The Bid

by Adrian Magson

  Donny slurped back a mouthful and wondered why everybody he met these days seemed to be happy giving him advice and orders. Deep down he knew the man was right, and he’d come in here intending to eat as well. But the booze had washed away any caution he might have been feeling when he stepped through the door. Who the hell did these people think they were? First the college staff, then the Apple staff, now Asim and Bilal. Everybody assuming a right to tell him how to live his life. Even the two men standing at the bar a couple of feet away had turned and were giving him the eye, like he’d just landed from Mars.

  “You sure you ain’t serving ’em a little young today, Chuck?” one of the men said to the bartender. He was dressed in jeans and a check shirt like a gazillion other Americans, sporting the same buzz-cut as many other men in their forties, clean-shaven and confident.

  God how he hated their air of superiority and condescension. He should have seen the danger signs, but he was already too far gone.

  “None of your business,” Donny muttered, and found his tongue beginning to stick to the roof of his mouth. Damn, that beer was strong. Or maybe he really should have eaten something first.

  “Say what?” The other man had turned now and was staring at Donny with a look of amusement.

  “I’m twenty-four and it’s none of your damned business if I drink,” Donny said. He’d spoken calmly enough, although for some reason it came out as a shout, accompanied by a spray of spare beer that he hadn’t got round to swallowing.

  “Okay, that’s enough,” The bartender leaned across the counter and tapped him on the shoulder. “I’ll have to ask you to leave. Now.”

  “Why do you say that?” Donny hugged the half-empty bottle to his chest and pulled away. “I’m not drunk!”

  “I said, you’re leaving.” The bartender stepped along the bar and through a flap to back up his request. The other two men stepped back to give him room.

  “Fuck you!” Donny shouted, feeling what he was sure was an adrenaline rush, although he suspected it might be the beer and a rising sense of injustice.

  The room went quiet and the man in the check shirt said, “I think we can handle this, Chuck.” He put down his drink and stepped towards Donny. “Excuse me, sir, but this is where you put down the bottle and leave. Nice and quiet.”

  “Shit on you!” Donny squeaked and backed up fast. “You filthy American kuffars have got a lesson coming very soon … and you’d better watch out!”

  The man raised an eyebrow. “Say what?”

  A few comments from the rest of the room began working their way into Donny’s fogged brain. They sounded angry and aggressive, but he was past listening.

  “Hear me now,” he continued, beginning to sway. “We will strike at your heart, our insects delivering the sting of death from the sky … your own toys of death spraying our message of destruction on the head of your leader and ending his tyranny.” He threw out his arm in a dramatic gesture, launching a spray of beer from the bottle in his hand over a wide area, including the man’s check shirt. “Allah be praised!”

  “Like hell he will.” This voice came from right behind Donny, and he vaguely recalled seeing a big man in the corner when he’d come in. Sadly his mobile responses were working at quarter-speed, and he only had time to sense a movement before a heavy fist slammed into the side of his head and knocked him to the floor.

  The man in the check shirt brushed the beer droplets from his shirt before bending to check that Donny was still alive. Then he waved away the big man who’d hit him and took out a cell phone to make a call. When he finished speaking he squatted next to the dazed Donny and said quietly, “This is your lucky day, son. I’m Lieutenant Coley of the Oklahoma State Police Special Operations Troop. My colleague is Trooper Turner and we’re taking you out of here before you get yourself lynched. Maybe once we’re in the car, you can tell me whether you’re drunk, stupid, or downright dangerous.” With that, he and Turner grabbed Donny by the arms and dragged him out of the door.

  twenty-nine

  The following afternoon Tommy-Lee woke to the sound of an engine being driven hard. He recognised the sound and rolled off his bed, checking his watch. Damn, they were early. What the hell had lit their fuses?

  He stepped over to the slit window. Nothing to see yet but the noise was getting closer. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good news. He checked on James, who was moaning in his sleep, and shook him awake.

  “You’d better get yourself ready, pal,” he said, handing him a bottle of water. “They’re coming back and it sounds like they mean business.”

  “What makes you say that?” James lifted his head enough to swallow some water, before flopping back on the pillow with a sigh. “What time is it?”

  “They’re driving like they’re being chased by the devil. And that means it’s time for you to get serious, if you know what’s good for you.”

  James stared at him, eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot with lack of sleep. “Good for me … or good for you?” He tried a wry smile, but it didn’t come off, and only made him wince as his lips cracked. “You do realise, don’t you, that if these men are what I think they are, there’s no way they’ll let you go free when this is all over?”

  Tommy-Lee shook his head. He could parlay his way out of most any kind of trouble, unlike this guy. “You’re wrong. I’ve been hired to do a job and that’s what I’m going to do. They trust me. Fact is, though, these three don’t know shit about what they’re doing, and they’re getting desperate. They’ve been playing with some drones out there and they’ve already smashed two that I know of, maybe more. Now they’ve got three, maybe four left and no more in the cookie jar. That means they’ll do anything—and I mean anything—to get what they want. Now, I won’t hide it from you, that might have got me a little worried, because I get the feeling these are three of the craziest motherfuckers I’ve ever met. And I’ve known more than a few. But I can handle myself in a corner. Thing is, can you?”

  James was staring at him. “How do you know that—that they’ve lost the drones?” He struggled against the cuffs to sit up. “You’ve been out there, haven’t you? You watched them.”

  “Doesn’t matter what I’ve done—I just think you should know what you’re up against. There’s Paul, the boss-man, and a hunk of no-brain muscle named Bill who doesn’t say much, and a skinny geek named Donny who looks like he just stepped out of high school. I reckon he’s the guy you’ve got to teach to fly those drones.”

  “No.” James shook his head. “I won’t do it.”

  Tommy-Lee reached under his pillow for the knife. It was time to scare some real sense into this fool. If James stuck to this line of thinking, it meant all bets were off; there wouldn’t be any fifteen thousand bucks and he knew that neither of them would get out of this place alive. But before he could do anything the van drew up outside in a rush and the doors were thrown open and slammed shut. No control this time, he noted, just a few terse words from Paul. The men made no move to come to the door of the room, however, instead moving away towards the hangar, their footsteps fading.

  He jumped up and went to the window in time to catch a brief glimpse of Paul and Bill walking across the grass before they disappeared from sight. No sign of Donny, unless he was off to one side taking a piss.

  He sat on the bed and waited, his head in a spin. Something felt wrong, but he couldn’t figure out what. Then he jumped up again and washed his face and took a leak. Anything was better than sitting there waiting for the hammer to fall.

  The movement seemed to stir the air in the room, and the smell of their unwashed bodies and the near-full latrine bucket along with some rotting fruit in one of the boxes nearly made him throw up. He’d somehow managed to zone all that out for the past few days, as if it was all in his imagination; suddenly it had all become real again.

  He threw down the filthy T-shirt he’d been using as a wash
rag and took a lap around the room; two paces one way, two the other. All the time he could feel James’s eye on him. He felt like a caged bull he’d seen at a rodeo down south one time, the animal locked in a pen too small for its hunched muscle and sinew, ready to break out in a burst of fury.

  Then there was the rattle of the key in the lock and the door was thrown open.

  It was Paul. He had one hell of a face on him and was carrying the semi-automatic Tommy-Lee had seen before. Only now it was out in the open. He didn’t look as if he’d had much sleep and was about ready to cap somebody out of sheer spite.

  Tommy-Lee stood and waited. He didn’t know what had happened, but it wasn’t good, he could tell that much. And as he’d learned over a lifetime in some dangerous places, a man who takes to waving a gun around when he doesn’t have to is quite likely to use it on the first person he sees who gives him good cause.

  “The situation has changed,” Paul announced, looking at James. “I don’t need you to teach anybody how to fly the drones.”

  “So what are you going to do—shoot me?”

  “No. I mean you’re going to fly them for me.”

  “What?” James looked as if he didn’t care. “You’re crazy. Why should I help you?”

  In response, Paul lifted the gun towards Tommy-Lee and pulled the trigger.

  The shot was deafening in the confined space, and Tommy-Lee was spun round by the force of the bullet snatching at his ribs. It was like being hit with a baseball bat. He fell over onto the bed and screamed as a jolt of pain went through him, and he saw the wall behind him was now ghosted with a red mist, a hole drilled in the center.

  “Jesus! What the hell was that for?” He clutched his side, then gagged as his hand brushed the open edges of the wound. His fingers came away sticky with his blood and he felt sick and nearly passed out.

  “That’s because I can, Mr. Roddick,” Paul said calmly. “And to demonstrate what I will do if I have to. Frankly, I don’t care if you never leave this place alive. It’s all the same to me.” He turned to James. “But I think you’ve clearly underestimated what I will do, so take that demonstration as a reminder. Also”—he reached over and picked up the DVD player from the chair—“perhaps I need to remind you about a few things, just to focus your mind.” He turned on the player and dropped it on the bed.

  “What have you done?” James cried, lunging against the cuffs, his eyes on the small screen. “If you’ve touched my family I’ll never do anything—”

  “So far,” Paul interrupted him, “I haven’t done anything to them. But let me remind you of what we’re seeing here. The first footage is outside your home in London, where your charming wife, Elizabeth, is currently staying. Chelsea, I believe the district is called; very expensive, very … safe. But not for much longer. I have a man not a hundred yards from her front door right now. At a phone call from me, he will go in and kill her. But not before using her as he would any common whore.”

  “Wait!” James choked on his anger and tried to sit up.

  “Next,” Paul continued, as if he hadn’t noticed, “we come to the charming British public school where your son, Ben, is being educated. See the boys walking across the yard? They do that several times a day, going from their dorms to the classrooms and back, and to the dining room. I have two men nearby this time, both skilled at entering premises without alerting anybody. A call from me and they will enter the building and track down your son. There they will kill him in the most appropriate way they can think of. I’ve left that decision to them, but the most silent way will be, I believe, with a knife. Of course, if they should make a noise and be disturbed, then I cannot say who else will die. Probably quite a few of Ben’s friends.”

  “You bastard!”

  “And lastly, we come to the apartment where Miss Valerie DiPalma lives. A lovely young woman, I can see why you have become … attached to her. But also vulnerable if I make one phone call to the man currently outside the apartment block and awaiting my orders.” He paused while James looked on aghast as the picture of the apartment block entrance rolled by. “Unknown to Miss DiPalma, he has been following her whenever she leaves, and waiting nearby when she stays inside. He has also gained possession of a key to the rear door and emergency stairs. I have to admit that this man is perhaps the least attractive of those who will do what I tell them. He’s an animal and likes to inflict pain, especially on lovely young women. But he also likes to take pleasure in them first.

  “Now, Mr. Chadwick”—Paul picked up the DVD player and threw it across the room, where it smashed against the wall—“what is your answer? I’ll give you ten minutes to think it over. After that, you and your family will cease to exist. Your choice.”

  With that he stood up and walked out, locking the door behind him.

  thirty

  Ruth and Vaslik were back in the Cruxys office poring over the maps, while Walter Reiks was explaining to an agency temp her duties, which included answering the phone, taking messages, and holding the fort until a full-time administrator was appointed.

  Chadwick’s original map was the main focus and was pinned onto a corkboard on the wall. Ruth had put sticky notes close to the areas Chadwick had circled and another alongside the word freedom, which had been underlined.

  “This has to mean something,” she murmured, tapping the map with a pen. “Why would he write it down and underline it? That’s pretty specific.”

  Vaslik went over to the computer on the desk and punched a few keys. “If we concentrate on those three states, I’ve got Freedom in Nebraska, described as an unincorporated community in Frontier County.”

  “What does that mean—‘unincorporated’?”

  “It means it doesn’t have its own governing municipality, but is run by a local township or county.” He punched another key. “There’s a map but not much in the way of a town. If you want to mark it, it’s in the bottom left of Nebraska, close to the county line with Kansas.”

  Ruth put a cross where he said and asked, “Is Nebraska flat?”

  “You could say that. Why?”

  “Airfields. Chadwick was looking for abandoned airfields.”

  “Doesn’t mean the area has to be flat; just big enough to put in a runway, same as roads.”

  “True. What else do you have?”

  “There are two Freedoms in Kansas; one in Bourbon County, population at the last census, five hundred and five. The other is in Ellis County, population one hundred and twenty-five.” He punched more keys and said, “Wait. It says there are more communities named Freedom in Kansas. This could take a while.”

  “What about Oklahoma?”

  “There’s one in Woods County, population two hundred and eighty-nine.” He sat back and puffed his cheeks. “Checking out these places could take forever; it’s a lot of territory to cover and we could be chasing shadows.” He stood up and walked over to the map and studied it. “There must be dozens of abandoned airfields out there. We can’t get round to them all, and Google Maps can only show us so much. And why would Chadwick be looking for an abandoned one, anyway?”

  “It probably wasn’t down to him. If it was this Paul guy, and he’s planning what we think he’s planning and wants Chadwick to teach him how to fly drones, he’d want somewhere quiet where he wouldn’t have officials or cops breathing down his neck.” She shrugged. “Other than that, who the hell can read the intentions of terrorists?”

  Vaslik nodded. “That’s true enough. But why this remote? I mean, Kansas, Nebraska, and Oklahoma are all a long way out from the main cities like New York, Washington, or Chicago.”

  “You’re assuming they plan to hit a big city. What if they have somewhere else in mind?”

  “Okay, like what? Sporting events, conference venues, government facilities, military bases … the list is endless.” He raised a hand. “Sorry—I don’t mean to be negative, but thi
s is huge. There’s got to be a clue somewhere to narrow it down or we could be going in circles forever.”

  Ruth nodded. He was right. Without a specific target even the FBI, with all the data-crunching facilities at their disposal, would have a hard time convincing anybody that any kind of threat was actually out there. She considered another approach. If you were looking for a target to aim at, did it have to be a fixed one? “What would be the biggest propaganda target a terrorist attack could hit in this area? Forget the remoteness or the distance from the big cities.”

  He pursed his lips. “I’d go for one of the military bases.”

  “Why? Why not a university or college campus, shopping mall or a sports arena? That would get headlines.”

  “It would. But they’re soft targets. Hitting them would be nothing like making a successful strike at the US military.” He went back to the keyboard. “And there are … five military bases in Oklahoma alone, one of them an ammunitions plant.”

  “Ouch. And the others?”

  “Let’s see … there are three in Kansas, one of which is Fort Riley with over twenty-five thousand personnel. Nebraska has just one.” He looked up. “Take your pick—they’re all sitting there, all roughly in the same area.”

  She shook her head. Vaslik wasn’t passing off responsibility to her to come up with an answer; he was bouncing it off her to get them both thinking, the way any good team should. Logic told her that a stationary target was just that—a target. But would that really attract the attention of extremists hell-bent on creating world-wide headlines? Most military bases were huge, some like cities. But they didn’t usually give out maps to the public showing where the specific locations of personnel or top-level facilities were gathered, which is what most terrorist planners would be looking for. And a strike—even if successful—on a bunch of warehouses or nearly deserted training areas would do nothing to gain them the news value they desired, yet the risk involved would be the same.