Black Ghost

by Freddie Villacci Jr

  116

  A thunderous explosion shook the eight-hundred square foot master bedroom. Sergeant O’Donnell had heard this destructive sound many times before. He looked down grimly.

  Ralston Templeton’s face was a mask of pure terror. O’Donnell had seen this look many times, too—the realization that money couldn’t always buy one out of bad situations.

  “Riggs, give me a status report,” the sergeant snapped.

  Corporal Riggs, peering out the master bedroom window with night-vision goggles, turned toward the sergeant. “It looks like all our men have been taken out.” He said, pushing his goggles up to his forehead “It’s possible we’re all that’s left.” Riggs tossed the goggles onto a nearby Louis Quatorze chair, and picked up his M-16.

  O’Donnell turned back to Templeton, his wife, and their ten-year-old son, who were all standing in the doorway of the bedroom closet. The woman was an intelligent-looking blonde, and the boy looked like a miniature version of his father: slim build, a narrow face with quick, clever eyes, and shaggy brown hair. Templeton glanced from the boy to O’Donnell, his eyes filled with desperation—the type of fear the sergeant had seen before when men came to the realization they weren’t going to make it.

  Templeton found his voice. “Sergeant, if you get my family though the night, I’ll pay your team a billion dollars.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  He saw the look in Templeton’s eye. The rich man knew his money wasn’t worth dirt here. It was his last hope.

  Templeton wrapped his arms around his wife and son.

  “Riggs, go hunt that varmint down.”

  “Yes, sir,” Riggs said firmly, and exited the master bedroom.

  O’Donnell looked at Templeton. “Now, sir, take your family into the closet, and don’t come out until I come get you. Understand?”

  Templeton nodded.

  “Make sure everyone stays behind the Kevlar panel at all times.” The sergeant pointed to the four-by-four panel in the back corner of the closet, then hustled the three inside, shut the door, and locked the complex array of bolts he and his team had added over the last few days. Then he barricaded the closet door with a massive ornate armoire that was probably worth more than he made in a year. Once that was done, he positioned himself in the opposite corner of the room behind the long dresser. With an M-16 equipped with a rocket launcher and enough ammo to hold off a small army, Sergeant O’Donnell waited.

  War would come to him.

  117

  John Alfred Tidwell glanced at the clock on the wall. 10:49 PM. By now, hopefully, the Templetons were dead and the list had been completed. He was sick of sitting here tied to a chair and acting like a wimp. He gave one of his hired mercenaries, the one who Caroline had cracked in the head, a discrete sign to drag him out of the study so he could get an update.

  “That’s it,” the henchman said, glaring at Caroline, who was not only tied down in the chair next to Tidwell’s, but duct taped as well. “It’s time to show you we mean business.” He gestured to his associates. “Take her crybaby boyfriend and bloody him up a little.”

  The other two went to Tidwell, untied him, then dragged him out of the room.”

  Immediately after the doors to the study were closed, Tidwell stretched in an exaggerated manner, then took a few steps into the library adjacent to the study and phoned Parelli.

  “Is it done?

  “Oh, it’s done,” Parelli growled. “Gabriel, Publio, and the Black Ghost have all gone radio silent!”

  Tidwell felt like a firecracker had just exploded in his stomach. “Wait a second. What?”

  “They’re either dead or they all quit, Mr. Congressman.” A sigh echoed down the line. “It’s over. They won.”

  “It can’t be,” Tidwell said after a moment. “We still have until tomorrow morning. As a backup, I’ve arranged for a demolition expert who can blow the hell out of wherever they take Templeton. He costs ten million. I think I can come up with at least half. How much can you wire me tonight?”

  “John, let’s not sink any more dough into this deal. It’s cooked.”

  Tidwell paused—in quiet realization and dread. His face grew hot. “It’s not done! Are you aware of what the Russians will do to us? They won’t let us off this easily. You set this whole thing up! You’re not quitting now!”

  Parelli gave a small laugh.

  “You lifeless whore,” Tidwell hissed. “What the hell do you think you’re doing here?”

  “Me? Why, I’m just returning the favor, Mr. Congressman. One family to another.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Your grandfather sold mine down the river, Johnny. The man who gave me everything as a kid spent the last sixteen years of his life rotting in jail because of your greedy fat rat of a grandfather.”

  Tidwell remembered the name of the man his grandfather had railroaded into oblivion. “Giovanni Franconni?”

  “Mi Papa. My ma’s dad.”

  “What does that have to do with us?”

  “Sins of the father, Johnny. And as a gift to mi papa, I’m going to railroad you into the fiery depths of Hell. See you there someday, Mr. Congressman.”

  118

  Mack wasn’t sure if a portion of the house had collapsed on him, or if it was only Bic.

  Bic stirred with a groan, then he pushed himself up and rolled to his feet. Mack coughed hard, his lungs choked by all the smoke and dust lingering in the air from the explosion.

  Bic extended his hand and helped the agent to his feet.

  “Thanks,” Mack said, dusting himself off.

  Bic nodded.

  The study was gone. Gabriel and the desk had been vaporized.

  Mack regarded Bic, who dove on top of him right before the blast. He had taken the brunt of the concussive force of the explosion.

  Bic drew the black 9mm pistol tucked in his pants and calmly handed it to Mack. He then pulled a massive combat knife from the side holster on his hip.

  Bic’s eyes burned a violent red as he turned and walked down the hall toward the north end of the house.

  “Mr. Templeton and his family are on the other side of the house,” he said as Mack followed. “If I know Publio, he’ll come right in the front door, guns blazing.”

  Mack took dead aim at the middle of Bic’s back. “How do you know that, Bic?”

  Bic turned and faced the barrel of the gun he had just given to Mack. He calmly raised his hands in the air, as if he had just been caught at something. “Mack, I just saved your life.”

  Mack’s trigger finger was tense. “I know who you are,” he said. He looked directly into the blazing red eyes. “Pork chop left at the scene, twenty-two unsolved murders over the last thirty years, sound familiar?”

  Bic didn’t respond.

  Mack had to take control of this situation and fast, or he would wind up dead. He jerked the gun downward, and for the first time in his life Mack Maddox shot another human being. The round caught Bic square in the knee in a spray of crimson.

  Bic growled and did a strange half-rotation, then regained his stance with all his weight on his remaining leg. The teeth bared. The eyes glowed. The Black Ghost moved toward Mack.

  Mack backed up quickly. “Freeze, or I’ll shoot!”

  Bic ignored him. Nostrils flaring like a bull’s, he continued forward.

  Mack’s index finger tingled as he pulled the trigger. The shot popped into Bic’s chest, leaving a wide red splotch.

  The impact of the bullet made Bic take a step back. He almost lost his balance, but somehow stayed on his feet. He looked down at his chest, then his gaze sprang back up, the reddish blaze suggesting that Mack had just made a terrible mistake.

  Mack fired three more rounds in a tight circle around the man’s heart.

  Bic’s eyes rolled backward, and he collapsed face first to the floor.

  At that moment, a swarm of bullets buzze
d over Mack’s head and he hit the floor.

  119

  Tidwell leaned back in his leather chair in shock. He stared at the framed picture of his grandfather on his desk. He hadn’t seen this curveball coming. He needed to act fast or he was going to wind up in jail. Or worse.

  His original plan had been to use Caroline as a witness to him being brutally beaten—a perfect alibi, and from an FBI agent, no less. But now he needed to take this thing to a whole new level, the one contingency plan he’d hoped he’d never have to use.

  In the basement of the house was a cadaver on ice. He would have the man’s body burnt beyond recognition. With the $20,000 he had spent to have the cadaver’s jaw and teeth redone, the burnt body would match his dental records perfectly. He would then live on his estate in Morocco, under a new identity.

  He knew what he had to do next. His hands trembling, he placed a call to Mikhail Petrov, the man in charge of the Ministry of Fuel and Energy of the Russian Federation.

  “Mikhail, it’s John Tidwell. I have some additional information on our bill.”

  “Ah, I was hoping you would,” returned the minister. “I was disappointed when the bill did not make it through your Congress.”

  “Please, just hear me out. I’ve been working very hard to make it happen, but my partner on the other side has abandoned me.”

  Tidwell waited for his response, knowing that just as he was involved with partners on the “other side,” mainly Parelli, Mikhail was dealing with the Russian mob. Finally, Mikhail said slowly, “That is most unfortunate.”

  “Listen, Mikhail, I’m not insinuating that there’s anything wrong on your side. I just want to confirm that the money end of the deal is still good. I know you’re a man of your word. If you give it, it will be good enough for me.”

  “You have my word,” the man said slowly.

  Tidwell released a held breath. “This is good news. I will proceed.”

  “Good. I will talk to you soon, my friend.”

  Tidwell hung up the phone with renewed focus. Screw Parelli. It was now time to cross number ten off the list, in a style that would make his grandfather proud.

  120

  Mack had hit the deck just in time as a cluster of bullets destroyed an antique grandfather clock against the hallway wall.

  Lying on his belly behind Bic, he took dead aim at the corner wall down the hall, where the shots had come from.

  He’d fired five rounds into Bic and only had a couple left. He had no choice but to stay put and force the other man to charge.

  He winced as automatic gunfire ensued. To his surprise and relief, someone was shooting at Publio, flushing the man into the hallway. He turned the corner towards Mack to use the wall as cover from the incoming rounds. Drywall chunks and splinters of wood flew into the hall as heavy gunfire pinned Publio down.

  The ugly Mexican screamed profanities in his native tongue as he returned fire. Completely consumed by the firefight, he didn’t notice Mack on the hall floor thirty feet away from him. Mack rose to one knee, formed a solid triangle with his arms fully extended, and took aim.

  With the clean shot, his mind screamed to squeeze the trigger, but in that moment he again froze.

  Publio saw him, and screaming something in Spanish, swung his M-16 around, spraying a sweep of gunfire destroyed everything in a left to right beeline toward him.

  In the split second just before Publio’s bullets reached him, Mack stared down death. And unafraid, he fired his last three shots. All three plunged into Publio’s midsection. Publio dropped to the floor like a puppet with his strings cut.

  Corporal Riggs charged into the hallway, sweeping the area with his M-16.

  Spotting Mack, he asked, “All clear?”

  “Clear,” said Mack, wearily getting to his feet.

  Riggs bent down to check Publio’s body. “He’s gone.”

  Mack glanced toward Bic. “So is he.”

  Riggs regarded the large man, a grimace on his face. “Dammit.” He unclipped his two-way radio from his belt and said, “Sarge, it’s over, we got him. Mack and I are safe.”

  “Good work,” O’Donnell replied. “The Medevac chopper has already landed on the premises. So far they haven’t found any survivors from the team.”

  “Bic’s gone, too,” said Riggs.

  “Are you sure?” the sergeant asked.

  Riggs bent down and checked for a pulse again. “Yeah, he’s gone.”

  The radio fell silent for a moment, then O’Donnell ordered, “You and Mack sweep the house and make sure we’re all clear to get the Templetons to the chopper. After the Medevac team rounds up all the bodies, we have another chopper on its way to transport us out.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mack didn’t know what to say or what to think. Lots of lives had been taken tonight, but at least the killing was over.

  121

  One of the men using Caroline’s phone called Mack.

  Mack’s voice sounded full of joy. “It’s over! We did it!”

  She did not reply.

  “Caroline, you there?”

  The man holding the phone, on speaker for all to hear, said, “You have three seconds.”

  “Caroline, who was that? What’s going on?”

  Caroline looked at the man with a stone face, so like the face of the murderer she had once helped go free—that guilt had never left her, but she wouldn’t compound it. She wasn’t going to help these men carry out their murderous plot in any way.

  The man smiled as he said, “Now!”

  The door opened, and Tidwell was dragged into the threshold. He stared at the floor. He looked broken.

  The man holding the .357 walked over to him, aimed at his face, and pulled the trigger. The body was instantly flung out of her field of vision, and she heard the sickening thud as it hit the hardwood floor.

  “Caroline!” Mack screamed.

  With a mad rage, Caroline looked at the man holding the phone, not saying a word as Mack frantically called for her to answer him.

  The man pushed the index card in her face, urging her to read it, as the other pointed the gun at her head. Staring down the barrel of the gun, she already knew that just like Tidwell, she was dead no matter what she did. The terror of the moment suddenly turned surreal as she harnessed the power from her life experiences, turning her guilt into empowerment and strength.

  Caroline looked the man dead in the eyes and smirked.

  “You feisty spitfire,” the man finally said. He smacked her in the face, then put the phone to his own ear.

  “What’s it going to be?”

  “Mack,” she called out, “don’t listen to a word he’s saying, they’re going to kill me no matter what! I’ve seen—”

  There was another slap to her face, and the man said into the phone, “Tell me now if you’re as stubborn as her. I’ll put a bullet in this hussy’s head and we’ll call it a day.”

  “Don’t lay another hand on her,” Mack hissed.

  “I just set a timer for sixty seconds. You have exactly that amount of time to kill two people, or I’ll kill one.”

  “Mack, don’t do it!”

  “Thirty seconds.”

  “I’ll be okay!”

  “Ten seconds.”

  “Mack! Can you hear me? You’re not that little boy frozen in terror anymore! Do you hear me? You’re stronger now. You’re better. I love you!”

  “Say goodbye—in three, two...”

  Mack closed his eyes.

  “One.”

  Tidwell’s ear still rang, despite his earplugs. And the left side of his face was still stinging from the blood-filled squib that exploded just as the blank-filled gun went off.

  His head ached. His mind reeled. And he watched the entire phone conversation on the video monitor from within his library.

  “One.”

  “Wait,” Mack’s tinny voice gasped, “I’ll do it. I just
need more time.”

  “You have five seconds,” the man said. “When I get to zero, put one in her head. Five, four—”

  “I said, I’ll do it! The Templetons are locked in a safe room. They are not going to be let out until morning as a safety precaution. Then they’re being transported to a safe house. I will take them out tomorrow at 8:00 AM.”

  Tidwell looked at his watch. Then he spoke to the man talking to Mack through his radio earpiece. “Tell him he has eight hours. If we don’t receive the video of a double murder on her phone, then she’s dead.”

  122

  “Mack,” Sergeant O’Donnell said as he waved for him to come into the room and meet the Templeton family. “Mack, you okay?”

  An image flashed nauseatingly across Mack’s mind: that of Caroline’s brains coming out her skull from a bullet wound to the head. He forced instead other, better images. Her gleaming smile; those deep, intelligent green eyes; the feel of their lips meeting for the first time, and then the second, as they stared death in the face together in the submerged van. He had no doubt in that moment that he was about to lose his soulmate. And he knew that in this twisted game called life, when he was in the depths of his depression, he would blame himself, as if he had pulled the trigger. If he couldn’t save Caroline, he would be handed a life sentence in a prison of inescapable guilt.

  “Mack,” Riggs asked, moving toward him. “You all right?”

  Mack snapped to. “Back in a sec.”

  Sprinting back toward the guest house, he dialed Walton’s cell. The Medevac team had already gathered all the bodies and left the premises. The night had become quiet again, except for a subtle breeze gently disturbing the treetops.

  Tom answered on the first ring. “Mack, I was just about to call you.”

  “Tom, I need you to find someone for me,” he nearly pleaded. It might be one in a million, but his Langley ally might be Caroline’s only chance.

  “Who?”

  “My partner Caroline Foxx is being held hostage. I have just under eight hours to find her, or she’s dead.”