Ranger: Intrepid 4.5

by Chris Allen

  Morgan heard the two heavies leaving. They had their orders and Morgan wouldn’t have long before he had to act. He heard Erika Gustafsson’s fingernails tapping on a smartphone as she paced around the room, but she and Redmond were otherwise silent. Morgan got a sense that they were downstairs, somewhere below ground level; there was no natural light coming in and he couldn’t hear the rain. Over the past few minutes he’d been slowly moving his head into a position where he might be able to see something, anything, in the room. He’d been set down partially under a circular dining table and facing into a corner, and he had now managed to catch a reflection of the room through the glass doors of an antique credenza that had previously been out of view. It was a masculine room, lots of dark wood and dark leather. From what he could make out, Nash was strapped to a chair behind him but not so far as to be beyond reach. Gustafsson was about ten feet away, focused on her phone – checking in with her masters, no doubt. He could just make out the blur of Redmond diagonally opposite in the far corner, slumped into a chair.

  Morgan estimated that it had been about two minutes since the heavies left the room. That meant that the rope-man would be back at any minute and the driver wouldn’t be far behind him. Confirming that neither Gustafsson nor Redmond was paying attention to him, Morgan began a series of the most infinitesimal movements and stretches designed to get the blood flowing through his body again without drawing any attention. At the same time, he began breathing steadily, deeply and quietly, bringing the amount of oxygen in his blood back up to fight-level preparedness. Very soon he was coiled and ready, but to an onlooker, he hadn’t moved. He heard the sound of heavy footfalls upon carpeted wooden stairs. Someone returning. He waited.

  Gustafsson’s fingernail tapping on the phone stopped just as the man re-entered the room.

  “Make it quick,” she said. “I want to be out of here in fifteen minutes.”

  Three. Two. One. A hand grabbed Morgan’s right ankle. He gave it a second to allow the man to get into his task. Then he spun around so that he was now on his back. The rope-man was stunned but reacted quickly, tightening his grip on the ankle and raising the other hand to strike at Morgan. Morgan brought his left leg back and kicked hard at the man’s face. The angle was awkward, so it took three attempts to dislodge him. The rope-man fell sideways. In the background, Morgan heard the Senator call, “Jesus!”, but Jesus wasn’t listening. Morgan sat up and grabbed the collar of the rope-man’s jacket. Pulling the man under the table, he drove a fist hard into the side of his head, sending him careening into the antique credenza. There was a loud bang as bone hit oak. A glass door and a bunch of ornaments shattered and the debris went everywhere. Rope-man was down, at least for the moment. Morgan spun to find Gustafsson on her phone, calling in backup. He launched from the floor, wondering about Vaughan and whether or not she’d deliver in time. Stumbling past Nash, who was bound to a chair with what looked like a cushion cover pulled over his head, Morgan reached Gustafsson and belted the phone from her hands. It smashed against the hearth and Morgan stamped on it.

  “Sit down!” he ordered. “On that chair. And, you, Senator. Get over here. Now!”

  Gustafsson let out a tirade of abuse in what Morgan knew to be Russian. Morgan ignored it and pushed her down onto a wooden dining chair. He grabbed a second chair, placed the two of them back to back, and reached for Redmond.

  “Did she just speak Russian?” Redmond asked. His eyes were wide with the shock of everything happening round him. “Jesus! Did she just speak—”

  “For fuck’s sake, Senator,” said Morgan, grabbing Redmond by the collar and throwing him onto the second chair. “Of course she did.” Then he took the rope that rope-man had brought in and bound the two of them together. Satisfied, he returned to rope-man and searched him. He didn’t find his P226, but he did find a knife and a 9mm HK USP Compact. He retrieved both, cut some excess rope from the length he’d bound the others with and tied rope-man to the credenza.

  Now for Nash.

  Morgan tore the cushion cover away. Nash’s eyes were full of fire and sadness. With the knife, Morgan carefully cut away the fabric they’d used to gag him. Instantly, Nash was talking. Wanting to apologize. Wanting to explain. Morgan held up a hand.

  “Not another word,” he said. “This isn’t the time or the place. We’ll debrief once we’ve handed these assholes over. You got me?”

  Nash nodded. “OK,” he said. “I got it.”

  Morgan dropped to one knee and began cutting away at the ropes that had bound Nash’s ankles and wrists to the chair. He was almost done when there was a sudden commotion at the door. Gustafsson was instantly shouting orders. Morgan realized that the driver had returned. Fuck! He dropped the knife and ripped the HK from his belt. He stood, shielding Nash as he raised and fired the weapon. There was an explosion of gunfire. Dual streams of opposing rounds. Gustafsson and Redmond yelling and screaming. Morgan saw his shots making direct hits on the driver: face, chest and abdomen. The guns fell silent. Gustafsson stopped barking orders. Redmond was sobbing inconsolably.

  Nash wasn’t moving.

  Outside, the growing screams of police sirens told Morgan that the cavalry had arrived.

  DAY 6 – TUESDAY

  George Washington University Hospital

  900 23rd St., NW

  Washington DC

  Alex Morgan sat on the window ledge of the room looking out across Rock Creek toward Georgetown. The nurse had allowed him to bring in his coffee on the proviso that he didn’t spill it on anyone or anything, which was great, because he needed it. It had been a tough couple of days – a tough week for that matter. The nurse finished the barrage of tests she had to run and made her notations on the chart at the end of the bed.

  “OK, that’s it. I’m all done,” she said. “If you need anything, push the button. We’re just outside. I’ll be back in an hour for the next round. So, get some rest.”

  “Thanks a million,” said Nash. “We won’t be much longer.”

  “So, how are you feeling, John?” said Morgan. “You were bloody lucky you know.”

  “Yeah, I guess I was,” replied Nash. “I must have known you’d have my back.”

  “Well, I tried but that bastard was firing so many rounds into that room I would have needed Wonder Woman’s bracelets to get ’em all! And he was using my gun!”

  They both laughed.

  Nash grimaced in pain, grabbing at the bandages around his right shoulder. “Don’t ruin Wonder Woman for me, major!”

  “At least the round that got you didn’t do any serious damage. It mostly went straight through, didn’t it? I don’t know what you’re complaining about.”

  “I was in surgery for three hours last night, you know!”

  “You’ve been through worse,” said Morgan. “A lot worse. Anyway, you shouldn’t have even been there in the first place. You should be counting your lucky stars.”

  “There is that, I guess,” Nash replied.

  “Well, you’re alive, mate, and that’s all that’s important. I won’t ask why you decided to go in there. Not right now anyway, but soon enough, plenty of people will be asking you that and lot of other questions that’ll be tough for you to answer. When that time comes, we need to make sure that you’re prepared. You understand, right?”

  “I understand I’m in deep shit,” said Nash. “That’s about all I need to know.”

  “Not necessarily,” Morgan replied. “You’ve got to remember that you did the world a great service. If not for you, none of the things that Redmond’s been into would have come to light. It’s quite conceivable that he would have continued on his dream political run all the way to the White House. Can you imagine that – a man like Bartholomew T. Redmond having all that power? Only he won’t, and we have you to thank for that.”

  “So, do we know why he was involved with the Russians?”

  “Not yet. Although, it’s very possible he didn’t even know that he was. Something he said yesterday
morning: he was surprised to hear Erika Gustafsson speaking Russian. If that’s true, then good ol’ Redmond fell for one of the oldest cons going. He goes in believing that he’s simply sharing what would normally be considered privileged commercial information to a business connection on the basis that he’ll receive some kind of benefit in return – financial, sexual – to compensate him for the risk he is taking. All the while convincing himself that all he’s really doing is greasing some wheels and taking a little cream for himself in the process. However, what he doesn’t know is that the information he’s providing is not going to a commercial contractor but to an intermediary acting on behalf of a foreign government. In a split second, he’s gone from greasing some wheels and committing corruption-related offenses, to aiding America’s enemies and being in the firing line for charges relating to treason, sedition and subversive activities.”

  “Do you think what I did made a difference? I mean, a real difference? Or did I blow it?”

  “John, I suspect that right now the Senator is currently getting the grilling of his life. We arranged for all the information you’d collected – all those dates, times and names in that notebook of yours – to be handed over to the FBI; along with all the digital footage and stills we captured the other night. That information will provide the basis for a full investigation into Senator Redmond’s activities over the past however many years, including all of his associations and the processes for the awarding of any government contracts he may have had influence over. If the FBI is able to confirm that he provided any information or assistance to the Russian Federation via Ms Gustafsson, then it is highly likely he’ll face treason charges. Believe me, the FBI will have a field day with this. In less than twenty-four hours, you’ve gone from being on the top of their most-wanted list for that stunt you pulled at the embassy to being the poster boy for their next recruitment campaign.”

  “But what about escaping from custody? Those cops must be pretty pissed with me.”

  “Sure, they’re pissed but they’re also mostly Vets and they all now know you’re a Medal of Honor winner.”

  “Yeah, a lot of good that’s done me,” said Nash.

  “None of them want to see you go down, John. And if all it took was them knowing about that medal, then I’d say it’s just proven its value ten-fold. You’ve been given a second chance. In fact, I believe the MPD cops have even put the hat around at the station to get some money together for you. It’ll all be OK. Leave all that stuff to me.”

  “So what happens to me now? I can’t stay in here forever.”

  “Rob McDowell is on the way in to see you,” Morgan replied. “He’s going to take you under his wing and get you back on your feet. The VA will make sure that you get all the assistance you need, including accommodation and, eventually, when you’re ready, finding a job. Rob will take you through all the details, but you need to understand that it’s going to take time and you need to accept the help. You’ve earned it, John. This country owes you. I owe you. Which reminds me …” Morgan bent to the floor and rifled through a sports bag he’d brought in. There were a number of items in the bag for Nash, like shaving gear, toothbrush and toothpaste, and some books, but Morgan extracted only one – a wrapped parcel. He placed it on the bed beside Nash.

  “Over the past few days, I’ve been reunited with a man who just a few years ago saved my life, and along the way I’ve learned a lot of things about him that I had no idea about.”

  “Oh, shit,” said Nash.

  “And,” Morgan continued. “I suspect, he’s been secretly hoping that I would never find out about those things; but, I have.”

  “Major, I can explain...”

  “So, on behalf of the store owner and shoppers trapped in the middle of the armed hold-up at the Seven-Eleven on 14th Street, and the couple who survived the attack by the gang on 18th Street, and the string of countless other grateful citizens who were rescued by a faceless stranger, who flew in from the shadows to deliver some rough justice in their hour of need, I say – Rest easy now, Ranger. Your work here is done.”

  Nash didn’t know where to look or what to do.

  “Well, open the bloody parcel, Sergeant Nash,” said Morgan. “It’s not going to open itself.”

  John Nash laughed and tore away the paper to reveal a new black sweatshirt complete with the Batman logo emblazoned across the front of it. He laughed out loud.

  “Truth be told, I’m quite the fan of the Bat,” said Morgan. “And we can’t have you getting around in that old sweatshirt with bullet holes in it now, can we? Besides, I think it ended up in the trash when they cut it off you.”

  “This really means a lot, major,” Nash replied. They shook hands. “I don’t know what to say. You’ve really got my back.”

  “Only you and I know your secret, John. So let’s keep it that way,” said Morgan. “But if I ever hear of a vigilante operating in Washington DC ever again, I’ll fly straight back here and personally help the coppers lock you up.”

  DAY 7 – WEDNESDAY

  British Airways Lounge

  Dulles International Airport

  Washington DC

  Alex Morgan took a seat in the BA Galleries Lounge and gratefully accepted the glass of Scotch from the waiter who had followed him around to his table with it. He was ready to board British Airways flight 216 from Dulles to Heathrow and was looking forward to getting back home. It had been a hell of a week. He could scarcely believe that it had started in the jungles of Peru recovering a friend, and ended on the privileged streets of Georgetown recovering another. Apparently Ricardo Pedrosa was doing well and would be back to normal within about a month. That was good news because Pedrosa hadn’t been in good shape when they’d found him. Thinking about Pedrosa’s injuries, Morgan suddenly became aware of his own pain from this latest task. The punches to his head had certainly had the desired effect. They were expertly administered by people who knew what they were doing. And they’d given Nash a thorough working over, too. Morgan was interested in knowing exactly who the two heavies were. For all he knew, they could be Russian nationals employed by the embassy, or just locals engaged to protect Gustafsson. Those details had yet to be determined. Vaughan was working closely with the Interpol Washington office to support the FBI investigation and she’d keep Morgan informed. At least, Morgan thought, he had the satisfaction of knowing that one of the two bastards was dead now.

  Erika Gustafsson was a whole other matter. She was in custody and dealing with her was going to be a very complex and, potentially, highly contentious issue for the US authorities. Depending on which way the cards fell, she’d probably face charges of conspiracy to act as an agent of a foreign government without notifying the US Government and would most likely end up being deported back to Russia. She was a seriously cold customer. Listening to the way she had controlled Redmond and put him in his place so easily, a man with so much power who was used to being respected, Morgan was in no doubt about why she had been selected for the mission. But for whom was she working? The Russian Government? After his recent experience of the Russian clandestine services, Morgan knew that was a strong possibility. But what of Gustafsson’s boss, Budolfsen; what was his part in all this? It would be easy to dismiss him on the basis that all the attention had fallen upon Erika Gustafsson because of her connection with the Russian Embassy. Surely Budolfsen would know her better than anybody given she was his constant companion, professionally at least. Or, could it be that Budolfsen, like Redmond and God knows how many others, was also on her leash?

  Morgan took another sip of Scotch and his thoughts returned to Nash.

  On face value, it would be inconceivable to some that a person in Nash’s situation could be hailed a hero for the things he had done. He was a homeless person, a vagrant, who had on at least two occasions attempted to illegally enter private property for the purposes, apparently, of taking the law into his own hands. People like that were a menace and the uncertainty of their intentions must surely
be considered a threat to the community. Morgan could accept that point of view on face value. But in Nash’s case, that wasn’t the issue at all. Nash was a veteran. He had been called upon to defend his nation and in so doing had seen the worst humankind had to offer. He had lost too many friends and a great deal of himself. Yet, despite returning home to a thankless nation who were largely only interested in an endless torrent of sensationalist trash pop culture, at its core, his mission was still one of protection. He would always have a need to do what was right. No matter what the consequences were for him. No matter how he had ended up, in uniform or living on the street, he was programmed by default to serve. All he needed was the support and respect to continue to do that. At least now he had been brought back into the fold and McDowell would ensure that he got all the help he needed. Morgan just hoped he could stay the course.

  Morgan’s phone buzzed on the table.

  “You heading back yet?” It was Sheridan.

  “Yeah, I’m at Dulles now. Flight leaves in a couple of hours; thought I’d park myself in the bar for a while.”

  “Well, you’ve earned it, that’s for sure, but I need you back on deck ASAP. So take the rest while you can. I’ll tie things up with Mel Vaughan while you’re in transit.”

  “Understood,” Morgan said. “What’s next?”

  “We’ve received another Interpol Red Notice, noted for ‘Intrepid action’. Seems there’s a lot more of these coming our way. The General wants you on it.”

  “OK. So, where am I going and when do I leave?”

  “Kazakhstan. You leave Saturday.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS