Hellfire

by Richard Turner

  “Yes, and he’s as puzzled by that as you are,” replied Donaldson. He could see the black rings under Mitchell’s eyes and wondered when he had last slept. “Look, Ryan, I have a cab waiting for you. It’ll take you to your hotel. I’m gonna wait here until Maria’s remains are transferred off the ship. I’ll bring Nate with me to your hotel. Why don’t you go there now, have a nice long hot shower, a tall drink and call Jen before you pass out.”

  “Yeah, that does sound good.”

  “Go and don’t worry about another thing. I’ll meet you and Nate downstairs in the hotel restaurant at eight for breakfast.”

  Fifteen minutes later, after checking into the hotel, Mitchell opened the door to his room and stepped inside. He was about to reach for the light switch when the lights in the room suddenly turned on.

  In a chair facing the door sat Grace Maxwell, dressed from head to toe in tight, black, leather clothing. She had a pistol in her right hand, trained on Mitchell. On the table beside her was a bottle of scotch and two glasses.

  Mitchell closed the door behind him, dropped his bag. “You know, most men would say that finding a woman dressed in black leather waiting for them in their hotel room with a pistol and bottle of Scotch was a fantasy come true. I, on the other hand, have to break it to you that I’m seeing someone. Even if I wasn’t, I’m too damn exhausted to give a damn that you’re here.”

  “Please don’t flatter yourself, Ryan, I only came here looking for information,” said Grace, lowering her gun.

  Mitchell walked over, took the Scotch from the table, and poured a couple of drinks. He sat down on the edge of his bed, raised his glass to Grace, and took a sip. He felt the amber liquid burn as it slid down to his empty stomach.

  “Eighteen-year-old Laphroaig, I’m impressed,” observed Mitchell.

  “I’m glad you like it. It’s on your hotel bill,” replied Grace as she took a sip.

  With a weak smile, Mitchell said, “Now before I pass out, what is it you want to know, Ms. Maxwell?”

  “Ryan. Please call me Grace.”

  “Okay, Grace, what do you want to know?” replied Mitchell, quickly tiring of the game.

  “The Luna 15 probe, I know that you don’t have it. Who does?”

  Mitchell snickered. “How the hell do I know? And why do you give a damn who took it?”

  “I’ve been hired to return it to its rightful owner.”

  Mitchell thought for a moment about what Grace had just said. “Are you telling me that the Russian government wants its probe back?”

  Grace nodded her head.

  “Didn’t they sell it to David Houston?”

  “Yes, but now they want it back.”

  “This is getting ridiculous,” said Mitchell, shaking his head.

  “Don’t you have any leads?”

  “Grace, it’s taken us ten days just to get back to port. So no, I don’t have any leads,” replied Mitchell testily. “Why don’t you ask Houston’s competitors, perhaps one of them took it?”

  “Perhaps I will.”

  Mitchell sat forward and looked into Grace’s emerald-green eyes. Suddenly, a thought flashed into his tired mind. “You’ve got connections that I don’t have. McMasters, look for Eric McMasters—if that’s his real name. Find him, and you’ll find the probe.”

  “Do you have a picture of him?”

  “No, not on me, but if you leave an email address with me, I’ll make sure that you get everything I have on him the minute I get back to the States.”

  “Why would you help me? You were hired to retrieve the probe; don’t you want it anymore?”

  “Grace, if you find it first, you can have it. All I ask is that you let me know if you come across McMasters.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he murdered a defenseless woman in cold blood, and I’m going to see that he pays for it, that’s why.”

  “Fair enough,” replied Grace, saluting Mitchell with her glass.

  “Now, since you’re not my girlfriend, I’m going to have to ask you to leave so I can get undressed and have a nice hot shower,” announced Mitchell as he stood up.

  With a flirtatious smile, Grace set her drink down and said, “Jennifer March is a lucky woman to have such a loyal boyfriend.”

  Mitchell grew defensive. “How do you know her name?”

  “Please, Ryan, it’s a standard business practice. I checked you out after our last encounter in Vegas. I know all about both of you, including how you met and that you’re looking for a new apartment in Albany. Don’t worry; my interest in both of you is strictly aboveboard.” With that, she winked at Mitchell and let herself out of the room.

  “Mercenaries,” swore Mitchell under his breath.

  He downed his drink in one gulp and poured himself another tall glass before heading for the shower. He turned the water on as hot as he could take it. He finished his drink under the pulsing spray and felt the stress and the strain begin to fall from his shoulders. Mitchell leaned his head under the shower and let the heat relax his aching neck. While he let the water cascade down his back, his mind wandered back to his conversation with Grace. Why do the Russians want their probe back? Mitchell pondered the question for a few seconds. From out of the haze, the image of McMasters’ goons wearing chemical suits hit him like a bolt of lightning out of the blue.

  “Damn!” said Mitchell aloud.

  Suddenly wide-awake, he turned off the shower, rushed over to his clothes and dug out his secure cellphone. He pressed Jen’s work number. A couple of seconds later, Jen’s cheery voice filled his ear.

  “Ryan Mitchell, I was wondering when I would hear from you,” said Jen.

  “Jen, I love you, but this will have to wait. Please dig as deep as you can into the history of the Luna 15 probe. There is something going on here that we’re not privy to. I’ve just learned that the Russians want it back, and I want to know why.”

  “Sure, can do,” replied Jen, her voice tinged with concern. “Is something wrong, Ryan?”

  “I’m not sure, but I’m beginning to believe that something uninvited came back with that probe that has a lot of people spooked—and I’m one of them.”

  The next morning at eight o’clock sharp, Mitchell strode into the hotel restaurant wearing a pair of comfortable blue jeans and a loose-fitting, green fleece top. Jackson and Donaldson were waiting for him at a table in the far corner of the restaurant. A white-jacketed waiter came over, poured three cups of coffee, and took their breakfast orders, leaving them alone in peace. Mitchell quickly filled his companions in about his visit from Grace and his growing suspicion that the Luna 15 probe contained something far more dangerous than they had been led to believe.

  “What do you think is going on?” asked Jackson.

  “I haven’t a clue. However, this surely is something for the U.S. government, not us,” replied Mitchell.

  “Don’t count on them getting involved,” said Donaldson.

  “Why not?” asked Mitchell.

  “Because Houston is Vice President Grant’s biggest campaign contributor, and with an election around the corner, call me cynical, but I doubt that the FBI will be knocking on Houston’s door anytime soon.”

  “Gotta love politics,” quipped Jackson.

  Mitchell took a sip of his coffee. He set his cup down and looked over at Donaldson. “Enough conspiracy theories for one day. What have the Argentine authorities told you is going to happen today?”

  “Maria’s remains are being released to me later today. I’ll be flying home with her on a flight leaving at nine o’clock tonight.”

  “And us?” asked Jackson.

  “A police car will be here at ten to take you to police headquarters in downtown Buenos Aires. I was assured that the interviews shouldn’t take more than four or five hours; after that, one of Houston’s private jets is waiting at the international airport to fly you back home.”

  “Going home in style, I like that,” said Jackson.

  “I thought
he’d be pissed that we lost his probe,” mused Mitchell.

  “No, in fact, he’s been quite supportive ever since he learned of Maria’s death. He paid for me to come down and is picking up all of our bills down here,” explained Donaldson.

  Mitchell sat back in his chair and looked out the window. Gray clouds covered the sky. It was going to rain today. Something didn’t add up. He couldn’t put his finger on it; however, something in the back of his mind told him to be wary. A couple of moments later, their waiter returned with their breakfast. The conversation ended as they dug into their hearty meals. Mitchell hoped that things would go as smoothly as Donaldson had predicted; he couldn’t wait to get back home. The instant he landed, he wanted to know what Fahimah and Jen had been able to learn from their respective investigations. As far as he was concerned, their assignment hadn’t ended with the loss of the probe; the real work had yet to begin.

  15

  Polaris Headquarters

  Albany, New York

  Mitchell stood with his hands behind his back while he stared out the window onto the snow-covered field behind the headquarters complex. His thoughts took him back to his childhood when he and his brother would spend hours outside building snowmen on their parents’ farm in Minnesota. Life had been so much simpler back then. Now, he waited to learn when Maria was going to be buried so he could fly down to Baton Rouge and attend the funeral. Donaldson had accompanied Maria’s remains back to the States and was helping her brother with the funeral arrangements. Mitchell expected a call from him sometime today, letting him know when and where the service would take place.

  Jen had picked Mitchell up at the airport. They drove to the small cottage a few kilometers from downtown Albany that they called home during the week. After almost a month apart, Jen and Mitchell fell into each other’s arms with a hunger for each other that burned well into the early hours of the morning.

  Mitchell was so deep in thought that he didn’t hear Jen enter the room and slide over beside him.

  “Penny for your thoughts?” said Jen as she set a hand on Mitchell’s shoulder.

  Mitchell turned his head, looked deep into Jen’s alluring brown eyes, and smiled. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “You’re losing your touch,” she replied playfully. “What if I had been a bad guy?”

  “Then I would have taken you out,” said Jackson as he walked into the conference room, carrying a paper tray holding four cups of coffee. In his other hand was a box of donuts. He set them down on the table and flipped open the lid on the donut box. He grabbed a jelly-filled pastry. “Help yourself, Ryan.”

  Mitchell shook his head. He wasn’t hungry, at least not for one of Jackson’s treats. He grabbed a coffee, his fourth this morning.

  Jen dug through the box, picked out an unglazed donut, and helped herself to one of the coffees.

  “So when does the hot wash start?” asked Jackson, referring to the debriefing they were about to go through with General O’Reilly and Fahimah, currently the acting intelligence section head.

  “In a couple of minutes,” answered Jen.

  Mitchell took a seat. He could feel himself growing anxious. He had been through dozens of debriefings in the past; however, this one was different, because for the first time in a long time someone had died under his command. He was no stranger to death, but he always felt a pang of guilt when he made it back alive while others did not.

  On time, O’Reilly walked into the room accompanied by Fahimah. He was dressed in a somber-looking, dark-gray suit while Fahimah wore a long black outfit with matching headscarf.

  As per their ingrained military training, Mitchell and Jackson stood up and waited for O’Reilly to take a seat before they sat down again.

  O’Reilly looked over at Mitchell and could see the weight of Maria’s death hanging over his protégé.

  He helped himself to one of Jackson’s coffees. “Before we begin this morning’s debriefing, I’m happy to see the two of you back here in one piece. What happened out there was not your fault; neither of you could have known that an assassin had infiltrated our organization. Fahimah will address how that occurred in a couple of minutes. First off, Mike called and said that Maria’s funeral is this Sunday at ten in the morning. I’ll be attending on behalf of the company. If anyone else wants to go, please just let me know, and we’ll arrange your flight details for you.”

  “Jen and I would like to go,” said Mitchell.

  “As would I,” added Jackson. “Unfortunately, the rest of the family has prior commitments, or they’d be coming, too.”

  O’Reilly nodded his head. “I expected you would, so I’ve asked Tammy to start booking the flights. Ryan and Nate, you’ll be meeting us there.”

  Mitchell was about to ask what was going on when O’Reilly raised his hand to cut him off. “Gents, I’ll explain what’s going on in due course. First, let’s hear what happened from the time you left until the time you came home.”

  For the next two hours, Mitchell and Jackson went over everything while O’Reilly and Fahimah took copious notes and asked dozens of questions about the mission. No detail, no matter how small, was left unexamined. When they were done, O’Reilly called for a ten-minute break before Fahimah and Jen gave their presentations.

  Mitchell had completely forgotten to ask Jen about what she had learned about the probe when they arrived home last night, not that it would have mattered, as their minds were on something else than work.

  Fahimah waited for everyone to return from the break before she began. She stood behind a lectern at the front of the room and opened up her laptop. A moment later, an image of McMasters flashed up on a screen on the wall.

  Looking into the eyes of the people of the room, Fahimah began. “Chief Petty Officer Eric McMasters retired from the United States Navy on the first of June and took a position in Polaris on the ninth of August. His service career saw him deployed to Iraq and Afghanistan. He was a member of Seal Team Two and was awarded the Silver Star for his actions during a deadly firefight with Somali pirates late last year. His service record is exemplary. On several occasions, his superiors tried to convince him to become an officer. In short, there were no red flags on his file. Eric McMasters was the ideal candidate for this organization.”

  Mitchell leaned forward and stared up at the picture on the screen. Turning his head, he looked over at Fahimah. “Are you one-hundred-percent positive this is a real file and not one made up to look genuine?”

  “Ryan, you can trust me on this. I even interviewed several of his former teammates, and they all vouched for him. To a man, they said that they would all trust their lives to McMasters.”

  “Any known affiliations with questionable groups outside of the military?” asked Jackson.

  “Not a one,” replied Fahimah.

  “Any chance he could have been blackmailed by someone into helping them steal the probe?” queried Mitchell.

  “I thought about that,” replied Fahimah. “However, I was unable to find anything that might cause him to act out of duress. He was never married. His parents and his sister are living peacefully in Anchorage. His bank records don’t show any unusual activity. He wasn’t a gambler and never once failed a drug test in the navy. Don’t forget, Ryan, that we did our own extensive background checks on him before he was offered a job with us.”

  “Gents, there’s no way in hell you or I could have foreseen McMasters’ treachery,” said O’Reilly, looking over at Mitchell and Jackson. “That doesn’t excuse me from hiring the son of a bitch. A person is dead because of that decision—one I wish I could take back, but I can’t.”

  “I take it he’s a wanted man,” said Mitchell.

  “Damn straight,” replied O’Reilly. “The instant you called me to tell me about Maria’s death, I contacted my friends in the FBI and told them what had happened. He’s wanted not only by us, but by the Norwegians, as four of their citizens were also murdered. Not to mention, the whole incident took plac
e on their soil.”

  “The one thing that doesn’t add up is McMasters himself,” said Jackson. “He’s obviously no fool. He would have known that the authorities would have eventually come around wondering what happened to us. When they only found three bodies, even the dumbest cops would have put two and two together and realized that McMasters was behind our deaths.”

  Mitchell jumped in. “I’ve thought about that myself and the only answer I can come up with is that he was going to be found dead as well.”

  “Not sure I’m following you on this one, Ryan,” replied Jackson.

  “I don’t mean that he intended to die. My money’s on another body with a similar build and facial features being dumped on the site with ours. That way he disappears from sight and doesn’t become a wanted man.”

  “What about his dental records?” asked Fahimah. “They don’t lie.”

  “There’re plenty of ways around that. Have the doppelganger’s teeth made up to resemble McMasters’s or have him die with a shot to the head that shatters his teeth. As the old saying goes, where there’s a will, there’s a way.”

  “True enough,” said O’Reilly.

  “What about that crashed plane?” asked Jackson.

  “I’ve been informed that a forensic team made up of British and Norwegian experts is on their way to the island to examine the body and recover what they can from the wreckage,” answered Fahimah.

  “Thanks, Fahimah,” said O’Reilly, wanting to move things along. “As always, a thorough and well-researched brief.”

  “Are there any questions?” asked Fahimah. When no one asked any, she took her seat while Jen moved over to the lectern.

  In a few moments, an image of a Luna probe came up on the screen. After giving a brief history of the Soviet Luna Moon landing program, Jen brought up a black-and-white picture of a young man with thick glasses, unkempt wavy hair and a scientist’s ubiquitous white lab coat.