She glanced at his call log and said, “Well, what do you know. Matches the time of Grey’s call.”
Coughlin’s nostrils flared. “That doesn’t prove anything.”
“How do you explain this?” Armstrong asked and turned her monitor so he could see the medusa files.
Coughlin’s eye twitched. He stood there several seconds and then said, “All that proves is that I laid in an operation to force Duval out of the embassy. So what? He leaked classified information for cryin’ out loud. You should be thanking me. If it wasn’t for Gunn, Duval would be at a black site right now, spilling his guts.”
“If it wasn’t for Gunn, Duval would be dead, and we’d be chasing rumors,” Armstrong countered.
“He’s guilty under the Espionage Act,” Coughlin said. “Gunn helped him escape!”
“Yes, he is guilty,” Armstrong agreed. “And he’ll stand trial. So will you.”
A sneer turned up Coughlin’s mouth. “For what? Tricking Duval into leaving the embassy isn’t a crime. Hell, we should have done that years ago.”
“You laid in an operation without approval and erased classified information from a restricted database,” Armstrong said. “That’s a federal crime.”
“We bury black ops all the time,” Coughlin said.
“I have people going through your personal files right now,” Armstrong informed him. “Are they going to find a copy of the missing CyberLance program?”
Coughlin didn’t know what to say, so he stood there, a statue staring silently at his accusers. He opened his mouth once but shut it.
Armstrong said, “What about Gwendolyn Witwicky? Did you run her off the road or did you hire someone to do it for you?”
Coughlin was going to jail and he knew it. He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Collateral damage.”
Up until that point, Ezra had sat on the sofa with his fists clenched. Now, he leapt up and swung a wild haymaker. Coughlin was caught by surprise. His head snapped back and he went down in a heap. Ezra followed him to the floor, pummeling Coughlin with tightly balled fists.
Duc stepped forward, grabbed Ezra by the collar and lifted him off with no more effort than a man lifting a spare tire from a trunk.
Coughlin cranked himself up on one elbow. His lips were cut and bleeding. He ran a hand under his busted nose, leaving a bright red streak on the cuff of his jacket. His eyes bored into Armstrong like poison darts, but he had nothing more to say. His scheme had unraveled and it was only a matter of time before the investigators fitted all the pieces together.
“Duc,” Armstrong said. “Escort Mr. Coughlin to a holding site until we can arrange for his debriefing.”
“With pleasure.”
When they had left, Armstrong turned to Cook. “I’ll see that Ms. Witwicky gets the best treatment available.”
He ducked his head. “Thank you, ma’am.”
“Before you go,” Armstrong said. “Are you absolutely certain the name Groot doesn’t mean anything to you?”
Ezra swallowed hard and said, “No ma’am.”
Armstrong leaned back in her seat. She was thinking of the banner hanging on the wall on B3. She had noticed it her first day on the job as she was touring the building, giving pep talks to the troops. She had thought it funny at the time, even if it was against protocol, and chose to ignore it. Now she looked hard at Cook and nodded. “Go home and get some sleep, Mr. Cook.”
Chapter Eighty-One
Duval’s nerve endings were on high alert. Sitting there and listening to the gunfight overhead made him feel small and helpless. He was sweating despite the cold. Large beads of perspiration ran down his naked skin and puddled on the floor at his feet. He blinked several times in an effort to clear his vision. Everything was blurry, like he had been swimming too long in a heavily chlorinated pool. A fuzzy halo surrounded the lightbulb. Duval wondered what kind of long term damage the bleach had done. Was he disfigured for life? His face felt like a puffy mass of bruises and chemical burns and his stomach was raw.
As soon as Grey left him alone, Duval had gone to work on the handcuffs. After securing the microdot, Noble had glued a handcuff key along with a razor blade to the small of Duval’s back using medical adhesive and silly putty. When he finished, it had looked like an old scar. Duval didn’t think such a simple trick would work, but with a dash of blood on it, the scar looked real enough. Now, Duval peeled back the edge with trembling fingers. It was a slow, tedious process, made harder by the fact that his hands were shaking so badly. His fingers jumped around like nervous insects looking for a place to land.
While he worked, the thunder clap of pistols had faded away and the sound of the engines cut out. Duval kept expecting Sam to come through the door any second, but the seconds stretched into minutes and minutes dragged by with agonizing slowness. Who had won the fight? If it was Sam and Noble, how come they didn’t come rescue him? If it was Grey, why wasn’t he here? A thousand bleak scenarios crowded Duval’s mind.
Focus on the handcuffs, Duval told himself.
He slowly pulled away the thin layer of putty and dried blood. The medical glue ripped out the small hairs on his back. Duval winced, more from expectation than any real pain, like saying ouch when someone snaps you with a rubber band. It doesn’t really hurt, but you’re conditioned to think it will. Thanks to Grey, Duval’s understanding of pain had been forever altered and the small sting of pulled hairs no longer counted for much.
Duval gripped the wad of putty in his right hand and gently probed with his thumb, searching for the handcuff key and fearful of the razor blade. Doing all this behind his back, using only his sense of touch, took time. When he finally managed to separate the key, he dropped the rest of the wad and set about trying to slot the key in the cuff.
Do not drop it, thought Duval.
The head of the key kept slipping off the metal plate with a tiny shriek. Duval was moaning quietly to himself and rocking back and forth. The strain of waiting to see who came through the door first had utterly exhausted him. He growled in frustration and tried again. He felt the key find its home and a surge of victory swelled his chest. A nervous smile flickered across his face. He gave the key a twist and the bracelet popped open.
Duval hooted in triumph.
In his mind, he was already sprinting, stark naked, across the deck of the ship, diving into the water and swimming to freedom. He stood up so fast he turned the chair over. It hit the ground with a flat smack. Duval winced at the sound, but he was too shot full of adrenaline to worry about the noise.
He quickly removed the other cuff, let it clatter on the floor, and looked about for something to use as a weapon. His eyes settled on a big, heavy wrench. He hefted it. It had a nice weight. Duval gave an experimental swing. He felt silly standing there naked with his pudgy belly and his pasty skin, swinging a wrench, but he also felt primal, like a cave man with a club. He thought of Grey dousing him with bleach, thought about the humiliation of being stripped and handcuffed to a chair, thought about the years imprisoned in the embassy, living like a fugitive, and Duval got angry. His swollen red face worked into a hard frown. He took another swing and this time the wrench whistled through the air with deadly intent.
Chapter Eighty-Two
Noble checked the action on Preston’s weapon. Blood from his lacerated palms smeared the pistol grip and the slide. The jacket had offered some protection, but not much. A few of the cuts would need stitches, but that would have to wait. Noble’s body felt like a high tension wire with too much juice running through the lines.
Preston’s Sig had one round in the chamber and one in the magazine. Noble patted the dead man’s pockets, leaving bloody hand prints. All he found was a cellphone, car keys, a wallet, and a bottle of pain killers. Preston had been down to his last mag, but two bullets was one more than enough to deal with Grey.
The control panel was a simple affair. Noble throttled the engines back and flipped the switch to off. The motors died with a cough
and the sudden silence was deafening. The barge slowed and then drifted, bobbing on the current in the middle of the river while waves lapped gently against the hull.
A Jim Morrison lyric popped into Noble’s head. He whispered, “No one here gets out alive.”
Clutching the weapon in bloody palms, Noble went to the ladder that led to the galley, crouched and scanned both directions. When no one shot at him, he sat down, swung his legs over the side and dropped to the deck. He landed with a bang. The impact sent lances of pain through aging knees. All the hard miles he had put on his body were finally catching up with him, but none of that seemed to matter anymore.
An open hatch let onto the stern and cold air blew in. Noble checked his corners, cleared the bow of the ship, then hauled the hatch shut and locked it. If Grey was inside, then he was somewhere below decks and Noble would find him sooner or later. If he was outside, he could stay out there and freeze while Noble cleared the hold.
Another ladder led down to the belly of the ship. Pipes and machinery created a maze of twisting passages. It was twenty degrees warmer down here and reeked of burning oil. Sweat gathered on Noble’s forehead. He wiped his hands on his trousers and adjusted his grip on the weapon.
There was a small scuffing noise and the rattle of chains from the far side of the hold. Noble trained his weapon on the sound, held his breath, and waited. The only illumination came from red emergency bulbs in wire cages. Noble stepped over a pipe that stretched across the path and circled the compartment. He caught movement from the corner of his eye and threw himself behind a bank of pressure dials just in time.
Bullets whined off the metal and bounced around inside the hold, rebounding off the hull. It was like being stuck inside a deadly pinball machine. The enclosed space magnified the sound of the shots and left Noble’s ears ringing.
He leaned out for a peek, caught sight of Grey darting across the passage, and gave chase. Noble ducked under a low pipe, rounded a corner, and took an elbow to the face. His nose broke with a wet crunch and his head snapped back. Pain sent him reeling. Warm blood spilled over his chin and the coppery taste filled his mouth. Grey had lured him into an ambush, waited for him to round the corner, and then nailed him.
Before Noble could recover, Grey grabbed a fistful of hair and slammed Noble’s head against the bulkhead. The gun slipped from limp fingers and lights danced in his vision. He felt the boat tip and the deck came up to meet him. He landed on his left side with blood welling up around a nasty gash in his forehead.
There was a cold heartless laugh from overhead. The sound came to Noble’s ears like something out of a distant nightmare. He gave his head a shake, blinked to clear his vision, and the image of Grey swam into view. Noble brought his hand up to shoot and his fingers closed on empty air before he realized he was no longer holding the gun.
“It’s over, Noble. You lost.” Grey gave him a kick to the ribs that curled Noble up. “I killed your girlfriend and now I’m going to kill you. When I’m done, I’m going to kill the reporter too.”
Grey reared back, a football player lining up for a field goal. Noble balled up and took the blow on his forearms. The bones creaked, threatening to break. It was like getting hit by a sledge hammer.
“I’m going to take my time and enjoy this.” Grey delivered another devastating kick.
Noble barked in pain, rolled onto his other side to avoid having his arms broken and he spotted the fallen pistol. His eyes opened wide. He lunged for it.
“Oh, no you don’t!” Grey stepped past him and shot a toe at the handgun, sending the weapon skittering across the floor to disappear behind a set of pipes. He followed up with three more kicks to Noble’s ribs.
Noble drew in a tortured breath. Pain and fatigue were taking their toll. A tight knot formed in his throat at the realization that he would die here in the engine compartment. He thought of Sam: saw her eyes as she fell and heard the splash when her body hit the water. It was like someone hit the mute button on the pain and a deadly rage filled him.
Noble lunged up, grabbed Grey around the waist and wrestled him to the ground. Grey went down hard. His skull bounced off the metal floor with a solid thud. Noble straddled him and slammed a fist into Grey’s mouth. His knuckles mashed Grey’s lips and knocked a tooth out. Noble continued to pound until he felt the small bone in his left pinkie finger snap. A shot of exquisite pain raced up his arm and into his brain. He switched to elbows, bashing the boney point of his forearm into Grey’s cheekbones with devastating impacts punctuated by flat, hard smacks that echoed around the engine room.
Grey cried out in pain, threw one arm over his face in an effort to protect himself, reached in his waistband and drew his pistol. The slide was locked back on an empty chamber, but Grey swung it like a paperweight. The steel frame connected with the side of Noble’s head and fireworks popped inside his skull.
Grey hit him twice more and Noble pitched over on his side. It felt like his head would split open. He clung desperately to consciousness, knowing if he blacked out, it would be the end. He would never wake up. It wasn’t the thought of dying that scared him, but the thought of failing Sam.
Grey staggered to his feet and reached behind the pipes for Noble’s fallen pistol. Noble tried to stand. He needed to stop Grey from getting the loaded gun, but a wave of dizziness hit and he went back down, clutching a steam release valve for support.
Grey worked his arm behind the pipes, pulled the gun out, checked the chamber, then raised the pistol. Noble stared down the yawning barrel and watched in slow motion as Grey’s finger inched the trigger back.
Sacha Duval lurched around the corner, naked and wielding a large pipe wrench. He stepped up behind Grey and swung. The wrench connected with a meaty thud. Grey staggered forward, but managed to keep his feet.
Duval stood there, too stunned to follow through. His eyes were big as saucers and his mouth hung open. If he’d been smart, he would have kept swinging until Grey went down, but Duval had never been in a fight before.
Grey, one hand cupping the back of his bleeding skull, turned, saw Duval and brought the pistol up. “You son of a—”
Noble tried to pull himself up and realized he was holding a pressure release valve handle. His eyes traced the pipe to the gauge, where he saw a needle edging toward the redline, and then up to the valve. He tightened his grip on the lever and yanked.
A geyser of steam burst from the pipe with a loud whistle. The jet hit Grey in the face. He shrieked, dropped the gun, and sat down hard. Ear-splitting screams reverberated around the engine room.
Duval shuffled back a step, throwing up his hands and turning his face away. He was far enough from the steam that he didn’t get burned, but it had been a close call. He put his back to the wall and slid down onto his rear end, shaking with relief.
Noble waited for the head of steam to die off before struggling to his feet.
“I’m blind!” Grey shrieked. “I’m blind!”
Noble reached for the gun.
Grey was writhing on the floor in agony. The steam had liquefied his eyeballs like overcooked eggs and melted the skin of his face. He looked like something from a zombie film. Noble leveled the pistol at that unseeing face and his fingertip turned white on the trigger.
Before Noble could fire the shot that would kill Grey, his thoughts went to Sam. She wouldn’t execute a blind man in cold blood. But she wasn’t here. She was dead because of Grey. Noble wanted to pull the trigger to satisfy his own need for revenge, but more than that, he wanted to honor Sam’s memory. Doubt, loss, and confusion flooded his heart. The gun started to shake. Tears gathered in his eyes and ran down his cheeks. He let go of the trigger, turned the gun around, and hit Grey over the head.
The high-pitched shrieks were cut short and Grey slumped to the floor.
Duval let out a shaky breath and said, “I thought I was going to die.”
Noble didn’t trust himself to speak. Part of him wanted to put the last bullet through Duval
. He stood there, blood dripping from his lacerated palms, holding back a sob of despair.
When Noble didn’t say anything, Duval looked up and a shadow of fear passed over his face. “Where’s Sam?”
Noble shook his head.
Chapter Eighty-Three
Two weeks later, Jaqueline Armstrong boarded the Yeoman across from Demens Landing in downtown Saint Pete. Duc waited in the park under the shade of a large oak tree. The mercury in Florida hovered close to sixty-five degrees and locals were bundled up in parkas like the sky was falling. Armstrong stopped at the steps and knocked on the open door.
“Noble,” she called. “It’s me.”
When she didn’t get an answer, Jaqueline bent down and stuck her head inside. Noble sat at the galley table, his back against the bulkhead and a beer in one bandaged hand. His eyes were puffy red slits and he was in bad need of a shave. He lifted the bottle to his lips without acknowledging her presence.
Jaqueline stepped down into the galley. The stale reek of old booze and body odor assaulted her nostrils. She tried not to let it show on her face. Her heart was breaking for him. She had chosen Noble because of his feelings for Gunn. Now Sam was at the bottom of a watery grave and Noble hadn’t emerged from his boat in two weeks. Jaqueline had considered counseling but Noble wouldn’t go. He wasn’t the type. It would be like asking a tiger to turn vegetarian.
“I went to see your mother,” Armstrong said. “I hope you don’t mind. She’s quite a spitfire. She asked about you. I told her you were okay, but you should pay her a visit soon. She deserves to hear from you.”
He drank some more beer and made no indication that he had even heard the words coming out of her mouth.
Armstrong said, “You can’t blame yourself, Jake.”
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