Black Ops Chronicles: Dead Run

by O'Neal, Pepper

  Picking up her backpack, she hesitated at the door. Life had taught her caution in hard, painful lessons, so she waited until she heard the Jeep drive off. Opening the door a crack, she peered out. No one left but the clerk.

  The old woman had lost her smile. Her eyes, bright with welcome and curiosity earlier, now looked tired and afraid. Tess flinched as a stab of guilt pierced her. She didn’t know if those four men were after her, but even if they weren’t, others soon would be. And the clerk was right to fear them.

  Tess didn’t want the locals to suffer because of her, but she could do nothing to prevent it, except move on and leave them in peace.

  Heart aching, she took a last look around the market, burning the scene on her mind. The scent of cilantro, overlaid with ripe bananas and chili peppers, lingered in her nostrils as she bought a jar of peanut butter and paid for her phone call. The clerk took her money, scuttled off to the other end of the counter, and came back with a handful of Mexican coins.

  Tess stifled a groan. Not more coins! As if I didn’t have enough. Heavy and practically worthless, they weighed down her backpack like rocks. She didn’t even like to spend them. It was too much trouble trying to tell them apart. Sighing, she dropped them into her pack, adding to the hefty pile at the bottom. Then she shoved the peanut butter in on top and headed for the door. When she reached it, she paused and surveyed the street with a thoroughness born of fear. Not a soul in sight. Even the children had escaped inside out of the sun. She left the shelter of the market and trudged down the dirt sidewalk.

  She hadn’t gone very far when something dark, and cloaked in a veil of dust, pulled up to the stop sign at the corner, three blocks down.

  The blue Jeep!

  It came to a rolling stop, turned onto the street, and headed away from her. She hesitated. Would they drive back this way before she reached the road leading to the cove? Could she risk it, or should she take another route home? Then the Jeep flipped a U-turn, bringing her indecision to an abrupt halt.

  Breaking into a run, she darted down a side street and sprinted past the village church. She stopped, doubled back, and took the church steps two at a time. With a last, quick glance over her shoulder, she yanked the door open and slipped inside.

  The interior of the chapel smelled of wood, furniture polish, and vanilla incense. Cool and peaceful, and thankfully deserted, it calmed her frayed nerves and lifted her spirits. Now, if only the men in the Jeep hadn’t seen her come in.

  She stood just inside, with the door open a crack, and waited, watching the street. The Jeep rolled slowly past. Its brakes squealed.

  Then the car doors slammed.

  ***

  Where am I? He woke up confused. And alarmed. How’d I get here? Simple questions he should’ve known the answers to. So why didn’t he?

  Who am I? he wondered next and drew another blank. Wait a minute. This couldn’t be right. How had his mind been wiped clean?

  Nothing made any sense. A dream? No. He hurt way too bad for it to be anything but real.

  Panic ripped through his mind, but he fought it off. He’d figure this out. There was a logical explanation. Had to be. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and tried to remember something—anything—but the pain was too distracting.

  Jesus, my head hurts. Raising his hand to his forehead, he brushed his fingers over a large bandage. Head injury? He felt a trickle of relief. See? A logical explanation. Concussion could cause temporary memory loss. Couldn’t it? Did he really know that, or had he made it up? And how long did “temporary” last?

  Forcing his eyes to focus, he tried to sit up. Bad move, he decided, as a wave of nausea swept over him. He slumped back onto the bed with a groan

  What the hell happened to me? His whole body felt like one continuous bruise—and every square inch of it throbbed. Whatever it was, it must’ve been horrific.

  Panic flared up again. To keep it at bay, he looked around, searching for clues. Didn’t help. Nothing seemed the least bit familiar.

  He lay on a rickety double bed in a small, shabby bedroom. Beside the bed stood a dilapidated nightstand. A broken dresser over in the corner was the only other furniture. The clock on the nightstand showed twenty minutes after one. Daylight coming through the window meant afternoon. But what day?

  He sighed, laid his head back on the pillow, and glanced up. The ceiling consisted of nothing but dried palm leaves woven together over rough wooden beams. You’d think I’d remember that. But the exotic construction only raised more questions.

  He tensed, startled by a sudden movement on the bed. Cautiously, he raised his head then blinked at the large orange tabby that stared back at him. The cat curled up, closed its yellow eyes, and rested its head on its paws. Its deep, rumbling purr was soothing.

  So he had a cat. What the hell had he named it? He struggled to sift through the dense fog in his brain, but the only thing he could recall was a woman leaning over him with concern on her face. A woman with golden-red hair, curling around her shoulders like a bonfire. And intense gray eyes that reminded him of gathering storm clouds. Real or a dream? If real, was she his? If only he could remember.

  But he couldn’t concentrate. He found it hard work just to breathe, and a headache hammered at his brain, shattering his thoughts like glass.

  ***

  1:31 p.m., the penthouse apartment of Nick McKenzie, Salt Lake City, Utah:

  Fuming over the transcript of Tess’s latest conversation with Parks, Nick stalked into the living room, carrying the stack of telex printouts and nursing a double scotch. “It sure as hell took Joe long enough to call.”

  “He’s in Baja,” Tony pointed out. “There’s not a payphone on every corner like there is here.”

  “Why the hell didn’t the fools take a satellite phone?”

  “They did, but they lost it.”

  “Figures,” Nick grumbled. “And I suppose they only took the one.”

  “That’s all you were willing to give them.”

  “Oh, right.” Nick flushed and cleared his throat. “Well, the damn things’re so expensive with that encryption program you insisted on. And one’s all the idiots would’ve needed if they’d been careful.” Flustered, he sank into a chair, splashing his drink on the papers. “So what’d you tell them?” he asked, wiping off the droplets with a disgusted flick of his hand.

  “I told them to start where they were and check every house, church, cottage, outhouse, and dog house between there and the border. It would’ve been nice to have them in La Paz for the meeting with Almasi, but they aren’t really needed. So it’s better to have them hunt for her.”

  “And if they don’t find her?”

  “Then we keep looking. What else can we do?”

  “Parks told Tess that Levi was asking questions. What if my grandfather finds her first?”

  “Then you’ve got a problem.” Tony flashed him an arrogant half grin. “Not to say ‘I told you so,’ but you probably shouldn’t have done it in front of her.”

  Nick shrugged. “That isn’t what worries me. I can always find some way to justify killing that slime and his family.”

  Rising, he tossed the printouts on the couch, stomped to the window, and studied the quarter-sized snowflakes drifting past the glass on their journey to the street below. “It’s the operation I’m concerned about. Grandfather’s not big on drugs. And I can only imagine how pissed he’d be about Almasi.” He sipped his drink and watched the falling snow. “You’re sure Tess knows about our plans?”

  “She knows enough. And before you ask, no, we can’t change them.”

  Nick didn’t need to glance over his shoulder to know Tony’s face had hardened. It always did at the mention of Tess’s name. He wondered again what she’d done to fuel this deep-seated hatred Tony had for her. Knowing Tony wouldn’t tell him, he changed the subject. “Who’s with Joe in Baja?”

  “Josh, Glen, and Bruce. But the two of us are flying down on Friday to meet with Almasi. Or did yo
u forget?”

  “I didn’t forget. I just wish we had someone better down there looking for Tess.”

  “So do I,” Tony growled. “But if you recall, you insisted on keeping our best men here to oversee that new protection business of yours.”

  “I need them here.” Nick had fought hard to win that battle. And he hoped like hell he wouldn’t regret it. “So, when’s Joe going to call again?”

  “Tomorrow morning, around eight.”

  “Tomorrow morning? Christ.” Nick threw up his free hand. “Why the hell don’t they just buy another cell phone?”

  Tony rolled his eyes. “Where? Come on, slick, use your head. A village like El Nopal doesn’t have a cell phone store. Joe could probably go into La Paz and find one, but the phone wouldn’t have the encryption program we need. And since I don’t really want the FBI listening in on our calls, I told him to wait and I’d bring him another phone on Friday.”

  “They’ll probably just lose it again. How’d they lose the one they had?”

  “I guess it fell overboard. Joe said he had it out on the boat during a big storm yesterday when they were taking care of those two CIA agents Tanner told us about.”

  “What did you say?” A gleaming shaft of hope broke through the clouds of frustration in Nick’s mind. “Joe said there was a storm there? Yesterday?”

  “Yeah. So what?”

  Plunking his drink down on the windowsill, Nick made four quick strides to the couch and scooped up the half-inch thick stack of paper. “These are the latest transcripts of the tap on Karl Parks’ phone. I pulled them off the telex a few minutes ago. His conversation with Tess had something about a storm yesterday.”

  He scanned the pages, searching. “Yeah, here it is. This is Tess talking to Parks, asking him what he knows about a shipwreck down there. ‘We had a storm yesterday, a big one, and some strange debris washed up on the beach.’” He tossed the printouts to Tony. “Can your friend in the National Weather Service get information on Mexico?”

  “Sure, but—”

  “Good. Give him a call and find out what places in Baja had storms last night. Ones strong enough to cause a shipwreck.”

  Frowning, Tony scanned the pages. “Joe didn’t say anything about a shipwreck. I’m sure Nick’s Folly is okay.”

  It was Nick’s turn to roll his eyes, and he savored the rare feeling of superiority. “That’s not the point.” He pulled out a cigarette and lit it, his hands shaking with excitement. “If both Tess and Joe had strong storms yesterday, and other parts of Baja didn’t, then the chances are good that Tess and Joe are in the same general location.” His voice rose, the desperate pang of hope almost painful. “And since we already know where Joe is, that should narrow our search considerably.”

  Eyebrows pushing toward his hairline, Tony shoved the printouts aside. “Not bad, slick.” He picked up the phone and dialed. “Nothing on the Pacific side,” he said when he’d finished the call. “But there was one on the Sea of Cortez near La Paz.”

  Pulling his map from his pocket, he spread it out on the couch. Tapped his finger on it. “Which means that Tess is right here—somewhere in this vicinity.” He glanced up at Nick. “That was good thinking. I’m surprised I didn’t catch that myself.”

  Coming from Tony, that was high praise. Nick felt a foolish grin spread across his face. “Let’s send someone down to find Joe and tell him to concentrate his search where he is,” he said then shook his head. “No, wait. I’ve got some snapshots of Tess in the closet. I’ll grab a few.”

  He headed for the bedroom, calling back over his shoulder, “Call Tanner and tell him to fly to La Paz. When we find Tess, it’ll help to have an FBI agent handy just in case we have any trouble with the local cops. Better have him check with the CIA, too, and see what they know. Then call Dennis and tell him to get the plane ready. It won’t hurt for us to be there a few days early.”

  Finally, something was going right. Elated, he paused in the bedroom doorway. “With any luck, we’ll get there in time for me to kill her myself.”

  ***

  1:40 p.m., Baja California Sur:

  Tess swallowed hard. She hadn’t escaped the thugs, after all—only delayed her inevitable capture. Still, she’d be damned if she’d make it easy for them.

  With her heart beating so hard she expected it to jump right out of her chest, she fled down the center aisle of the chapel, past the rows of dark wooden pews, to the polished, ornate altar. As she dove behind it, the church’s massive oak doors creaked open. The ominous sound made her wince. As did the heavy footsteps pounding on the stone floor. Then the door boomed shut. The harsh report echoed through the chapel and sent a shockwave of sheer, black fear ripping through her gut.

  Vomit rose in her throat, but she swallowed it back down. Her skin grew clammy and cold. Beads of sweat trickled down her forehead, stinging her eyes. But she didn’t dare wipe them away. The slightest noise or hint of a moving shadow on the wall could reveal her hiding place. So she bit her lip and tried to blink the salt out of her eyes.

  “Man, you’re crazy,” a surly voice grumbled. “There’s nobody in here.”

  “Where the hell’s the padre?” asked another.

  “Probably at home sleeping,” said a third. “That’s all there is to do in this hell-hole.”

  “Shut up, all of you,” barked a voice Tess recognized as Joe’s. “I told you, I thought I saw a redheaded broad come in here. Well, don’t just stand there, look around. Bruce, go look outside.”

  She heard the door opening again and footsteps fading as one of the men followed orders. Shoe leather slapping on stone tiles told her the other three had started to search.

  Spurred on by terror, she pulled out her gun and shrank farther back into the shadows, trying to make herself invisible. How thoroughly would they hunt? Would they walk all the way up the aisle to the altar? Her heart drummed so loudly she feared it would give her away.

  A few moments later she heard Bruce return from outside. “Nothin’.”

  “Did you search around the whole building?” Joe asked.

  “Of course.”

  “All right then, she must still be in here. I want every inch of this dump searched. Bruce, you and Josh go check around up there by the altar.”

  Oh, God. Tess cast around for a way out. Off to one side behind her, a short staircase led down to a small hallway and a door—a door with daylight visible through the crack at the bottom. Knowing she stood a better chance outside, she bellied over and slithered feet first down the steps.

  It might’ve worked—if she’d seen the communion dish someone had left on the stairs. Her foot collided with the heavy metal plate and sent it careening to the bottom. The crash reverberated like the toll of a bell, announcing her presence to the world.

  She heard the men shout and run up the aisle. Concealment now moot, she jumped to her feet, scrambled down the rest of the stairs, and tore out the door.

  Gunfire erupted behind her, shattering the afternoon quiet. Bullets whizzed by, plowing into the ground around her as she vaulted over a fence. Expecting to feel the slugs slam into her back at any second, she fled to the cover of the houses on an adjoining street and ducked in between two buildings.

  She stopped to catch her breath, glancing behind her. No one there. But she didn’t believe for a minute they weren’t coming. They just hadn’t followed on foot. Not surprising, considering the men Nick usually hired. She hadn’t met any of these four before, but they reminded her of the employees she had met—all street-smart, city dwellers. The simple dirt streets, sidewalks, and backyards of this little desert village must’ve intimidated them all to hell. Since Nick wasn’t here to complain, they would probably search for her by driving around. At least that’s what she hoped.

  While her mind scrambled to form an escape plan, she wove her way through the village, creeping from house to house, taking cover at the first sound of a vehicle. Three ancient pickup trucks and one Volkswagen bus later, she
was crouched behind a wilting bougainvillea next to a clothesline in someone’s backyard, when she spotted the Jeep.

  Windows down, the men drove past at a crawl, their hard eyes scanning four different directions. Cursing her wretched luck, Tess drew farther back into the shadows of the shrubbery. But she couldn’t stay there. The neighbors might see her and start asking questions. She needed some camouflage or—a costume, she thought, glancing at the laundry hanging on the clothesline above her.

  Rising, she inspected the clothes: children’s and still wet. She sank back down to a crouch and moved on. From the clothesline next door, she secured a tattered dress. She felt like slime for stealing from people who had so little, so she left a handful of Mexican coins piled on the back doorstep, hoping it’d be enough to cover the theft.

  She slipped the dress on over her jeans. It was still slightly damp and four sizes too big. Several inches bunched around her feet. Pulling a pocketknife from her backpack, she cut a piece of excess rope from the end of the clothesline and used it as a belt, cinching the skirt up around her waist so she could walk without tripping.

  As she worked, the mouthwatering aroma of enchiladas drifted to her, reminding her she hadn’t eaten all day. She could hear a woman’s voice, floating through an open window, and music playing on a radio. A child cried. Someone murmured soothing words—tiny glimpses of life being lived as it was supposed to be, far from the edge of constant fear.

  Tears pricked Tess’s eyes, but she fought them back and pressed on.

  At another house, she found a large tablecloth. Though faded and frayed, the heavy material was sturdy. Leaving more coins, she pulled it from the clothesline. She folded it in a triangle and draped it around her head and shoulders like a shawl, shadowing her face, hiding her hair and pale skin. The clothes made her feel hot and bedraggled, but she figured she could pass as a native. At least from a distance.

  A group of young people came down the street, talking and laughing. Perfect cover. When they passed, she slipped from the shadows and fell in behind them. Knowing the biggest part of wearing a costume effectively was body language, she slumped her shoulders and bowed her head, trying to look like a worn-out mother of ten—the way Pablo’s mother looked.