by Brad Taylor
Initially, the men holding her had not been overtly cruel, just indifferent. In truth, the shorter of her three guards had actually shown her some small bits of kindness, bringing her water without her having to ask, and letting her go to the bathroom more than was necessary, allowing her to stretch her legs. His kindness had disappeared when he’d held her phone while the leader had beaten her. Her hands chained to the chair, he’d unmercifully slapped her face until she’d tasted the copper of the blood in her mouth, while the guard she thought was a friend had filmed it.
The rising sun brought a fear not unlike when the killer had been chasing her, but at least then she had options. She’d controlled her destiny. Now she could do nothing but pray the men wouldn’t beat her again.
A door opened and three new men entered. They were Asian, just like the ones who had captured her, but she hadn’t seen them before. They looked cruel; one had a scar that left a line through his right eyebrow and onto his cheek, and the second’s nose was bent, like it had been broken multiple times. The third had pits in his face as if he’d been hit with acid in his youth. She looked down at the floor, not wanting to encourage another beating. They ignored her as if she were another piece of furniture.
She glanced up, and one placed a backpack on the dining room table. The other two opened it and withdrew three canisters that resembled coffee thermoses. She focused on one, and realized it didn’t look like a thermos. It looked like the same canister she’d seen at the bottom of the drone.
Poison.
And she knew that this had something to do with Pike and Jennifer. These men were terrorists, just like the Syrians, and they were extracting their revenge for what Pike’s team had done in Nice.
The cruelness of the thought was debilitating.
She was going to be killed because of Pike.
* * *
—
I walked down the narrow alley and saw the bar that had been specified in the message. The Atelier Cocktail Club, in the Eaux-Vives district of Geneva, a densely packed neighborhood sprinkled with eateries and bars. I still had an hour before it opened at noon, but I wanted to get a feel for why this location was chosen.
After completing the video teleconference with Kurt, I’d received details for a meeting to discuss the ransom of Amena. Included in it was a video of someone beating her face, her arms handcuffed to a chair, the punisher holding her head upright by her hair. It was in slow-motion, allowing me to see the brutality with hyperclarity.
I had just about lost my mind, the rage so all-consuming I couldn’t think logically, the blackness overriding everything. I’d dropped the phone, and stood, walking in a circle, not even hearing Jennifer asking me questions. By the time I’d regained control of my faculties, Jennifer had seen the message.
She was speechless.
I’d said, “Hand me the phone.” She held it out, a tremor in her hand, afraid of what would happen if I looked at the video again. I took it, but ignored the video. I went to the message portion, seeing details to meet at the Atelier Cocktail Club at twelve fifteen. There were further instructions, but no mention of money or other ransom. Apparently, that would be determined at the meeting.
I’d memorized the details, then said, “Call Knuckles. Get him off the mountain, and relay Kurt’s instructions to Brett and Veep. Tell them they have Omega to interdict anyone who enters the bunker. Tell them they’re a two-man team, but help is on the way.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m flying to Geneva. You and Knuckles are going to bird-dog for the Swiss team at the hotel. Knuckles is in command.”
“You’re going to Geneva alone?”
“Yes. Now get moving. We’re wasting time. I’ve got to analyze this rendezvous location and you have to plan for the hotel.”
She nodded slowly and said, “Are you going to tell Kurt?”
“No. He told me to figure it out, and I just figured it out. You know the Koreans on sight, Knuckles can coordinate with the Swiss authorities on assault planning, and Brett and Veep can lock down the bunker until the Swiss come in to evacuate it.”
She said, “And when he calls for you?”
“Tell him I’m doing what’s right. He can fire me later.”
She said, “I don’t think going by yourself is smart. Let me come.”
“No. You know the Koreans.”
“Then take Knuckles.”
“No. He’s the liaison with the Swiss.”
“Shit, Pike, then take Brett or Veep!”
“No. They can’t run an OP as a singleton.”
“Pike . . . Why are you going alone? You know you could wicker this differently.”
I’d looked at her and said, “Jennifer, just do the mission. Nobody needs to be near what I’m about to do. It’s for your protection.”
She didn’t say anything, and I said, “Look, I don’t think Amena is alive. I think whoever this is, they’ve already killed her. And not in a pleasant way.”
She stood up, crossed her arms across her chest, and whispered, “So why are you going? What are you going to do?”
The demon slithered out of the depths, the blackness coming forth, wanting to feed, and I savored the feeling. Yearned for it.
I said, “I’m going to kill every single one of those fucks.”
67
Amena finished her breakfast, and the short guard took her to the bathroom. She stayed inside as long as she could, waiting for him to bang on the door, as he inevitably did. When she heard the knocks, she mentally prepared herself to be chained back to the chair.
He led her back into the dining room, and this time she saw the same three men, only now they were dressed in business suits. A fourth man handed out some type of badge on a lanyard, and each of the three put it around his neck, then left the room.
She was locked back into her chair, and the leader came into the room. He said something in their language, and then walked over to her. Amena physically tried to shrink away.
To her, he said in English, “I need you to look into this camera and state your name and today’s date.”
He held up a small GoPro Hero video recorder and pressed a button. She just stared into the red light. He pressed the button again, smacked her in the head, and said, “Say your name and the date. Today’s date.”
This time, when he pressed the button, she did as he asked. He turned off the camera and said, “Good.”
He called over the short guard and gave out instructions. Amena could tell the guard didn’t like it. He said something back, and then their voices rose at each other in their weird language. The short guard backed down, then looked at his watch. He nodded, and the leader left the room with the taller guard.
When he returned, he was followed by the three in the business suits, each carrying a briefcase. The leader discussed something with them, then he and the taller guard exited the house. Thirty minutes later, so did the three in suits.
She was left with the short guard and the man who’d handed out the badges. Badge Man ignored her completely, but the short guard kept looking at his watch, and treated her with more kindness than he ever had before. When he spoke to her, he avoided her eyes.
And it left a bad feeling in her.
She decided to test his newfound benevolence, asking for a snack, something she’d never done before. He brought her a banana, not questioning the request in the slightest. Like he was granting the wishes of a doomed prisoner.
She knew that was the truth, and it caused her to drop her head in sorrow. She was going to die because Pike couldn’t find her.
Why can’t he locate me? He’s the United States. He found the terrorists. He found me in the water. And then she had a lightning bolt of hope, the thought so strong she had to contain her reaction lest the guard suspect.
“May I listen to the music on my phon
e? Just one song?”
He shook his head. She said, “Please? I won’t do anything to the phone. It can stay in airplane mode and you can manipulate it. My arms are chained to the chair.”
He looked into her eyes, and then glanced away. He left the room. When he returned, he held Pike’s iPhone and a set of earbuds. He gently put the buds in her ears, pulled up the music app, and, in his heavy accent, asked, “You listen to one song. Only one. Which?”
She smiled at him and said, “I like U2. It’s the one called ‘I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For.’”
She held her breath, and he clicked on the song. She closed her eyes, like she was listening to something she loved.
But she was really praying.
* * *
—
Four thousand miles away, inside an innocuous office building in Clarendon, Virginia, Bartholomew Creedwater was working his magic helping Knuckles and Jennifer penetrate a hotel room in Zurich, Switzerland, to confirm or deny the presence of a North Korean hit team. He loved his job, especially listening to the chatter between the team, making him feel a part of the mission.
They’d spent a good portion of the day just trying to neck down the room, which had required his skills to hack into the hotel database. Once he’d done it, it was child’s play to find the only Koreans in the entire establishment.
From there, he’d cracked the hotel security system, and had spent an hour analyzing security camera footage. Eventually, he’d found the two Koreans leaving the hotel, and had relayed to Knuckles that he believed the room was clear, and now he was listening to their chatter as they prepared to enter.
It was very cool.
His job done, he sat back in his chair, wishing he had access to a helmet cam system so he could watch as well as listen. He glanced at the computer to his left, and then bolted upright. Prometheus 3 was active, broadcasting an alert beacon.
He stood up, pulled off his headset, and went straight to his supervisor, a tall, lanky man responsible for running the entire hacking cell. Including the Zurich operation, he was managing two more missions and had little sense of humor.
“What’s up, Creed?”
“Prometheus Three is sending an alert. We need to inform Kurt.”
“You’re in the middle of an operation. We’ll do it later.”
Creed knew how much this meant to Pike. Knew the pain the loss of the girl had caused. He said, “No, we need to do it now. Pike’s in Geneva, and the grid from the alert is just outside there. I don’t know how long it will be on.”
His supervisor said, “You heard Kurt earlier. I’m not inclined to interrupt his meeting based on Pike.”
Before the Zurich mission had begun, Knuckles had been forced to tell Kurt that he was executing, and that Pike had gone off the reservation. Jennifer had tried to mitigate the damage, describing a video that Pike had received, but Kurt had exploded, angrier than Creed had ever seen him, cursing Pike’s very existence.
Creed tried one more time, saying, “He’ll want to know this.”
The supervisor snapped, “We’ll tell him after the operation. Now get back to your box. Start doing your mission and quit worrying about what Pike’s doing, because whatever it is, it’s not sanctioned.”
Creed returned to his seat and put on his headset. He heard Knuckles talking to Jennifer.
“Room’s clean. The backpacks are here, empty, and the Cotton Mouth is on the floor. There is no other luggage. I think they fled the coop.”
Jennifer said, “You think they’re gone for good?”
“Yep. Looks that way. I think we were suckered.”
“Not good news. Hallway’s clear. You can exfil.”
He said, “I have to give Kurt a call. I’ll be off the net.”
She said, “Roger,” and Creed did what no support personnel was ever allowed to do. He keyed his microphone, interrupting a live mission.
“Koko, Koko, this is Creed.”
“This is Koko, what’s up?”
He surreptitiously glanced at his supervisor and said, “Prometheus Three is active. I have a grid.”
68
At precisely twelve fifteen, I entered the patio outside the bar, seeing a man in sunglasses in the right rear corner, a folded newspaper on the table. He was the one.
I approached him, trying to control my anger, wondering if he had been the man who had hit my little refugee. I said, “I’m here for a meeting.”
He stood up and said, “Raise your arms.”
I did so, and he searched me. The message had stated to come alone and unarmed, and from my earlier recce, I determined that the choice of the bar was to ensure number one was met. The alley was so narrow, I couldn’t have hidden anyone near the bar with an ability to react without being seen. I wasn’t stupid enough to break number two, knowing I’d be searched.
He finished and pulled off his sunglasses. He was Asian, and I now knew what this was about. It wasn’t ransom, and it wasn’t human trafficking. It was Red Mercury.
He said, “Go inside.”
I turned and he sidled up right behind me, almost stepping on my heels. I opened the door, seeing a chopped-up place with a bar on the left, some high tables, and a few scattered deep-set leather chairs, all empty, awaiting the first customers of the day.
He said, “Continue forward, then take a right.”
We walked past the tables and chairs and entered a small hallway. At the back was a coffee table with two leather chairs. Another man was in the chair against the wall.
The man behind me pushed my back, and I went to the end of the hallway. The man in the chair said, “You can call me Bill. Have a seat.”
I sat down across from him and said, “You don’t look like a Bill.”
He raised an eyebrow at that, then said, “You want the girl back, yes?”
“Yes. But first I want to know she’s alive.”
He slid across a GoPro camera and said, “See for yourself.”
I hit play, and saw Amena chained to a chair, her face swollen from the beating. She said her name, and today’s date. I felt an impotent rage, wanting to slaughter both of them, believing in my heart Amena was lost, but if there was any chance, I had to take it, and these men were the only connection I had. If it meant giving my life, I would do so, but only if she would live.
I said, “What do you want?”
“I want an agreement. That is all. No money. Just a payment in time. You sit in your hotel room for twenty-four hours, and then you get her back.”
I read right through what he was asking. I do nothing to interfere with his plans, and he would let the girl live. He was forcing me to make a choice between Amena’s life and the lives of the people he was going to kill with his Red Mercury.
But there was no choice. My duty wouldn’t allow it. If she wasn’t already, Amena was going to die.
I pulled out my iPhone, set it on the table, and hit play. I said, “Did you send this video? Were you the one who hit her?”
“Why does that matter?”
“I want to know.”
“It doesn’t matter who did what. We are both men who understand the game. I see that in you. And you are going to continue the game if you want to see her alive. Right?”
My phone vibrated on the table. I picked it up, seeing a text message from Jennifer.
Prometheus 3 is active. The beacon is transmitting. We have a grid. Need the bird. Coming to you.
I placed the phone on the table, feeling the beast behind the cage, begging for release. I said, “Wrong.”
And I set it free.
Without even looking I reached back behind me and grabbed the man who’d searched me, standing up and flinging him across the table using my hip as a fulcrum. He smashed into the negotiator to my front and I leapt on top of him, grabbing his head by the hair
and torquing his neck back. I hammered his throat with a closed fist while the negotiator scrambled against the wall. He stood up and said, “Stop! You’ll kill her if I don’t return!”
I bent down to the man at my feet, his hands on his neck, coughing and struggling. My eyes remained on the negotiator. I said, “Did you film that video?”
He said, “No, no. I’m just the messenger.”
I placed my knee under the neck of the security man, then slammed his head down, the crack loud, like a stick breaking. I stood up, the beast running free, and said, “You’re a fucking liar.”
He darted to the left, trying to get by me, and I slammed him back into the wall. He started to fight me, a pathetic effort at the rage he was facing. I locked his arm up behind his back, controlling him and rotating his body until he was facing the wall. He kicked me in the groin, a feeble attempt to save his life. I pushed his head low, until he was bent at ninety degrees, and said, “You want to know what it feels like to get slapped?”
He said, “I didn’t do it!”
I said, “It feels like this.” I held his left arm high on his back, then grabbed his belt with my right hand. I slammed him into the wall like I was swinging a police battering ram, his head hitting the concrete hard enough to shatter the top of his skull and fracture the vertebrae in his neck.
I let him drop to the floor, putting my hands on my hips, breathing heavily for a second. I did a rapid search of the men, finding nothing of interest, then went back out to the front. The lone bartender said, “What’s going on back there?”
I looked at him and he recoiled, seeing what was inside of me. I said, “Business disagreement.”
I reached the street, and took off running to my hotel, calling the Rock Star bird as I went, the hope of finding Amena giving me the energy to move faster than I ever had.
69
An hour and forty-five minutes later, I was pacing around the passenger lounge at the Lausanne airport, waiting on the arrival of the Rock Star bird. With the turnaround, it would have been a two-hour wait to get Jennifer and Knuckles back to Geneva, and then another hour drive to the target, which was putting Amena’s life in serious danger. The pilot had suggested Lausanne, a town only fifteen minutes from where Amena was being held. Well, at least from where the beacon was transmitting. Knuckles had reminded me of that fact, saying if Amena had control of her phone, why hadn’t she just called? But I believed it was her. She had somehow triggered that alert, but couldn’t do anything else. I didn’t allow myself to think of any other options.