by J. L. Saint
Fayetteville had no active red-light surveillance in the area.
Jack didn’t believe in coincidences and he wasn’t a big fan of luck, but Beck’s call reporting that a dark blue van had turned down the same dirt road as Dugar had made Jack wonder if that hellbound handbasket everything was tied to had just landed in Harnett County, North Carolina.
More agents from Fort Bragg’s CID and the Harnett County Sheriff’s Department should have been here by now.
It seemed really too convenient that Roger had set up surveillance on Dugar via Surf and Mac. And that surveillance would lead to rescuing Roger from being kidnapped by Dugar. Jack refused to consider that Roger and Mari had been immediately murdered—
Jack snapped his head up in disbelief at the wail of multiple sirens coming their way. “What the hell is that?”
“Sounds like somebody’s head rolling.” Mac winced.
“No.” Surf shook his head. “That’s the sound of us getting screwed. Even if by some miracle the siren hounds aren’t heading here, Dugar and every man in that compound are now on alert.”
“Which means if Dugar does have Roger and Mari in there, things just got worse.”
“We’ve got big trouble, DT.”
Startled, Jack swung around as Beck, dripping wet and prodding a prisoner in front of him, seemingly materialized out of thin air, looking like a warrior from the past. Long black hair loose and dripping wet, shirtless with tattooed bands around his upper arms and a dagger over his heart. All he needed was a tomahawk in his hand rather than a .44 Magnum to look exactly like his ancestor, legendary Native American Civil War tracker, Ghost Walker. At the sight of an unknown, Surf and Mac drew their pistols into view.
Jack palmed his P226, ready for action. “You’re just now realizing that?” He cocked his brow at Beck then assessed the prisoner. A very pissed-off male dressed in camo and grease paint. About thirty. Built like Popeye and stiff with suppressed rage. “Company for dinner?”
“No time.” Beck wiped dripping water from his forehead with his middle finger, telling Jack what to do then shoved his prisoner toward Mac and Surf. “Shoot him in the foot if you have to, but I wouldn’t kill him. He’s either ATF or FBI, isn’t buying my story, and we don’t have time for chitchat.” He cleared leaves away and began drawing in the dirt. “Looks as if Dugar’s base is a militia camp. The Cape Fear River runs along the back of the property. Electric barbed wire and cheap motion-activated security cameras form a border on both sides and across the front of the compound. They’re armed and dangerous, serious gun-range setup and several combat training areas within sight of the river. Small cabins, about twenty of them are in this area. Large buildings are located here and here. This one looks like an armory. Parking lot is here, about fifteen vehicles. There is a dark blue van in the lot, but no sign of the commander or Mari. Three men were on perimeter watch. One at the guard gate in the front, one on each side. They did have their eyes glued to their smartphones, and would have been easy marks, but the sirens are game-changers. They’ll be on alert now. Also, we aren’t the only ones with eyes on these birds. There’s a major surveillance operation set up on the other side of the river. This guy is one of them, I’m sure, but he’s not talking. Caught him with high-powered binoculars trained on the camp.”
Surf and Mac looked stunned, but kept their pistols on the prisoner.
Jack was used to Beck’s phenomenal recon skills. From the description and accompanying drawings, Beck had not only swum the Cape Fear River and scouted the perimeter of the militia camp, but to see the placement of the compound’s inner buildings as he did, he had to have shimmied a tall tree. Not to mention capturing a prisoner. A regular Superman. Too bad he couldn’t turn back time or silence sirens.
The entire operation to find Roger and Mari was about to be blown wide open. He nodded at the prisoner. “He’s your big trouble.”
“No. There’s a trail of blood leading away from the compound with evidence of a second person either with the injured person or following the injured person.”
“Roger?”
“I don’t know, but I am hoping. If there was a way to escape, he’d have done it.” Beck turned and left.
Jack hesitated half a second then decided he wasn’t going to sit his ass here and wait for this circus to unfold as every Tom, Dick and Harry in law enforcement hit balls with military brass in deciding what to do and how to do it. With the sirens putting every joker with a secret for miles on edge, Jack didn’t see any way to avoid a standoff between the militia and the police. If that happened and Roger and Mari were hostages then Jack wanted to be closer to the action with Beck at his side—a man who had the skill and the guts to go in with him and save the commander and Mari if they had to.
Jack pointed at Beck’s captive. “Mac, watch his ass until he can see straight. Surf, find out who his boss is and get him here. CID’s Sergeant Vance should be here shortly and the Harnett County sheriff sounds like he and all of his deputies are less than five minutes away. It’s going to be a long party and you two are in charge until the head honchos…” he paused to listen to the posse of sirens, “…and the idiot cavalry arrive.”
Jack went after Beck.
Dugar heard the sirens closing in and knew they were too close and too many to be anything other than the law was about to be on the White Aryan Vipers’ doorstep. Slayer’s reign was about to end.
Dugar stopped dead in his tracks and shuddered hard. It was as if Lloyd reached out, grabbed him by the shirt and shook him. He could even hear Lloyd’s drawling voice. What in the hell are you doing, Dugar?
“I don’t know, Lloyd. I don’t know.” Dugar had been going in damn circles looking for Bean. He’d found a bit of blood here and a bit of blood there, but none of it led him anywhere.
You hear the sirens, don’t you?
“Yeah, I hear the law coming.”
Think, buddy. We had a plan and opportunity is knocking.
“The plan. I got it, Lloyd. I’ll nail them. Slayer’s ass too. I’ll nail him too, Lloyd.”
That’s right. Make my dream. You and me, we’ll get the best of them all.
Jack found Beck waiting not more than fifty feet away.
“Wondered if you were going to come.” Beck moved off.
Jack kept pace. “How could you doubt?”
Beck shrugged. “Things have changed since Lebanon. You’ve changed.”
Jack stewed on that line for a bit as he followed Beck and tried his damnedest to move as silently. If anything, Beck had been the one off kilter even though it was Jack who’d been hurt. His career with Uncle Sam might be in jeopardy, but the fallout from Lebanon’s collateral damage might have been the best thing that had ever happened to him. His life was coming together for the first time in a long while. Instead of existing in sorry-shit land because of Jill’s betrayal, he was actually living and enjoying every minute of life with Lauren, her sons and his daughter.
“You’re wrong, bro. You’re just not seeing too clear.” Jack kept his voice to a whisper.
Beck paused, pulled a three-sixty as he searched the area then faced Jack, his silver gaze hard as steel. “How so?”
“You’ve got guilt eating your ass raw. As I see it, the shit we’re dealing with is different from before, so we’re doing different things than we’re used to, but deep down inside we’re the same as we have always been.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Yeah, it is. Shit doesn’t change what’s right and it doesn’t change your core unless you let it. We’re out here because the commander and Neil’s widow need us. We’d have done this before Lebanon went down and we’re doing it now, because it’s who we are.”
“Maybe. And maybe I’m just going through the motions.”
Jack had heard that from Beck before about twenty years ago in boot camp. Back then the dagger tattooed over Beck’s heart had been new and he’d been a daredevil looking for a grave. Even Jack didn’t know all of the detai
ls of how Beck ended up in the military, but he did know a powerful SOB had taken objection to reservation-bred Beck being with his blue-blooded, lily-white daughter. Was the same happening with the ambassador’s daughter? Beck had been to see her no less than ten times in the two months since Lebanon. “History repeating itself with Amanda James and her father?”
“This conversation is over.” Beck walked off like a lion with a splinter up his ass.
“For now.”
Beck grunted and Jack kept silent as they focused on following the blood trail. Sometime during their chat the sirens had stopped and Jack was antsy to know who’d end up in charge of the situation. Just because the FBI or ATF had the authority, it didn’t necessarily mean they’d run the show. Jack had heard few people stood in Sergeant Vance’s way during an investigation. He supposed it was a good sign that twenty minutes later he still hadn’t heard any gunfire.
“We’re being led in a circle with the blood trail.”
“Which means what? The injured party is wandering around in a daze?”
“No. It means we go back to the beginning. One trail in with one trail out means he doubled back rather than headed for the highway.”
“What about the person following the blood trail?”
“I saw signs that he split off to the right about ten yards back. He moves like a bull in a china shop. We’ll go after him later if necessary.”
He and Beck doubled back. The path led them closer to the militia camp’s perimeter. “Just shoot me now,” Beck said as came to an abrupt stop.
“Why?”
“I can’t believe I missed this shit.”
Jack looked around and saw nothing but kudzu. “What?”
Beck marched forward and hacked at the vines to Jack’s left and Jack did a double take as the entrance to a cave appeared.
“How’d you see this?” He slipped into the darkness behind Beck and waited for his eyes to adjust then used his cell phone as a flashlight.
“Didn’t really see it. Felt the cool air coming from the vines and caught a whiff of the stench.”
“Something’s dead in here and has been for a while.”
“Yep.” Beck moved ahead, his cell lighting his way. It didn’t take long to find the rotting corpse. Beck squatted to examine the dead man. “Looks as if he’s been here a couple of months.”
Jack moved around the area, searching. “Our bleeder was definitely here too.” A flat rock on the floor of the cave turned out to be a small puddle of blood. Jack glanced at Beck. “This is really fresh.”
Beck jerked his gaze to the left. “Watch—”
Jack didn’t hesitate, he dove to the side. With Lauren and the boys and Livy all counting on him to be there, this was no time to buy the farm. His mortality had become more of a reality in his life than ever before. A knife, meant for his back, sliced down his shoulder.
He shifted his weight and kicked his leg backward, knocking his assailant to the ground, before moving in and pinning the SOB down.
The man groaned in pain then went completely lax. His knife clattered to the stone floor. Beck moved in with his cell light, revealing a bruised and bloody pulp for a face. “You found our bleeder.”
Jack levered up and checked his arm, deciding he’d live, then studied his attacker with disappointment. “Who the hell is he and what’s been happening to Roger and Mari while we’ve been tailing him?”
Beck checked the man’s carotid pulse. “Don’t know, but he needs an ambulance, for sure. Pulse is weak and thready. From the look of him, it’s a wonder he’s alive.”
Jack’s cell phone flashed “No Service” so he postponed calling Surf and Mac for an ambulance until they exited the cave. When they did a few minutes later, three missed calls popped up before he could dial. All from Mac. He hit the redial.
While no more sirens echoed in the distance, Jack heard the revving engine of a dirt bike motoring through uneven terrain.
“That doesn’t sound good,” Beck said. “What do you want to bet that’s our man?”
Mac answered. “Where in the hell are you two?”
“Not far. We’re on our way back to you and need an ambulance.”
“Lt. Col. Weston or Mari?”
“Negative. Male. About five ten, slender but muscular, dark hair. Can’t tell you anything else. He’s beat up pretty bad.”
“Probably the undercover ATF agent by the name of O’Reilly who didn’t check in today. The man Beck nabbed was out looking for him. Here’s the scoop. The militia go by the name of White Aryan Vipers, WAV, and the ATF with the FBI have had them under surveillance for the past six months. The group has a stash of C4, but they haven’t taken them out yet because one of the Vipers has stolen and hid part of the cache. Guess who?”
“Our psycho of the year, Dugar.” Just because C4 was old hat on the black market today, taking a seat behind more the powerful explosives like the plastique SEMTEX, HMX—a chemical explosive used by the teams—and the newer Astrolite G, a stable liquid with twice the power of TNT. It didn’t change C4’s threat factor.
“Yep.”
“Put a BOLO out for a man on a dirt bike. We just heard one headed toward the highway. We’re coming in. What’s the situation there?”
“Nobody’s won the pissing contest yet, and apparently there are bigger dicks on the way. Did you know Lt. Col. Weston’s uncle was murdered this morning?”
“No.”
“If the Vipers have Roger, then this whole situation might be a part of an attack on President Anderson’s family.”
Jack’s gut sank. If the President’s uncle was murdered outright, then odds that Roger and Mari were still alive went downhill.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Atlanta, Georgia
1500 hours
“Time to wake up. You’re one lucky young man. Your ribs didn’t puncture anything vital. The surgeon took out two and sewed you back up. You’ll be as good as new in no time.”
Why did folks automatically assume you were lucky if you were alive? Rico could barely open his sandpaper lids. His eyes were raw. His vision was blurry. His gut burned and his body screamed with every breath. He couldn’t even think, but he knew one thing for damn sure, he wasn’t “lucky”.
Some instinct inside him told him at this point, he’d be better off dead.
The sights and sounds of a hospital recovery room surrounded him. He’d been in one often enough these days to recognize it fast. Machines beeped his heart rate. IVs dripped. And low-voiced nurses moved efficiently about as they brought folks back from la-la land.
Rico wasn’t ready to return yet. Although he was drawing a blank on what had happened to bring him here, he had the wrenching sensation that it was bad. For a brief second, he pretended the ill feeling in his gut was nothing more than a bad drug dream. That in any second he’d be transported by gurney to a hospital room where Angie and her lush lips and smiling eyes were waiting.
“Annngel,” he tried to speak her name but could only croak as his tongue stuck to the roof of his dry mouth.
“Angel?” The nurse elevated the head of his bed, making his side explode with pain. “No angels here, but my name is Mercy. Why don’t you suck on these ice chips a bit before trying to talk? Your ribs barely missed puncturing your stomach and your lung. The doctor was able to patch you up fast. Minus the ribs, of course.”
Rico was sure Mercy was out to kill him by elevating his head. He took the ice chips she spooned into his mouth and waited for the pain to ease. As they melted he nodded off, dreaming of Angie, of making love to her…
1600 hours
Rico jolted awake. His heart hammered so hard the arteries in his neck hurt. Something was wrong. An urgency like he’d never known before had him by the throat. He was in a hospital room now. The side rails of the bed hemmed him in. An IV flagged a pole at the head of the bed. The glass window on his right showed a sunny day, a curtain hung on his left giving him semi-privacy, and straight ahead was a white board w
ith the day’s date, September 12, and two names his vision was too blurry to read.
The man on the other side of the curtain cheered the football game he had on the tube. Then a commercial came on for car insurance, accompanied by the sounds of a car crash. Rico jumped as the memory of Angie, unconscious and ghost white, shot adrenaline to his every muscle.
He bolted upright and a wave of pain and dizziness snatched the wind from his sails. He fell back to the bed, took several shallow breaths—deep breaths hurt like sons of bitches—then tried again. This time he managed to scoot to the bottom of the bed. The IV attached to his wrist pulled free and left a trail of blood until he grabbed a wad of tissues from the box on his bedside table and stemmed the flow.
Damn hospital gowns were only good for mooning the world. He had to fight to hold the back of his gown closed as he gained his feet and aimed for the room’s exit. First, he had to pass by the man in the bed next to him casually enough so the man wouldn’t alarm the nurses.
Rico peeked around the curtain. “Having a good day?”
The man looked up, eyes wide with surprise. “Didn’t you just have surgery?”
Rico shrugged and clenched his teeth to bite back a groan. “Minor. Nothing big. Who’s playing?”
“Falcons versus Eagles. Georgia Dome. Falcons are ahead. Third quarter.”
“Great. I’ll stretch my legs and be back for the fourth.” Rico made it to the hallway, where everyone was thankfully too absorbed in their tasks for the moment to realize he wasn’t necessarily where he should be. Leaning against the wall, he gathered his strength.
Walking normally when his side was on fire wasn’t easy. A cold sweat covered his brow and he had to blink his vision into focus. To his right was a large nurses’ station. To his left, doors leading to another section of the hospital. Rico went left. His arm had stopped bleeding so he trashed the tissues.
Just as he pushed through the doors, he had a flash of debris sailing through the air. Memory of the bombs at the motel hit him like a blow to the solar plexus. Holly dead, with the metal pipe impaling her, burned itself into his mind. Christ. Leaning against the wall, he focused on breathing and doing what he had to do, one step at a time. Clothes first. Angie second. Then he’d think about Holly.
