Stand Down

by Don Pendleton

  Casey inhaled, then lobbed the question back at her daughter. “What if he did?”

  Her daughter shook her head, blond hair gleaming in the sun. “There isn’t a man alive who’s gonna tell me I’m not going to college.”

  “That’s my girl—but you’re still grounded for two weeks.”

  “What? Oh, come on, Mom—”

  “One more word outta you and it’s a month.”

  Connie opened her mouth, then realized silence was the better part of valor and closed it again.

  “All right. Look, I gotta head back to the office and finish up the work that I was interrupted in the middle of by the call to get you. You get started on your homework, and we’ll grab a pizza on the way home.”

  “Mmm. Mexican from Rollins’s, with extra sour cream?”

  “Sure, dear.” Casey let out her breath, pleased to have navigated that conversational minefield with her daughter. They were just within sight of the newspaper building when Connie’s cell phone rang.

  “Hello?…hey, Everado…I know, I know, don’t worry about it…we’ll talk later…really?” She cupped her hand over the mouthpiece. “He says Deputy Quintanar wants to talk to me about the Bittermans.”

  A cold ball of ice coalesced in Casey’s stomach. “What about?”

  “I don’t know—hold on.” She put the phone back to her ear. “Why?…Well, yeah, I knew her, but not well…she was kinda stuck up, if you know what I mean—all right, all right, if he’s there, I expect we’ll talk to him…okay…bye.” She flipped the two-year old clamshell phone closed. “The deputy thinks I might be able to reach Kelly on her cell if I call her.”

  “I thought you told Everado that you didn’t know her that well.”

  Connie shrugged. “We were on the forensics team together for a year, so she knows of me. I can get her number. Hey, maybe I could say that you want to talk to her, get her side of the story.”

  A small ray of hope bloomed in Connie’s stomach next to the ice. As much as she didn’t want her daughter involved in the “investigation,” if the deputy was going to officially request Connie’s assistance, and Casey could gain something by it anyway, then there was no reason not to try and turn lemons into lemonade.

  “We’ll see, dear. Let’s keep that idea between you and me for the time being.” Casey spotted Quintanar’s cruiser parked outside the Gazette building. “Let’s see exactly what the deputy wants, and we’ll go from there, okay?”

  JACK BITTERMAN AWOKE to find himself duct-taped to a chair in an empty, rectangular, metal-walled room, still dressed in the light blue button-down shirt and black slacks he’d left the office in to go home and get his family the night before. His shoulder and arm throbbed unmercifully, and he glanced over to see a large, drying bloodstain running down his shirt. The lower legs of his pants were stiff and crusted, and as the memory of the past few hours crashed down upon him, he realized that his clothes were sticky with his dead wife’s blood.

  He didn’t have time to reflect or grieve about it, however, because the large metal doors at the end of the room opened to reveal three men—two outfitted in security uniforms and carrying three tires, and the third one dressed in a charcoal-gray suit. The two men took up positions on either side of Jack and set down the tires. The suited man stepped forward into the light.

  Jack glared at him with all the rage he could muster. “Mr. De Cavallos, what is going on? Why am I being restrained? Why did a sheriff’s deputy come to my fucking house and kill my wife?”

  The suited man walked over to Jack and took his face by the chin, lifting it up to the light. Jack blinked back tears as the naked bulb shone down on him. “Jack, Jack, Jack. Please, don’t embarrass either of us with this pretense of not knowing why you’re here. We know everything you’ve been doing over the past several months—the skimming, the copying of internal documents so you could cut a deal either with us or the U.S. Attorney’s Office, all of it. Right now your home computer is being wiped of any incriminating files, and we were going to let your wife and daughter go if they had cooperated—after all, you were the one who had betrayed us, not them—but when Sandra tried to kill Rojas yesterday, well, it was obvious that the corruption had spread deeper than we’d originally thought. We’ve taken care of your wife, and we have you here now. There is one more person, however, who may have details of what you were doing with our company—your daughter, Kelly.”

  Ignoring the pain that flared in his shoulder, Jack gritted his teeth and strained against his bonds. “You leave her out of this—she had no idea what was going on, goddamn you!”

  De Cavallos spread his hands in a show of helplessness. “I wish I could believe that.” He nodded at one of the men, who walked back out the door, while the other one produced a knife and began cutting Jack free. “Are you aware of something called the microondas, Jack?”

  Trying to rub feeling back into his hands and feet, Jack shook his head. With his gaze on De Cavallos, he missed the other man take a tire and slip it over the lawyer’s head.

  “The term translates roughly as ‘the microwave.’ It originated in Brazil, Rio de Janeiro, actually, used as a punishment for people who cooperated with the police.”

  Another tire was slipped over Jack’s head, resting on the first one, and covering him from his knees down. “What are you doing?”

  “The suspected informant is made to stand in a tower of tires.” A third tire went around Jack, then a fourth. At the same time, the second man returned, carrying a bright red container. “Then the entire stack is covered in gasoline and set on fire, burning the person alive.”

  A fifth tire went around Jack, concealing his waist. It was followed by a sixth tire. De Cavallos held up his hand at the seventh. “Tell me where your daughter may be hiding, and I will kill you quickly, you have my word. Tell me nothing, and my men will finish the job.”

  Jack looked at him for a long moment, inhaled as if he was about to speak, then spit in the man’s face. “You may have taken my wife and destroyed my life, but I’ll be damned if you’re gonna take my daughter, too. Go to hell, you goddamn motherfucker.”

  De Cavallos took out a silk handkerchief and wiped his cheek, then nodded at his men to continue. “After you, Mr. Bitterman.”

  The tire tower continued until it completely covered the lawyer. The second man poured the entire two gallons of gasoline over the column, making Jack gasp and choke as the harsh liquid rained down on him. There might have been a brief, muffled sob from inside the rubber cylinder, but then the room fell silent again, the hush broken only by the drip of gasoline. De Cavallos hesitated, in case the other man might relent, but then he nodded to the first man, who lit a match and dropped in into the gas trail they had poured to the entrance.

  The gas ignited, the fire racing to the soaked tires, which went up in a whoosh of flames. A single, long, agonized scream came from the inferno, then the tortured voice inside fell silent, and the only noise was the crackle of the inferno and the hiss and pop of melting rubber.

  Closing the door to the modified cargo trailer, De Cavallos turned to his two security men. “Get all of the men together, on duty, off duty, I don’t care. We’re going to get that Bitterman puta and find out everything she knows.”

  4

  It took Bolan less than an hour to set up a suitable base of operations. First, he found what had to be the last independent motel in the area, a single-story building where each room opened to the outside—just what he was looking for. He paid for two nights, then checked out the room, making sure the window in the bathroom opened easily and quietly.

  Next he bought a local paper and scanned the small want-ads section until he found a house for rent on the outskirts of town. A quick call set up an appointment, and he drove out to look the place over. It was exactly what he needed—far enough away to be private, yet close enough that he could be on Main Street in five minutes if necessary. He toured the two-bedroom, one bathroom ranch house with detached garage in under tw
o minutes, noting the water-stained ceiling, a moldy odor emanating from the bathroom, the back door leading into a nearby field, and came back out.

  “It’s perfect. Your ad said five hundred a month?”

  The landlord, Arnold Tolliver, a skinny guy with glasses, an underbite and receding brown hair, sighed. “Yeah, and I can’t really come down on the rent.”

  Bolan was already counting out hundred-dollar bills. “Not what I asked. Here’s the first month and the security deposit.” He held out the money, which the guy snatched up, his eyes wide. Bolan kept his hand out. “Keys?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Arnold nearly fumbled the keys getting them out of his pocket, but managed to hand them over. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

  “I will.” Bolan waited until Tolliver had driven away before getting to work. Taking his black duffel bag inside, he opened it, took out three small wireless cameras, walked outside and placed them in hidden vantage points that gave him a view of the front and back of the house through his laptop. Walking back down the driveway, he set up an infrared motion detector that would alert him to any vehicle coming up the driveway.

  Going back inside, he changed into a black turtleneck and black combat pants, exchanging his slip-on shoes for well-worn combat boots. Next he turned to his weapons, giving them a cursory yet thorough review to ensure that they were in top working order. By the time he was finished, the twilight was fading into night.

  Bolan slipped his Beretta 93-R into a clamshell holster that he secured at the small of his back and pulled on a windbreaker over that. Zipping the bag, he tossed it into the back of the Caddy and drove back into town, heading through the main drag and out toward the way he had come in that morning. Passing the Bitterman house, he kept going, driving until he found the first side road heading west. Turning onto it, he drove for another mile, then pulled over to the side of the road.

  Opening the bag again, he selected the equipment he’d need for the next few hours, then closed the bag, slammed the door and locked the vehicle. Night had fallen, and the sky was lit up with an array of stars that Bolan rarely saw. Not sparing the country landscape a second glance, he started walking back down the road.

  Ten minutes later, he was close enough to spot the Bitterman house standing in dark relief against the sodium arc lights of the city. Deep ditches had been carved out on either side of the road to handle flash floods, although they were currently bone dry. Bolan descended into one that gave him a good view of the house and the surrounding area. Removing a small pair of night-vision binoculars from a side pants pocket, he activated them and scanned the house, the grounds and the fields on either side of the plot of ground, looking for any activity.

  He stayed there for an hour, watching. He also noted the frequency of cars passing on the highway. There were six total. After spotting no activity around the home, he checked all around for any suspicious vehicles or people in the vicinity. Seeing none, he rose from the ditch and walked toward the back of the house. Once there, he paused just before walking onto the property and scanned for motion detector lights or any obvious security. Seeing none, he put his binoculars away, flipped down a fourth generation night-vision monocular over his right eye and moved to the back door, which opened onto a brick patio with a built-in barbecue grill.

  He noted there was no crime-scene tape securing the door, then scanned it and the surrounding framework for any kind of cameras or security setup. Not finding any, he went to work on the door with his picks and had it open in less than ninety seconds. Easing the door open an inch, he extended the end of a small fiber-optic camera attached to a monitor and panned the room, making sure no one was waiting for him. Satisfied, he pushed the door open enough to slip inside, then closed and locked it behind him.

  Bolan found himself in a large living room, with a giant flat-screen TV mounted on one wall, surrounded by a long, leather sectional couch, a couple of matching recliners and other assorted furniture, all illuminated in his monocular’s green glow. To his right was a hallway with a stairway off it leading up to the second level. The hallway itself continued on into what appeared to be the kitchen. Bolan spared a quick look upstairs, but smelling familiar odors from the room ahead walked there instead.

  The stink of spilled blood and burned cordite was still very noticeable in the air. Seeing large stains on the floor and cabinets, he flipped up his night-vision gear and took out a small flashlight to examine the dried blood. Carefully stepping around the evidence, he studied the scene from several angles, trying to figure out what exactly had gone down here. From the spray patterns, at least two people had been shot, but there were odd movement patterns in the pool, as if one of the victims had come in after the first one had been killed—or while they were being killed.

  Shaking his head, Bolan switched off the light and resumed using his night vision. He scanned the rest of the kitchen, finding a few bullet holes in the cabinets—one in the southeast corner, a neat hole in the molding around the doorway a few inches off the hardwood floor, and two near the refrigerator, one having punched a neat hole through the stainless-steel side of the appliance. Someone was shooting at whoever was here, he surmised. Without a forensic workup, there was nothing more he could learn from this room.

  Bolan moved through the rest of the first floor, finding nothing but regular living space. Heading back to the stairway, he crept up to the second-floor landing, listening for any signs of life. Scanning the bedrooms, he quickly found the master, which had an adjoining room that had been used as an office, complete with a computer. It was off, and Bolan switched it on, waiting for it to run through its warm-up routines. When it was finished, he tried to access it but was blocked by a password request. The soldier was about to place a call to Kurtzman when he heard a faint noise from another room—the scrape of something, maybe a foot, against a wall.

  Drawing his Beretta, he attached a stubby suppressor to the extended barrel and noiselessly walked toward where he’d heard the sound coming from—the girl’s bedroom. Halting outside the door, he listened, waiting for any other sound. Trying to ease the door open, he grimaced as it caught on something, stopping before he could ease his way inside. Before he could try to clear it, he heard another noise—the clink of something on porcelain. Stepping back, he moved down the hall to the nearest bedroom, a neat guest room that had a good view of the hallway and the girl’s doorway. Keeping his pistol at his side, Bolan stood just inside the door and waited.

  He had to give whoever was inside credit—they weren’t rushing to get out of the room. Long minutes passed, but Bolan was far too used to lying in wait to let someone else get by him. At last, the door slowly opened, and a teenage girl with bedraggled hair and a sweat-streaked face peeked out.

  Bolan pulled back, not wanting to startle her back into hiding. He heard movement in the hallway beyond. Edging out just far enough to see around the wall, he saw her creeping toward the stairs. He was about to call out to her when the moonlight gleamed off something in her hands.

  Kelly had a gun.

  Bolan gritted his teeth. She was so wired now that any noise, any approach would most likely end up with him getting shot. There was only one way to play it, and he didn’t hesitate.

  Holstering the Beretta, he moved out into the hallway, grateful for the thick carpeting that muffled his footsteps. Kelly was still creeping toward the stairs, every sense alert for any sign of life. Bolan centered himself, raised his hands and walked directly at her.

  She was so intent on what was ahead of her that she didn’t hear the movement from behind until it was too late. When Bolan was a step away, her head raised, and she started to turn, but not soon enough.

  Swiftly, he clamped one hand around her mouth, while his other hand grasped the frame of the revolver she was holding, making sure to get the fleshy part of his hand under the back of the hammer, so even if she did pull the trigger, it couldn’t move back far enough to fire. Letting out a muffled squeal, she reflexively squeezed th
e trigger, but only made the hammer dig into the web of skin between Bolan’s thumb and index finger. He didn’t have the leverage to lift her off the ground, and he was rewarded for his efforts by a hard kick to his shin.

  “Stop struggling, Kelly, I’m not going to hurt you!” he hissed into her ear. He had to repeat his words again, as she simply tried harder to escape. Twisting hard, he wrenched the pistol out of her hands, which freed her fingers to claw at his face. Bolan reared back, dropping the gun on the ground and wrapping his free arm around her upper chest, pinning one arm against her side. Her other hand scrabbled across his face, and he twisted away from her fingers, not wanting to risk getting scratched in the eye. Despite his weight and height advantage, both of which were considerable, she fought like a wildcat.

  “Damn it, knock it off! I work for the Justice Department of the United States!” That seemed to get through, for she suddenly stopped struggling. “Listen to me very carefully. I know something strange is going on in this town, and from what I can tell, your parents were killed because of it. The only thing I can promise you right now is that you’re much safer with me than anywhere else at the moment. Do you understand?”

  A second passed, then the girl nodded slightly.

  “All right, if I let you go, will you promise not to run? In return, I promise to do everything I can to help you.”

  Another nod, quicker this time. “Okay, on three. One…two…three.” Bolan took both of his hands away, and the girl whirled, tensing to flee, but watching him carefully. Her eyes flicked to the pistol a few feet away, then back to Bolan.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  Bolan slowly moved his left hand to his back pocket. “I’m Matt Cooper, Department of Justice, Domestic Security Section. I’m going to show you my badge, nice and slow, all right?”

  She nodded, watching his hand as he brought out the wallet with its laminated ID card that confirmed what he had just said.