Act of Vengeance

by Michael Jecks

  ‘Copy that.’

  There was silence again, this time for at least five more minutes, and then a voice came on.

  ‘Alpha team ready.’

  ‘Charlie team ready.’

  ‘Copy that. All teams in place.’

  Frank looked over at Debbie, and then as the shout ‘GO!’ came, they sprinted to their Jeep, sprang in, and were soon bumping over the rough roads, Debbie clinging to the grab handle with one hand, her pistol ready in her lap.

  *

  11.46 Whittier; 20.46 London

  The first Jack knew of the attack was the rapid boom, boom, boom of concussion grenades. He recognised that sound from training, many years before. Then there was the staccato spitting of a 9mm submachine gun, two shots, two shots, three, and then two again. A shriek of pain and a rattle of pistol shots, all thundering in the concrete tunnels of the building. The pipes above rattled and clattered as ricochets bounced from them, and Jack, coughing, still hooded, was convinced this must be rescue.

  He had been waterboarded seven times. The first had been bad and the subsequent ones had been much worse. It was drowning, in a controlled and cruel manner. The men held the water over the towel until it was filled, and immediately Jack’s mouth was full of water: his nostrils filled, his mouth filled and, although he fought the urge, he had to try to breathe after a while, and the instant the fluid was in his lungs, he began to drown. Sparks and flashes of light went off in his eyes as he thrashed wildly, his lungs burning and, as he was certain he must die, they pulled the towel away and he could cough and retch up the water from deep inside his lungs. It took him an age to recover each time, and Peachfield would patiently repeat the same questions over and over as Jack heaved and swore, and then the towel was replaced and Jack was pushed back down, and the water came again.

  By the fourth time, he preferred to think that they may succeed.

  But as the shots rang out and a loud clanging blow struck the door of their chamber, the torture ceased for now. Jack was left, hooded, listening as the men ran to the far side of the chamber. None had weapons on them, neither pistols nor knives, in order to defend themselves against attack. The rules wouldn’t allow agents like these to carry guns in among dangerous prisoners in case a firearm was mislaid or stolen. So instead of fighting, they ran. There was a rattle and clatter as another door was opened, then the echoing sound of it slamming shut against its metal frame. And then there was another detonation, and smoke filled Jack’s lungs.

  *

  11.48 Whittier; 20.48 London

  Frank took the Jeep up the entryway at full speed. The railings set up to keep the inquisitive at bay were no match for two tons of metal, and they thundered away as the Jeep rammed. Frank booted the Jeep to the middle of the building, and stopped by an open doorway.

  Debbie was almost out of the Jeep before it had stopped, and she heard grenades going off, and the rapid tap, tap, tap of sub-machineguns firing somewhere close, although there was no way to tell where the shots were coming from. Somewhere underneath, she guessed, and she leaped over the rubbish accumulated in the doorway, her shoes crunching and crackling on shards of glass, splinters of old metal, and occasional pieces of crockery. Ceilings were coming down here and there, and she looked up at the cables spilling out like the building’s nerves and intestines. It was foul.

  Another fusillade, and she turned to glower at Frank, pointing down with her finger. He was right. On the way here he had said that he reckoned they would have built the main interrogation block underground, away from prying eyes and curious ears. Well, he was ASAC, as he said.

  He pointed along a corridor and, when she peered round it, she saw a doorway. The door was, like all these doorways, long gone. She walked along to it, and then heard what he must have: shouts and screams. His hearing was good, she thought, as she plunged into the entryway. It gave into a small chamber, and when she reached the far side, there was a door. A keypad beside the lock spoke of security that was more recent than the dilapidated building might suggest. She stood back, and fired twice. The lock blew apart but, when she pulled the door, it remained locked. Frank pulled her away, and fired three shots rapid at the frame where the hinges should be. With the third bullet he ran at the door, kicking it high, above its centre. There was a splintering of wood, and the door gave way, rotating about the lock and remaining hinge. Frank slid over it on his backside, gun at the ready, and waited for Debbie as she followed suit. In front of them were stairs going down, but not into the dark. A new electrical system was working here. There were lighted every few feet, and their way was very clear and well illuminated.

  Another shot, then a brief rattle of bullets going off, and both shrunk against the walls. There was a curve in the staircase just ahead. Frank motioned to Debbie to stay still, and made his way down the steps. He snatched a glance around the wall, beckoned, and continued out of sight. Debbie followed him, her pulse racing, standing at the point of the wall, so she could look up and down the staircase. No one coming from above, and down below her she could see Frank peering cautiously around the corner. There was a bullet going off, but it sounded flat, somehow distant. She waited until Frank turned to her, nodded, and darted out and down.

  *

  11.51 Whittier; 20.51 London

  Debbie hurtled after him as Frank waved her on, and then they were in a long corridor. An explosion farther up the passage lit the concrete with a yellow-white flash, and then there was darkness. Lights overhead flickered and flared, and then Debbie saw smoke tumbling up ahead. She darted forward, feet pattering on the floor, aware of Frank at her side. Grey, steel doors were set into the walls with reinforcements and, when she peered into one, she saw a man cowering in the corner, naked, with dark skin marred by bruises and scars. His wide, petrified stare was seared into her memory in that one brief glimpse. She had never seen such terror.

  The smoke was clearing even as they ran towards it. It made her cough, but it was only a moment before she was through it, and then she saw a man in black, submachine gun in hand. He turned and glanced at her through the smoke, whirling, his MP5 rising, and the strobe torch under his gun’s barrel blinded her. She quickly held her gun up, her other hand holding out her badge. He switched his torch to plain light, studied her and Frank, then nodded at them.

  Another burst of gunfire up ahead. The HRT officer waved his hand back to the wall, throwing himself flat to the floor as he did so, his MP5 up and ready again.

  Debbie saw a pair of men in army fatigues pelting towards her. She was about to rise and challenge them, when there was a pair of double-taps, and she saw one of the two fall and skid on his knees, his body buckling backwards until he came to a halt; the other man was spun about, and his head snapped back under the impact of the bullet, slamming him against the wall, then sliding to the ground. The first man trembled and shook, and slowly his body eased back to the floor, his legs cocked back on either side in an ungainly mess. Without haste, the HRT officer rose, walked to the two, checked them for weapons, and moved on.

  Debbie glanced at Frank. He looked as shocked as she felt. In the past Debbie had needed to draw her weapon, but she had never killed anyone, and to see the almost casual manner in which the HRT despatched two unarmed men was a great shock. She holstered her Glock and carried on.

  There were more doors on either side, and in them Debbie saw more men trying to hide from the violence. The rooms were little more than six feet long, perhaps three wide, and six high. A man would find it hard to lie in them. Each had a grille in the corner of the room, she saw, and assumed this was all they had for a toilet. The smell made her stomach churn. It was like living in a sewer.

  Another HRT man appeared from a chamber ahead, and he nodded at them as they walked past. Up ahead she could hear someone shouting: ‘Clear! Clear!’, then another concussion and a blinding bright flash. A wave of heat and dust was thrown at her, and she had to lift a hand to cover her eyes as particles were scattered into her eyes. It was painf
ul, and she blinked away the worst of it, trying not to rub her eyes in case she scratched them with the grit, and then, with an arm over her mouth and breathing slowly through the material of her blouse, she moved on again.

  There was a twisted mass of metal here, steel doors that had buckled as the explosion wrenched them from the doorway, and inside she saw metal tables, metal chairs, wires, prods, chains and whips. But it was the sight of Jack Case on the steel bench, that made the breath catch in her throat.

  ‘Hey, Jack, you OK?’ she managed. She tore away the hood and then pulled her coat off and wrapped it around him, covering his modesty, but he didn’t respond. His eyes were bleak, and he coughed and cleared his throat many times. ‘Where’s the other guy?’ he asked.

  ‘You were alone in here,’ one of the HRT men said, pulling his mask off and hooking it on his equipment. ‘There were five guards down the hall there, and two more outside. They’re all dealt with. Four prisoners in cells and you. That’s the lot.’

  Jack nodded slowly, but then some colour began to return to his face as he stared about the room. ‘They got out somewhere up that way,’ he said, pointing.

  The chamber in which they were standing had a door set into the farther end.

  ‘We’ve checked that. No one out there,’ the HRT officer said.

  ‘Check again,’ Jack said curtly. ‘They got out that way. Peachfield, Stilson and another guy. All went up there. I heard them.’

  The HRT team leader nodded to two of his men. They hurried to the door, slipped through, and were gone.

  ‘Jack?’ Debbie said. ‘You ready to get out of here?’

  ‘Yes,’ he shivered. ‘Get me away from here.’

  *

  14.20 Whittier; 23.20 London

  Jack was glad of the large shot of rum at Suzie’s.

  In the complex of cells Frank had found a set of laundered clothes which he brought to Jack. They were all different sizes, but he pulled on a T and a blue striped shirt, and a pair of blue jeans. He would have to do without shoes for a while.

  Chief Burns had hurried to the Buckner Building as soon as he heard about the assault, and he and two officers were helping the HRT men to shut it down and lock it. Suzie had found someone who had shoes in Jack’s size, and he had at least some comfort as his feet warmed up. The cold concrete floor of the Buckner Building had been repellent to the touch.

  The prisoners had been brought from the Bucky and were sitting around the fire in Suzie’s, while an HRT member stood over them, arms folded. His expression adequately conveyed sympathy for their plight, and distrust in case they were terrorists. He was making no judgements, but they would be well served to behave themselves, Jack saw. It was enough to make him give a twisted grin.

  ‘How did you know to come here?’ he asked.

  ‘You told us about the Dollar Sorensen mentioned. It made sense as soon I saw Amiss’s plane heading this way, to wonder why. And then we found the Buckner building,’ Frank said.

  ‘I’m glad you did,’ Jack said. ‘Has anyone found Peachfield and the others?’

  Debbie sipped a mug of coffee.

  ‘That door took them out to a tunnel that brought them out behind the building, up on the hill.’

  ‘Where’d they go?’

  ‘There’s nowhere they can go,’ Frank said. ‘We’ve a helicopter checking the hills with infrared. They can’t come to town, because the railroad is guarded, the marina’s secure, and if they try to get through the tunnel they’ll be stopped. We have their details. There’s no other way for them to get away, except through the tunnel.’

  ‘Good,’ Jack said.

  Suzie’s café was filling as people arrived from the town itself, more law-enforcement officers from the State Police, from the FBI at Anchorage, and even some BATF officers, and a group of Homeland Security officials who started leading the rescued prisoners from Suzie’s out to waiting coaches.

  Jack suddenly felt sick. It was the noise, the crush of people, and, most of all, the realisation that running, the fighting, and the danger was over at last.

  He was safe. His part in this investigation was over, and there was no reason for him remain.

  Frank and Debbie were talking with a group of Fire Department officers and a man Frank said was his boss. No one was watching him and, for once, no one was likely to care about him. Jack stood unsteadily and walked out into the coolness. Cars thronged the edge of the roadway here, and he strolled past them to get to the shoreline, sitting on a bench from where he could see the boats at their moorings. Even now, the sun had not much further to travel before it would be over the hill and throwing the area into shadow.

  Jack shivered, and put his head in his hands. He had been shot at, chased and tortured… all he wanted was some peace. Even back at home, Claire was likely repelled by him. From what he’d heard when he spoke to her, she’d believed the crap Starck had told her about his phones. Didn’t she realise it could be easily forged? She wouldn’t care. She had given him time to mend things, and for what? So that he could fuck off again and go on a mission for the Service. The Service came first.

  And she was right. It was always his first love. No matter what. Leaving the Service would be the hardest thing he’d ever done. But he knew he would soon be thrown out. He had no choice. The delicious irony was that Claire wouldn’t want him back. Not now.

  ‘Are you all right, Mister?’

  He looked up to see Kasey.

  ‘Hello. Yes. I am OK. I couldn’t deal with all those people in there.’

  ‘You were in the Bucky, weren’t you?’ she said, standing a little off.

  He glanced up at her.

  ‘Yes. They held me there a while.’

  ‘Is it haunted?’

  He gave a wry smile and stared out at the grey waters.

  ‘If it wasn’t,’ he said, ‘I think it probably is now.’

  Monday 26th September

  11.23 London

  Sara picked up the phone on the third ring.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘This is Karen Skoyles. We spoke before.’

  ‘I remember you. You were the one who tried to tell me to keep quiet about Mo’s kidnap, aren’t you?’

  ‘I tried to keep you within the regulations for your husband’s good, Mrs Malik.’

  ‘You threatened me. What do you want now?’

  ‘You are breaking the terms of the agreement.’

  ‘No. Those were terms imposed on my husband, not me.’

  ‘They affect you too.’

  ‘Fine. What have I done?’

  ‘You have been using a computer or other electronic equipment to send messages on Twitter and…’

  ‘No, I haven’t. Someone else has, not me. It’s nothing to do with me. I have no computer here, no telephone. You took them, remember? When you took everything else. And I have no money because you stopped all our accounts, so I couldn’t buy them if I wanted them. You prevented me.’

  ‘Then it’s your lawyer.’

  ‘Perhaps. You’d have to ask him.’

  Karen’s voice became lower.

  ‘I could have your children taken away, Mrs Malik. You fuck around with me, and I’ll have you in prison, your kids in care homes. You know what happens to children in those homes? I’ll make sure yours go to the very worst ones in the country.’

  Sara felt that like a punch in her belly, and she sank to the floor.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me. I work with the Secret Service, Mrs Malik. If you don’t cooperate, I’ll ruin you.’

  ‘You already have. When you took my husband from me,’ Sara said, but she felt listless and worn. She wanted to sob.

  ‘You have to call it off. This stupid campaign will cost you everything. I promise you.’

  ‘Why? What do you have against us? Who are you?’

  ‘Call them off,’ Karen said.

  ‘You threaten, you bully, you listen to my conversations, you stop my phone, you take my computer, you
ruin my life, and now, because I want to do what I can for my…’

  ‘We listen? What do you mean?’

  Sara sniffed.

  ‘The telephone. I can hear the noise when you are listening, the…’

  But the line had died. There was that second soft click a moment later, and then the dialling tone. Sara stared at the handset, and slowly replaced it on the hook.

  For some reason, she felt a little spark of hope. Karen had sounded scared, and somehow Sara was quite certain that this was a hopeful sign.

  *

  10.43 Whittier; 19.43 London

  Jack couldn’t sleep that night. He’d been given a room in the Begich Building and, while it was a delight to lie on clean sheets and feel the tension ease from his muscles, he spent a long time staring at the telephone, thinking of Claire. The anger at what Starck had done wouldn’t leave him. The idea that he could have told Claire that he was suspected of murdering her lover was appalling. Jack kept feeling his fingers clench as though Starck was somewhere nearby and could be killed.

  But whenever his eyes did close, it wasn’t the dream of strangling Starck that came to him: it was the memory of the darkness, the feeling of the water trickling into his mouth, in through his nostrils, the sensation of water all over him, inside that hood, the dizziness of not knowing which way was up or down, the restraining straps cutting into his muscles as he strained, trying to swim to the air, to breathe. It was that memory that jerked him awake, his lungs bursting.

  He would never find peace, not until the men responsible for his torture had been made to pay for their crimes against him, and against all the men found in that torture chamber. He wondered what would happen to the men from those cells now they had been taken away. Hopefully they’d be looked after now. The last, a tall, anxious English-speaker, had left shortly before Jack himself was led from Suzie’s to the paramedics. The coach was gone before Jack was brought over to this building to sleep.

  It was a relief when the sun flared over the far hill and made the room blaze with fire. He rose and showered, studying the bruises and bloody scabs all over his body with a detachment born of exhaustion.