Without looking inside the envelope, already it was clear the kind of job they had in mind for me, the internal feeling to tell them all to go to Hell rising with each passing moment.
Tossing the garments into a heap on the passenger seat, I removed two sheets of newspaper, the pages used as nothing more than a divider before getting to the real meat of the package.
Lying along the bottom of the bag was a pair of Beretta handguns, silencers already screwed into the ends of them. Lying with the handles on either end, the elongated barrels were stretched along the front and back of the bag, forming a misshapen rectangle.
Inside the oblong box were a series of extra magazines, two blocks of cash, and an old-school black hinge phone that made even the relic I carried look new by comparison.
Reaching straight for the phone, I flipped it open and thumbed it on, waiting impatiently as it powered to life. Once it was ready, I worked my way through the address book, finding not a single number loaded onto it.
From there I went into the recent call log, seeing just two entries. The first was my own number, time stamped roughly twelve hours before, this being the phone Celek had called me on in the middle of the night. The second was a series of numbers with an area code I didn’t recognize, the call made just a few minutes after the first.
Clearly the package had not been waiting on me long, Celek wanting to see if I would accept, was actually coming, before bothering to put it in place. Only then had he bothered loading it into the locker, doing so this morning before coming to see me.
Apparently they weren’t quite as cocksure as they wanted me to believe.
Using my thumb, I highlighted the second number in order and hit send, pressing the phone to my face. It rang only twice before being picked up.
“Why, hello there.”
Just hearing his voice, the syrupy amount of condescension dripping from every word, somehow managed to bring about even more hostility within me.
“Kiss my ass,” I muttered.
“Well now, that’s not a very good way to start a working relationship.”
“Neither is hanging a picture of-“ I cut myself short there, not wanting to say her name, to give him any tiny morsel of information he might not already have.
“Why?” I said instead. “What was the point? Just to piss me off?”
Silence fell for a moment, a deliberate move no doubt meant to let me know that he had caught my deference to using Rae’s name. To tell me it didn’t matter anyway.
“To piss you off?” Celek asked, feigning surprise. “That was an unfortunate side effect, but no, that was not the intended point.”
“Then what was?”
Again, Celek paused for a moment before asking, “Have you looked inside the envelope yet?”
The question seemed to come out of nowhere, my brow pulling together slightly, my teeth clinching tight.
“What. Was. The. Point?”
“Jesus, still hung up on that?” Celek said, letting me hear him sigh. “The point, as it were, was not to piss you off. It was to let you know that we are not messing around.
“We knew you would show up full of anger, be threatening to walk away at any moment. Your kind always does. We needed to move you past that right out front, to establish the ground rules here, let you know who is really in charge.”
“You realize I am infinitely closer to bouncing now than I was before you pulled that shit, right?” I asked.
“And you realize the point of that photo was to prove you can’t, right?” Celek replied. “You are here, and you are going to do this, or we are going to pay a little visit to Texas.”
Resting on my thigh, my left hand curled itself into a tight ball. Veins bulged on the backside of my hand, my chest tightening as I forced air in through short breaths.
Rae Sommers was capable of fending for herself, more than most of the guys I served with, maybe even more than me, depending on the situation.
Still, the mere idea of Celek and whatever goon squad he had at his disposal descending on our ranch, even being in the same state as her, pushed my insides into a coil that threatened to burst from every orifice.
“And judging by your silence, I’m guessing you’re either over there thinking of how many different ways you hate me and would love nothing more than to clench your hands around my throat, or you’re thinking that I’m right, and there’s not a damn thing to do about it.”
I gave no response at all. There was no need.
The man was right about all of it.
“So, again, here’s how this is going to go,” Celek said. “Right now, we are going to end this conversation, and you are going to open that envelope. Inside it is everything that even a cretin like you would need to finish this job.
“If, however, you still have questions at the end of it, or all that reading gives you a headache and you need me to spell something out, you can call me back.
“If not, I don’t expect to hear a damn thing from you until the job is done.”
There was a clear click over the line, the call disconnected, Celek hanging up on me before I had a chance to do something stupid, like unleash the full weight of the fury within me.
Doing so – as good as it would feel – would likely only spell more hardship for Rae.
Flipping the phone shut, I tossed it onto the seat beside me. However bad I had thought things were on the drive up, they were now much, much worse.
This wasn’t a case of a favor owed, damned sure wasn’t an even trade for keeping my face off the news over some low-level heroics performed on the other side of the world a lifetime ago. This was outright blackmail, the most vile form of harassment, and it now involved the only person in the world I felt any loyalty to whatsoever.
If the person calling the shots was most anybody else, I would march right up to them and put a stop to all of it immediately. Given that he was now flanked at all times by a phalanx of security personnel though, I had exactly one option with how to handle things moving forward.
I was going to do this, as fast as possible, with as little exposure to myself and Rae as possible.
And then I would return home to Texas, and dare anybody to ever come near us again.
Chapter Nine
There was no way I was opening that envelope sitting in the parking structure. Being right downtown, with thousands, if not millions, of people all close at hand was reason enough not to. Knowing that a great many of them were dressed in black or blue and carrying guns and badges only exacerbated that fact.
The contents of the bag proved to me that this was not exactly on the up-and-up, which made sense. A man like Meyers Jacoby did not pull someone like me out of the woodwork after so many years to ask for a gallon of milk. He had untold numbers on staff that could do the easy stuff, men like Celek that could handle things that rose to the level of difficult.
He needed someone like me to handle those events that went even higher than that. Those things that could bring about exposure to him, his office, or his campaign.
He needed someone expendable.
Intent not to make myself any more of a target than I probably already was, I drove due west out of town, following the freeway for the better part of twenty miles, but receiving no relief from the traffic and congestion. Urban sprawl seemed to go on for days and days, strip malls and parking towers lining the roadway as I drove in silence, eyes flicking to the signs overhead, careful to keep the speedometer set exactly two miles above the limit.
Just fast enough to fit in with the flow of traffic without being too conspicuous about it.
It was mid-afternoon by the time I reached Downer’s Grove, recognizing the name from the boards in the commuter terminal at Union Station. With the traffic growing ever thicker, and tufts of green starting to dot the landscape, I pulled off, grabbed gas and a sack full of sandwiches from McDonald’s, and went looking for someplace to read.
The search wasn’t easy, and took the better part of a half hour,
my destination eventually presenting itself as a small nature preserve tucked up next to Midwestern University. There I found a simple turnout parking lot with six spaces lined on the ground, and more importantly, no other cars in sight.
Before me was a small pond, a narrow stream feeding it from the opposite side. Cattails stood waist high around the far bank with a short dock jutting out directly in front of my truck.
Eschewing both the dock and the picnic table that was set up beside it, I kept myself perched behind the steering wheel. With one hand I pulled the envelope back over onto my lap and with the other I started in on the cheeseburgers.
Inside the envelope was a dark brown legal folder, the kind that requires pages have a pair of holes punched through the top of them and uses metal tabs to hold them in place. There was a plain white square on the front to be used for identification, but as with everything else so far, there was no markings on it of any kind.
Nobody was about to leave behind any handwriting that could later be traced back to them.
Flipping it open, one side of the folder was reserved exclusively for photographs, the stack almost a quarter-inch thick. A single hole had been punched into the corner of each of them, allowing for one of the clasps to hold them in place, the pile descending downward at a crooked angle.
On the other side was a series of papers, the sum total of it less than half of what there was in pictures.
Offering a quick glance to the photos, I opted to start with the paperwork. I needed to know what exactly they had, what they wanted from me, before even bothering to try and make sense of any reconnaissance they had already done.
Doing so in the opposite direction would provide no frame of reference, conjuring a lot of questions that were probably already answered.
The top page in the stack was a police report from Seattle, Washington dated two years prior. It was made out for someone named Skye Grant, a 23-year-old woman, arrested for trespassing. A thumbnail pair of booking shots was in the top corner showing her from the front and side, though it was obvious the page was a copy, the quality grainy and distorted, making it difficult to pick out much detail.
Raising the page up, I glanced through the notes at the bottom of the report, the write-up citing that Grant had been caught after hours on the grounds of a place called IntelliTech. As best anybody could tell, nothing had been stolen or damaged, and nothing of value was found on the girl’s person.
The arrest happened just after midnight, and she was held until morning, when she posted bond. All charges were later dropped.
Moving on to the next page, I found a copy of a citation, this one from a national park somewhere in Utah. Again for trespassing, there was no accompanying narrative, merely a ticket for $135 that was paid in full.
I could feel my brow bunch up slightly as I kept working my way forward. Thus far I had been shown the reports of two misdemeanor offenses in different states, both more than a thousand miles west of where I was sitting.
Hardly the kind of thing they would need to call on me for.
Not until the fourth page did things begin to make even the smallest bit of sense, the pages shifting from faded reproductions of minor offenses and moving into something a bit more profound.
It was a printout from something known as the Cyber Crimes Database, a subheading announcing that I was staring at a page from the Cyber Terrorist Watch List. Just beneath it was the name Skye Grant, a serial number assigned to her listed beside it.
Two lines down the page was a bold heading stating Known Transgressions, with the two incidents I had just read through listed in order.
All in all, not a real damning commentary.
The next section down was where things began to get interesting, beginning with a chunk of text labeled simply Suspected Offenses.
The list ran the entire remainder of the page and half of the way down the next. It began with the general, citing that Grant had been suspected of hacking into U.S. intelligence satellites and commandeering drones for personal purposes. One by one it outlined every such transgression, the list soon beginning to sound repetitive, my eyes glazing slightly as I worked my way down through them.
Given my complete disdain for something as simple as a smart phone, it wasn’t hard to surmise how I felt about things such as satellites and drones. I know what they are, and have a vague sense of how they work, but past that, I have neither the knowledge nor the inclination needed to really make sense of such things.
Skipping down the rest of the page, I again flipped to the next in order, the list growing more specific. At length it detailed when and where each of the suspected hacking attempts had occurred, an obvious cluster appearing around Southeast Asia.
China. Burma. Thailand. Vietnam.
Somewhere in the recesses of my brain, a tiny spark ignited. It brought with it a flush of heat to my skin, for the first time the smallest sense of why I had been called on starting to rise to the surface.
Most of my time in the service was spent in places that we weren’t supposed to be in, countries that most people couldn’t find on a map. Almost all of them were in that region, that being the very place that Meyers Jacoby and I first crossed paths.
The last page in the file was a simple sheet of white typing paper, just two lines of text printed across it.
An address for someplace in Elk Grove, Illinois, and the simple missive to find the girl and call Celek immediately.
Just seeing the man’s name, the word immediately, the clear commanding tone underlying the note, again made my blood pressure rise. In my left hand I wadded up the empty wrapper of my first burger, the file having pulled my appetite away, causing me to leave the rest of the sandwiches in the sack.
The taste of bile rose into the back of my throat as I stared down at the page. Something was clearly not right. They knew who the girl was, knew where she was located. Why they couldn’t just go get her themselves was anybody’s guess.
Why they had also felt the need to give me a bag full of dark clothes and weapons to do so I could only speculate at.
Pushing the bastion of unanswered questions to the side, I dropped the pages back into place and shifted my attention over to the photographs. Using my index finger, I nudged the pile so they were positioned vertically, and stared down at the top image.
In the center of the photo was a young woman I presumed to be Skye Grant. Diminutive in stature, she had dark hair cut into a short bob, stopping just past her chin, and enormous sunglasses covering most of her face. Her skin was pale, a fact made even more pronounced by the glasses and the dark clothes she was wearing.
The shot looked to have been taken while on surveillance, a few tree limbs in the foreground obscuring part of her lower body. Something about the way she was dressed, and the way she was turned, seemed to give the indication she knew someone was out there and was desperately trying to spot them.
On first impressions, the girl did not look like a threat in any way. Given the angle and her appearance, I couldn’t make out much detail about her beyond the fact that she was small and appeared at least somewhat frightened.
Not exactly what I would call a high priority terrorist, though in today’s age I knew better than to think there was anything resembling a type. As the new Q stated in the most recent James Bond movie, he could do more damage with a laptop in his pajamas than a field agent could do in a year.
Having seen my share of nerds pass through our division over the years, I didn’t doubt that for one second.
Flicking the end of my finger, I rotated the picture up, the next in order being another taken at the same time and location, the girl just a few steps further along, still wearing the same expression.
The next two showed similar situations on a different day, the girl having traded out her black togs for dark blue ones, the sun overhead a little stronger. Still in place though were the glasses and cautious demeanor, the girl seemingly aware at all times that someone was nearby, or at least could be.
What she had done that put that concern there, I could only guess at. Whether or not she really was someone to be considered a potential terrorist, or just another person that Jacoby had taken a personal interest in, there was also no way to know for certain.
The last image in the stack was a glossy printout of a Google Map, this one detailing the Elk Grove address that was written on the last page in the corresponding pile. A small red flag was affixed in the middle of the shot, pointing straight down to the location.
At the top of the screen, scrawled out in black marker, Celek had written, Find her. Call me.
Again I felt the familiar pangs of animosity swell within me. Thus far I had met Celek one time, had spoken to him twice. Neither had gone particularly well, each time the man going beyond what was necessary to try and assert himself as the top of the pecking order.
If there was anything working for years in the military had taught me, it was when that was the case, it usually meant there was a lot more going on than just what the surface would indicate.
Slamming the file shut, I tossed it onto the seat beside me and moved the McDonald’s bag atop it to hold it in place. Reaching out, I twisted the keys in the ignition and started to roll backwards.
I needed information. It was time to become a bit more proactive.
Chapter Ten
The warning sound was loud and distinctive, just as it was meant to be. Bypassing the traditional sirens or bells, it was set to the tune of ducks quacking, the kind of thing that if a neighbor heard it they might be inclined to smile as opposed to become alarmed.
Or even worse, call the police.
At 5:00 in the afternoon, Skye, Raz, and Jazmine were all three fast asleep, coming down off of one long night, preparing for the next one. Every shade and blind in the house was pulled low, the ambient light almost non-existent, only the occasional sound of an outside car passing by permeating the silence.
The Subway ; The Debt ; Catastrophic Page 36