by Tim Tigner
Katya was all too happy to leave the trunk behind. She’d rehearsed the move in her mind a dozen times. Roll onto her back, swing her legs up over the sill, then inch her way out until her waist was on the edge and let gravity take over while ducking her head. However, she found it hard to accomplish with her mind reeling from the revelation that Oz was now her captor.
Her extraction technique proved to be quite clumsy in practice, but it got her feet on the ground. The worst part was the headset, which was dangling from the duct tape still stuck to her hair. Ignoring it, she turned to her left and saw Sabrina.
Holding a handgun.
Tough as it was not to look at the ugly instrument of death, Katya met her friend’s eyes. Sabrina’s expression wasn’t as hard as her husband’s. In fact, Katya was sure she saw compassion. But there was also an unsettling intensity in her expression. Almost like her face had a split personality. “Sabrina, what’s going on?”
As Katya spoke, Oz yanked the earphones away from her head, pulling a wig’s worth of hair with it. “Ouch!” She couldn’t help but shout.
Katya resisted the urge to turn to Oz. She wanted Sabrina’s answer.
But Oz didn’t stop there. He crouched and sliced through the duct tape binding her ankles with a box-cutter blade. As Katya shook her legs out and lifted her wrists in his direction, Oz shut the trunk.
He handed Sabrina the box cutter, then returned to the driver’s seat without saying a word. He shut his door, started the engine and reversed the black car back out the way he’d driven in.
She and Sabrina were left standing on a dirt road in a forest. Katya couldn’t see anything more than that. The road itself had weeds growing in the center. Clearly, it was low traffic.
They watched Oz disappear around a bend. Then they heard his engine alter its tone and accelerate.
Katya turned to her former friend. “What are we doing here, Sabrina?”
Sabrina appeared about to speak, but after a second she just pocketed the box cutter and used her gun to point into the woods.
“What’s in there?”
Sabrina didn’t answer. After a few extremely strained seconds, she raised her slumping hand, reaffirming the initial gesture with a quivering barrel.
Katya stared, trying to talk her friend down with her eyes.
It didn’t work. Sabrina’s expression grew more resolute.
Katya began to walk.
Tears streamed down her cheeks. All she wanted was to hold Achilles’ hand. But his hand wasn’t there.
With each step, Katya became ever more aware of her surroundings. The smells began to overwhelm her. The pollens, the saps, the decaying leaves. She felt the air as it entered her lungs and every twig as it pressed flat beneath her shoes. She reveled in nature’s symphony. A distant stream. The wind on the trees and the rodents in the leaves. Even the songs of bugs and flights of birds.
Above it all, she could hear her own heart beating fast and strong. Full of love and life.
The world was so beautiful.
58
Bad Conclusion
Near Dallas, Texas
I OPENED MY EYES as a firm hand squeezed my thigh. I’d been out cold. Not drugged, just depleted. Apparently, despite the emotional strain and physical circumstances, I’d managed to score some solid slumber.
“Dude, this is my stop,” the man in the driver’s seat said.
The car wasn’t moving, the sun was on the brink of rising, and I was where? “Where are we?”
“Dallas outer loop. Service station at the junction of 635 and I-80.”
I remembered. My latest hitchhiker was going from Amarillo to Houston, but Florida was east out of Dallas rather than south, so I was only able to take him halfway. About 375 miles. Actually, take him wasn’t entirely accurate. The deal was he drove, I slept. “Thank you. Good luck.”
“You need gas,” he said.
We hadn’t negotiated gas. Apparently, he didn’t feel inclined to chip in. That was okay, the sleep was good as gold.
He popped the trunk and got out. I’d made him put his Army duffel in the trunk, whereas I’d kept my own modest backpack on the floor at my feet. A simple safety precaution. “And a car wash,” he added as I walked around to the driver’s door. “There’s crap all over the trunk.”
The crap was actually mustard, and I’d squeezed an entire big bottle onto the back of the car myself. It was a security precaution. Twenty-eight ounces of prevention.
These days the cops used ANPR to scan passing cars. The mustard would confound the automatic number-plate recognition technology with what would look to human eyes like hooliganism rather than criminal intent.
I was now more than halfway to my destination, which seemed odd. With all its western connotation, you’d think Dallas, Texas would be closer to Reno, Nevada than Melbourne, Florida. But it wasn’t.
Although the hitchhiker/driver thing was working out great, I decided to take the next stretch alone. I had a call to make using a burner app. One that I didn’t want overheard.
Disposable phones weren’t required to make untraceable calls anymore. You could just use a specialized phone app. Progress. I rented ten Mini Burner numbers at burnerapp.com for a mere two dollars each. The numbers were good for two weeks or twenty minutes of talk time, after which they’d automatically be recycled.
Turning the car toward Shreveport, Louisiana, I took a while to compose my thoughts, then called a number I’d looked up many miles earlier. When the operator answered, I asked for a name I’d found on the same website.
“Who’s calling, please?”
Knowing the safe side of the legal line was already in my rearview mirror, I said, “Detective Dallas, with the Dallas PD.”
She didn’t comment on the coincidence. Count on the FBI to stick to the script. “He’s not in the office, detective. I’m putting you through to his cell.”
Despite the early hour, the ASAC assigned to the Reno satellite office picked up almost immediately. “Special Agent Link.”
“Good morning. Did I catch you at home?” It sounded like he was in the car, but best to clarify.
“No, I’m driving. How can I help you, detective?”
“Have you found Katya Kozara?”
“No. Do you have information as to her whereabouts?”
I slapped the steering wheel, but didn’t deviate from my plan. “What’s your direct number? I got to you through the switchboard.”
He balked for a second, but then recited the ten digits.
“Thank you, Special Agent Link. This is actually Kyle Achilles calling.”
Silence. Then, “I’m glad you called. I need to inform you that there’s a warrant for your arrest and you should turn yourself in immediately.” He knew there was no chance I would do that, but he had to put the advisory on the record.
I bounded past his request and dove right in. “I want to apologize for not sticking around the cabin until you arrived. Given the circumstances, I couldn’t afford the delay. The indefinite delay.”
“That might be considered reasonable. Depending on the circumstances,” Link said.
I was certain that the special agent had studied my FBI file, and was therefore familiar with my biography and service record. I could skip the intro. “Obviously, I don’t have a lot of time, so I’ll keep it brief. I broke out of the bunker with the assistance of Osama Abdilla. Together, we disarmed and disabled two of our captors, a husband and wife team. Because we were worried that our significant others would be leveraged against us if the spies down below learned of our coup, we ordered them up using the captors’ voice disguising software. That is the last thing I remember before waking up in the manual elevator with no idea how I got there or where Katya was. Do you follow so far?”
“Keep talking.”
“I broke out of the elevator, in the dark. Found the bodies of the two captors we’d disabled, atop the main elevator. Climbed upstairs and found the house abandoned. Grabbed guns and a makeshif
t rope from the garage, then switched on the power to the bunker. Went down and found one of the undercover captors dead. Disarmed the other while he and the rest of the captives were still waking.
“Katya wasn’t there. Panicked, I returned upstairs to look for her. When Trey made it clear that he misunderstood my role and I realized the extent to which that misunderstanding might impede my search for Katya, I decided to postpone our discussion until it couldn’t interfere.”
“That might be considered reasonable,” Vic said again. “On the other hand, so is double-crossing half your team in order to double your take.”
So the FBI was seriously considering that scenario. I was disappointed, but didn’t have time to worry about that now.
Tracing a phone call doesn’t take minutes like they show in the movies. It’s virtually instantaneous. But, you need to be connected to the right equipment. Given that Vic was in his car, he almost certainly was not. He’d be able to figure out where I was later, based on the progression of cell phone towers connecting our call, but I’d be long gone by then on a highway that branched off.
Even if he could identify the cell tower my phone was currently using, closing down a major highway in a different state and funneling everyone through a roadblock wouldn’t happen for anything short of someone shooting the president.
So I was safe.
For the moment.
But I was no closer to finding Katya. Not yet.
“Do you have any information regarding Katya’s whereabouts?” I asked.
“There’s a warrant out for her arrest as well. Until this call I thought she was with you.”
“I wouldn’t have run if she were.”
“Does that mean you’ll turn yourself in when you find her?”
“Of course. But by then, you’ll likely have learned enough to have lost interest in me. Speaking of which, any luck locating Osama or Sabrina?”
Vic’s response came slowly. “In a manner of speaking.”
I waited for more. Vic was clearly weighing how much to tell me. Per protocol, he shouldn’t say anything. But he wanted to keep me talking and it served his interests to build a bond.
I decided to nudge him in my direction. “You’re familiar with my service record, and you have a feel for my loyalties and capabilities. Why not use those to your advantage? Keep the dialogue active?”
Nothing.
“You met Trey Huxley, I’m sure. Compare that impression to what you know about me. Surely you—”
“They left the country,” Vic said, cutting me off.
“Mexico or Canada?”
A long pause. “Neither.”
“Neither? But—” I stopped myself and took a second to think. They had money. Nearly a hundred million dollars. “Did they charter a plane?”
“They flew commercial. They beat the TSA BOLO.”
“How did they get Katya on a commercial flight?”
“They didn’t.”
My blood froze in my veins and my heart seemed to stop pumping. If Katya was still missing, but no longer their prisoner, then she was most likely dead.
Vic drew the same obvious conclusion. “If you’ve been honest with me, it’s time to turn yourself in.”
59
Diamondbacks
Someplace Hot
KATYA didn’t hear the ugly gun bark. She didn’t feel a bullet blast through her back. She got a command instead. “Hold up your wrists.”
Katya raised her arms behind her back. She was pretty flexible and managed to get them nearly parallel with the ground.
Something snicked, then Sabrina sliced the tape. It took a few passes on the first side, then Sabrina made a clean cut on the second. As Katya rubbed her wrists, Sabrina tipped her hand. “Don’t peel it off. We’ll just be putting more back on.”
So they weren’t going to kill her. Not yet, anyway. “What do you want with me?”
“This is your chance to use the toilet. I suggest you take advantage of it.”
For a non-answer, Sabrina’s reply was full of welcome information. First and foremost the stated opportunity. But also the implication that Oz was coming back. That they’d be driving onward. Perhaps he wanted her out of the trunk while he went for gas, lest she begin banging away.
Katya began processing the new information while taking care of business, but didn’t get far. Sabrina hadn’t offered supplies. Katya interrupted her analysis to scavenge some of the leaves with which she had a newfound affinity.
When all was done, Sabrina motioned back toward the dirt road. She didn’t speak. She didn’t smile. She just pointed with the gun.
Oz was slowly backing around the bend as they arrived at the drop-off spot.
Katya took the opportunity to ask her burning question. “Where is Achilles?”
Sabrina looked away.
The car came closer.
“Where is Achilles?” Katya repeated.
“He won’t come for you.”
“Of course he will. He’ll never stop coming. He—” Katya cut herself off as the obvious conclusion turned her lungs to lead.
“Everyone thinks you’re dead,” Sabrina clarified.
Once Katya regained her ability to breathe, she asked, “Why?”
“Because they think Oz and I flew to Europe—and you weren’t with us.”
Katya felt the tears flowing again. She didn’t bother blinking them away.
She was suddenly very thirsty. Her overloaded bladder had somehow suppressed that impulse, but now it came crashing back. Katya wondered if her body was attempting to create a distraction.
Oz put the car in park and popped the trunk. He got out holding a roll of duct tape and a plastic bag. He pulled a bottle of water from the bag and held it out. “Drink.”
She took the bottle and twisted the cap. It resisted until the tiny plastic tabs gave. A good sign. She downed half, then put the cap back on, intending to ration it out.
While she was drinking, Oz pulled a gray sweatshirt from the bag and began stuffing it into its own sleeve. She caught the words Arizona Diamondbacks written on it in large letters surrounding a big “A.” When he finished, he tossed it in the trunk. It took her a second to recognize that it was a makeshift pillow.
Oz proceeded to hold up the tape. “I suggest you finish the water. In a minute you won’t have the use of your hands.”
She did. Then she extended her hands out in front of her waist.
Oz grabbed one and used it to turn her around.
As he clasped her wrists together behind her back, she asked, “Where’s Achilles?”
The only answer she got was the screech of duct tape.
She climbed into the trunk as soon as Oz finished, hoping he’d forget to do her feet. In a single seamless move, she turned around and tucked her feet out of sight.
Oz reached back into the bag and pulled out a sleeve of Fig Newtons. He tore it open and set it down before her face. As she pictured what would come next, Katya couldn’t help but notice that the packaging configuration resembled a trough. With that thought, the trunk slammed shut and she saw nothing more.
Oz spoke to her through the lid. “I left your mouth untaped so you can eat. If you make any noise the next time we stop, it’s going back on. Then you won’t get anything to eat or drink for days.”
For days, Katya repeated to herself. Suddenly the pillow didn’t seem particularly kind.
She reflected on the sweatshirt insignia. Where, exactly was Arizona? In the Southwest, that was for sure. Did it border with Nevada? That sounded right. They were both big and hot and yes! they did. The Grand Canyon was in Arizona but could be reached from Las Vegas. But whereas Reno was way up north, Vegas was way down south. And it was a long state. Not California long, but longer than San Francisco to Los Angeles, and that was a five-hour drive.
Due south. Like Reno to Vegas.
As the car picked up speed, Katya was hit with the realization that there was something else due south. Something that fit
with the fugitive scenario. Mexico.
60
Buzzards
I-20, Eastbound
I FOUND MYSELF driving way too fast in reaction to Vic’s revelation. Not too fast for my physical safety. Speed limits, like all precautionary measures, are designed with the weakest links in mind. The oldest cars coupled with the slowest reflexes. I was nowhere near either lower limit. But I was driving too fast for legal safety. Well above what it would take to attract a highway patrol officer.
I activated the cruise control, but ironically that proved to be less safe. Without the engagement that accompanied passing other cars, without the constant subliminal mathematical calculations involved in piloting around and between other moving objects, my mind continually wandered off the road.
Knowing that there was no safe option given the combination of my current mental state and my need to keep moving, I took a rest stop turnout—and got lucky.
The hitchhiker didn’t have a sign. She didn’t have a thumb out. I knew who she was by the big backpack at her feet, and the bulge in her jeans near the ankle.
She was standing near the start of the parking lot, presumably studying a map but really observing the occupants of parking cars. It was dangerous for anyone to hitchhike, but especially so for women. This brave or desperate soul had adopted a savvy tactic to eliminate that risk.
The percentage of the population at large that would do harm to a hitchhiker is very small. Call it two percent. By contrast, consider the people who might be inclined to take advantage of a helpless woman. The odds that they would stop to pick such a hitchhiker up are quite high. Probably above fifty percent. By selecting her driver rather than the other way around, the twenty-something Latina could virtually assure herself a safe ride.
The trick to recruiting her to do my driving would be getting her to trust me. I’m a big guy who’s visibly powerful. The knife she had concealed wouldn’t make a whit of difference if I put my mind to harming her. She’d sense that fact. Our brains are hardwired for such calculations. They have been since day one.