The Path Of The Nightmare

by J. J. Carlson

  San’s mouth dropped. “My—how did you know?”

  “We’ve been keeping an eye on you, trying to watch your back. It hasn’t been easy with everything else we’ve got on our plate.”

  The horror in San’s eyes gave way to blazing fire. “If anything happened to them...” He took a deep breath. “Daron, take me to my family. I want to see them. Now!”

  “Don’t get your panties in a bunch. We used some very sophisticated technology to keep track of your wife and kids. I doubt anyone else could have—”

  “Please,” San interjected.

  Daron exchanged a knowing glance with Eugene.

  Eugene turned and said, “San, this interrogation can’t wait. We can do it on the road, but it might get messy.”

  San swallowed and set his jaw. “I’ll…I’ll be fine.”

  It was a lie. San had no idea what they were planning, and he had already seen enough to make him sick. Eugene sensed his unease and rifled through a compartment next to him. He took out a pair of foam earplugs and pressed them into San’s hand.

  “Put these in,” he said. Then, retrieving a cloth bag from beneath his seat, he added, “And you’ll want to wear this, too.”

  San accepted the gifts with shaking fingers.

  “We’re going to change seats,” Daron said. “Eugene will drive. San, I want you riding shotgun. I’ll ride in the back with our friend.”

  San’s stomach turned uneasily, but he obeyed. A moment later, the SUV pulled out of the parking lot with Eugene at the wheel. San donned the foam earplugs, pulled the bag over his head, and leaned forward, his arms wrapped in a self-consoling hug.

  As they eased into traffic, Eugene depressed a button on the dashboard. An electric current altered the opacity of the windshield, making it appear matte-black to anyone outside.

  “Let me help you with that, pal,” Daron said, wrapping a compression bandage around the prisoner’s oozing arm. “Tight enough?”

  When the bald man continued to feign unconsciousness, Daron cranked down on the bandage. The prisoner moaned and opened his eyes.

  “Oh good, you’re awake. I’ve got some things I’d like to ask you. I’m looking for a friend of yours—she’s about five-eight, maybe a hundred-twenty pounds, has kind of a deep, raspy voice. Ring any bells?”

  The man’s eyes darted around the vehicle’s interior.

  Daron snapped his fingers in front of the man’s face. “You with me, cue ball? I need you to pay attention. Woman, five-foot-eight, a buck-twenty, raspy voice, real fit-looking. Kind of like this…” Daron held up a black and white photo showing the man and woman in front of the arms-dealing convention. The prisoner’s face betrayed recognition for only a microsecond, but it was enough.

  “So you do know her. Then why the silent treatment? We’re all friends here, right? Right?” Daron wrenched up on the man’s wrist, and the captive roared in pain. In the front seat, San flinched and cupped his hands over his plugged ears.

  “I can tell you’re a man that deals in pain,” Daron said. “It’s like a currency for people like us, isn’t it? Well, one of your bosses owes me a hefty sum, so I’m going to need a down-payment.” Daron let go of the man’s wrist and leaned over the front seat. Pushing past San, he opened the glove compartment, pulled out a stainless-steel instrument, then sat back.

  “You don’t mind if I smoke, do you?” Daron asked, fishing a cigar from his pocket. With careful precision, he poked the tip of the cigar into the polished instrument. There was a sound like scissors closing, and the tip of the cigar fell to the floor. He struck a match, filling the SUV with the smell of sulfur. He turned the end of the cigar in his mouth, puffing to fan the flame. When the end of the cigar was evenly lit, he tossed the still-lit match at the man’s crotch.

  The captive fidgeted. He tried to put the fire out with his broken and battered arms, but only managed to burn his wrist.

  “My mistake,” Daron said, blowing smoke in the man’s face. “Let me get that for you.” He extinguished the match with two hard slaps to the man’s groin.

  Eugene’s eyes flickered in the rear-view mirror. “We good?”

  “Shut up and drive,” Daron growled. “I’ve got this. Now…where were we? Oh yeah, you were about to tell me about the woman in the photo.”

  The prisoner glared and kept his lips pressed together.

  Daron took a long drag on the cigar and smiled. “It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything. You can just sit there and relax.” Daron put a friendly hand on the man’s shoulder. “You see, Curly—you mind if I call you Curly? The thing is, Curly, I honestly don’t think you have any useful intel in that thick skull of yours. I already know about the re-routed phone number for that landscaping company. I got to hear everything my hooded friend in the front seat said to the woman with the husky voice. Not only that, I was able to pinpoint where the call went.”

  A trace of panic passed through Curly’s eyes.

  “Unbelievable, isn’t it? Pretty incredible what the NSA can do nowadays. Your boss probably has a SWAT team knocking on her door as we speak. On top of that, I can guarantee we just pulled more information from your phone then I could ever extract through interrogation.”

  Daron smiled and leaned in closer to his helpless captive. “So why did I have the man-in-black drag you in here? Why didn’t I have him take your phone and put a bullet in your head? I’ll be honest with you, Curly…it’s because I wanted payment.”

  Daron snatched up the prisoner’s left hand and forced a finger into the cigar cutter. The man fought back, pushing against the floor in spite of his broken ankles. There was a snap, and blood poured from the man’s hand. He cried out in pain and tried to pull the mangled finger against his chest, but his shattered humerus only allowed him to move it to a point midway up his abdomen.

  “Quit your whining!” Daron shouted, as if chastising a toddler. “There’s no need for that. Just settle down, we’ve got a long ride ahead of us and more than just fingers to remove.”

  “You…cock…sucking…prick,” the man spat.

  “That doesn’t even make sense,” Daron scoffed. “You must be dumber than you look. I guess I was right; you don’t have anything valuable between your ears.”

  Daron leaned in to inspect the side of the man’s head. “Speaking of which…”

  The prisoner’s eyes widened. He pushed against Daron with a knee and shrugged his shoulder up against his head.

  Daron struggled against Curly’s knee for a second, then sat back. In one smooth movement, he drew his pistol and shot him in the top of the thigh. Curly screeched in agony and started rocking back and forth. Daron holstered the pistol, grabbed the cigar cutter, and leaned inward. The man twisted his head from side to side, but Daron pinned his face to the window, then pinched his ear together and stuffed it into the cutter.

  There was a snap. The man screamed at the top of his lungs.

  “What the hell, Daron?” Eugene interjected. “Take it easy! We need him alive.”

  “Stay out of this one, Gene.” Daron barked. Tossing the cutter aside, he hit the prisoner with a powerful left hook.

  “Were you there?” Daron shouted. “Were you there with Roberts? Did you feel a nice, warm satisfaction when the guns tore apart my men?”

  Daron’s fist collided with Curly’s skull. He sank into unconsciousness, but Daron didn’t relent.

  “Maybe she told you about it afterward? Telling stories around a campfire, maybe?” A bone in Daron’s hand cracked. He swore and punched even harder. “Did…she…brag…about…shooting…Marcus…in the…head?!” Daron shouted between blows.

  Eugene hammered the brakes and jumped out of the vehicle. He ripped open Daron’s door and grabbed him from behind. Daron struggled and landed a final blow on the man’s disfigured face.

  Spitting like a madman, Daron yelled, “When you see that bitch in Hell, tell her to save me a seat!”

  Eugene finally pulled him off, and they fell into a heap on the
road. Eugene held on tight, gripping his friend more out of tenderness than restraint. In his arms, Daron began to sob.

  10

  The clawing scents of diesel and gasoline mixed in the humid air. The small town of Moembe was surrounded by the sweeping green hills of the Lefinie Reserve, and was one of the few places to buy fuel within a fifty-mile radius. A thin, bald man with yellow teeth finished pumping diesel into Jarrod’s truck, then climbed onto the truck’s bed to top off the extra barrels. Jarrod leaned casually against the driver’s side door. From behind his wide sunglasses, he probed the queue of vehicles waiting for service. With his sense of smell hampered, his other senses were on high alert.

  He had made exceptional time through the Republic of the Congo. The Toyota was as reliable as the ferry manager had claimed. It handled the endless miles of steep hills with ease, only quitting when its tank ran dry. Jarrod pushed the vehicle to its limits, and it carried him three-fourths of the way across the country. Now, in one of the few human settlements in the broad expanse of forest and savanna, Jarrod searched for signs of evil.

  A motorcycle sped by, its gaunt driver nestled among crates of chickens. The crates were stacked precariously, even comically high. Jarrod simultaneously observed and dismissed the sight—a sense of humor had no tactical value, so he had been stripped of his in Hillcrest. His vision scanned the area and found nothing out of place. Reaching out with his formidable hearing, he analyzed the tone of every conversation taking place within two hundred yards. Nothing roused his suspicion, so he concentrated on the words being exchanged. His mind sorted the communications, which were mainly spoken in French. One by one, the conversations disappeared from his focus; nothing valuable was being discussed.

  Something else wavered in and out of the edge of his hearing. It was a faint buzzing, like the sound of a small helicopter. It whirred smoothly, as if hovering, then ramped up in pitch and vanished. He strained to listen for several more seconds, but it was gone.

  Jarrod turned as the fuel attendant hopped down from the back of the truck. The yellow-toothed man hung up the spout and rounded the vehicle. Jarrod glanced at the pump’s analog gauge and fingered through a stack of Congolese Francs. He pressed the currency into the attendant’s palm, then pulled open the Toyota’s door. He paused to take a deep breath, sifting through the pungent air one last time. This time, something triggered an alarm—a few molecules of pentaerythritol tetranitrate. PETN, as it was better known, was the main ingredient in SEMTEX. Its chemical nature made it more explosive than C-4, and a highly prized substance for any terrorist organization.

  Jarrod jumped into the truck and wheeled around. He leaned out the window and rolled past the discordant queue of vehicles. The scent thickened at an official-looking Ford Ranger. It was navy-blue with a white pinstripe along the side, and its driver was a dark-haired man in his mid-forties. Jarrod’s gaze lingered on the man for several seconds. Then, turning his attention to the road, he left the fuel station. He parked near the edge of town and watched the busy station in his side-view mirror.

  Nearly twenty minutes later, the Ford left the station, its tanks brimming with fuel. It rolled down the road in Jarrod’s direction. Jarrod let off the brake and eased into the lane in front of the Ranger. It followed him out of town, heading south. Jarrod kept the navy-blue pickup just within sight, leading the way farther and farther into isolation.

  Five minutes later, Jarrod stopped his truck, parking it at an angle across both lanes. He stepped out and faced south with his hands on his hips, as if surveying an obstacle in the road ahead. The navy-blue Ranger approached at a crawl. Jarrod didn’t turn around. Instead, he paced slowly with his shoulders slumped. He turned around and approached his truck, shaking his head. He looked up, pretending to notice the Ranger for the first time, and loped toward it. The driver rolled down his window a few inches and eyed Jarrod.

  “Y-a-t-il un problème?” The man asked in roughly accented French. “Is there a problem?”

  The man’s light skin and dark features were out of place in the Congo wilderness. He was of an average build with short hair and a neatly trimmed beard. Jarrod guessed he was around forty-six, noted the rough hands and curious tan on one side of his body. He was a truck driver, probably a professional, and his appearance exhibited a blend of Eastern-European and Asian heritage.

  “Route fermée,” Jarrod responded in similarly accented French. “Road closed.”

  The man cursed in a language Jarrod instantly recognized.

  “You are from Georgia?” Jarrod asked in the easy language of a Tbilisi native.

  The man looked shocked. Slowly, he said, “Di-akh;” yes.

  Jarrod smiled broadly and spoke several Georgian expletives in friendly tones. “Incredible! I never imagined I would see a familiar face in this God-forsaken continent. Where are you from? Tbilisi? Khashuri?”

  “Khashmi. It’s…”

  “Khashmi?” Jarrod interrupted. “I know it well! My family and I used to visit the vineyards every summer. It is beautiful. Why would you leave a place like that and come here?”

  The man’s shoulders relaxed a little. His eyes settled on the middle distance. “It is beautiful,” he said longingly, “but there is always a need for work. If you do not work, you die, right? I’ve driven trucks for many years. Sometimes the work is hard to find in Tbilisi, so I do contract work in other countries.”

  Jarrod looked questioningly into the bed of the truck, which was sparsely loaded with necessities for off-roading.

  “I’m sorry to pry,” Jarrod said, “but…what exactly are you delivering? Spare tires and tow straps?”

  The man chuckled. “No. The truck itself is the delivery.”

  Jarrod gave a knowing nod. “Headed to the embassy?”

  The man blanched.

  “Oh, I am sorry. I don’t mean to presume. I have worked security at many embassies. I used to drive a truck that looked just like this one.”

  The man shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I see.”

  Jarrod sniffed and wiped his nose. His brain interpreted the complex mixture of hormones, exocrine secretions, and neurotransmitters in the air and combined them with his assessment of the man’s body language and speech patterns. The Georgian was nervous, as anyone would be with such a direct conversation, but he was not fearful. A terrorist driving high-explosives to an embassy for an attack would be paranoid if stopped. If his face didn’t show it, his scent would.

  Jarrod could think of a dozen ways to conceal a bomb from the driver and detonate it remotely. A tiny GPS could relay the truck’s precise location to someone on the other side of the planet. Then, a satellite-relayed communication could trigger the explosion. The unknowing driver would function with the same lethal efficiency as a suicide bomber.

  A distant buzzing pulled Jarrod from his musings. He turned his head in the direction of the noise and scanned the horizon. A large, commercial drone appeared in the distance, eight spinning blades propelling the bulky air vehicle in their direction. The presence of a drone near a wildlife preserve was nothing out of the ordinary. Biologists, hydrologists, law enforcement, and even professional photographers utilized similar aircraft. But there was something different about this model…

  As the remotely piloted aircraft drew closer, Jarrod saw it—a lightweight, long-barrel rifle.

  “The road is damaged ahead,” Jarrod said, “but you might be able to make it through with the equipment you have in the back. Then perhaps you could help out a fellow countryman?”

  The man hesitated. After a long moment, he turned off the truck, pocketed the keys, and stepped outside.

  Jarrod knew there wasn’t much time. As soon as the dark-haired man’s feet touched the ground, he grabbed him and threw him onto his shoulder. The high-velocity round punched through the truck’s window seconds before they heard the shot.

  “What is this?” The man shouted. “Put me down!”

  Jarrod ignored the protests and sprinted into the
forest. A bullet struck the ground thirty feet ahead of them, then a second struck a tree twenty-five feet behind them. At this distance, Jarrod wasn’t worried about getting shot; the real threat was inside the truck. If the drone’s pilot did not believe he could eliminate the threat, he might decide to detonate the bomb remotely to keep it from falling into enemy hands. Even with a small payload of SEMTEX, the minimum safe distance would be a hundred yards or more. If every hidden recess of the truck was loaded down with the dangerous compound, the explosion could launch lethal shrapnel miles from ground zero.

  Despite being encumbered with his confused passenger, Jarrod ran on with the speed of an Olympic track athlete. He juked around trees and jumped over shrubs, adding precious distance with every second. The rifle’s reports abruptly stopped, and the drone hummed with the low tones of a hover. Jarrod rushed on with all of his might, but he doubted they would make it to safety. The black armor climbed up the back of his head and encapsulated his skull.

  The concussive blast preceded the gray cloud of dust, a shimmering ring expanding in every direction. The wave of kinetic energy rattled Jarrod from the inside out. His consciousness faltered, and he collapsed on the forest floor.

  11

  Santiago kept the hood on and earplugs in, even though the vehicle’s other three occupants were completely silent. The prisoner was beyond help. He had drawn his last breath before Eugene and Daron even returned to their seats. When the SUV finally pulled into the quiet, suburban neighborhood, Eugene gave San a little shake.

  “We’re here,” he said as San pulled the plugs from his ears. “I’ll check it out first; you wait here until I tell you it’s safe.”

  San pulled the hood off and nodded. The door slammed shut, and San watched Eugene approach the house with his weapon drawn. He couldn’t bear to look into the back seat. Was the prisoner dead? Had he sat with his eyes and ears covered while a man was brutally murdered two feet behind him? San tried to convince himself that Daron had only sedated the captive, but deep down he knew the truth.