by John Grit
A four-wheel-drive pickup equipped with a four-door club cab containing a logging crew came to a stop twenty yards in front of them, blocking the trail.
She released him and dried her face with the back of her forearms. Then she slid to the far end of the seat and reached for her MP5 on the floorboard, keeping it low and hidden from few. With the submachine gun on her lap, she slid a newspaper over it to keep it out of sight.
The pickup driver maneuvered around them, tires spinning as he climbed over loose soil pushed up by heavy equipment. He stopped the pickup and rolled down his window when he was even with Raylan, who had his Glock in his right hand. “Sorry about the condition of the trail,” the man said. His demeanor was friendly. “You heading down the mountain?”
“Yeah,” Raylan said, “It isn’t much farther to the logging road, is it?”
“About four miles. If you get stuck, I’ll catch you on the way out. As soon as I drop off this crew, I’ll be heading back down myself to drive a harvester rig up. So don’t worry, I’ll pull you out if you get hung up before making it to the logging road.”
“Thanks,” Raylan said, ready to move on.
“You been fishing at the lake?” the man asked.
Raylan replied without revealing his growing suspicion. “Yeah. The little one with no name, at least no name on the map.”
“Catch anything? I was thinking of coming up on my day off and giving it a try.” None of the other lumberjacks seemed to have any interest at all in the couple (two seemed to be asleep) but Raylan couldn’t be sure they were what they appeared to be and kept his pistol ready.
Carla and Raylan both were pretending the man had their full attention, while staying alert and keeping their surroundings in the periphery of their vision and keeping an eye on the others in the pickup at the same time. “I caught a few.” Raylan smiled. “My wife’s the one who caught most of them.”
The unkempt logging crew supervisor rasped the stubble on his face and laughed. “Ain’t that the way it always is?”
Raylan shrugged. “Who better than the better half to keep us humble?”
The man laughed and drove on, waiving out the window.
Raylan eased off the brake and sped to a safe but yard-eating speed, wanting to put distance between them and the truckload of men.
“Damn,” Carla said. “I was hoping to get out of here before anyone noticed us.”
“Yeah. But they do seem to be just a logging crew.” Raylan slowed to ease around a ripped-up spot in the trail, where a log harvester had been unloaded from a flatbed tractor trailer and parked on the side out of the way, more evidence the crew really was what they appeared to be. “What do you say we blow this place and head south? It’ll be cold up here and snowing in a month or so. Them seeing us kind of makes now a good time to move on.”
“Okay. We might as well find an Internet cafe and email more revelations to a few news agencies, just before we leave. Who cares if they trace it?”
“Yeah, save us the trouble of sending it by mail. Not all of them will accept attachments, though.”
Carla opened the glove box and pocketed a flash drive. “All it takes is for one news agency to report it. The others will parrot the first report and pretend they have the same info.”
“Or they’ll try to dispute it, claiming the other news agency is just a right-wing mouth piece for the Tea Party.”
“Well, I’ll bet a cup of coffee some of the right-wing groups claim it was a government-planned release to keep the people’s mind off more important things.”
Raylan’s eyes lit up. “Like what, a UFO conspiracy?”
“Naw,” she said, “that would be a left-wing thing. The right would say the president has invited the ChiComs to invade and take over without a shot fired.”
He kept a straight face. “Well, at least they won’t be wasting time on silly stuff.”
Chapter 13
Janowski’s frustration raged just below the surface. “Don’t give me that shit! Just find them. No excuses. I want results.” He talked to his new security chief over the phone. “Now, have you learned anything about who will be picked for Director?”
“Not a word yet, just speculation from American reporters about a general,” Viktor Chuikov said. “For now Deputy Director Brantly Ottoman has taken over, but word is he’s out as soon as the U.S. President picks a new Director and the Americans’ Senate approves him. And I mean all the way out. Riley seems to be cleaning house at the CIA.”
Janowski blew a gasket. “Damn it! What a time for Riley to get religion all of a sudden. The son of a bitch has gone nuts.”
“Nothing can be done about that, sir.”
“Oh shut up and find those two. I don’t need your opinion on what I should do, just find me two people. Can’t you do that?”
“I’m working on it, but we’re not talking about two bums. They’re well trained.”
“You sound like Yule. Careful you don’t wind up like him. I want results. Don’t contact me again until you have something significant to report.” Janowski hung up. After pouring himself a drink, he walked over to the window of his mansion and looked out on Palm Beach, just yards from his backdoor. The neighborhood was populated with billionaires. Mere millionaires need not bother checking on property for sale; they couldn’t afford it, and only a few of the homes were directly on the beach. The others only had access to the beach through a private gate. Even with all my problems and most of the organization lost, all I want is to see Maddox dead.
Janowski’s cell phone rang. He snatched it off the table, noticing it was Viktor again. “Yeah what?”
“Good news.”
“Already? You found them?” Janowski’s voice carried excitement.
“No sir, but my men just informed me they have a former compatriot of the woman’s. I’m heading there now to personally supervise. We have a doctor who does work for our competitors south of the U.S. border. He knows how to handle such things without getting so messy and crude. We think this spy knows a lot about her and where she might hide, and the doctor can help us speed things up.”
Janowski’s fat shoulders slumped in disappointment. “Well, it’s something. I don’t place much hope in getting anything that way, though. She hasn’t worked in a long time, and any information this person has will be dated.”
“Right now it’s all we have. Chances are he knows something about Maddox, too. Whatever he has, we’ll get it out of him. I promise you that.”
“Keep me apprised.” Janowski hung up.
This is a nightmare. One man and a woman destroy the organization and manage to evade my killers for so long? Having someone killed had not been so complicated in the past. Find them. Kill them. Easy. Apparently not these two. With Maddox it was personal. The woman was just business and the fact she was with him. Viktor was right. Nobody could evade the U.S. intelligence agencies, police, and killers for hire forever. They would turn up, and when they did, they would be eliminated. Janowski rubbed a tense shoulder and the back of his neck, feeling the effects of stress, and realized he had been inside looking out at the beach since he arrived. Enough. It was time to go out there and soak up the sun for a while. He walked to the door and opened it. A tall, lean, square-faced guard turned and waited for instructions. Viktor seemed to be producing better results than his predecessor. And if he didn’t, there were more men willing to kill for money.
“I’m going to the beach. Prepare a security team while I change.” Janowski lumbered down the hall to his bedroom. He heard the teen girl he had locked in a walk-in closet that he had customized for his special use. Her crying was low, but he heard through the locked door. After pulling a ring of keys out of a pants pocket, he opened the door and stood watching her cringe in the back corner. “Stop it,” he said, in a flat, emotionless voice, then closed the door and locked it.
Janowski emerged from his bedroom wearing old-fashioned swimming trunks that looked like they came out of the forties and scratched h
is hairy, bulging belly.
The guard waited at the end of the hall. “Ready, sir?”
Janowski padded past him without a word.
Out on the beach, Janowski was glad he wore shoes. The sand was hot from the relentless sun bearing down, and he could feel it even with canvass-top shoes on. His body guards were forced to keep their weapons hid under light jackets, and they suffered in the heat. Sunbathers saw Janowski coming and retreated, some leaving their blankets, umbrellas, and other items behind. They wanted no part of his rude, pushy guards. All the neighbors knew Janowski was trouble, but had no idea just how dangerous he really was. Luckily for them, he was seldom in the States and stayed at his mansion even less. He took his time getting to the water’s edge, scanning the horizon over the ocean. The surf was up, by Palm Beach standards that is, and a breeze helped cool things a little. After five minutes, he was sweating and realized he couldn’t take the heat and humidity, despite the breeze. Slipping out of his shoes, he waded in, hoping the water would cool him off. That worked well enough, but it wasn’t long before the sun’s burning radiation had his snow-colored Russian skin turning pink. Twenty minutes was all he could take, so he slipped on his shoes and headed back to the mansion. The girl was on his mind. After a quick shower, he would relax in the bedroom with his seventeen-year-old pet. He had a lot of pent-up anger and frustration in him, and she was going to have an unpleasant afternoon.
~~~
The wind gusted to twenty at times, and Gordon Ramirez tried to push his long black hair back in place as he exited his modest home in Santa Fe, New Mexico, moving like a man younger than his fifty-eight years. The son of two nature lovers, he had spent his life pursuing strenuous outdoor pursuits, such as mountain climbing and long-distance running, and the high level of exercise was evident in his physical conditioning as well as his energy level. Gordon was 150 pounds of sinew and muscle. He was a health nut in the extreme, refusing all temptations of unhealthy food and drink. In fact, he only drank water, nothing else. He also suffered from a phobia of disease, especially STDs. This had interfered with his social life, resulting in his remaining a bachelor long after most of his peers had nearly grown children. Some friends his age had grandchildren already. His fear of disease even hindered his failing medical practice, motivating him to take extraordinary precautions, often wearing two surgical gloves, one over the other, while examining a patient, and a face mask.
“Mrs. Quinn. Good morning!” Ramirez called pleasantly to his neighbor, a lively seventy-three-year-old, who was already out in her front yard watering her collection of roses.
“Good morning to you, too, Gordon. And how are you this beautiful morning?”
“Never better, Mrs. Quinn, never better.” Gordon virtually skipped to his fuel-sipping hybrid and opened the door, tossing his briefcase into the passenger seat before sliding behind the wheel.
“Are you planning on climbing after work?” the old woman called to him.
“Of course. You can count on that! My life is ninety percent pleasure and only ten percent work,” he replied with genuine cheer, then shut the door and started the car. He backed out of his driveway. Ramirez didn’t notice the car a hundred yards down the street as it joined him on his thirty-minute journey to his office – an old wood frame home converted for family practice in a neighborhood that was residential years before but had been rezoned for professional use, such as lawyers, realtors and family doctors. It was somewhat of a low-rent place for low-rent professional types. As the saying goes, all professions have bottom feeders.
Even if someone had pointed it out to him, he wouldn’t have been concerned about the tail. Ramirez was a man who bore no one a grudge, but was willing to do anything for a quick buck, so he could spend more time climbing mountains or scuba diving and less time in his office looking down one end and up the other of his patients. He even skydived before heading for the office sometimes, making his patients wait. The last thing he would have believed possible was that he could be in any sort of danger. The fact that he had performed specialized work for Mexican drug cartels, in the form of keeping torture victims awake and alive for extended and painful periods of time, caused him no concern at all. Those men were all dead, and unless they came back to haunt him as ghosts, they were past doing anyone harm. Sure, the cartels could be extremely dangerous, but he had performed well for them, and they were very happy with his work.
He made it to his office parking lot in good time. As he closed his door, he sensed a presence immediately behind him, and turned quickly. Facing him was an extremely fearsome man with a cold expression on his face. “Ramirez?” he grunted in a strange accent that sounded Russian.
Ramirez wanted to bolt away and run for it. He probably could outrun the man, but feared he was armed, and you couldn’t outrun a bullet. “Yes?”
“I am in need of your services.”
“Umm, well, call and my receptionist will put you down for an appointment in a couple days. My schedule is full for at least that long.”
“You come recommended by friends south of the border,” the tall man said.
Ramirez’s eyes widened. “They shouldn’t be talking to everyone about that.”
“They didn’t,” the man said. “They talked to me, not everyone. You understand? They are business associates.”
“Uh. I’ll have to check that out. Give me your name and a number I can call. If our mutual friends say you’re okay, I’ll tend to it this afternoon as soon as I’ve taken care of my patients for today.”
The man stared down at him, expressionless for a second, then pulled out a card and scribbled a number on the back.
Ramirez took it and read the front. ‘Viktor Chuikov, security specialist.’ It was in Russian, but he didn’t have to read it to know this man was trouble and as dangerous as his usual employers. He swallowed and looked up.
Viktor stared down, this time his cold expression changed to a threatening scowl. “Make sure you call by at least five PM, or I’ll come to your home tonight.”
Viktor’s English was just good enough to add an electrifying surge of fear through Ramirez’s nervous system. His days of no worries about the occasional work he had performed for dangerous drug cartels seemed to be over. Now they were passing his name out to thugs from all over the world, and it scared the hell out of him. He was no longer so sure of his safety when it came to the drug cartels, either. In less than a minute, this man had changed his entire outlook on life. “If you check out, I’ll call before five and have the drugs packed and ready to go.”
Without a word, Viktor turned and walked away, sliding into the passenger side of a black Mercedes.
~~~
Raylan filled the tank on the van while Carla used the convenience store’s restroom. He topped it off and filled the plastic fuel cans also. They didn’t want to be forced to stop for gas in a major city, where they were more likely to run into street crime and have to defend themselves, attracting the attention of law enforcement officers. He noticed Carla carried a newspaper and seemed to be in a hurry to get back into the van when she came out of the store. He got in behind the wheel. “You know, it’s your turn to drive.”
Carla ignored him and read a short story on the front page, her face a lighter shade of white than normal.
“Something about us?” Raylan asked. There hadn’t been any news about them or the government’s hunt for the ‘rogue agents’ in weeks, and he hoped it stayed that way, until they had a chance to email the latest revelations to reporters.
“Remember Mitch, who worked with us at the company?” She didn’t mention his last name on purpose.
“Yeah.”
“There’s a morgue photo of his face here. His body was found in really bad shape. I’m guessing this report was printed before the company had time to squash it. They had no ID on him and are asking if anyone recognized his face in the photo.” She held the paper up for him to see. “He looks terrible, even for a dead man, but it’s Mitch all rig
ht.”
Raylan braced himself. Mitch was liked by them both. “It says he was found just outside of Santa Fe, New Mexico. Must have been working the cartel/Muslim terrorist connection. I worked a similar case a few years back, when druggies helped sneak Muslim extremists across the border for a price. They had the makings for a dirty bomb and were heading for New York. Mitch and I wound up killing the terrorists in Maryland, but several druggies got away.”
He hit the road, noticing that Carla didn’t want to talk. She kept looking out the window. After finding a place to stop where people couldn’t get a close look at them, he pulled over and read the report, keeping the engine running. The description of what Mitch must have been put through was cryptic, but Raylan could read between the lines. “He was bled for info. I doubt this has anything to do with us. Terrible way for him to end up. Mitch was a decent guy.” He handed her the paper. “That’s the last you’ll read about his death. The company will stop anymore releases, cold.”
“Santa Fe’s only a day’s drive.” Carla’s eyes locked with Raylan’s.
“So. What are you thinking?”
“Nothing. I wonder what the company will tell his family.”
Raylan examined her face, trying to read her emotions. “There’s nothing we can do for him, or his family.”
She flinched. “I know. I’m not so sure his death had nothing to do with us, though. It may even have been the company.”
Raylan thought about that for a few seconds. “No. But they had him tailed and all of his communications monitored. You can bet on that. He was enough of a friend they certainly were watching him close.”
“Which makes me wonder how anyone got their hands on him without the company knowing.”
Again, their eyes locked.
Raylan sighed. “You have a point. But even dead, he’s radioactive. We poke our nose into his death and the company will be on us in a second. We really should stay out of New Mexico and just forget it. We have a chance to find a place and hide out. We might even have a life, at least for a year or so.”
