End Game

by John Gilstrap

  “I am not dying at the hands of some untrained gangbanger. I’ve lived through too much shit to die that way.”

  Over the years, Jonathan had listened to Boxers describe countless venues in which he intended not to die. On balance, that was a good thing. “You know, if you took up less space you’d be a smaller target,” he said.

  “Then you’ve got no chance of ever bein’ hit, little man. No wonder you feel cocky.”

  Jonathan flipped him off. “I’m going to meet them halfway,” he said. “You stay put. If they shoot me, take out the MAC-10s first.”

  “Machine guns first,” Boxers parroted. “Really? Wow, I never would have thought of that. I normally aim for the guy with the slingshot first, but if—”

  Jonathan tuned him out and opened his door. He drew his Colt, but he kept it dangling by his thigh. If any of them so much as twitched, he could drop three of them before his first ejected shell casing hit the ground, but that would still leave three, and those odds sucked.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” Jonathan said. He modulated his voice to be just loud enough to be heard, but not so loud as to draw attention from anyone who might live in the neighborhood. He rocked his NVGs up out of the way, but kept them on his head in hopes of looking different enough to give the young men pause before doing something stupid.

  The young people Jonathan had dealt with in any detail were all athletic, they all had short haircuts, and they all wore the same clothes. He knew that he was ill-prepared to deal with a bunch of teenage gangstas whose pants hung halfway down their asses.

  “Who the hell are you?” one of the young men asked. He walked in the lead, so Jonathan assumed him to be the leader.

  “I’m just a guy who wants no trouble from you,” Jonathan said.

  “Then you shouldn’t be driving in my ’hood without lights on.”

  All things considered, it was a good point.

  One of the kids behind the leader and off to the left made a move to lift his pistol to a shooting position. Jonathan reached out with his free hand in a stopping gesture. “Please keep your firearm pointed at the ground,” he said. The urgency in his voice drove his volume to a higher level than he wanted.

  His comment prompted the leader to turn back to his crew. “Georgie,” he said. “Be cool.”

  Georgie went cool, but he took his own time doing it, finally shifting the muzzle of his pistol to a neutral position pointing to the ground.

  “Thank you,” Jonathan said. He shifted his own weapon around his back to his left hand, extended his right hand toward the leader and approached. Cautiously. “My name’s Scorpion,” he said. “What’s yours?”

  “Screw you,” the leader said.

  “Nice to meet you, Screw You,” Jonathan said without dropping a beat. “Is that Chinese?”

  Jonathan waited for the line to land. When they laughed, his hand remained extended. “Don’t leave me hanging here,” Jonathan said. “I mean no disrespect.”

  The leader modified the handshake to a knuckle-knock, and Jonathan complied.

  “The hell kind of name is Scorpion?”

  Jonathan smiled. “It’s a kind of street name.”

  “You tryin’ to be all scary and shit, right?” The kid laughed. “And what’s that shit on your head?”

  “I’m still waiting on a name,” Jonathan said.

  “And I’m still waiting for you to get the hell outta my ’hood.”

  This was a tough point in their negotiation. The kid needed to save face in front of his pals, and at one level, Jonathan did owe him an explanation. He was, after all, in the kids’ ’hood, just as they said.

  Jonathan made a point of holstering his Colt, but he kept the safety off, just in case. “That’s not going to happen,” he said. “My friend and I have business to conduct here.” Without looking back, he called, “Hey, Big Guy.”

  The driver’s door of the Expedition opened, and Boxers unfolded himself. “Right here, Boss.” Maybe just for show, but probably for effect, he brandished an HK417 rifle, muzzle pointed to the sky. Chambered in 7.62 millimeter, the rifle looked every bit as badass as it was. If it came to a firefight, these guys would be dead before their fingers touched their triggers.

  “Holy shit,” the leader said. Several of his friends took an instinctive step backward. “He’s one tall drink of water.”

  Jonathan laughed. He hadn’t heard that phrase in years. “Yes, he is,” he said.

  “So, what are you? Cops or something?”

  To bluff or not to bluff? “Well, we’re something,” Jonathan said. “But we’re definitely not cops.”

  “You look like cops,” the kid said.

  “They look like the Army,” another kid said. “What’s with the commando clothes?”

  Jonathan and Boxers both wore black on black on black. “I’m still waiting on a name,” Jonathan said. “There’s no need for us to be adversaries.”

  “There’s no need for us to be adversaries,” the leader repeated in a pretty spot-on impersonation of Jonathan’s voice. “Shit, man, you’re like a robot. So which is it, army or cops?”

  “We have no desire to get into your business so long as you stay out of ours.”

  Georgie said, “Far as I’m concerned, you got no business here for us to stay out of. This is our turf, not yours.”

  Jonathan was tiring of the banter. They had work to do, and these guys were a problem. They jeopardized the overall security of the mission—whatever the hell that turned out to be—and they posed an overt threat through their firearms and their attitudes. Under different circumstances—say, they were on foreign ground—the smart move would be to eliminate the lot of them just to keep them from posing a threat to Jonathan’s six o’clock once they started moving.

  But this wasn’t foreign ground, and different rules applied. From the kids’ point of view, Jonathan was the invader, and they were defending—

  “LeBron,” the leader said. “My name’s LeBron.” He pointed to the factory beyond the fence. “What are those dudes doin’ in there? Are they, like, terrorists or something?”

  Jonathan’s heart skipped. LeBron knew something, and the something he knew could be of great value. “They could be, yes,” he said.

  “Don’t bullshit with us,” another kid in the crowd said. “Either they are or they ain’t.”

  “It’s not that simple,” Jonathan said. “If they’re the people we think they are, then yes.”

  “I knew it,” Georgie said. “Rag-head douche bags. I told you—”

  “Not that kind of terrorist,” Jonathan said. He looked back to Boxers, who just seemed bored. Or ready to shoot someone. Sometimes it was hard to tell the difference in the dark. “Can you tell us what you know?” Jonathan asked.

  “What kind of gat is that?” LeBron asked, nodding to the rifle in Boxers’ hands.

  Boxers raised his rifle a little higher to get it in a better position in case it was needed, yet without pointing it directly at anyone. Jonathan took a half step to the right to make sure he had a clear firing lane in case LeBron was planning to do something stupid. “That’s a Heckler and Koch Model 417 assault rifle,” he said.

  “Like an M16?” LeBron asked. “Kinda looks like an M16.”

  “Think M16 on steroids,” Jonathan said. He didn’t bother to clarify the difference in calibers and the dozens of other factors that made the 417 and its little brother the 416 (christened the M27 by the US Marine Corps) head and shoulders better weapons than the old M16.

  “Machine gun?” LeBron asked. “Fully automatic?”

  “It can be,” Jonathan said. “I gotta tell you I’m not comfortable with the direction this chat is taking.”

  “I’m just tryin’ to figure out why a non-army non-cop has fancy guns and a big truck, and they’re watchin’ a place I been worried about for a long time.”

  “Sounds like we might be on the same side,” Jonathan said. “If they’re who I think they are, we can help you get rid of
them.”

  “What’d they do?”

  Jonathan shook his head. “Nope. You first. Tell me what you know.”

  LeBron shifted his posture as he considered his options. Even in the dark, Jonathan could see his eyes sharpen. Everything about the kid’s demeanor screamed intelligence. Everything, that is, except the wardrobe.

  “Not out here,” LeBron said. “I got a crib around the corner. We’ll talk there. Just you, though. Gigantor will scare my babies.”

  “We’re a team,” Jonathan said. “We stay together.”

  LeBron considered some more. “Why don’t we just shoot you all down and be done with it? It’s what, six against one.”

  “Not nearly good enough odds,” Boxers said. His words rumbled the sidewalk. His delivery dared someone to question the veracity. “Where he goes, I go.”

  More thought. “All right, then,” LeBron said. “Follow me.”

  “Just give me an address,” Jonathan said. “I’ll drive to it and meet you there.”

  “I’m serious, man,” LeBron said. “It’s just around the corner, not two hundred feet from here.”

  “Let’s get going, then,” Jonathan said. “We’ve spent too much time parked at the curb as it is.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Graham had never been so cold. It was winter-cold inside this little room with its metal table and its forest of hooks hanging from the ceiling. He was wearing so little that the cold seemed to wrap around him like some kind of cooling blanket. He couldn’t stop trembling, but he suspected that a lot of the trembling was due to fear instead of cold.

  He’d rather it be from the cold. Show no weakness, Deputy Price had said.

  Jolaine’s words resonated even louder. All he needed was time and opportunity. With those things, he stood a chance of getting out of here. With just those things.

  But he’d need strength, too, and with all the shivering, he could feel energy draining out of him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten, and that thought triggered a rush of hunger that consumed his gut, cramping his stomach and making him feel nauseous.

  Jolaine.

  Another wall of emotion broke over him. Jolaine was all he had left. She was the last one who gave a shit about him at all. Now it was just Graham and these terrible people.

  3155AX475598CVRLLPAHQ449833D0Z.

  The thought came from nowhere, still intact, still ready to go. The code that was more important than so many lives. How was that even possible? What could it mean?

  Well, that was easy, wasn’t it? It meant the difference between life and death for Graham, and maybe for Jolaine as well. As long as he kept it to himself, they would have to keep him alive.

  Another terrifying thought bloomed: Maybe that was the plan. This shit with the freezer and the cold air was a form of torture, right? Sure it was. He’d seen it on TV. It was the kind of thing that happened to the Iraqi prisoners in that prison he’d read about in the history books. The books called it torture.

  Well, what was the point of torture?

  In this case, it was to get him to talk. They’d made that very clear. They’d make him suffer until he gave them what they wanted. And then what?

  Well, Jolaine said that if he gave up the information, they’d kill him. So, his choice was to suffer or to die.

  That wasn’t a choice at all. That was—

  The lock on the other side of the door moved. It made a loud sliding sound followed by a solid thunk when it reached the end of its travel. He waited for what was coming next. Under the table as he was, occupying the same spot for all this time—a spot that had therefore become at least a little warmer—he hoped that he wouldn’t be seen.

  Should he be ready to lunge at whoever opened the door? Was this the opportunity that Jolaine had told him to be ready for? How could he know?

  The door opened quickly. That was a surprise, because in his mind, the opening would have been a long, drawn-out event, complete with creaking noises and a demonic laugh. He couldn’t see the door because it was blocked by the vertical rectangle that served as one of the legs for the stainless-steel table, and for long seconds, nothing happened. No one entered as far as he could tell, and he didn’t move. The heavy thrumming of his heart was the loudest sound he could hear.

  “Come on out, Graham,” said a heavily accented voice. It wasn’t Teddy, but it might have been his brother. The same accent, but a lot thicker. “I know you are here because there is nowhere else for you to be.”

  Graham didn’t move, as if by remaining still he could become invisible.

  “So you want to play seek and hide,” the man said from the door. “Sure. Fine. We can do that.”

  The hiding strategy suddenly seemed like a bad idea. What was the sense of pissing them off? It would be different if he’d set a trap, or if he had some kind of ambush plan. As it was, all hiding could do was make all of this more difficult, more uncomfortable for him.

  “I’m here,” Graham said. It came out a little too loud, but that probably didn’t matter. He scooched his butt along the floor the point where he was clear of the table, and then he stood. He didn’t realize he’d raised his hands until he saw that he’d done it, and the realization embarrassed him. When he was standing at his full height, he lowered his hands to his sides.

  The man had only advanced a few feet into the doorway, but he stood funny, as if one side of his body were heavier than the other.

  “What’s wrong?” Graham asked, reading the expression on the man’s face as one of anger. “I’m right here.”

  “I knew where you were,” the man said. He showed an odd smile, an unnerving smile. Then he shifted his weight to point something at Graham.

  At first, it registered to Graham as a gun. He started to dive for cover, but before he could hit the floor, a spray of high-pressure water was on the way. The sheer volume of the flow told Graham that it was from a fire hose. When the solid pillar of water hit him in his chest, it threw him backward and down onto the floor.

  The stream pummeled him with bruising force, knocking the air from his lungs. When the man redirected the stream to his face, Graham brought his hands up to protect his eyes. Even with his face covered, the water got into his nose and mouth and choked him. The act of coughing brought in more water, and he thought he was drowning.

  The pillar of water shifted in an instant, and then it started tearing up his belly and his legs. Again, he tried to cover up, but then the stream returned to his face. As soon as he covered it, the stream went back to his balls. This asshole in the doorway was having a great time.

  Graham rolled on the floor to turn his back to his attacker. The force of the stream pushed him across the floor until he was pressed up against the far wall.

  Still the hydraulic beating continued, raking the length of his body, from the soles of his feet to the crown of his head. This went on for at least two minutes. There’d be brief respites of five, ten, maybe fifteen seconds when the water stream wasn’t being driven directly into his body, but the flow continued.

  And then it stopped, a smash cut from full on to full off.

  The attacker didn’t say a word before he left. Graham heard the door close and the lock slide back into place. Then all he heard were the sounds of water dripping and draining and puddling. It was a sound that was worse than silence.

  When he was sure he was alone again, he rolled away from the wall and onto his back, and from there to a sitting position. Water ran from everywhere. Where it wasn’t running off a surface, it dripped in a rapid, staccato rhythm that might as well have been a stream. He sat in a puddle that was at least an inch deep, maybe deeper. He could not have been more soaked, not if he had jumped into the deep end of a swimming pool. Every surface of the room was soaked, in fact. Not a dry square inch to be found anywhere.

  As he rose to his feet, he noted that the water was deep enough to cover his toes. When he walked, his feet created tiny bow waves that rippled across the width of the room.
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  When the coolers kicked on again, he understood what they were doing.

  They were going to freeze him to death.

  Anton Datsik sat at his desk in the study of his modest home in Arlington, Virginia, playing solitaire on his computer as he waited for the phone call that had to come soon if it were to be of any use. When it arrived, he answered on the first ring. “Tell me you have news I want to hear,” he said.

  “I do,” the woman said. “We know where the boy is. He’s in the custody of the Chechens as we speak. There’s an old meatpacking plant in Detroit.” She gave him the address.

  “How do you know this?” Datsik asked.

  “I just know,” she said.

  “Who else knows?”

  “I can’t answer that.”

  “Does your boss know?”

  “Absolutely not,” she said. “Or if she does, I don’t know how. My sources and hers are entirely different. And mine are much more reliable.”

  Datsik typed the address into his computer to check out the location. It was both urban and accessible. He checked the clock. “How long has he been there?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe one hour. Not much more, I don’t believe.”

  “Are you there on the scene?”

  “I am not.”

  “They cannot be allowed to leave,” Datsik said.

  “I believe that is what the Agency hired you for.” There was defiance in her voice this time that hadn’t been there before. He didn’t like it. “I have done my part,” she said. “I have delivered him to you. Now be sure to tell—”

  Datsik clicked off. He knew what she was going to ask and didn’t need for that to be out in space for the NSA to listen to. Besides, he had more pressing matters to attend to.

  Using a different phone—an encrypted satellite phone that was dedicated to a single purpose—he dialed a number and waited.

  Philip Baxter answered on the second ring. “Yes,” he said.

  “The clock is ticking,” Datsik said. “I need a plane, eight parachutes, and a pilot who has no memory.”

  Baker paused. In the background, Datsik could hear the sound of a television. Sounded like a romance. “Do you know what time it is? How am I—”