car off the lot.

  Two turns and several miles later, he was far enough into the Maryland forest to risk stopping to reposition the two comatose gringos in the passenger seat. He got out, opened the passenger door, and shot each of them with another dose of tranquilizer.

  He admired the redhead draped across the man’s lap, and ran his hand up her athletic legs and onto her ass, pausing to feel the warmth between her legs. He laughed, tingling with anticipation, then forced himself to get back to work.

  El Jerga lifted the woman to his shoulder, popped open the trunk with the key fob, and set her inside. He used one of his many knives to remove the anti-kidnapping latch release handle on the inside of the trunk door. It would ruin his day if the girl awoke early and liberated herself from her temporary imprisonment.

  He had big plans for her.

  As he drove away, El Jerga suddenly had the feeling that he had missed something important. It was a feeling that struck from time to time, prompting him to take a mental inventory of all the steps he’d taken to cover his tracks. He was more excited than normal – the redhead was an exquisite specimen, and he was beyond anxious to enjoy her – but if he had indeed missed something, he couldn’t conjure what it might have been.

  He resolved to double-check everything when he arrived at his destination.

  31

  Kittredge retrieved the information from his computer at the embassy without incident. He didn’t vary the ritual, and he left the embassy compound with a USB drive full of secret State Department correspondence hidden in a dark body cavity.

  He felt anger and guilt.

  He hated Quinn and Fredericks, hated what they stood for, and hated the part of himself that had joined in their cause. Coerced or not, he was one of them – an Agency thug, who’d taken part in yet another CIA hit.

  Sure, the thing wasn’t quite finished yet. Chavez was in deep kimchi, but he wasn’t quite dead. But if the news reports were to be believed, it was only a matter of time.

  He seethed as he made his way to the train station for the dead-drop. He was ashamed of what his associations made him. He was mad enough to kill, and the irony wasn’t lost on him.

  Once at the station, he used the bathroom stall to remove the protective cylinder housing the USB drive. He washed it off, removed the drive, tossed it in a duffel bag, and walked to the bank of lockers.

  Locker number 69 was already taken.

  It was a curveball he wasn’t expecting. “Dibiaso,” aka Avery Martinson, according to the red-headed DHS agent, had always ensured that locker 69 was free, and Kittredge had nearly forgotten the contingency plan: use locker 96.

  He deposited the coins, shut the duffel bag inside the locker, removed the key, and left.

  Kittredge had expected something dramatic to happen at this dead-drop. El Grande had hinted that something big was in the works. And the unusual timing of the drop – his handler had insisted on an early evening drop, instead of the normal time in the early afternoon – also hinted that the CIA might have had an ulterior motive as well.

  The whole situation is about some ulterior motive. Arturo Dibiaso was a CIA agent. Kittredge had been “selling” State Department secrets to the Agency. The entire thing was asinine, and Kittredge still had no idea what it was really about.

  He looked around the train station, expecting to recognize someone from either the Agency or the VSS.

  But he saw no one familiar.

  Disappointed, he left.

  He had it in his mind that he was going to get thoroughly drunk, perhaps even excessively so.

  32

  The large GM land yacht drove horribly, but that didn’t stop Dan Gable from keeping his foot on the accelerator. The commandeered FBI vehicle had a decent engine, at least, and he was approaching a hundred miles an hour.

  He had just spoken with Ferrari of North America. They’d serviced Jarvis’ various Ferraris a number of times, and had recorded the codes embedded in the RFID chips in each of the high-end tires. It was a feature of the new, wired world in which microchips were cheap and ubiquitous.

  It had taken a few minutes for Dan to work his way through the tiresome phone answering service, but once he’d spoken to a cognizant adult, Dan got a quick response.

  Of course, Ferrari didn’t have the equipment to ping the RFID chips from a distance, eliciting an electronic response that could be tracked via satellite. That was something only Homeland could do. And probably the NSA, and the CIA as well, in addition to a few foreign governments, but for Dan’s purposes, his own employer would be able to get the job done nicely.

  That was a much quicker call, and five minutes later, he had a team of Homeland techs working on pinging the RFID chips in Jarvis’ Ferrari tires, and another couple of agents performing similar legwork with Maserati and Lamborghini.

  He expected the task to take them half an hour at best, but Dan was surprised when his phone rang just a couple of minutes later. One of Jarvis’ vintage sports cars was on the move, apparently a 1984 Testarossa.

  The team passed him a set of coordinates to plug into the FBI cruiser’s navigation system. The navigation solution resolved on the GPS display, and Dan smiled at his good luck. Jarvis was just seven miles away, still heading south. We might get this asshole yet, he thought.

  He radioed the Bureau dispatch desk to fill them in and request backup.

  He was going to need some help.

  Dan blasted past slower cars on the highway, his foot planted firmly on the accelerator. It had taken him a while to find the cruiser’s emergency lights, but once he flipped them on, traffic got out of his way, and he started making much better time.

  He was multi-tasking, which was rarely a good idea while driving a car, and an even worse idea while traveling at three-digit speeds.

  But it couldn’t be helped. He had to coordinate the efforts of two very large federal organizations and a municipal police department, and that was the kind of thing that could take months.

  Unfortunately, he had minutes.

  His first priority was to scramble the FBI task force in pursuit of Jarvis, who was now much more than just a bad boss. He was now a murderer and a dangerous fugitive. He had booby trapped his vacation home, and the resulting conflagration had taken the lives of three FBI officers. He was sure the Bureau would respond quickly.

  As he drove, Dan tried to put himself in Jarvis’ head. On the surface, the middle-aged bureaucrat’s actions seemed to betray desperation, Dan thought. But his recent investigation into Jarvis’ activities told him that there might be more to it than just a panicked response to the mounting pressure of multifaceted intrigues coming unraveled over the past several days.

  There was something ice-cold and calculating about setting a lethal trap in a place that would surely be visited by federal agents of one flavor or another.

  If Jarvis had any hope of receiving anything other than the death penalty for his crimes, those hopes had certainly evaporated. Spies killing spies was one thing, but blowing up feds on the job was quite another. It was a calling card that begged a jury to fry him.

  It was also the kind of move that even made an arrest less likely. Not that Dan or someone else wouldn’t eventually find Jarvis – they most certainly would, as it was nearly impossible to stay hidden anywhere on the planet for more than a few months. It was just far more likely that certain complications would arise during the attempt to apprehend Jarvis, the kind of complications that would certainly pass muster upon internal review, but that would result in the unfortunate demise of the suspect before he could be tried
by a jury of his peers.

  Jarvis’ deadly treachery meant that he was very likely to receive a de facto trial – and speedy execution – by his true peers: the federal agents whom he had betrayed, and the survivors of those he’d murdered.

  It was also possible that Jarvis had used the explosion and fire to destroy additional evidence. Based on intimate knowledge of the inside of Jarvis’ work computer, Dan surmised that there must be a significant amount of very damning evidence on a hard drive or two somewhere else in the universe.

  If that was indeed the case, Dan wondered what kind of information Jarvis could possibly be trying to cover up. Three counts of first-degree murder would be nothing to sneeze at, so the implication was that Jarvis had something even more heinous to cover up.

  Another possibility was that the trap at his vacation home was a diversion designed to give Jarvis more time to orchestrate his escape. It had certainly resulted in a solid head start, if the geolocation algorithm Homeland used to find Jarvis’ Ferrari was accurate.

  Dan was working hard to make up time, but he had a sinking feeling that he was fighting a losing battle. He was chasing a guy who was driving one of the most famous sports cars in the world, after all.

  Or, Jarvis could have just gone completely batshit crazy, Dan thought. People came unhinged all the time. Jarvis must certainly be under incredible stress, with the Operation Bolero investigation tightening around his neck, Homeland operatives just a couple of steps behind him and catching up rapidly, lingering and damning financial ties to a rogue state’s internal security apparatus, and a CIA problem that had little chance of ending peacefully. He could imagine how Jarvis might believe there wasn’t much to lose.

  This belief was false, of course. As soon as the Agency caught wind of recent developments, they would descend like a plague of locusts, and they would round up Jarvis’ family to use as leverage against him. The CIA employed a particular kind of professional for just that purpose. To Dan’s knowledge, no other government agency had the gumption or stomach to employ similar methods. It would get ugly.

  The navigation system interrupted Dan’s cogitation. “Turn right at the next exit. At the next exit, turn right. Turn right now.” He was driving so fast that the computer had a tough time keeping up. He flew up the exit ramp, leaving the beltway behind for a less crowded four-lane country highway.

  Gable wondered what was behind Jarvis’ decision to exit the interstate. If I were on the run, Dan thought, I would just keep the pedal to the metal.

  But I wouldn’t be driving a vintage Ferrari. Only an idiot would try to escape in a high profile sports car like that.

  Of course! Could it be more obvious? Jarvis had to be exchanging his car.

  Dan cursed at the realization, and stood on the accelerator. There was now even greater urgency behind his desire to locate Jarvis as quickly as possible. Finding the murderous bastard would be exponentially more difficult if he wasn’t driving the beacon-red coupe, and the identification chips embedded conveniently in its designer tires.

  “Turn right,” the navigation system ordered.

  Dan cursed again.

  The destination was a park-and-ride facility, served by trains and buses every few minutes. Whatever else he might have been, Jarvis wasn’t stupid.

  It took almost no time to locate the parked Ferrari.

  It took much longer for Dan’s anger to subside.

  Jarvis was long gone.

  33

  Sam awoke. Her head felt dull and groggy, and everything had a faraway feeling. It seemed very difficult to concentrate, but something deep inside her told her that she had to try, that something very important depended on her regaining her wits.

  With great effort, she opened her eyes. She discovered that she was looking at a damp cement floor in a dimly-lit room. The air felt musty and close, though the reverberations of a distant mechanical hum seemed to indicate that she was in a very large space.

  She couldn’t make her eyes focus properly.

  I’ve been drugged, she realized with horror.

  She felt the urge to rub her eyes, and wanted her hands to oblige, but they refused. She tried harder, but they refused more.

  Curious about the reticence of her own hands, she raised her head to look at them, inciting excruciating pain in the back of her neck.

  Apparently, she had been asleep in this position for a while, her neck supporting the weight of her head at an awkward angle.

  As the pain subsided, she turned her head to the right, and worked hard to focus her eyes. She wanted to understand what was the matter with her right hand.

  It seemed perfectly fine, except that it was fastened very securely to a cement wall by three large, metal loops, one each at her wrist, elbow, and near her shoulder. She surveyed her left arm. Same thing.

  She looked down at her legs, noticing them for the first time since consciousness had returned.

  She was completely naked, and clamped to the wall by four more metal straps, one each at her ankles and knees. Her legs were splayed, as if she were imitating Da Vinci’s famous Vitruvian Man.

  Sam felt panic constrict her neck, and an involuntary cry started in her throat, but was stifled by something very large and uncomfortable in her mouth. She tried to shake it loose, but it wouldn’t budge, and she became aware of the straps around her head holding it in place. A ball gag.

  Panic set in.

  She thrashed against her restraints, chafing her arms and legs painfully, but the clamps were fastened securely to the cement cinder blocks. None of them so much as wiggled.

  She was bound, nude and silenced, completely helpless.

  She looked around frantically. Next to her clothes on the floor sat a small pile of smashed plastic and circuit boards. Her burner phone.

  Tears welled. There was no hope of calling for help, and no hope of even turning the phone on, hoping for someone to locate her.

  I’m going to die here.

  Motion caught her eye, and she looked up. A weak light shone on a nude figure across from her.

  Brock!

  He was also fastened to a cement wall, perhaps twenty paces in front of her. He was gagged and also naked, but their captor had fastened him to the wall sideways. Brock’s head faced to Sam’s left, his feet to her right, and his head lolled about as the sedative wore off. Her eyes had trouble focusing on him, but she noticed no obvious signs of injury, and she felt a bit of relief that he hadn’t been harmed.

  More motion.

  A short, stocky figure entered from beyond her field of vision.

  Sam shivered uncontrollably, and abject panic threatened to descend on her. Get your shit together, she coached herself, remembering her hostage training. Keep your wits about you. Talk to this guy, become a human in his mind instead of an object, make him like you, find some leverage to use.

  Her diaphragm fluttered as the man walked slowly to Brock. Latino, somewhat short, broad shoulders rounded forward, strong. He was carrying something in his hand, but it was on the other side of his body, so Sam couldn’t see what it was.

  He removed the gag from Brock’s mouth.

  “What do you want?” Brock asked, his speech still slurred by the sedative.

  The man didn’t answer.

  He turned to face Brock, his back now to her, and Sam could see what the man held in his opposite hand. A sledge hammer.

  The man took two steps back from the wall, gripped the sledge hammer with both hands, and leaned in with his torso.

  Sobs formed in Sam’s throat.

  Then angered, pained, panicked screams, as the man swung the sledge hammer in a wide arc, connecting with a sickening crack against Brock’s ankle, just beyond the last metal clamp that held the rest of his leg fast against the cement wall.

  Brock howled in agony.

  Sam screamed in terrified anger, but the sound barely escaped past the gag that was almost large enough to dislocate her jaw. She thrashed futilely against her straps.

&n
bsp; Brock screamed, in grievous agony, pulling against his own restraints, his foot hanging by mere sinew at a grotesque angle to his shattered shin. “I will kill you!” he bellowed. “I will fucking end you!”

  Still the man said nothing.

  Sam saw him push the gag toward Brock’s face. Brock jerked his head to the side, and caught the man’s finger in his teeth, biting down hard.

  The stocky Latino man cursed in Spanish, swung his fist, and connected with a dull thud against Brock’s right eye socket.

  Dazed, Brock ceased his resistance. Through her enraged tears, Sam watched the man shove the handle of the sledge hammer into Brock’s mouth, pry his jaws apart, and jam the ball gag back in, fastening the straps behind Brock’s head.

  Brock yelled and thrashed, but his words were absorbed by the gag, and each movement jostled the ankle that had just been destroyed by the hammer blow. He slowly settled down, and Sam heard him moaning softly as the analgesic of shock slowly gave way to incredible agony.

  The man gave Brock time to get on top of the pain. He waited patiently while Brock’s spasms of agony subsided. Then he batted Brock’s foot with the handle of the sledge hammer, sending it swinging grotesquely, shards of bone grinding against muscle and nerves.

  Brock passed out.

  Sam sobbed, tears of rage and sorrow blurring her vision.

  The man turned to face her. He dropped the sledge hammer on the damp concrete floor. He walked toward her slowly, deliberately, as if savoring his approach to her, taking in every part of her naked vulnerability.