Act of Vengeance

by Michael Jecks

  This was little more than a teenager, from the look of him. He had long, lank black hair, and the dark skin of a man from the subcontinent; perhaps he hailed from India or Afghanistan. He was naked from the belly up, and the only concession to his modesty was a pair of jockey shorts. He was bare-legged and barefoot.

  On one side of his face there was the beginning of a beard, while on the other side, the beard was gone. In its place was a livid mark where the tissue was scorched away, and a weeping sore was all that remained. His right ear appeared to have been cut off, his torso was marked with bright crimson where he had been repeatedly cut, and he limped as though his toes were broken, hobbling painfully as Stilson propelled him onwards. As he reached the group Roy could smell his sweat, his terror, over the odour of faeces. The man stood with his head bowed and, as he stood there, Stilson took a switchblade knife and flicked it open. Holding it up so the victim could see it, Stilson smiled as the little man in his grip quailed and moaned, making that strange, terrified bleating again. Stilson slipped the blade under the waistband of the man’s shorts, and cut them away.

  Beneath his makeshift loincloth Roy could see how the man had been assaulted. The blackened organ was shrivelled and ruined.

  ‘Amazing, isn’t it?’ Stilson said. ‘A little electricity is all. But he sang the tune we needed when we plugged it in.’

  Roy could not speak. He stared in horrified fascination. Surely this was a test. The man was an actor, that was all. He had not really suffered in the way that seemed so hideously genuine. This must be make-up. That was it. Soon they’d all laugh at the sight of his face. It was a test, a team-building exercise to make him feel what they had felt when they had joined. ‘We all went through that, but Jesus, you should have seen your face!’ they’d say, and slap each other on the back. They’d go and have drinks in the bar up the road, that was it. Nothing more to it than that. It was a test, and a joke.

  The man was sniffling now, and gazing down, he moaned a high-pitched ululation of terror. Then he looked at Roy and said something in Pashtun. Roy’s mouth fell open.

  ‘Roy,’ Amiss said. ‘Push him down the shaft.’

  Roy swallowed and stared at Amiss.

  ‘But, sir? He…’

  ‘Instant obedience is needed,’ Amiss said. ‘You must obey. Push him.’

  Roy was incapable of lifting his arms. They remained at the side of his body, and he trembled slightly. He felt as though he might collapse at any moment. There was a roaring in his ears, and he could taste bile in his throat as he looked at Amiss. This was a joke. It had to be a joke. No one would really expect him to do this.

  ‘This man, Roy, is a murderer,’ Amiss said in his reasonable voice. ‘He has plotted with friends to come to America and buy guns. His plan was to go with twenty more men to a hotel in Hawaii, in convention time, and kill all the delegates there. He plotted to bring guns and grenades there, to where Americans go to holiday, and kill as many as he possibly could. If he could, he would have brought over a nuclear weapon and killed everyone on the island. You understand me? This man deserves death.’

  ‘Wh… Why here?’ Roy managed.

  ‘We brought him here because we knew he was planning something, but he wouldn’t admit what his offences were to be. It was only when we had him strapped to a table and began to work on him that he confessed. It didn’t take long, honestly. We are not barbaric. But when you fight ruthless killers, you must be ruthless too.’ His voice hardened. ‘This is your test, Roy. He would have killed you, me, Peter there, Ed, all of us, all our wives and children, all our friends and neighbours. Everyone. And now, if he isn’t killed, he will win the hearts and minds of more. He will parade his injuries in front of television cameras and newspaper photographers. He will go to Wikileaks and reveal what we did to him. And afterwards, we shall be arrested and condemned for doing… what? For simply guarding our people. Our state, our way of life. Push him in, Roy. Kill him.’

  The man looked up at Roy. His face was a mask of fear and, as Roy looked, a trickle of snot ran from his nostril. Roy couldn’t help himself. He began to take a step away, and then he heard the sound of a gun clearing leather. No safety on a Glock, he reminded himself as he turned and squinted down the square slide of the gun. Nothing to click on or off to make the gun ready. No hammer to cock. Just draw it and it’s ready.

  A square inch of steel was at his temple, and he heard Ed Stilson murmur, ‘I can do you, if you want. Don’t carry out your order, and you’ll be in there before him. He’ll still die, but you’ll die too. You want that?’

  The Glock’s barrel was cold. With a sudden cry that was almost a scream, Roy stepped forward, grabbed the man, and pushed. He gave an agonised wail, a shriek that was cut off as his head slammed against the bricked wall of the well, and then he was gone, and there was a silence, broken after what seemed half an hour, by the loud splash of his body striking the water. And then there was nothing.

  No man, no victim. And no soul in Sandford’s heart. All were gone.

  *

  20.32 Langley; 01.32 London

  Jack walked around the little hedge that bounded the chapel, and stood a while watching in case there were guards. Soon, he saw them – two men over at the rear, both walking towards him. He slowly bent his knees and hid behind the hedge as the two came past, both in suits and one with a trailing spring of wire from his earpiece. Jack settled and waited, watching to see what their routine was. He timed them, and after they had walked round twice, he could see that they were professional. The first circuit took them seven minutes, the second only four. They were breaking their steps so as to confuse anyone watching.

  He took a deep breath as they passed around the corner of the chapel, preparing to leap forward and go listen, but before he could, there was the sound of a door opening, and suddenly a small, chubby man came out from the door. It was clear he was expected, because the two guards came back and one stood with him while the other walked to the road, his jacket open to allow him to draw his pistol. He stood there at the roadside, taking into a mic in his hand, and a car flashed its lights as it approached. A large sedan drew up. The man climbed into the back, while the guard stood watching the road, and it pulled away quietly.

  The same thing happened four more times. The last time, Jack recognised the man with the guard. Amiss stood at the roadside while his car purred to meet him, and a second sedan came and stopped behind him. The second guard moved to that car, while the man at the road waited patiently. Soon Jack heard locks and a chain, and then two more men left the Chapel. One was a young guy, who appeared to be walking with some difficulty, as though he was in trouble of some sort. The second appeared to be another heavy.

  ‘You did well tonight, Roy,’ Amiss said. His voice carried clearly on the cool evening air. He patted the younger man on the shoulder. ‘Go home, get some rest, and tomorrow we begin the good fight anew.’

  ‘I’ll drive him home,’ the second man said, and led Roy away.

  *

  20.46 Langley; 01.46 London

  Frank was already starting the engine of his vehicle when Jack yanked the door wide and leaped inside. ‘You see them?’

  ‘Yes,’ Frank said drily.

  ‘The first car is Amiss, the second has his goons,’ Jack said. ‘That other car there,’ he pointed, ‘has a young guy in it.’

  ‘I know,’ Frank said as he drew away from the kerb. ‘It was the guy used to be my comms specialist. Looks like he was happier working with me.’

  He drew off after the car with Roy, and Debbie grunted as it turned off towards Langley.

  ‘What’s the betting he’s going in to do some work?’ she said caustically.

  But he wasn’t. The sedan they followed took them on past McLean itself and out the other side, and fortunately there was plenty of traffic about. It was not easy to trail the sedan, but Frank was a skilled driver and he managed to keep six cars behind, while Debbie called out any manoeuvres from her side. They were not th
ere for long, but followed their target as it turned off into an estate with old houses that had been converted to apartments. It was outside one of these that the sedan stopped, and Frank continued on. Debbie already had a hand at her seatbelt when Frank turned off to the left and, as he slowed, she and Jack jerked the door handles and quickly hurled themselves out while Frank carried on up the road.

  Debbie was crouching low. Jack touched her arm.

  ‘Let’s walk, honey,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t fuckin’ “honey” me!’ she spat.

  He put an arm about her waist. She removed it. He replaced it and squeezed. She put a hand threateningly over his crotch, and he grinned as he put his arm over her shoulder instead. With a muttered curse, she removed her hand and they continued out along the sidewalk.

  The black sedan was there. Jack saw it was a Ford. The driver was at the door of an apartment block and, as Jack and Debbie passed, she reached up to him, and murmured, ‘Gimme a kiss, asshole.’

  He responded, knowing that all the while she was peering over his shoulder, and then she broke away, quickly wiping her mouth, and leading him along the road again. ‘Got it. 538,’ she said, as they turned right up the next street. As she walked, she sent the house number to Frank as a text message.

  The sedan was already moving off, and Jack took Debbie to a tree. He had a suspicion that the driver would be looking out for any surveillance, and sure enough, a few minutes later, the sedan came back, very slowly and almost silently rolling past the house. The driver was looking all over for any people who shouldn’t have been there, Jack knew, but in a moment the car was gone.

  ‘What now?’ Debbie said, as Jack reached behind his back for the pistol. He checked it was still in the little holster, and grinned.

  ‘I’m just going to have a chat,’ he said.

  ‘No, don’t be a fuckwit! You have no place here, no jurisdiction, nothin’,’ she protested.

  ‘I have no jurisdiction.’

  ‘He’ll be in his rights to blow you away,’ she said. ‘Leave it to…’

  ‘Who, Debbie? I’m on borrowed time as it is,’ he pointed out.

  ‘What d’you want to do, then? Kneecap him too?’

  He clenched his jaw, and set off along the sidewalk. Behind him he could hear her grumbling to herself, and then she pattered along the pavement and joined him.

  ‘All right, all right. Gimme a chance. I’m coming too.’

  The path to the door of 538 was gravelled, and their steps sounded abnormally loud.

  ‘Let me do this,’ she said. She reached into her jacket and pulled out her ID badge, then held it up, open, while she rang the bell.

  The light over the door was already on and, as Jack waited, he saw another light turn on inside the apartment, and then, when Debbie rang the bell again, a figure appeared behind frosted glass.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘That’s not him, unless his voice went up several octaves,’ Jack muttered.

  Debbie snapped, ‘Shaddup! Ma’am, I’m with the FBI. This is my ID. Can you let me in, please? I want to have a word with you and your man.’

  ‘Can’t you wait, come back tomorrow? Roy’s not well.’

  ‘This won’t take long.’

  With a rattle of the chain and snapping of bolts, the door opened and Jack found himself confronted by one of the most beautiful young women he had ever seen, clad only in a button-down man’s shirt with a blue pinstripe. He desperately fought to keep his eyes above her chin.

  ‘Well?’ she asked once she had studied Debbie’s badge.

  ‘Where is Roy, Ma’am?’

  ‘In the bathroom.’

  ‘Are you his wife?’

  ‘No. I’m his girlfriend, Janice O’Hagan.’ She reached into the pocket of a jacket hanging on a peg and brought out her own wallet. ‘CIA.’

  ‘Good. Then you’ll understand when I say this is a case of Homeland Security?’ Debbie said. ‘I need Roy right now.’

  ‘Who’re you to come in here demanding to see him…’

  ‘I’m the one he was working with in Seattle, girl. We have some elements of that mission need addressing. OK? Just get him. And either get back to bed, or get some clothes on. You’ll catch your death in that.’

  With a filthy look, Janice left them.

  ‘Take your eyes off her. I can hear them squeaking,’ Debbie said.

  *

  20.58 Langley; 01.58 London

  Roy Sandford wiped his mouth with a flannel as he rose from the toilet. In his mind he saw again that dark figure, he felt the Glock at his head, and he relived those split seconds when he reached forward and pushed the man down into the well. He heard the sickening crunch of bones as the man’s head hit the wall, and then that distant splash. And with that, he leaned over the bowl again, heaving and retching like a poisoned man trying to bring up the foulness from his belly. But the poison wasn’t in his belly, it was in his head, his heart, and his soul.

  ‘Tell them I can’t,’ he whispered when Janice walked in.

  She looked at him.

  ‘Roy, they said it’s something to do with Homeland Security. You know what that means. I can’t just throw them out. What’s happened to you?’

  He wiped his face again, and then turned a ghastly smile to her.

  ‘Nothing, Jan, nothing. Think it was something I ate, that’s all.’

  ‘You haven’t eaten yet,’ she said reasonably. ‘Roy? You were going to your little masonic meeting, weren’t you? And now you seem really… well, weird.’

  ‘I’m all right,’ he said again feebly. He stared at his face in the mirror over the sink. ‘I just need some sleep, that’s all.’

  ‘They are waiting. You want me to stay with you?’

  No. He wanted to be here with her, alone – and yes, he wanted her to go. He couldn’t bear the thought that his guilt would become apparent to her. She stood in the doorway, and he stared at her abjectly. He hadn’t joined the Agency to become a murderer. He had seen violence. Once, in Iraq, he had seen a car bomb take the leg off a friend, and he had kept his breakfast down even when he saw three marines catch the man they thought responsible, and kill him with their bayonets. That hadn’t affected him, and he had known even then that if he had seen the man and could have got to him, he would have done the same. Just slaughtered the fucker for trying to kill him and the others. It was war, and who gives a fuck what the politicians say about it. War, that’s all it was. You kill or get killed.

  That man, though, with the injuries so plain upon his body, with the proof of torture all over him, he was innocent. That was what he had said in Pashtun. Roy knew he was innocent. He had colluded in the murder of an innocent torture victim. And now he was tainted for life. His belly was empty, but he had to turn and retch again, trying to bring up something – anything.

  ‘Roy, can I get you something?’

  There was an edge to her voice now. She was getting restless and angry. He swallowed and tried to smile but his eyes filled with tears.

  ‘Just wait for me, huh?’

  ‘Have you done something?’ She demanded, suspicion darkening her brows. ‘Jesus, you haven’t broken the Homeland Security laws, have you?’

  ‘Christ, no,’ he said, and began to sob.

  *

  21.12 Langley; 02.12 London

  Jack was surprised to see a medium height man walk in, but Roy Sandford could have been shorter from the way he hunched himself over. His misery was all too plain.

  Debbie was shocked, Jack saw.

  ‘Jesus, Roy – what the fuck’s happened to you?’ she demanded. ‘Come here and siddown. Tell us what’s happened?’

  ‘I can’t,’ he said, sniffing. Janice was at his side and, as he sat in his armchair, she took her place beside him. ‘It’s confidential.’

  ‘That’s not going to cut any ice, Roy,’ she said. ‘Look, you know who I am. We’re investigating over here now. I want to know what happened to you tonight – in the chapel at McLean. W
e saw you there.’

  ‘I can’t talk about it,’ he said, shaking his head.

  ‘You went inside perfectly all right,’ Jack said. ‘But when you came out, you were…’

  Roy seemed to notice him for the first time.

  ‘You? Shit, Debbie, he’s the fuckin’ murderer! What are you doing bringing him here? Are you mad? Jesus!’ he was clambering to his feet, moving away to stand behind the chair as though thinking Jack was going to launch himself over it at any moment. ‘This is my private…’

  ‘Shut up, Roy,’ Debbie said. ‘Things are different now. I need you to tell me what happened down there tonight.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Then at least tell me who was there with you. It looked like Deputy Director Amiss.’

  ‘Look, I can’t tell you anything. You want to learn, you go ask him and see where you get. Don’t you see? I cannot tell you a thing!’

  *

  21.15 Langley; 02.15 London

  Jack and Debbie were back with Frank in a few minutes.

  ‘Well?’ Frank demanded as the doors closed.

  ‘Nothing. He won’t open his mouth for anyone. Ended up demanding that we fuck off or he’d call Amiss on the spot,’ Debbie said succinctly.

  ‘So what now?’ Frank said. He glanced over his shoulder at Jack. ‘Eh?’

  ‘We wait a little,’ Jack said. He had a clear view of the apartment over Frank’s left shoulder, and now he was staring at the door. ‘He may call his boss, he may call a friend. He may just settle down to screw his woman. But there’s a possibility that he won’t want to use a phone. He is an agent. He knows how easy it is to listen in to a call. If he’s a problem, he may want to go meet his boss to tell him about us face-to-face.’

  ‘What do you think, Debbie?’

  Debbie looked at Frank and shrugged.

  ‘You got somewhere better to go? In about three hours, Houlican’s going to demand Jack’s head on a platter, and he’ll want to know what the fuck we’ve got if he ain’t goin’ to have Jack shot as armed and dangerous. So, if Jack wants to spend his time here, what the fuck? There’s another thing, though. He was broken down. Know what I mean? Really broken down. Like he’d been beaten and kicked.’