Miscue

by Glen C. Allison

  The piano player began another set of standards, starting with “Blue Moon.” One of the men at the other end of the bar had moved down with his drink to sit next to the woman. Forte could hear nothing but whispers and ice clinking.

  “You get off soon?” Forte asked Nomad.

  “Whenever I want,” Nomad said, polishing a glass and looking out over the room.

  “Got a mission. Quick and dirty. No time for planning,” Forte said.

  Nomad smiled. “Right down my alley.” He set the glass on the bar. “Something to do with the Lamberth thing?”

  Forte put a finger to his lips. “Shhhh.” He leaned forward. “This has everything to do with it.”

  Nomad nodded. “I’m in.”

  Forte took a folded sheet of paper out of his pocket. He slid it across the bar. “Here’s the equipment list you’ll need. I’ll be waiting in my van out back.”

  Nomad unfolded the paper and scanned the list. He smiled more broadly now. “Gretna?” He looked up at Forte. “Let’s rock and roll.”

  Forte took a last sip of his drink and made a face.

  Nomad took the glass away. “The price of purity, huh?”

  Forte stood up. “The price of sanity.”

  * * *

  After Forte left, the woman at the bar waited a few minutes then quickly excused herself from the cloying company of the man trying to pick her up. She walked to the ornate restroom and peeked under each stall to make sure she was alone.

  She opened her purse and took out a cell phone. She dialed a number and spoke in quiet but urgent tones, then hung up.

  She had been surprised to get a call from the blond man who had hired her to have dinner with him at Mack's. No sex, just dinner. It had been a chore to act relaxed and to laugh at the man's stories. Something about him seemed chilling. But this little assignment had been easy.

  She dropped the phone back into her purse and snapped it shut. After a minute or so in front of the mirror to adjust her wig, she walked out of the bar.

  Chapter 24

  Monday, 1:45 a.m.

  The house was dark except for two rooms. A faint flickering came from the den, probably from a television set. In one of the bedrooms, the greenish light of a computer monitor shone on the walls and ceiling.

  Forte squatted behind a stand of azaleas in the back yard of the house in Gretna. “Any movement?” he whispered into his headset microphone.

  “Nothing so far,” responded Nomad from his position in the bushes along the front of the house.

  Both men were outfitted in night-camouflage with Kevlar vests and Kevlar leg protectors. They both carried short-barreled shotguns fitted with pistol grips and seven-round magazines. The first two rounds in each gun were non-lethal, a condition Forte insisted on and to which Nomad reluctantly agreed. The last five shells in each magazine meant business. Each man had two flash-bang grenades hanging from his belt. Nine millimeter handguns were snug in shoulder holsters with the safeties off.

  They were as ready as they could be, given the urgency of their mission.

  They had driven past the house a half-hour earlier, circled the block and passed it again. Only one house in the neighborhood, several streets over, showed any signs of anyone being awake. The lights were completely doused in all five of the homes with back yards connecting to the kidnapper’s house. Only one of the connecting houses – the one directly behind – looked empty. The carport of that house was vacant. Two newspapers lay at the end of the driveway.

  Forte had slowed the van in front of the house and Nomad had leaped from the vehicle and scurried up to the carport. He rang the doorbell and listened for any sound inside. He rang again. When you have no time to plan, he mused, the simplest tactic is the best. No one stirred inside the house. “It’s clear,” he said into his microphone. Forte circled back with the van and pulled into the carport. They stopped and watched the surrounding houses for any signs that the neighbors had stirred. Everything stayed dark and quiet except for a dog barking somewhere in the distance.

  Ordinarily it would have taken sixty seconds or less to jog over to the common fence that formed the back yard divider for the two houses, vault it, and trot around the house to check for any movement. Ordinarily. Forte and Nomad filled half an hour with their initial reconnaissance of the kidnapper’s hideout as they moved a few feet, stopped and watched for any indication they had drawn attention. The approach to the house had to be executed perfectly. Any sound could alert the neighborhood. At best, a neighbor would mistake them for burglars and call the police. At worst, the kidnapper would spy them and open fire.

  The house was quiet. Curtains were drawn in the room on the corner of the house that faced the back yard. Forte guessed the curtained room was a bedroom, and that Hallee was in it. The blinds were open on the other windows around the house. A careless mistake by the kidnapper, Forte thought, to allow visual entry to the house. Nomad had climbed a tree in the neighbor’s yard and, looking through a night-vision scope into the other bedroom, had seen a figure sitting at the desk with the computer. A sniper shot could take him out.

  But they had to play by a certain set of rules on this night, unlike some of their covert missions as SEALs in the past. Those missions had been the kind not reported in any of the official accounts of the Navy’s engagements. No one ever spoke of those off-the-book missions but they had been carried out. And carried out efficiently.

  On this night they could not be absolutely sure where the girl was located inside the house. Even if they were inclined to assassinate the kidnapper with a sniper’s bullet, they would still be taking a chance that the bullet would pass through the body of the kidnapper and hit Hallee also. After everything that had happened up to this point, that risk was unacceptable.

  Forte sat with his back against a tree trunk behind the azalea bushes, watching the house for any shadows moving across the walls. He had watched the window long enough to memorize the types of patterns sprinkled on the ceiling by the television set. He let his head move from side to side very slowly every minute or so, relying on his peripheral vision to catch any out-of-place movement in the yards surrounding him. There was no moon tonight but swirls of stars covered the cloudless sky. A gentle breeze blew through the branches above where he sat. He could hear the leaves whispering in the wind. The smell of flowers he could not name flowed over him. A perfect night for a strike.

  He had not realized how numb the kidnapping had left him. Never had someone in his protection been plucked from beneath his nose while he was on guard. He knew it was his pride that was suffering. Failure was the thing that terrified him more than anything else. He had failed, there was no denying that. Others could talk about the advantages the kidnapper had over him because of the camera surveillance and the rigged alarm system. He could not let himself off the hook so easily. No, there was only one way to redeem himself: get the girl back. He had lost her. He would recover her.

  He rubbed a hand over his eyes. He felt more at ease now than he had been at any time since the kidnapping. He knew why. He was doing something he was trained to do. From his first mock mission as a SEAL, he had known that this work was what he was born to do. When his team members had been practically puking on their boots with nerves, he had been surprised by his calmness. After that he had grown to accept it.

  He and Nomad had hashed out an attack strategy during the drive over the bridge to Gretna. First, determine if the kidnapper was still awake. Second, as much as was possible, identify which room the kidnapper was in and which room held Hallee. Third, create a diversion. The entry would be timed so that Nomad tossed a flash-bang grenade through the window at the same instant Forte blew open the back door with his shotgun. Fourth, subdue the kidnapper and recover Hallee. Forte would blast the stunned kidnapper with his non-lethal charges while Nomad found the girl. Fifth, get away as fast as possible. The neighborhood would be ablaze with lights after the flash bomb, but by then the mission would be over. Getting out safe was w
hat mattered.

  Not a great plan but it was all they had to work with. The element of surprise would give them an advantage. The kidnapper would be looking forward to collecting his $25 million the next day. He would not guess that his location was known.

  Forte slowly shucked out the shells in his shotgun. He reinserted them in a different order so that a lead-shot cartridge would be the first shell fired, followed by two of the non-lethal shells filled with rubber balls. Then four more lethal loads if the kidnapper forced the issue. Forte hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but he had no reservation about using them if he had to. In his mind it was clear: the girl’s life depended on him.

  He checked his watch. A quarter of an hour had passed since their last check-in. It was nearly 2 a.m.

  “Forte at checkpoint two,” he said into his microphone. “Moving to checkpoint number one.”

  “Roger that,” said Nomad in his earphone.

  Forte crouched and ran with his back bent as low as he could get. Running behind a row of azaleas, he dashed for the corner of the house then stopped, listening. He sprinted along the back of the house, hugging the wall as he passed below the dark windows. He stooped next to the small porch at the back door of the house.

  “Forte at checkpoint one. Hold steady now,” he whispered.

  “Roger.”

  He could picture Nomad carefully taking out the flash-bang grenade and crouching under the window of the bedroom.

  Forte let his breath go in and out steadily. He stayed perfectly still and let his eyes scan the back yard for any movement.

  No lights had come on in any of the houses around him. Nothing moved.

  He slowly swung his weapon up and pointed it at the door. One blast would do the trick.

  “Engage on three,” he said.

  “Roger.”

  “One…”

  Forte rose from his crouch slightly.

  “…two…”

  He locked his arm next to his side so that sharp recoil of the shotgun would not twist his wrist.

  “… three!”

  He pulled the trigger. Boom! The blast of the shotgun was almost drowned by the bigger crashing explosion of the stun grenade inside the house.

  As always happened in combat, everything slowed down now. A split second was played out in what seemed like an hour.

  The wood around the door lock on the back door splintered. Forte immediately smashed open the door and charged inside. He darted through the den and down a short hallway.

  The door to the bedroom was open. He dived through it and came out of the roll with his shotgun leveled.

  The figure was still sitting in the desk chair in front of the computer.

  Usually a stun grenade put a person on the ground with hands pressed over eardrums burst or temporarily deafened by the blast.

  Blam! He heard Nomad kick open the other bedroom door down the hallway. “The girl’s not here,” Nomad said in his earpiece.

  In the houses across the street, lights blinked on behind the windows.

  The figure at the desk did not move..

  “Hands up!” Forte shouted.

  Still no movement.

  He inched to his left and pulled out his mini-light. He shined it on the man’s face in the darkened room.

  But it wasn’t a man.

  It was a plastic blow-up dummy.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw a red flashing light.

  “Nomad! It’s a trap. Get out now!” he screamed.

  * * *

  The killer watched the whole operation from his van parked a quarter mile away in a convenience store parking lot.

  Good clean operation. Quick entry. Timed perfectly. The cameras he left behind caught it all. Couldn’t have done better myself, he thought. He watched Forte slowly circle the dummy he had left in the desk chair. He just wished he could clearly see the look of surprise on the man’s face. If only he had had more warning, he could have rigged a microphone to catch what the men were saying. Their last words.

  He fingered the button on the remote. The red button.

  Come on, now. I need the two of you together in that room.

  He slowly let out his breath. He glanced over at Hallee sitting in the corner of the van. She glared at him above her gag, her eyes full of fury at being rousted from a sound sleep in the middle of the night. It couldn’t be helped.

  He looked back at the monitor. Forte was gone from the room.

  He pressed the button.

  BAHLOOM! He was surprised how loud the explosion sounded from where he sat, inside the van.

  The monitor in front of him showed only static now.

  He looked at the girl. Her eyes showed fear.

  He stepped close to her and took the gag out of her mouth.

  “Shhhh,” he said. “It will be fine. It had to be done.”

  He moved to the driver’s seat of the van and started the ignition. He doubted that Forte and his friend could have gotten far enough away to escape the blast. It had to be done.

  He regretted having to get out of the house. It was a good hideaway. But regret never helped any situation.

  Tomorrow the whole operation would be over and he could leave this area.

  The first thing he needed to do was paint the van.

  * * *

  The explosion decimated the room where the dummy had been seated in the desk chair. It was as if a giant claw had reached down and snatched the entire corner of the house away. A few wall studs were still attached at the floor plate of the room but the rest were fragmented and lying in the front and side yards. The roof over the room was gone.

  For several seconds after the blast, pieces of shingles and tar paper rained down through the tree limbs. A car alarm across the street from the house squawked like a blackbird annoyed at being disturbed.

  Forte and Nomad lay on the other side of the heavy wooden fence in the back yard. They had barely cleared it before the bomb went off.

  Forte sat up. His ears rang but he was okay. Nomad sat up and shook his head. He gave Forte the OK sign.

  Forte jerked his thumb toward the van. They leaped up and ran to the vehicle.

  Lights were on everywhere in the neighborhood now.

  The men jumped into the van. Nomad chuckled. “Quite a little party we got going on,” he said.

  Forte started the van and screeched out of the driveway. He shook his head to stop the buzzing in his ears. Must keep focused, keep going. To Nomad he said, “The kidnapper won’t be in this neighborhood but he had to be fairly close to explode that bomb.” At least three different types of sirens sounded in the distance. Police and firetrucks and ambulances would be blocking the roads of the residential neighborhood in minutes. His ears were clearing up now.

  Forte steered the van out of the neighborhood until he reached an intersection with a larger thoroughfare. He mentally flipped a coin to go left or right. He took a right. This would take him closer to Highway 90. The killer would take that road if he were going to cross the river and travel north away from New Orleans.

  Driving about 10 miles per hour under the speed limit, he looked at the left side of the road while Nomad searched the right side. Service stations, a fast food restaurant, an appliance repair place. He slowed as he approached a used car lot.

  Three vans were on the lot. He pulled through the lot. None of them matched the description Aguilar had given him.

  A police car shot past the lot, followed by an ambulance.

  “Need to be moving out,” Nomad said, his face still pointing to the right. “Lotta heat coming.”

  Forte said nothing. He pounded the steering wheel with his fist. “They’re close. I know it.”

  He pulled out of the parking lot and drove half a block to a stop light. He waited for a the light to turn.

  A van crossed in front of him. A beige van with “Nance Plumbing” on the side.

  “Bingo,” said Nomad.

  * * *

  The man in t
he beige van kept his speed steady as the emergency vehicles careened around the corner. The traffic was light and there was no need to call attention to himself.

  All he had to do was make it across the bridge.

  He checked his rearview mirror. A black van was behind him, keeping a couple of cars between them. He changed lanes. The black van changed lanes. Could it be…?

  He revved his speed up and passed two cars ahead of him, then pulled over to the far right lane again and slowed. He checked his mirror.

  The black van had accelerated and matched his move. It made no attempt to get closer, keeping the same distance behind him.

  It’s got to be Forte, he thought. How did he find me?

  He approached a traffic light just before getting on Highway 90 which would take him across the river. He stopped and waited as a firetruck turned the corner to his right and came charging through the light in front of him. Just stay cool.

  * * *

  Forte watched the van. He hoped to keep out of sight and trail the kidnapper as long as he could before a confrontation developed.

  He remembered the e-mail message he had seen from the kidnapper on the Lamberth computer. If you want to see Hallee again, the message had said. For the child’s sake… There was no actual death threat. He believed that the kidnapper did not plan to kill the girl.

  But he didn’t want to force the issue in a rolling gun fight through the streets of New Orleans. He would keep his distance and hope to follow the killer back to his secondary hideout. A man as meticulous in his operation as this one would be sure to have one.

  He seemed like a cop, Benny had said. The skinny counterfeiter would have a feel for that, for sure.

  Forte glanced over at Nomad. He seemed as relaxed as if they were going for a Sunday drive through the countryside. The shotgun across his lap spoiled the effect a little.

  The light changed ahead and the beige van approached the Greater New Orleans Bridge which spanned the river. He increased speed to keep up as they ramped up onto the bridge, which not only rose above the river but curved to the right as it carried traffic to and from the Big Easy. The two vans rose higher and higher as the road inclined, the bridge spans rushing past them.

  A blue Ford Taurus and old maroon Nissan Stanza separated the two vans. The Ford was driven by an old man who clutched the wheel with both hands. He could not seem to decide which lane to choose. Forte watched the old man and the beige van at the same time. His speed was approaching 70 miles per hour.