Guarding Savage

by Edlund, Dave;

  Peter silently stared back, his eyes unfocused and his face devoid of expression.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pried. It’s none of my business.”

  Peter felt a lump in his throat as he tried to swallow, and his eyes moistened. He turned his head as if there was a spot on the far wall of immense interest.

  “So,” Jade stumbled, searching for a topic to discuss. “Are you excited about visiting the Rolls Royce factory tomorrow?”

  Peter had a far-away gaze when he answered. “She would have liked you.”

  Jade didn’t answer.

  “Her name…” Peter cleared his throat. “Her name was Maggie. She’d have thought you were charming, and funny, and smart.”

  “I’m sure I’d like Maggie, too.”

  “She died a while ago.” Peter forced a smile and looked at Jade. “I’ll never get used to saying that. I miss her.”

  Peter’s hands were wrapped around the base of the Champagne flute, and Jade reached out and laid her hand on his. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  “It okay. You didn’t know.”

  “My mother once told me that our wealth is measured by the love of our family and friends. And that love doesn’t end when someone passes, but it continues as long as they live on in our memories and are cherished in our hearts.”

  “Then, by that measure, I am the richest man in the world.”

  They sat in silence as Peter drew his mind back to the present, and Jade saw another layer of mystery in this man she’d met only a few days ago. Just as the silence was reaching a point of awkwardness, their dishes arrived. The mixed aroma of spices and a variety of scents was enticing, and signaled the promise of a memorable meal. Jade commented how she had heard rave reviews of the restaurant from Roger, their butler. Peter sized up the bulgogi and concluded the slices of barbequed beef were too large to easily handle with only chopsticks, and he asked the waiter to bring a fork and steak knife to slice the meat into manageable chunks.

  As they enjoyed their dishes, Jade steered the conversation to lighter subjects. Peter had many questions about what to expect at the Rolls Royce factory, and Jade was happy to go into exquisite detail about the process of selecting first the model of car, and then the interior and exterior finishes. Listening to Jade, Peter was left with the distinct impression that almost every aspect of the coachwork was customized to the owner’s specifications.

  After they’d finished the main course, Peter left his fork on the plate and laid his linen napkin on the steak knife. Before the waiter arrived to remove the plates, he slid the folded napkin to his lap.

  “Would anyone care for desert?” the waiter asked.

  Jade waved away the request, and Peter politely declined.

  With raised eyebrows, the waiter asked, “Coffee or espresso?”

  “Espresso, please,” Jade said.

  “Make that two. Thank you.”

  The espressos arrived in short order, and Jade discussed the theater, shopping, and art galleries while they sipped. When the waiter brought the bill, Peter insisted on paying. “We can arm wrestle if you want to, but I’m confident I’ll win. This is the very least I can do,” he said.

  Peter followed Jade out to the sidewalk and the waiting Rolls. Robert was leaning casually against the wall of the restaurant, watching everyone coming and going. He quickly opened the rear door to allow Jade to climb onto the back seat. Peter paused for a moment and asked in a low voice, “Anything?”

  “Nothing confirmed,” Robert replied. “All things considered, fairly quiet.”

  Chapter 8

  London, U.K.

  August 23

  The old streets were relatively narrow for the big luxury car, but Robert was adept at maneuvering around parked vehicles and pedestrians who seemed to display little regard for the hazards of crossing in traffic.

  “You should have let me bring you something to eat, Robert,” Jade said.

  “After the play, I’ll have a snack. I’m sure Roger can help me out. How was dinner?”

  “It was great,” Peter answered before Jade got a word out. “The Korean barbeque was fantastic.”

  Robert slowed to pass around a small delivery van double-parked outside a pub. The name above the doublewide entry doors proudly proclaimed The Queen’s Head in gilded letters. Through the large windowpanes, Peter noticed an animated crowd clustered near the bar.

  Traffic was light, with only three cars keeping a steady pace behind the Rolls. The road was clear to the front for more than a block. Peter felt his body pushed into the seatback as the Phantom powered forward. Robert gripped the wheel with both hands, his eyes darting between the road and the rearview mirror.

  Peter leaned forward. “Is there a problem?”

  “We’ll know in a few seconds,” Robert answered without breaking his focus.

  Jade was looking out the side window and nearly banged her head on the glass when the car took a sharp turn at a speed that bordered on reckless. “Robert?”

  Through the rear window Peter saw two motorcycles accelerating quickly down the unobstructed street toward the Rolls. The spirited engine of the big car roared, and the pursuers fell back, but only briefly. Despite the racing heritage of Rolls Royce, the Phantom was no match for the acceleration and maneuverability of the experienced motorcyclists.

  Robert covered another block and whipped around a corner, tires squealing, leaving rubber on the pavement. Jade was thrown into Peter by the centrifugal force, the high-pitched whine of the bikes rising above the refined, throaty rumble from the V12 engine.

  “Where are the police when you need them?” Peter mumbled, not expecting an answer.

  “Hang on!” Robert said as he turned the wheel sharply, the rear fishtailing before he straightened their trajectory.

  The two cyclists closed the distance and bore down on the Rolls. One of the bikes shot past the car. “They’re trying to box us in,” Robert said.

  A car pulled out in front of Robert, forcing him to brake and swerve into the oncoming lane. He oversteered and clipped the sideview mirror on a parked car before regaining control and passing the car. A second later the pursuing motorcyclist was right behind them again.

  Ahead, the motorcycle had stopped and the rider, clad in black leather and full helmet, raised a pistol. Robert cranked the wheel, sending the Rolls into a drift as it cornered onto a cross street. As soon as Robert made the turn, he knew it was a mistake. The street narrowed, and with cars and vans parked along the side, there was only space for one vehicle to pass—it was a trap.

  Peter felt the car surge forward as Robert floored the accelerator. Jade had both hands clenched on the seatback in front of her, eyes wide in fear.

  “We have to get to a public location,” Peter said.

  “Working on it,” Robert answered and he poked a display on the front console. For the first time, Peter noticed it was a GPS display, currently showing their route through a myriad of side streets. “If we get into the traffic too soon and stopped at a light, one of those street bikes can just drive up alongside and it’s game over.”

  “What can I do?”

  “Just hold on.”

  Peter heard the familiar click of electric door locks engaging. He reached across Jade and grabbed the shoulder harness, strapping her in before buckling his own seatbelt.

  The motorcycle was still close on their tail. Fortunately, the rider hadn’t displayed a gun, although Robert believed it likely that both riders were armed. The distance to the next cross street shortened, and it looked to Peter they would make it. But his hopes were short lived—a car turned onto the road, headed directly for them. “Hold on!” Robert said. “It’s gonna get rough!”

  He turned the Phantom into a gap in the string of parked cars, narrowly missing a fire hydrant. The sidewalk was wide and served as outdoor seating for the many restaurants and pubs. He slowed only a little and laid on the horn.

  Terrified patrons leaped from their chairs, s
cattering to both sides to the relative safety of the parked cars and doorways. The heavy limousine plowed through tables, chairs, and colorful umbrellas. Robert cut sharply to the left to avoid hitting one of the patrons, preferring to careen off the side of a beat-up VW minibus with a large peace symbol painted on the side.

  He stayed on the sidewalk for another thirty yards and then emerged onto the cross street to the angry blare of car horns as he cutoff two drivers. He glanced at the GPS display and swore. He was caught in a seemingly endless maze of side streets that more closely resembled old cow trails than a city grid. The way the streets intersected at odd angles and took sweeping turns made it nearly impossible to maintain his bearings.

  Both motorcycles were again on his tail, and he seriously doubted he’d see any police unless he got onto one of the major roadways or arrived at a popular public location. But he also feared that he’d get bogged down in traffic if he tried either. For now, at least, he was able to keep the car moving.

  In the rearview mirror, Robert saw a van pull in behind the motorcycles. It accelerated, and pulled even with the two bikes. In front of the Phantom, two blocks away, a sedan turned and approached, only to skid to a stop sideways, blocking the road.

  “Looks like this is it,” he said. “We’ve run out of road. Call the police and keep down!”

  “I don’t know the number!”

  “It’s nine-nine-nine. Tell them someone’s trying to kidnap Jade!”

  Peter dialed the number and was waiting for it to connect when Robert slammed on the brakes. As the Rolls stopped, Robert opened a panel in the driver’s door and wrapped his large hand around a Walther PPK pistol. He shoved the door open, and was halfway out when he abruptly changed direction and dove across the front seat. A second later the van barreled alongside the Rolls, ripping the driver’s door from its hinges.

  “What’s the nature of the emergency?” The voice had a decidedly calm British accent that Peter would have found amusing under less dire circumstances.

  A swarm of men, all dressed entirely in black, poured out of the van and surrounded the Phantom. Like fictionalized outlaws from Western movies, they wore bandanas to cover their faces.

  “We’re on a street. I… I don’t know where. There’s a group of people attacking us!”

  Peter heard the door handles being worked as the black-clad men struggled in vain to open the doors. He had his arms wrapped around Jade, drawing her close and covering her head while cradling the phone in one hand. He had it on speaker.

  “Sir, please calm down. I need to know your location. Are you safe for the moment?”

  “We’re in the car—a Rolls Royce. The doors are locked, but the driver’s door is gone. They smashed it with a van!”

  “What is your location, sir? I need to know where to send the police.”

  One of the men produced a pistol with a suppressor fixed to the barrel making the weapon appear unnaturally long and muzzle heavy. He slammed the butt against the rear window, attempting to shatter the glass. After the third strike, and without the desired result, he pointed the barrel at the forward edge of the glass and fired. The bullet shattered the window into thousands of tiny fragments.

  A black-gloved hand reached in and was fumbling for the door latch. Peter leaned to the opposite side of the car and kicked at the groping hand. The first strike was ineffective, but the second worked, and the arm retracted.

  Then the window behind Peter shattered.

  Jade screamed. Peter shifted to the middle, seeking distance from the attackers. He dropped the phone, but the connection remained live, and he could hear the distant voice, “Sir? Sir? What is your location?”

  In the front seat, Robert was also fighting back. Through the gaping breach where the door used to be, one of the attackers was leaning over Robert, wrestling to control the Walther pistol still firmly in his grip. The tight confines of the car made it difficult for Robert to push the man off him—the seatback, dash, and top of the car boxed them in. He had to get a leg drawn up so he could plant his foot against the attacker—preferably in the stomach or groin.

  The passenger-side glass shattered, covering Robert in fragments. And then an arm reached in and placed a Taser against his neck.

  Peter heard the buzz of the Taser and knew what that meant—time was running out. “I don’t know where we are!” he shouted, hoping the phone on the floor would pick up his voice. “Close to Piccadilly Circus! We were at a Korean restaurant called Myung Ga!”

  Both rear doors opened and a torso thrust in, grabbing Peter’s arm, attempting to pull him out. Through the passenger side, another assailant had latched onto Jade. Peter held tightly, refusing to let her go. But it was a losing battle against the swarm of men.

  And then Jade slipped from his grip.

  In desperation, Peter reached inside his jacket to the steak knife he’d lifted from the restaurant and discreetly tucked inside his waistband. His left arm was locked in an iron grip and he was being dragged out of the car. He thrust the knife across his chest, slashing the forearm of his attacker, causing him to release his hold and withdraw.

  The fight wasn’t over, and with Jade out of the way, more men grabbed Peter through the open doors. He lashed out with a clenched fist, but there wasn’t enough power behind the blow to be effective. The attacker shook off the punch and latched onto Peter’s wrist with both hands. Frantically, he stabbed with the knife, but missed and instead sunk the blade deep into the leather upholstery. Unrelenting, the assailant was yanking on Peter’s arm, using a leg as leverage against the rear seat. At the same time, hands came from the other side and were struggling to get control of the knife.

  Peter swung his elbow into the nose of the attacker, and then brought the knife forward and down. He narrowly missed the man’s face, instead, slicing through his ear. He screamed in pain and broke off.

  Off balance, Peter toppled to the side and was pulled from the limousine. A boot slammed into his ribs, and he grunted as the wind left his chest. Another foot came down on his arm allowing the knife to be taken from his grasp. He heard Jade scream again, and he turned his head just in time to see Jade being pushed into the rear of the sedan. The next sensation that filled Peter’s mind was one of intense, all-encompassing pain as the Taser was pressed into his flesh.

  Chapter 9

  Sacramento, California

  August 22

  The Strategic Global Intervention Team, commonly called SGIT, operated under the authority of Colonel Pierson of the DIA, or the Defense Intelligence Agency. SGIT headquarters, affectionately called The Office, was located in a discrete, high-security building in McClellan Business Park at the former Strategic Air Command (SAC) base in Sacramento. The business park was home to a mix of private-sector and military tenants, including the Defense Commissary Agency’s regional office and the Defense Department Microelectronics Center. But the primary reason SGIT was stationed at the McClellan Business Park was to have direct access to the 10,600-foot-long runway and secure hangars to house its specialty aircraft.

  Although many teams within the diverse U.S. intelligence agencies were working hard to provide any, and all, new information on the attack that sunk the Izumo, the small and highly capable SGIT team was devoting 100% of their attention to finding answers. Lieutenant Ellen Lacey, Senior Intelligence Analyst, was leading the effort.

  With wavy red hair and fair complexion, Lacey was true to her Irish roots. She was widely recognized as one of the most gifted minds in the intelligence community and had a file full of commendations and accolades that was scheduled to remain classified “secret” for at least fifty years.

  “We don’t have anything other than the initial reports.” Analyst Mona Stephens made no attempt to hide her frustration, or fatigue. They’d been at it non-stop for close to sixteen hours, and she needed a break. Petite and blond, her attractive looks often led her male counterparts to grossly underestimate her brainpower. In fact, she had proven instrumental in problem solvi
ng and quickly rose to be second in charge of the analyst team. Like her boss, she was confident, but not cocky, and brilliant at synthesizing theories based on disparate and seemingly random facts.

  “Many of the analysts over at the DIA think the attack may have been a one-hit wonder,” she added.

  “You mean a one-trick pony,” this comment from David Sanchez, the junior-most analyst, having been assigned to SGIT only a year ago.

  That earned him a glare and sharp rebuke. “No, I meant one-hit wonder. That’s why I said it.”

  “That’s enough,” Lacey ordered. “Stay focused. I know we are all tired.” She ran her eyes around the room, taking in her collected team. Stephens and Sanchez sat across from each other at the conference table. Mark Williams and Beth Ross rounded out the team. Including Lacey, five of the best minds at intelligence gathering, interpretation, and problem solving—and they were striking out.

  “Okay, people. Take a break. Get some coffee; check your emails. Back here in fifteen.”

  “How about some Chinese take-out?” Sanchez asked with a lopsided grin. “I’m starving.”

  Stephens looked over her shoulder on her way out of the conference room. “Yeah, it’s been a whole three hours since your last feeding.”

  “Hey, I’m a growing boy. I can’t think on an empty stomach.”

  “Relax,” Lacey said. “I’ll call the front desk and have Sergeant Wells order in some food.”

  s

  An hour later and with hunger satiated, Lacey’s team was back at it. The secure conference room had the spicy aroma of ginger and garlic, but at least the faces looking back at her showed a level of vigor that had been lacking for the last several hours. A fresh carafe of steaming hot coffee was on a table at one end of the room. Lacey was filling her mug.

  “Do we have any updates yet from the Navy?” she asked to no one in particular.

  “Not yet, ma’am,” Beth Ross replied. “Although my last email exchange was earlier this morning. I can ping them again.”

  Lacey nodded, and Ross tapped away at the keyboard of her laptop.