Hunting Savage
Page 10
There was no doubt in Peter’s mind that he could protect Kate—and himself—at his residence. But he also recognized that if the police came he’d lose that ability. It was only a matter of time before Detectives Colson and Nakano knocked on his door, no doubt with an arrest warrant alleging he had assaulted an FBI agent. He was convinced that someone within the agency was on the payroll of whoever was trying to keep the Liberty files secret.
He’d tried to reach Jim, but the call went to voicemail. If anyone could find answers and unravel this mystery, it was Commander James Nicolaou and his team of intelligence analysts at the Strategic Global Intervention Team, or SGIT.
Jim and Peter had become best friends in high school, before following disparate paths as adults. Fate intervened, reuniting the two friends a couple years ago. Since that time, Peter had provided assistance to SGIT—and vice versa—on several occasions.
The ring tone startled Peter. He’d been half asleep, still cradling the shotgun. “Yeah,” he said.
“You awake?” It was Jim Nicolaou.
Peter quickly shook off the lethargy. “Good. You got my message.”
“Sorry I missed your call. What’s going on?”
Peter filled in the details—Kate had spent the night at his place using the guest room, Gary had returned to his business in the gold country in the foothills east of Sacramento, and at any moment the police could arrest Peter again.
“This all began with secret files hacked from a government database?”
“That’s right. I don’t know why someone would commit murder over this information, or who is behind it all. But I’m running out of time and options.”
“And you’re certain that was not an FBI agent you assaulted last night?”
“He was packing a Mk-9 magnetic impulse gun and driving a sedan with Washington plates. Said he worked from the Portland office.”
“Maybe he works for the Bureau and was also moonlighting for someone else?”
“Great. That would make him a crooked agent. Do you have anything encouraging to offer?”
“I’ll get Lacey working on the secret files, see what she can dig up on the Liberty that isn’t already public knowledge. Shouldn’t be hard. In the meantime, what are your plans for Kate Simpson?”
“I need to get her to a safe location—hoping you’d help me with that.”
“I can have the jet at the Bend airport in about two hours. She can stay here at SGIT in one of the dorm rooms we have for contractors.” SGIT maintained a business jet and three pilots. The flight from McClellan Field in Sacramento, where SGIT was located, to Bend would take just about an hour, wheels up to wheels down.
“Thank you, buddy. It will be a huge relief knowing she’s there.”
Peter filled Kate in during the short drive to the private airstrip on the east side of Bend. They’d left Peter’s house shortly after his phone call with Jim. and were waiting at the airport when the SGIT business jet landed.
It taxied to a stop in front of the modest terminal, really a one room waiting area combined with administrative offices. The door opened and the steps were lowered. Immediately Peter recognized Jerry Balvanz—a.k.a Iceberg, for his mop of silver-blond hair—and Beth Ross, one of the intelligence officers. They’d met on previous missions.
“Good to see you again, Peter,” Jerry said as he extended his hand.
“Thank you for making the trip. I feel better knowing Kate will be at The Office,” he said, using the nickname for the SGIT headquarters.
Beth took Kate’s small bag and turned, expecting Kate to follow her up the stairs into the waiting aircraft, engines still idling.
Kate offered her hand to Peter. “Thank you.”
Peter’s smile was warm, genuine. There was something about this woman…
“Don’t mention it. I want to get to the bottom of this as much as you do. You’ll be safe with my friends until it’s over.”
“And when it is over, I owe you dinner. I insist,” her eyes gleamed, despite all she’d been through.
“It’s a deal,” Peter said, and released her hand. She climbed the stairs and disappeared inside the fuselage.
“The Commander says he’ll have an update for you later today,” Jerry said. He was taller than Peter by two inches, and his frame was solid muscle. “Lieutenant Lacey is already working the problem.”
Peter nodded.
“What are your plans now, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I’ve got a phone call to make. Figured I should be the one to tell the Bend Detectives what happened last night before they hear about it through other channels.”
“Understood. I’ll fill in Commander Nicolaou. Well, time to go.”
They shook hands again, and Peter turned to leave.
After returning to EJ Enterprises, Peter phoned Detective Colson. “I have an incident to report,” he said. Peter explained everything in detail, including why he suspected Agent Barnes was a fake. She asked many questions, most two or three times. Peter imagined she was taking copious notes.
Finally she asked, “You said he had a Mk-9 impulse pistol.”
“Yes, that’s right. I took it from him. The serial number matches a lot we produced last year and sold to the Department of Defense along with 5,000 rounds of ammunition. The shipping records you have will confirm my statement.”
“So it wasn’t stolen.”
“Like I said from the beginning: there hasn’t been any theft of weapons or ammunition from my business. I suggest you check with the Pentagon. If you ask me, Agent Barnes should not have had that weapon. It is highly restricted. As far as I know, the Mk-9 is only available to Special Forces of the U.S. military.”
“I’m going to need that weapon and a statement from you. I’ll be right there. Don’t go anywhere.”
Peter sighed. He had known this was likely and preferred to get it over with. Still, he saw the endless questioning unnecessary and tiring, especially now that what he’d said from the beginning was being corroborated, at least regarding the disposition of the weapons his company manufactured.
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll be waiting for you in my office.”
Detectives Colson and Nakano arrived less than 20 minutes later. As always, Colson had her notepad out—she was old school, preferring pen and paper—and was reading from it while Peter placed the Mk-9 pistol on his desk. Before either detective had a chance to ask, he demonstrated that it was not loaded while ensuring the muzzle always pointed safely to the side.
“You said you recognized it in the agent’s shoulder holster,” Colson said.
“That’s right. See these two LEDs?” Peter pointed to a spot on the back of the action, just above the handgrip. “Pretty distinctive. Not found on any other handgun. The lights indicate the status of the magnetic impulse action.”
“Just how does this weapon system function?” Detective Nakano asked. She sounded genuinely curious. Peter walked the detectives through the process, explaining the ten cylindrical electromagnetic coils spaced along the barrel; how they were sequentially energized as the magnetic projectile accelerated down the barrel.
Nakano was examining the gun. It was all black and looked much like an ordinary semi-auto pistol, except the barrel was a plastic tube. She pointed to a small black dial on the side of the action. “What is the function of this knob?”
“That’s to turn the power up or down. You see, unlike conventional ammunition, in which the bullet velocity is largely determined by the powder charge in the cartridge, the Mk-9 is electrically operated. This means we can increase or decrease the strength of the magnetic field that accelerates the projectile, thereby changing the speed of the projectile.”
“Why would you want to do that?” Colson asked, suddenly interested in the conversation.
“Special Ops. Sometimes they want a subsonic round for stealth, other times they want a high-velocity round for maximum effective range. Just depends on the specific circumstances. The soldier can m
ake that determination on the spot, dial in the appropriate velocity, and let it go. No need to carry a range of special rounds, not to mention the time invested in changing loads.”
“So, if this was dialed down in power, it would be totally silent?” Colson asked.
“Yeah. Except for a slight metallic click from the trigger mechanism. It’s a single shot action, but it’s not hard to learn how to load the next round without making noise.”
She pressed further, developing a theory. “And if it was dialed down, say on minimum power or close to it, what kind of penetration would you get up close?”
“Not much. Depends on the medium—soft and fleshy or hard, like bone—and distance, of course. Even the lowest level of body armor would defeat the round. It might not even fully penetrate several layers of heavy clothing.”
“What if clothing isn’t an issue?”
“Like a head shot?” Peter asked.
Colson nodded.
“There wouldn’t be an exit wound.”
She locked eyes with her partner. “We’ll run the ballistics. But I think we have our murder weapon.”
Chapter 15
Bend, Oregon
April 20
It was late morning, and the Old Mill District was bustling. There was a steady flow of shoppers moving in and out and past the upscale stores. Cars moved by slowly, most seeking a coveted parking slot, others simply trying to exit and return to home or work.
From her seat at the coffee shop across the street from EJ Enterprises, Jana Cooke watched as the Bend Police Detectives got in their unmarked sedan and drove away. She didn’t understand why police departments bothered with unmarked vehicles anyway—from the stock, basic model sedan, to the plain steel wheels, to the license plates indicating the vehicle was publically owned—you’d have to be blind to fail to recognize it as a police car.
She finished her latte—it was lukewarm—and considered ordering another when Peter Savage exited the building. He stood on the sidewalk, collecting his thoughts for a few seconds and breathing in the clean air, before turning and strolling toward the shops. She shadowed him from the opposite side of the street.
He passed several shops—an art gallery, a sandwich shop, two clothing stores—and came to a crosswalk. As Peter turned and crossed the street, Jana realized he was coming directly toward her. She pretended to answer her phone and pivoted to the right, entering a shoe store. From there she continued to watch Peter Savage for another half block before he was out of sight.
She quickly left the shoe store and almost jogged for a couple seconds until her mark was in sight. Abruptly, Peter stopped and turned.
For a moment their eyes met.
Peter instinctively sensed something was wrong. Sure, it wasn’t uncommon for a gaggle of shoppers to slowly meander in the same direction, moving as if all were caught in some sort of invisible fluid, pushed along until—one by one—they peeled off into a boutique or eatery.
This was different. The woman had a determined glare, and she hesitated, just for an instant, when Peter turned. No, this wasn’t a shopper or someone planning to meet a friend for lunch. This person was on business.
With nowhere to turn, and knowing Peter had made visual contact, Jana quickly decided that her only move was to keep walking forward, right past him as if he was of no more importance than any of the hundreds of other strangers on the sidewalk.
Peter stood there, hands by his side. “Hey, do I know you?” he said as she passed within two feet. He was looking over his shoulder and caught a second hesitation before she kept walking. Peter turned and followed.
Jana Cooke picked up her pace and turned right onto a walkway that connected to a side alley. She entered Pinnacle, a major outdoor equipment and apparel retailer. Peter followed only a handful of steps behind.
She moved deep into the store, passing racks of rain parkas and finding her way to the tents and sleeping bags. As she rounded a display shelf holding rolled-up sleeping pads, she glanced at Peter. His gaze never left her.
“May I help you find something?” a sales clerk asked Peter.
“Uh, no. No thank you.” Jana made for the door while Peter was distracted by the clerk.
“Hey! Wait!”
He sprinted forward and reached out, grabbing Jana’s arm.
“Sir!” the clerk said, her voice louder than it needed to be.
“Let go of me,” Jana said, her voice menacing. Peter didn’t loosen his grip.
“Is he bothering you? I can call security,” the clerk said.
“Maybe you should,” Peter replied, his head turned toward the sales clerk.
Jana Cooke was 50 pounds lighter than Peter, but an expert in hand-to-hand combat. Yet she was beginning to regret following him—what should have been a routine surveillance had now turned into a mess. And it would only get worse if the clerk followed through at Peter’s goading and called security.
It was time to act. She could still salvage the mission, and the only consequence would be a tongue-lashing from her handler in Washington, who would assign another agent not recognized by Peter Savage.
Jana reacted, aiming to take Peter down. With blinding speed, she placed her leg behind him, pivoted, and grasped his shoulder with her free hand, yanking him backwards. Off balance, he tumbled, but maintained an iron grip on Jana’s left arm. Peter managed to grab a handful of blond hair on his way down, just before he hit the carpeted floor. His attacker came, too.
Immediately, Peter twisted and pushed off Jana, blocking her attempt to regain her feet. When he reached his knees, Peter rammed a fist into her nose, immediately drawing blood. He pulled back, striking her again.
The sales clerk was panicking, yelling for him to stop. Three other patrons were screaming and running for the door.
Jana managed to land a blow to Peter’s midsection, just missing his solar plexus. Forcing back the urge to double over, he slammed his fist into her face again, splitting her lip.
A middle-aged man with a beer belly and wearing a private security uniform grabbed Peter from behind and pulled him back from Jana. As Peter struggled, she rose to her feet and lashed out with a kick aimed for his groin. Peter twisted and the kick connected with the guard instead. He released his hold and bent forward in agony.
While Peter stumbled to the side, she uncoiled another kick, striking Peter’s right leg. He felt a bolt of pain shoot up from his knee and he collapsed to the side.
The guard was rising from his knees, attempting to draw his Taser. Jana caught the movement a moment before the Taser would have cleared its holster. With blinding speed, she launched a vicious punch that struck the center of his face, bloodying his nose and rocketing his head backwards. As he fell, his skull hit the metal base of a clothing rack, splitting the scalp. Unconscious, his head rolled to the side, blood matting his hair.
“I think she killed him,” a hushed voice said. Two young men had watched the brutal attack, and decided it was time to take action. One man stepped forward, his friend right behind him.
“You have to stop!” he commanded, his arm outstretched, pointing at Jana. She reached out, grabbed his arm, and yanked him toward her. At the same time, she struck with her right fist, crushing his windpipe. Stunned and unable to breath, he went down in agony, hands at his throat, trying desperately to suck in air, and failing as the tissue swelled, closing his esophagus.
His friend was next. She struck with a foot to his groin. He reflexively doubled over and she drove her knee into his face, breaking his nose and driving bone into his brain.
With the distractions eliminated, Jana stripped the Taser from the guard’s belt holster.
Struggling to his feet, Peter saw the red laser-aiming dot on his chest. Jana fired.
As the dual darts shot forward, Peter pulled over a rack of flannel shirts. The barbs caught in the soft fabric and were pulled to the floor. While she was working to reload the Taser, Peter sprang at her, his right knee protesting as he pushed off.
Using his left arm, Peter grabbed the weapon and struggled to wrench it from her grip. He landed another blow to her face, which was already turning purplish and smeared with blood and saliva.
Jana shifted on her back, pushing Peter to the side. She swung her fist, striking him in the ear. She swung again, hitting his temple. His grip slackened, and Jana sensed her opening. She brought her fist around again, this time more forcefully. The blow to Peter’s temple nearly caused him to black out. He relaxed his hold and rolled away, trying to gain some distance, momentarily forgetting about the Taser.
He saw the black gun lining up on his body, and he ducked behind the cabinet. The darts shot forward, missing him by inches. Jana had risen to her knees, again reloading the weapon. From the far side of the display cabinet, Peter pushed the shelving holding the GPS units over. It tumbled onto Jana, striking her head.
Peter rounded the cabinet. Jana was dazed, but not out. She heaved the shelf aside, the Taser no longer within her grasp. She slowly righted herself, spit a gob of blood and saliva, and wiped away more blood mixed with mucous. She looked at Peter with unadulterated malevolence.
She charged him, head down, driving him backwards; somehow Peter managed to stay on his feet. They broke, separated three feet, and she kicked out again, aiming to cripple his right knee. Peter dodged the blow, and before he could regain his balance she launched her right arm forward in a stiff-arm punch that rocked Peter’s head back.