Demon Mind (Vector Book 2)

Home > Thriller > Demon Mind (Vector Book 2) > Page 4
Demon Mind (Vector Book 2) Page 4

by Anthony J Melchiorri


  “We’ll have to be careful, of course.”

  “Last thing we want is to set off suspicions when we go around the neighborhood trying to figure out what happened here. Word will get around quickly.”

  Skylar started toward another doorway at the back of the living area. A rod hung over the doorway with metal rings. It looked as though a curtain had once hung from it.

  “Man, you know what, Alex?” she said.

  He turned toward her.

  “Digging through all this crap almost makes me jealous of Renee and Paolo.”

  Those were the two researchers that they had saved on their last major mission. The duo had ended up working for USAMRIID at Fort Detrick after providing Vector the help they needed to stop a Russian scientist hell-bent on deploying a devastating bioweapon across the world.

  “You’re jealous of them?” Alex asked, looking through a burned-out cabinet.

  “They’re engaged and happy, got stable jobs, they’re not running all over the world, and they don’t have to sift through a burned-out house looking for a lead that may not even exist. Kind of nice to have that stability.”

  “You telling me you want stability?” He raised an eyebrow.

  She let out a soft laugh. “Maybe not. But my parents want it. They keep asking when I’m going to be visiting them in Pensacola with grandkids.”

  “And?” Alex started sifting through another pile of charred bricks.

  “I tell them my sister’s kids should be good enough for them.” She stepped over a few bent metal tubes that might have been chair legs. Her penlight swept through the space. “I mean, they’re cute enough. I don’t think I’d have kids that cute.” A sink without a faucet was against one wall next to a stove and oven. More broken ceiling tiles and bricks were piled on the burners. “Besides, I’d rather be the cool aunt to my niece and nephew than have to worry about my own kids while we’re out here doing—”

  She stopped midsentence.

  The kitchen looked every bit as destroyed as the living area.

  But there was one thing that stood out. Maybe it would’ve gone unnoticed to a casual observer. A nosy kid who happened to come in here with his friends might not think it was odd. And when a group of construction workers was eventually hired to tear this crap down, they might not pay it a second glance.

  To her, it was a spotlight.

  “Alex,” she said, turning back toward the living area. “Come here.”

  He stepped away from the pile of bricks and joined her.

  She pointed at what she found. “This wasn’t a safe house at all, was it?”

  Alex saw what had piqued Skylar’s interest. On the side of the burned-out counter, right next to the oven, there was a single white mark no more than an inch tall.

  He stepped over a fallen, blackened ceiling beam. With one finger, he wiped a small streak through the middle of the mark.

  “Chalk,” he said.

  “It’s a dead drop site, isn’t it?” she asked.

  “Looks like it.”

  He bent down next to the oven then shone his light under it. The light danced over dust and dirt before hitting a small piece of chalk. He pulled it out and rolled it between his fingers. It was about the size of his pinky.

  The chalk mark at a dead drop site was a classic espionage trick. The single line indicated someone had left something at an agreed-upon location, usually somewhere within the proximity of the mark.

  The person picking up the goods or intel would leave a second line once they found the drop.

  But since there was no second mark, that meant whatever had been left here hadn’t been picked up.

  “You think it was Ballard or one of his assets that made the last drop?” Skylar asked.

  “If Ballard really disappeared weeks ago, I would say it’s more likely to be his asset,” Alex said. He looked up toward the nonexistent ceiling. “The chalk wouldn’t have lasted that long. Ballard’s contact is probably wondering why he hasn’t picked the drop up yet.”

  Skylar crouched under the sink. She probed under the lip of the counter. “Just because Ballard disappeared from the CIA’s radar doesn’t mean he’s actually gone. Maybe someone got him to talk and is using the dead drop to lure his asset out from hiding.”

  Alex peered into the crack behind the oven, shining his light over the debris built up there. “We need to find whatever was hidden in here if we want to know.”

  “That’s awfully optimistic.” Skylar pried open a cabinet door. “You’re assuming we’re going to find something that gives us an answer rather than more questions.”

  Alex opened the oven door. His penlight cut away at the blackness. Everything was covered in a fine layer of black dust. Once again, there was nothing.

  But as he started to close the oven door, he realized there was a small bump near the back corner of the oven. He reached in and brushed his fingers over the lump. Even though it was covered in soot, it was soft.

  A small hand towel.

  He pulled the towel away. The cloth was covered in soot, but underneath it was a silver flip phone. The thing looked like it was straight from the early 2000s.

  “How about this?” Alex asked, showing it to Skylar.

  “Jackpot.”

  He flipped open the phone. It was already on.

  “Thirty percent battery,” he said. “Not bad for an antique.”

  Then he scrolled through the phone’s menu. There were no images on it. No history of calls made or received. All he found was a single contact.

  “You think that’s Ballard’s number or his asset?” Skylar asked.

  “Only one way to find out.”

  -4-

  Alex placed the cell phone in the middle of the desk in the hotel room he shared with Skylar. They had jacked a single cable from the laptop into the phone. The laptop was set up to route all incoming and outgoing data from the cell back to Vector HQ in Frederick.

  “Do you have access to our computer?” Alex asked over another encrypted phone line back to Vector.

  “All you got to do is keep whoever you’re calling on the phone long enough that I can triangulate his location,” Morris replied over the line. “Shouldn’t be too hard. If we’re lucky, the number you’re dialing isn’t attached to a dinosaur like the flip phone you got. Then I can use the unit’s GPS to get a better location.”

  “Skim everything you can, Morris,” Skylar said, sitting beside Alex at the desk. “Because we’ve only got one shot.”

  “Yeah, I know,” he said. “Ready when you are.”

  Alex took a deep breath.

  All they had was a single phone number. If Alex spooked whoever he was calling, then they’d be left with even less of a trail than they’d come to Amman with.

  “Here we go.” Alex picked up the phone.

  He selected the number in the contact list and hit dial.

  The other line rang.

  Just keep whoever is on the line as long as possible.

  Should be easier than surviving a gunfight or a high-speed car chase. But for some reason, the task felt even more daunting. He was dangling over a cliff, reaching for the single fraying rope that might take him to safety.

  Another ring.

  Would they even pick up?

  If the phone had been sitting untouched for too long, maybe whoever was supposed to pick it up knew something was wrong. They might be avoiding the call.

  Another ring.

  Come on, come on.

  Then the ringing stopped.

  Alex thought he could hear someone inhale sharply. There was a beat of silence.

  Then, “Salam alaikum.”

  It was a man’s voice. Gravelly and hoarse like he had spent the last fifty years smoking a carton a day while singing at the top of his lungs. Alex couldn’t imagine Ballard sounding like that. Must be his asset.

  “Wa Alaykum as-salam,” Alex responded.

  The man continued talking in Arabic. “You waited a long time to call.
Is everything all right?”

  There was no questioning the man had a distinct Jordanian accent. Sounded almost metropolitan with the distinct stress he put on one syllable of each word.

  How good was Ballard’s Arabic? Had he mastered the local accent?

  Alex was no stranger to the Arabic language. It wasn’t easy to learn—and even harder to sound like a local. But it wasn’t an impossible task, either. To succeed in the field as long as Ballard had, the man must have known a thing or two about mimicking dialects.

  “There was an issue,” Alex replied, trying to reply in his best version of Jordanian Arabic, thinking that’s what Ballard would have done.

  “My brother, you sound… different,” the man replied. “Have you spent too much time with the locals in Amman? That monotone Egyptian sound of yours is gone. What’s going on?”

  Damn. That told Alex nearly everything he needed to know. For whatever reason, Ballard must not have used the Jordanian accent either, opting for the more commonly spoken Egyptian dialect.

  “There has been a change,” Alex said. “You and I need to discuss what happens now.”

  “A change… but…” the man switched to English. It was just as clear with an accent that spoke of a slight British influence. “Gregory promised there would be no change. That I would only deal with him.”

  Morris chimed in over the comm link in Alex’s other ear. “Keep him going, Alex. His phone’s encrypted, and I need more time.”

  “Look, I realize you have no reason to trust me. You don’t know who I am.” Alex had considered all the routes he could take. From threats to pleading, the road forward was wide open. But very few of those paths would lead to what they wanted to know. All he could do was gamble. “I need your help.”

  “Help? Why would I do that?”

  Then Morris spoke again. “Guys, I can’t get into his phone. Not getting any data. Stall, stall, stall.”

  “Because Ballard is missing,” Alex said. “And if I don’t find out why, I’m afraid you might be next.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “Two minutes, Alex,” Morris said. “Just two minutes.”

  “Not a threat,” Alex said. “I want to help you. If you were helping Ballard, I’m sure he promised you something. Safety. Security. But now that he’s gone, he can’t deliver any of that to you. I want to thank you for working with us, thank—”

  “No,” the man said, cutting Alex off. “I know what you’re doing. You’re delaying. You’re trying to track me down.”

  “One minute,” Morris said. “Keep that fish on the hook.”

  “What did Ballard offer you?” Alex asked. “Money? We can make it happen.”

  “Nothing is worth it if you sell me out. I don’t know you. I don’t trust you. Goodbye.”

  With that, the line went dead.

  Alex dropped the phone onto the desk.

  Skylar stared at the computer and pressed her finger over her ear. “Morris, tell me you got him.”

  There was a beat of silence over the line.

  “Morris?” Skylar tried.

  “No dice,” Morris replied.

  Alex didn’t want to believe it. Their quarry had vanished into the woods. “I can try again.”

  He dialed, waiting, his stomach turning over with every ring.

  No answer.

  Another call.

  Nothing.

  Alex slammed a fist on the table. They had lost their one chance at finding someone who might know what had happened to Ballard. Someone who might know about the chemical weapon deal he was chasing.

  Alex’s fingers tightened around the phone. He wanted to squeeze it until the screen cracked then throw it straight through the window. How many lives were at risk because Alex couldn’t get the man to talk for another sixty seconds?

  Skylar pushed her seat away and started pacing.

  “Morris, you got to have something,” she said. “Even a neighborhood. I’ll go door-to-door if I have to.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I tried tracking down that number, but it’s tied to a burner phone.”

  “Can you figure out where he bought it from?” Skylar tried. “Maybe we can find security footage or—”

  “You might as well be trying to catch a fly with a fishing net,” Morris said. “I’m sorry, dudes, but this is a dead end.”

  Alex didn’t want to believe it. He had screwed up. Miscalculated.

  This entire mission was over before it started.

  The phone vibrated on the desk.

  Alex scooped it up, and Skylar leaned over his shoulder. He flipped open the phone. There was a single text message.

  Amman Citadel. 5:30 PM. Come alone or you will not see me.

  Wadi Musa, Jordan

  Balagh woke up to the sound of scratching on his hotel room door. He blinked and pulled himself upright in bed. He had only checked into the room a couple hours ago, after he had bought that stray some food and water. Had the dog snuck into the hotel and found him?

  Worse, maybe whoever was after him had found him.

  No, you’re just exhausted. Your mind isn’t working right.

  He paid for his stay in cash. The hotel was clear across town from the Wadi Musa Comfort Resort. And he hadn’t seen anyone follow him here.

  A trickle of adrenaline loosened the grip of exhaustion from around his confused brain. With it came the sinking realization that when he’d checked in, he’d shown them the fake Jordanian passport he had found in the duffel bag lining.

  Maybe someone was watching out for that name.

  He shuddered.

  If he was right, if people were after him, it probably had something to do with that silver stuff in the vial.

  What if he just tossed it? Got rid of it and went on his way?

  Or maybe if he just went back to sleep, he would wake up with his memories intact. He would know why he had been wandering around Petra.

  He would know his name.

  The scratching at the door quieted. He let his nerves settle and started to relax again.

  Probably nothing more than a rat or a mouse. The hotel wasn’t exactly a five-star resort.

  He closed his eyes and tried to go back to sleep. Sure, he needed to be cautious. But if he was too paranoid, he was liable to let fear grip him and prevent him from ever stepping out of this hotel room again.

  The door handle twisted.

  That trickle of adrenaline turned into a tidal wave crashing through Balagh’s vessels. He lunged out of bed.

  I thought I locked it.

  Then he realized what had happened.

  That scratching sound.

  Someone had picked the lock.

  Right next to the room’s door was the entryway to the bathroom. Whoever was out there would probably expect him to be in bed.

  He slipped into the bathroom and hid behind the door, near the shower. He left the door open a crack. Peering through that crack, he watched the main door start to push open.

  A man wearing jeans and a white T-shirt came through. The guy looked like the only two food groups he knew were steak and human growth hormone—muscles bulging, threatening to tear the clothes from his body with a gentle flex. Light from the hallway glinted off the metal of a suppressed pistol.

  The man started straight toward the bed, treading slowly out of Balagh’s view. As soon as he saw it was empty, the bathroom would be the next stop.

  If Balagh ran now, he could make it out of the room. Just slip straight out into the hall and be in the street in seconds.

  But like a fool, he’d left his duffel bag and backpack sitting by the bed. His cash, his passports, that mysterious sample. All of it was right there, out in the open.

  And Balagh had no doubt this guy would be on him as soon as he took his first step out of the room. He didn’t like the idea of trying to outrun a stream of bullets.

  So there was only one real option. One way to stay alive and get the answers he wanted.

  A strang
e calm flowed through him. The electricity in his nerves faded with it. Knowledge of what had to come next surfaced in his muddled brain. His body seemed to know what to do, even if he didn’t.

  Balagh snuck out from the bathroom.

  The intruder was just pulling back the bed’s covers, his gun aimed at the pillow.

  Balagh strode to a lamp, picked it up, and swung. The cord ripped out of the outlet. The lamp slammed into the back of the man’s head with a heavy thud, and the would-be assassin fell into the bed.

  But the man didn’t stay down. He turned on Balagh and fired off three quick shots.

  Balagh grabbed the guy’s wrists, pushing them up and ducking under the gunfire. The air sizzled with the shots searing past his head. They punched into the wall, sending miniature geysers of dust puffing out. The suppressed pistol was quiet. But in the still of night, Balagh and the intruder may as well have been screaming.

  It wouldn’t be long before someone responded to the clamor. And by then, Balagh would probably be dead.

  He needed to get the gun. He threw himself at the intruder like a frenzied lion. Fists and feet striking out with more strength than he realized he had. The intruder tried to aim again, but Balagh never gave him the chance.

  He fought with wild desperation. Because wild desperation was all he had. If he gave up an inch to this bear of a man, it was all over.

  All he could do was strike, block, kick. Aim for every weak spot. Try for the man’s throat, his face, groin.

  But the intruder was no stranger to hand-to-hand combat. When Balagh kicked the pistol from his hand, the man erupted with a violent ferocity to rival a hurricane.

  Every time Balagh hit the man, he felt as though he were attacking a tree. The man expertly blocked and countered each attack. He guarded his weak spots, acting out with a speed that belied his size.

  Balagh’s knuckles were quickly bloodied by the strikes. Adrenaline wore away to frayed nerves. Throbbing pain expanding with each sustained blow. He struggled to hold his ground. More and more, the intruder went on the offensive. Each punch carried enough power that Balagh was certain his bones were splintering with each impact.

 

‹ Prev