Ripper (Event Group Thrillers)

by David L. Golemon

  “These are very nice.” Henri straightened after a cursory examination.

  “Yes, particularly so since the man I relieved them from was a greedy gringo from Los Angeles, one of those so-called brothers of mine who have sold out their heritage. I wouldn’t mind so much if the gentleman had the least bit of knowledge, such as you, as to their real history. I’m sure you can appreciate that?”

  “Yes,” Henri half bowed, “I can, Señor Guzman.” Henri smiled wider and then cleared his throat. “Since you relieved this person of his possessions so readily, you won’t be asking exactly market value for these two pieces,” Farbeaux asked with a small smile.

  “Ah, just because I came into possession of them at minimal expense does not mean they are not far more valuable, Señor Jones.”

  “I estimate their value as a pair at just shy of two million.”

  “Close, señor, but even closer to five million.”

  Henri nodded his head. “I’ll take them. Now, I know a good salesman always saves that one piece that would guarantee the buyer walks away happy.”

  “You are indeed a savvy collector,” Guzman said as he gestured for Henri to follow him out of the small vault. They and Guzman’s bodyguards stepped into the dim hallway and started moving farther down the long corridor. “Tell me something Señor Jones; does it bother you that I am more than just a collector of antiquities?”

  “If you mean your relationship to the recent unpleasantness in Nuevo Laredo, or even your expansion into countries south of your border, no. Whatever a man does for a living never factors into my choices for business relationships.”

  Guzman laughed. It was a hollow sound that gave the ring of untruth to everything the drug kingpin had said thus far. Henri knew the two pieces of Anasazi carvings were absolutely fake, nothing but cheap knockoffs. After all, he had the second of the two pieces sitting in his house in the south of France. He knew he had to say something just in case his cover was still intact.

  “Señor Guzman, I sincerely hope the pieces we are on our way to see are a little more authentic that the two we just examined?”

  Guzman laughed and gently slapped Farbeaux on the back. “I hope I did not embarrass you with my little test, señor. In my line of work, on both fronts, I can never be too careful.”

  “I understand,” Henri said as he chanced a look back at the bodyguards who kept pace with them down in the carved-out basement.

  Guzman stepped ahead and paused by another door. This one had no electronic keypad, and it was far from being the same sort of steel door they had just come from. The hackles on Henri rose again.

  “Señor Jones, behind this door I have exactly what you came here to see. Two marvelous pieces I have from north of the border, and many, many more domestic works of art I prize above even my product from the south.” He smiled and opened the door, gesturing for Henri to step through first.

  Henri did as suggested and was assailed by a horrid stench. While his eyes adjusted to the weak lighting inside this larger room, he heard the crying of a child. Then he saw the cells, or more to the point, the cages just to his front. He scanned the nightmare before him. Women of all ages were strewn about six cold and dank cells. Many more guards were inside this room, as if they had been waiting. Henri’s dire suspicions were proven right.

  “These are some of my lesser works, Señor Jones. There are two I am most proud of that I really have not had a chance to examine on a more base level yet, but I am sure you would appreciate their value.” He gestured for a guard to shove two of the dirty, hurt women out of the way.

  Guzman watched as Farbeaux’s jaws clenched. Sitting on the flagstone floor were two women—one blonde, the other with short dark hair. The smaller of the two was tending to a wound the blonde had sustained on the top of her head. With a rag held firmly to the older woman’s head, Sarah McIntire looked up and saw who was standing to her front, just outside of her cage. Her eyes widened, but she caught herself when Henri closed his eyes tightly shut and gave her an imperceptible shake of his head. He then noticed his pilot and the San Antonio private investigator lying headless on the floor inside the first of the cells.

  “Are they not what I described, Señor Jones,” Guzman said as he gestured behind Henri’s back for his men to move forward. He also stepped back behind a small wall of those men. “Are these not the articles you came to examine, to take, to steal from me … Mr. Farbeaux?”

  Henri never hesitated nor did he give any advance indication of what he was going to do. He lashed out before ever turning and caught the man he was hoping was Guzman himself with a palm to the throat, dropping him like a heavy sack of potatoes. Then he elbowed the next closest man to him, smashing his nose deep into his brainpan. The next man in line stepped forward with the steel stock of the AK-47 raised to strike the Frenchman, but Henri was too fast for the smaller man. He quickly lashed out with his foot and slammed it into the man’s left knee. Just as the guard collapsed Henri caught the mini AK-47 and tried to swing it around. He heard Guzman somewhere far off as he laughed and started to clap his hands in admiration. That was when a gun barrel slammed into the back of Farbeaux’s head, sending him to one knee and the purloined weapon skittering out of his reach.

  “Your reputation and your prowess has been greatly undervalued, Señor Farbeaux,” Guzman said as he advanced farther into the room, still clapping his hands. “I thought maybe you would get one, possibly two of my men, but three? Outstanding!”

  Sarah lowered Professor Stansfield’s head to the filthy floor and stood and ran to the bars. She didn’t understand what was happening or how Henri Farbeaux had found his way into the fix he was in. She saw Henri on one knee, dazed from the blow to his head as the animal Guzman clapped behind him. She watched as the drug lord grabbed Farbeaux by his blonde hair.

  “To think you thought me the fool, señor. I will show you the price many have paid for underestimating me.” Guzman let go of the Frenchman’s hair and then nodded to his men.

  Sarah cried out when ten men went to work on the archenemy of the Event Group. Henri tried to defend himself as best he could, even managing to take down three of them before he succumbed to the brutal kicks and blows to his head and body.

  Sarah looked up at the Anaconda as he smiled and leaned against the whitewashed wall of her prison. She was lost on how to feel as Henri had obviously done something very stupid—he had stepped right into hell’s living room just to save her. How and why this came about she was now afraid she would never know.

  “Stop it!” she called out.

  Guzman looked over at the cell and directly at the small woman as she held on to the bars with her eyes wide and staring at Henri Farbeaux. His smile never wavered, but still he did not say anything. He did however get a curious look on his face as the grunts from the Frenchman diminished to almost nothing.

  “Alto,” he said as he stepped away from the wall. “This man means a lot to you?” he asked Sarah.

  Sarah let go of the cell bars and stepped back away from the Anaconda.

  “Well little woman, he will soon die with you.” Guzman gave Farbeaux a final kick to his head and then gestured for his remaining men. “Place him in with those he came to see. Later we will have sport.” He looked at his watch. “I have no more time for this,” he said in Spanish, “Mama will be furious if I am late for dinner.”

  Sarah watched as the small well-dressed man smiled again and, with a last look back at Sarah, stepped from the room.

  Sarah saw Henri pulled roughly to his feet. He was bleeding almost everywhere and he was out cold as he was pushed toward her cell.

  “You stupid son of a bitch, Henri, what in the hell were you thinking?” she said as Farbeaux moaned his reply and his eyes fluttered open just as the cell was unlocked.

  “I … think … now would be … a … good time … for your boy scout … to make an appearance.” Colonel Henri Farbeaux passed out before he was unceremoniously thrown onto the cold floor at Sarah’s f
eet.

  Sarah went to her knees and pulled a lock of Henri’s hair from his face. She shook her head as she saw how badly beaten he truly was.

  “You and Jack piss me off more than any dozen men, you stupid Frenchman.” She looked up just as the cage door was locked behind the retreating guards. “And yes, I have no doubt Jack will be as dumb as you and try something just as foolish.”

  She placed Henri’s head in her lap and smiled at him nonetheless. Farbeaux was still as she wiped some of the blood from his face and head. She was amazed at what he had done, not understanding the how or the why. Henri never gave a damn about anyone other than his dead wife, and now here he was giving up himself for her.

  “What am I to make of you, Colonel?” Sarah touched Farbeaux’s cheek as he fell deeper into his bloody stupor. “You are the strangest bogeyman I have ever seen.”

  LAREDO INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

  LAREDO, TEXAS

  Niles Compton stepped from the cockpit and nodded his head at Jack, Will, and Carl. “The pilot just received clearance from the tower to taxi. He filed a flight plan for San Antonio. We’ll circle for a bit and then declare a small-enough emergency to turn back. That means we should be on the ground here in Laredo in,” Niles looked at his watch, “exactly one hour. By that time either you’re across the border or in FBI custody.”

  Jack nodded his head and then looked toward the rear of the aircraft where two of his men were quickly coming up the aisle with two large bags. Jack accepted the first and then looked at the army sergeant who had gathered their equipment.

  “This everything?” he asked.

  “Yes sir. The only item on your list we didn’t have is the satellite hookup. Dr. Golding said as long as you have a cell phone they should have no trouble with communications through our KH-11 Blackbird and Europa.”

  Jack patted the sergeant on his shoulder. “That will have to do,” he said as he made one last check on the contents of the large black bag. The Blackbird he spoke of was the famous, but very old, KH-11 satellite that had come in handy on more than one occasion. All this meant that Niles was pulling in some assets that were meant for somewhere else. He looked at Everett who was checking the second bag. “Sergeant, you and the rest of the security team stay with the director. After the plane lands back here in Laredo, no one, and I do mean no one, gets near the aircraft until I return. Is that clear?”

  The sergeant was soon joined by another army sergeant and the two marines.

  “Sir, can we—”

  “No,” Jack said and then softened somewhat. “No, Sergeant. This is a job for a small regiment, or two or three men, and I’m afraid the FBI and the Mexican government have a chokehold on the small-regiment thing today. Stay here and protect this aircraft.” The sergeant nodded his head. “Your volunteering is duly noted,” Jack said while looking at the marines also, “all of you.”

  At that moment they heard the four engines of the old and venerable 707 start up. Everett closed the black bag and then gave Jack a thumbs-up.

  “Boss, thanks for this,” Jack said holding his hand out to the director.

  “Get her back, Colonel, we’ll hold off discussion of anything else until we get home to Nevada—if we have a home after this.” He smiled and shook Jack’s hand and then Mendenhall’s and Everett’s. “You better get below.”

  With those last words the army sergeant and the two marines tore away a section of the carpeting just outside of the cockpit and then opened a small trapdoor.

  “I sure hope the pilot has it in him,” Mendenhall said as he looked down into the blackness of the avionics compartment.

  “Don’t worry Lieutenant, the pilot and Ryan are flying buddies,” Everett said as he tossed the second black bag down to Collins far below in the belly of the plane.

  Mendenhall watched Everett slip down the small ladder and then looked at the director. “Is that crack about Ryan and this pilot supposed to make me feel better about all of this?”

  * * *

  Outside the aircraft the head of the Laredo FBI field office stepped from the hangar where the planning for the joint raid was being finalized. He saw the large 707 start to roll as one of his men handed him the phone. He was connected directly to his director in Washington, who in turn was relaying information to the president.

  “Yes, sir, their aircraft is preparing for takeoff. They filed a flight plan for San Antonio,” the special agent said into his secure cell phone. “No, sir, no one left the aircraft. The colonel and his men are still onboard, yes.”

  Suddenly the 707 started rolling and made a sharp turn in front of the hangar where the HRT unit and their Mexican counterpart were preparing for their raid across the border. The words of the FBI director and the president of the United States were drowned out by the piercing scream of the Boeing aircraft. With a smirking Niles Compton looking out of one of the passenger windows, the pilot applied his brakes when the 707 was directly in front of the agents and the hangar. He throttled all four of the large GE engines to near full power, making the wings shake and flutter. The special agent in charge was pushed back toward the open hangar door as a small hurricane of wind and noise buffeted everyone in the building. Men scrambled to close the hangar doors and the agents on the outside ducked behind the cover of the cars lining the front.

  As the agents sought protection from the man-made gale force winds pummeling them, they failed to see three men scramble from the nose wheel compartment of the large plane where they had just torn away the insulation from the avionics room to enter. They ducked and ran for the cover of an idle Blackhawk.

  The 707 pilot, a true friend of Jason Ryan, applied the last of his power to the four engines when one of the FBI agents braved a look over the hood of his Chevrolet. The wings were threatening to be ripped from the aircraft as they wagged up and down as if it were a giant bird. The brakes were overheating as the pilot saw three men scramble to a waiting car.

  Inside the passenger compartment Niles Compton and a grinning Pete Golding watched as Jack, Carl, and Will Mendenhall pulled quickly out of the secure area just as the pilot pulled back on the aircraft’s four throttles. He cracked his window and then waved at the agents as if in apology. Fifteen field men of the FBI’s Laredo office finally stood after the man-made windstorm had stopped.

  “Where did that bastard learn how to taxi an aircraft,” the lead agent asked as he placed the cell phone back to his ear. “Yes sir, sorry. No, their aircraft is taxiing and no one left the plane.”

  Niles turned away from the small window and looked at Pete.

  “Well, they’re on their way.”

  Pete smiled as he took in his boss.

  “Do you think I’ll be able to have access to Europa from the jail cell we’ll be sharing when the president finds out about this … again?”

  “What makes you think the president will stop at throwing us in jail, Pete? It’s more likely he’ll line us up against the wall and shoot us.”

  Pete nodded his head and smiled.

  “Now that’s the way to go out.”

  VAUXHALL, LONDON, ENGLAND

  OFFICE OF MI6

  The most successful counterintelligence operations in history are conducted out of a state-of-the-art building that, thanks to the James Bond films, is currently one of the largest tourist attractions in all of London. From the outside, American, European, and Asian visitors to London can take snapshots and wonder how such a marvelous building could house a brilliant intelligence service and not somehow be much darker because of its intent.

  Housed deep in the subbasement of the giant concrete and glass structure was a small and little-known office that housed several supercomputers that had but one function and one function only—to spy on the best friend that the United Kingdom had today—the United States of America. Certain protocols have been handed down from minister to minister over the years that have remained secret for over a century, long before America and Britain were allied together in a mutual defense mode
that was brought on through necessity since World War II. Although spying on each other has been a foregone conclusion since the beginning, no one in either government would ever say the words to confirm it—it just wasn’t Cricket.

  The code-breaker section of MI6, actually titled MI1, has a sub-branch that sits off in a far corner in the darkest recesses of the basement. This section had one specific reason for operations—spying on the cousins across the sea in their communications between law enforcement and intelligence services. It was here that three men were hustling about the room after several red-flag, coded communications from Langley, Virginia, the home of the Central Intelligence Agency, America’s version of MI6, had come in. Two key words and one name had been deciphered from five different communications from a field operation being conducted by the American Federal Bureau of Investigation and relayed through the CIA command center. One of the three men shook his head and slapped the keyboard on his computer.

  “We get a red flag on the two words and one name and there’s nothing in the computer on it,” the man said in exasperation. “And what’s this bloody icon attached to the flag? I’ve never seen this before.”

  Another man walked over with a computer printout and looked over the operator’s shoulder.

  “You dolt, that flag means this whole thing gets bumped upstairs to ministry level.” The man frowned and looked closer at the icon that was flashing next to the red flag beside the two words and one name in the American communiqué. “What’s this?” he said as he reached for a book that listed all the department numbers and their corresponding computer terminals. “This is bloody strange,” he said as he laid the large book on the desk, “it says it not only goes upstairs, but we are to copy Department 1106, that’s SIS.”

  “You mean it’s connected to not only internal security, but foreign as well—the Secret Intelligence Service?”

  The man behind the operator straightened when he saw another icon start flashing beside the first two.

  “This is far above our pay grade, mate. Look at this; it’s also to be forward to the Ministry of Defense, some office called Bluebell.”