Shockwave

by Norm Applegate

  They were dressed in black pants and shirts, long sleeves. Camouflage in the darkness.

  The men ranged between the ages of twenty-five and forty. They looked tough and mean. Held their weapons steady. Nobody was nervous. Reminded him of some sort of military team, Seals or Special Forces. Like they were on a night mission to assassinate someone.

  One of the men was Big Red. He stared at Dwyer's face. His eyes barely blinked, he was studying him. Dwyer stared back. The guy's jaw was tight, lips stretched against a square chin. Supported by a thick neck. In the dimly lit room, his eyes looked black. Dark hollows behind thick bones. His head was shaved close. Sweat on his forehead ran down.

  "I'm Big Red," the guy said. "The boss wants to talk to you."

  The tone was mean, angry. Dwyer nodded.

  "He's the boss of what?" Dwyer asked.

  "You don't get it smart guy?" Big Red said. "We're a mean-ass crew out to do some damage."

  Big Red motioned with a nod to the guy behind Dwyer.

  "Get up," he said.

  Dwyer felt the barrel of a shotgun poke his back. Then again. Harder.

  Dwyer stood up, staring at Big Red. Never took his eyes off him.

  Big Red glanced at Kelly Paul. Looked down at her stomach, at the pipe bomb. Then at a grey bucket off to the side, against the wall but out in the open.

  "You need to shit or piss, use the pail," he said.

  Kelly Paul tried to hide her embarrassment. Shook her head and looked away. But Dwyer could see the expression on her face, disgusted, sick.

  The guy from behind got closer; Dwyer could sense it.

  "Hands behind your back," Big Red said.

  Dwyer felt his hands cuffed together.

  Three guards stood in front of Dwyer. Looking at him. He looked back making a mental note of their features. All looked strong, serious types. Not the type of guy you want to spend much time with. Big Red nodded to the guy behind Dwyer. He felt the shotgun barrel again in his back.

  "Let’s go," Big Red said.

  One of the guys in front moved in beside Dwyer, grabbed him by the elbow. Kind of pulled him across the barn floor toward the front door. They went outside. It was bright. Hurt Dwyer's eyes. He squinted, could barely see, the placed looked different in the day. He heard the barn door close behind him. No lock, some sort of metal arm fell into place securing the door. Dwyer made a note of that.

  They walked one hundred and eighty, maybe two hundred feet, on a dirt driveway. The morning was warm. Dwyer looked to his right. The field stretched to a tree line. He couldn't see beyond that. He looked left between the barn and the house, more fields. Straight ahead the dirt road gave way to a slight hill. Didn't see anyone around. Looked empty everywhere.

  They were at the big house. It was a wooden structure, looked old, built around the fifties. The guy in front opened the door and walked inside. They stood for a second. Then Dwyer felt the barrel of a gun in his back pushing him forward. He could feel the cool air from the air conditioner. They entered a small room, an office. Dwyer glanced around. The window was boarded up. Wooden floors, tongue and groove, they creaked with each footstep. It was dirty, mud on the floor. Another door leading somewhere. Probably into the main room of the house. Desk, chairs, coffee pot, computer. Old furniture, well used. Looked like a dispatch office, a working room. The young kid that placed the bomb around Kelly's waist was standing behind a chair. His two hands holding onto the back.

  "Sit there," Big Red said.

  A single chair was in the middle of the room facing the desk.

  Beau Redell walked in. Nodded to his men and sat on the desk opposite Dwyer. Not behind it, but on it. He wanted to be close, wanted to intimidate; Dwyer knew the game. He was experienced with interrogation. The guys surrounding Dwyer relaxed, Dwyer could sense it.

  "We found the kid," Redell said. "You sliced him up pretty good, took him out."

  His voice was calm.

  "We want to know who you are," Redell said. "What's your name?"

  Dwyer didn't want to rush this part. He counted to three. Concentrating on slowing his heart beat down. Concentrating on not showing any fear. If he stayed calm, Redell would stay calm. If he got nervous, Redell would get nervous. He took a deep breath and spoke in a smooth deep tone.

  "Dwyer, Jack Dwyer."

  Redell smiled.

  "All right Dwyer," he said. "Who are you, what do you do?"

  Dwyer counted to three.

  "Work for an oil company. Analyst. Forty-two last month."

  Redell stop smiling.

  "Analyst!" he yelled. "Who you fucking with? Try again. I've never met a finance guy who knew jack shit about getting his hands dirty."

  It was starting to heat up, Dwyer counted.

  "Where did you learn to use a knife like that?" Redell asked. "You're no cop. You ex-military?"

  "Like I said. I'm an analyst."

  Redell stared at him, nodding his head.

  "One more time asshole," Redell said. "You military?"

  Redell's face was red. Dwyer could see where this was going and it wasn't good. He could feel the tension around him. Redell's men were getting anxious.

  "Ex-military. It was a long time ago," Dwyer said.

  "That's what we thought," Redell said. "What did you do in the military?"

  "Psychologist," he said.

  "So what are you doing here?"

  Dwyer stared at him. This was the tricky part. This was the question Dwyer was expecting.

  He'd seen guys squirm when put on the spot. Have trouble talking like there's a lump in their throat. Nervous guys blink and fidget around a lot. Dwyer sat still. Just looking at Redell, breathing calm.

  "I'm an analyst," he said. "Study people, potential threat to pipelines, oil rigs. Mostly employee interviews. Some understanding of terrorists, maybe some negotiations."

  Redell threw his head back laughing. The guys standing around chuckled.

  "You think we're terrorists?" Redell asked. "So how does a guy like you end up killing one of my men?"

  The room got quiet. Dwyer could feel everyone staring at him. One of the guys to his left moved around so he could get a better look at Dwyer's face. Redell leaned closer.

  "You guys make too many mistakes," Dwyer said. "You guys are not that good. I followed the van. Followed it right here to the farm."

  Redell shot a look to Big Red and Tim Harding.

  "Another mistake, you stopped me on the road, talked to me, let me go," Dwyer said.

  Redell looked angry. Eyed two of his men.

  "I went to the truck stop bought a knife then doubled back here. Your guy made a mistake, let himself get caught."

  "Now you've made a mistake," Redell said. "You've stumbled into something you shouldn't have."

  "What's that?" Dwyer asked.

  Redell ignored him and looked at Big Red.

  "Pass the word. I want everyone on their toes. Could be another one of these assholes out there."

  Big Red reached into his pocket. Pulled out a phone and left the room. Redell turned his attention to Dwyer.

  "You got a partner out there I should know about?" Redell asked. "Somebody you might want to save?"

  Dwyer shook his head.

  "How about this woman?" Redell asked. "Did you know her before this week?"

  "The pretty woman you have a bomb strapped to in the barn?" Dwyer asked.

  Redell studied him for a moment.

  "You're a confident shit aren't you?" Redell asked. "A little too confident."

  Dwyer was thinking. Lost in thought remembering a woman he saw on the street in Bagdad. Remembering it in slow motion. Remembering how it happened. Her legs had been blown off. She was alive. Everything from her navel down was gone. He recalled the smell, thick, heavy odor. She'd stepped on a device. A bomb hidden in some garbage on the road. She was crossing the street. Dwyer was on the other side of the road in a Humvee. She was middle age, forty-five. Short, wide woman. Dwyer was watching her. Th
at was his job, to be observant, to see things before they happened. She was right-handed. Holding a bag in her hand. Dwyer wondered whether it was a bomb. She was dressed in a black hijab covering her from heat to foot. She was walking toward the Humvee. She got close to the garbage. It was a bag ripped open. She kicked it aside with her foot. It detonated. A loud booming blast. Blew her backwards five or six feet. Landed on her back, hitting the gravel. It sounded like a dull thud. A smear of blood and body fluids greased the street. Her eyes were open. Her mouth was open, lips were moving but nothing was coming out. Her arms were trembling. Dwyer opened the Humvee door and ran to her side. The driver followed him. She tried to raise herself up. Tried to look to where the pain was coming from. Tried to look at her legs. Dwyer and the other soldier held her down. Stopping her from looking. Her legs weren't there; they were across the street. Her left and right leg were fifteen feet apart. Both of them mangled; shoes missing. They were further away. He remembered she felt wet. Smelt like damp meat. They knelt beside her for what seemed like a long time. There was nothing anyone could do but watch her bleed to death.

  "Hey asshole, you still with me," Redell yelled. "Tell me how you met the woman?"

  Chapter 27

  The Bureau guys, William S. Miller and David Hammons and six officers dressed in black fatigues began walking into the field. It was morning. The sun was rising. The air was hot. A slight warm breeze kept the insects off them.

  "How long till we get to the trees?" Hammons asked.

  Agent Miller looked ahead across the field into the distance.

  "Twenty, maybe twenty-five, minutes," Miller said.

  Behind them in single file were the six officers. Ten feet apart, their rifles slung over their backs. To Miller's right Major Ore walked by himself. Miller could visualize Major Ore pulling out a gun and killing everyone before asking questions. He seemed too eager. Miller moved closer to Hammons.

  "What I don't want is a bloodbath, because this guy's got a trigger finger," Miller said. "I want to get close to see what's going on."

  Hammons glanced over at Major Ore. Then looked back at Miller.

  "Are you thinking Waco?" Hammons asked.

  "We get in close. Take a look around. If it's our guys, we contact them by phone," Miller said. "Begin surveillance and negotiations. The problem is him."

  Miller nodded toward Major Ore.

  “If this thing goes south on us we can blame the Major and the locals,” Miller said. “We’ll get the agency involved once we get a better handle on it.”

  A few hundred feet in, they traversed a gully and entered a ravine. Quiet and focused on the bank of the shallow stream, Agent Miller raised his right fist, signaling his men to stop. Hammons and Ore raced after him. They paused beside one another. Miller pointed to his ear, indicating he heard something.

  "I hear it," Hammons said.

  He was looking at Miller. A concerned look on his face.

  "It's an ATV," Major Ore said. "It's coming this way."

  Agent Miller waved at his men. Pointing to the other side of the ravine.

  It was three feet wide, maybe a foot or so deep running in front of them. There was a steep cliff on the other side. Maybe a ten-foot drop from the field into the ravine. Miller pointed to it. The ground had given way creating an overhang, something like a sinkhole with a rocky wall to hide behind.

  They leapt across the stream and hurried to the wall. The team was huddled together pressed against the wall of dirt. Hiding from what was approaching.

  Miller leaned back looking up to the edge of the cliff. Started pointing rapidly at something. He was looking at a single gunman in a vehicle searching the gully. The engine sound was getting louder.

  "The guy's got a gun on his back," Miller said.

  He was whispering to Agent Hammons.

  "Maybe a hunter," Hammons said. "Remember Waco, no jumping to conclusions."

  They moved closer to the wall. Tried to flatten against it. They could hear the engine clearly. It was an ATV Quad, 500 cc. One guy on it, dressed in camouflage pants and a t-shirt. He wore a cowboy hat and had dark sunglasses on.

  The engine sound was right above them. Dirt gave way as it drove past. Miller could see the shadow of the Quad and driver as he went by.

  "You think they were looking for us?" Hammons asked.

  Miller was listening to the sound of the engine fade away.

  "I don't think so," he said. "Rednecks are always riding around the fields. That's what rednecks do."

  Major Ore moved closer, standing beside Miller and Hammons.

  "Scout," he said. "Not a hunter. He was looking for something. Something like us."

  They waited until the sound of the engine was gone before moving out. Miller led the way in the gully beside the ravine. It took five minutes before they were out in the open. A few scattered trees. Some scrub pines, mostly low to the ground, maybe standing two to three feet.

  They were headed northeast toward the farmhouse. That was where they spotted the cars. That was where they thought Jack Dwyer was. They moved from tree to tree skirting the open field, further north than what the map indicated. Then they turned around and headed west. There was still some land in front of them to cover before they would hit the tree line. They were quiet, listening, looking.

  Miller thought about Waco. He'd studied the mess during training. He remembered FBI agents were killed. Nobody was sure who shot first. But the end game was ugly, women and children killed. He didn't want that on his record. He didn't want to explain that to his wife and daughters. Losing control of the team was what worried him. Someone like Ore could open things up before they had a chance to bunker down and watch the place.

  Miller had his men position themselves by a cluster of trees and some ground cover. He waved them in tight. Pulled the map out and laid it on the dirt.

  "We're not far from the trees," he said. "We cross the field and we're there."

  Miller was drawing a line on the map showing the path they would take.

  "Let's separate further apart. Ten-seconds between each man. Stay low and move fast. When we reach the trees we'll regroup. Questions?"

  His team looked at one another. One of the officers was looking toward the trees.

  "How far is the farmhouse from the trees?" he asked.

  Miller turned around, calculating the distance.

  "About a thirty-second jog,” Miller said. "We'll set up surveillance, study the place. No, Texas cowboy antics here."

  Miller moved out first. Hunched over to stay low, he hurried faster than a jog. The next man in line counted to ten. He followed Miller. Hammons would take up the tail position.

  Miller set up post on top of a sloping grassy hill. The tall grass would make movement slow. He could see the farmhouse. He was lying on his stomach. Beside an oak tree, under the canopy hidden in the shadows. The grass made for good protection. He felt safe, secure nobody would see them.

  Hunting wasn't his style. He had become the hunter. He lay in the grass and felt his stomach heaving like a bubbling liquid. A warm, sickening stomach. He was out of his element. He had gone from city to country. Sitting on a hill where it was all about primordial instinct.

  He turned when he heard the first man approaching behind him. He was shuffling along, awkward looking. The kind of motion an out of shape person makes. Heavy, hard steps, breathing hard, making a lot of noise.

  Training, Miller knew about. He was a runner. Started in high school then college. He'd been on the track team. If someone told him to run, he could move in a heartbeat. Out of shape people were different, a worry. The stress of a firefight is intense. He made a mental note; some of his men were a risk.

  Miller rested his weight on his elbows and raised the binoculars to his eyes. He adjusted the focus. Brought the farmhouse into view. Scanned the property. Saw the vehicles. Saw the barn. It was quiet. Scanned the area around the farm. Came back to the barn. Something wasn't right, the windows. Hunting wasn't his style.
But he was becoming the hunter. He lay in the grass and thought about Waco.

  Chapter 28

  Mid-morning Central time, CFO Walker left Minister Paul's Dallas office. He was wearing a lightweight business suit and took the elevator to the parking garage. It was over a hundred degrees when he stepped out and moved at a quick pace to his car.

  He drove south on Noel Road, past the Galleria to his right and east on Interstate 635. Then he turned right onto Montfort Drive and maneuvered into the parking lot of Hoover National Bank.

  He got out of his car and entered the bank through the front door. Walked to a young woman sitting at a desk and stood in front of her.

  "Ron Walker to see Bill Thompson," he said.

  He was shifting his weight from leg to leg. The receptionist noticed it. He was making her nervous. She spoke softly into the phone and was hoping the manager would be quick.

  William Thompson walked out of his office, down the corridor and smiled when he saw Walker.

  Walked nodded to him. Didn't smile.

  They shook hands and Walker followed the manager to a small conference room. It was well lit. The blinds were open and the sun danced off the drinking glasses on the conference table. Thompson gestured to a chair and Walker sat down.

  "We'll do this as quickly as we can," Thompson smiled, "And get you out of here right away."

  Walker had his hands folded on the table and nodded.

  "You understand the secrecy of this?" Walker said.

  "Of course," Thompson replied. "I'm truly sorry..."

  Walker raised his hand and cut him off.

  "We're reviewing the situation and determining the best course of action," Walker said. "And right now as a contingency plan we need to make sure the appropriate funds are available for quick dispersal if need be."

  The bank manager shook his head, "I understand."

  "Didn't mean to be so rude Bill, it's just this has everyone upset," Walker said.

  "I understand. Have you talked to the Minister?" How's he doing?