by Peter Darley
Through the dim, half-light of the dawn, he noticed a blue Chevy Impala up ahead, parked on the side of the highway. Breakdown.
As he drew closer, he could see the car owner crouched beside the rear right wheel. The man stood and waved his hands. The hopeful glint in his eyes was visible, even through the dim light.
Drake grinned darkly and slowed down. Looking to his left, he noticed a mountainous edge where a flat remnant of land ended. The road had been built through a patch of desert, and the clear drop gave him a macabre idea.
Rapidly planning his strategy, he stepped out of the car and approached the man. He appeared to be approximately Drake’s own height, and around twenty-five. Perfect. “Hey, bud. What happened?”
The man beamed. “Oh, thank God. I’ve been stuck out here for two hours. Yours is the first car I’ve seen. My rear tire blew, and I discovered they sold me this thing without a jack in the trunk.”
Drake lowered his gaze. The tire was completely shredded. “Do you have a spare?”
“Yeah, just no jack.”
“I’ll see what I’ve got in the back.” He walked back to the Mercedes and cracked open the trunk. After peeling back the upholstery, he spotted the jack. With a sinister, opportunistic grin, he took out the jack and held it up for the young man to see. “Happy birthday.”
“Oh, man, you’ve just saved my life.”
Don’t count on it, asshole.
“By the way, I’m Luke.” The man held out his hand, but Drake didn’t take it.
“Fred.”
“Nice to meet you, Fred.”
“OK, let’s get this thing propped up, and then you can be on your way.”
Drake jacked up the car, removed the lug bolts, and changed the wheel with Luke’s spare. After twenty minutes, the last bolt was tightly secured. “There you go. You’re all set.”
The relief in Luke’s eyes oozed with gratitude. “Oh, man. Thank you so much.”
Drake stood and gave him a chilling smile. “Don’t mention it.” His hands shot up with dazzling speed and gripped Luke’s head. Rotating them counter-clockwise, he broke his neck in a flash. Luke’s body fell from his grip and slumped onto the road.
With cold calculation, Drake hurriedly formulated his plan. He had to move fast. Another car could appear at any moment. Ideally, Luke could pass for Drake’s remains if disfigured sufficiently by fire, although it was unlikely the authorities would fall for a trick like that. It was also possible they would identify Luke through his dental records since the teeth wouldn’t burn. That would, in turn, give them the information on what car Drake was driving. He had to stall them as long as possible.
Crouching down beside the corpse, he picked up the wrench and repeatedly bludgeoned Luke’s face, shattering his teeth. The rear molars were the most difficult to knock out. With every blow, Drake glanced around him, listening intently for engine noise. Nothing was coming.
He reached into Luke’s mouth, pulled the last of the loose teeth from his gums, and tipped the head into his hand. After collecting all of the teeth, he thrust them into Luke’s jacket pocket, which he noticed had a hood hanging from the rear. That’ll be useful. They were both wearing jeans, so there was no need to switch pants, although Luke was wearing a checkered shirt. Hurriedly, he removed his own jacket and t-shirt and set about switching clothes with his victim.
Finally, he dragged the body along the road and placed it in the Mercedes passenger’s seat. He then took the backpack with the $25,000 from the back seat, carried it to the Chevy, and secured it in the trunk.
He returned to the Mercedes and fired up the engine. The tracks will be examined. It needs to look like an accident. He reversed the car several hundred yards and gunned it forward, twisting the wheel, intentionally skidding across the rocky patch of land beside the road. He accelerated toward the edge and hit the brakes at the moment he was about to go over the edge. The tip of the hood protruded over the precipice. He put the car in park and pulled on the hand break, but left the engine running.
After stepping out of the car, he pulled Luke across into the driver’s seat, and secured him with the seat belt for authenticity.
Reaching into the inside pocket of Luke’s jacket, he took out a wallet. He counted two hundred and ten dollars and looked through the credit cards. Luke Smith. There was also a business card. Luke had been a computer repair technician. Just an ordinary guy.
And then he found a photograph in one of the side slots—a picture of Luke with an attractive young brunette. They looked so happy together.
The pain shot through Drake’s head again. He dropped the wallet and fell to the floor, grasping his skull. It wasn’t as bad as the last time, but sadness soared through him, paralyzing him where he knelt. Tears poured from him as he looked up at the dawn sky with a cry of anguish. It was something about the picture. All he could feel was that this man had done nothing to harm him—and he was real. He had a life, people who loved him, and Drake knew he’d just taken his life from them.
But why should that affect him? He’d killed many men. It was a vocation to him. However, the sadness was debilitating. DeSouza’s words rang out in his head:
The Interceptor is the voice inside you, just as you were the voice inside him.
Consumed with grief, he vomited onto the rocky ground. After a moment, his rage returned. “You son of a bitch! You aren’t gonna win. I’ll beat you, whatever you are.”
He picked up the wallet and photograph. Wiping his face, he reached inside the Mercedes, put it in neutral, and released the hand break. The car rolled forward slightly. When he moved around to the back, he realized he had nothing to brace against the accelerator. Luke’s lifeless foot would simply slip off.
Pushing it with all his might, he forced the front wheels over the edge. It continued for more than half the length of the car when the chassis became braced on the rock. Nevertheless, it was tilting precariously. Drake coughed as the exhaust fumes hit his lungs, but the engine had to be running in order to increase the likelihood of an explosion.
Using the leverage, he gripped the back of the car, gnashing his teeth with exertion. Just a little more. The weight of the car finally took over and tilted it farther. The rear wheels left the ground and the Mercedes drew itself up into a vertical position. It seemed to hesitate for a moment. And then, it was gone.
Drake moved over to the edge and watched as the car descended down the canyon. It struck the bottom and exploded on impact.
As he turned and made his way toward the Chevy, the sadness struck him again. Leave me alone. Get the fuck out of my head.
He wiped his eyes again, climbed in, and turned the key in the ignition. The car fired up, but he couldn’t bring himself to drive. Placing his forehead onto the steering wheel, he succumbed to tears.
Suddenly, reality hit him. He couldn’t afford to be there. He was already pushing his luck, having been out there for almost forty-five minutes. No cars had driven by, but it was only a matter of time.
He pressed his foot onto the accelerator, assuming complete focus again. The answer to the mystery of The Interceptor was just a few days ahead.
He pulled the hood of Luke’s jacket over his head almost fearfully, as though he was hiding from . . . himself. As he gunned the Chevy along the desert highway, one thought was fixed in his mind: I’m coming home.
Fourteen
Brenham
Andrew Wilmot paced his office in Langley. Never before had he experienced such excruciating anxiety. Garrett was on leave nursing her wounds, and Slamer was in pursuit of Drake. There was no guarantee he would track him down, much less defeat him in mortal combat.
And in ten minutes, he had an appointment with the ‘old man’. He’d been summoned to the office of Jack Brenham, the director of the CIA. Pre-empting the questions—why had he been spending so much time in a rarely-used facility? What had caused the gas explosion? Thirteen people dead? Garrett’s injury? None of it appeared favorable. Wilmot’s confidence
in his own fabricated history and imaginative, overly-rehearsed revisionism was not great.
He halted in mid-stride, startled by the entrance of an older man in his late fifties. His authoritative demeanor, immaculate black suit, white shirt, and blue tie, offered the definitive image of a leader. “Sir?”
“I thought I’d spare you the ordeal of the trek up to my office, Wilmot,” Director Brenham said. “Would you like to tell me what the hell has been happening? Because right now, we’ve got an incident on our hands.”
“I know, sir.”
Brenham came closer to him with a stern expression. “I was never in approval of you taking over SDT, Wilmot. You inherited your position from Wolfe by default. I was hoping that his treachery would have ended. Now, it seems it’s been replaced by your incompetence.”
“Sir, I could have been killed myself. Cynthia was injured. We had no way of knowing the gas pipes were corroded.”
“You’ve been disappearing for days at a time for weeks, leaving Kerwin and Rhodes in charge of your office. Now what have you been up to?”
“ISIS.”
Brenham frowned. “What about ISIS?”
“I intercepted a tip from a mercenary outfit in Syria eleven weeks ago. It seemed they were planning a strike against the US. I initiated an investigation into possible cells that may have been threats.”
Brenham threw him a harsh glare. “And you didn’t think to tell me about any of this? What were you thinking?”
“I couldn’t entirely trust the source, sir, and until I was absolutely certain, I wasn’t about to call upon further resources. I was acting in the best interests of the CIA.”
“It’s not your place to decide that.”
“Sir, I . . .”
Brenham made a dismissive move with his hand. “What did you find out, now that you’ve decided to share your intel?”
“Nothing. It was all a lot of hot air, in my opinion.”
“Well, you’ve wasted a hell of a lot of time on hot air, Wilmot, and thirteen people are dead.”
“I know.”
“It’s your mess. You clean it up, or I swear, I’ll propose that the president closes you down.”
Wilmot looked up at Brenham sharply, his heart pounding.
“SDT,” Brenham said sarcastically. “The Strategic Detection of Terrorism. It was set up under Treadwell’s encouragement. Wolfe turned out to be a traitor too, and I still agreed to let it run from here under my supervision. You want to know why?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Because I believed in it. It gave us a loophole for performing conventional investigations on select cases without having to call on the FBI. Despite its origins, I still believed it was useful. You have access to CIA equipment and facilities, but you’re under my jurisdiction. One more screw up, and I’ll have this department closed down for good. Are we clear?”
Wilmot gulped. “Yes, sir.”
“Good. Now do your goddamn job and contact the families of those dead security guys. It’s your responsibility.” Brenham looked at his watch. “I’ve got a breakfast meeting.”
Wilmot held his breath as Brenham exited the room. Only after the door was closed did he exhale with the most powerful sense of relief he’d ever known. Call me, Slamer. Please call me with something.
***
Kane Slamer entered the Coconino County Morgue in Flagstaff, Arizona at just past noon. His pursuit of Drake hadn’t taken him long to stumble upon the commotion on the roadside. The Highway Patrol and a clearance crew had dominated the scene of the crash at the bottom of the canyon. A crane had brought the burned-out Mercedes back to the top of the cliff by the time he’d arrived. Three digits on the license plate were visible, matching what he had written down. The cop he’d spoken to wasn’t forthcoming with any answers and had been more concerned with telling Slamer to stand back. However, it was clear, even from a distance, that there was a body in the driver’s seat. The morgue was now his only remaining option for finding answers.
A petite blonde receptionist looked up from her desk, her expression conveying a modicum of distress at the sight of him. Slamer knew his appearance was not an advantage in this situation. He was aware he couldn’t even smile at someone without looking like he intended to tear their throat out.
“Hi,” he said, attempting to sound as cordial as possible. “You just brought in someone I think I may know, and I was wondering if I could speak with the coroner.”
“Yes, sir. What’s the name of the deceased?”
“If it’s the guy I think it is, his name was Matthew Bush. He was a research scientist. Apparently, his Mercedes went over a cliff a few miles back along the highway.”
“I think I know the one you mean. Would you mind waiting for a moment? I’ll get the coroner for you.”
“Thanks.”
Slamer paced the reception area as he waited, already convinced it wasn’t Drake’s body in the car. He knew him too well, but he needed something concrete to tell Wilmot. If the real victim could be identified, they would have a lead on the car he was driving.
A tall, dark-haired, distinguished-looking man in his late forties appeared at the end of the corridor wearing a long white coat. “Yes, sir? How can I help?”
Slamer turned to him eagerly. “I’m looking for information on the guy they just brought in here from the Mercedes crash.”
“Are you a relative?”
“Colleague, but only if it’s the right guy. Is there anything you can tell me?”
“Not much. He was completely burned. There wasn’t a patch of him untouched by flame. Total immolation. No fingerprints. Not even any teeth. That’s the weirdest part.”
Slamer frowned. “No teeth?”
“That’s right. Most of the skeleton is still intact, but the teeth are gone. The jawbones are completely shattered. I’ve never seen a fire that could completely incinerate all of the teeth. There’s no way of positively identifying him.”
“That’s just terrible,” Slamer said, feigning a convincing ‘horrified’ act.
“If you think you know who he is, I could sure use your help with the paperwork. Otherwise, all I’ve got is a John Doe.”
“Sure. I’ll be with you in a moment. I need to make a call.” Slamer made his way out of the reception room into the parking area, and hastily took out his cell phone.
Wilmot was startled out of deep thought by the vibration of his unauthorized cell-phone in his inside pocket. He knew the call couldn’t be from anyone other than Slamer. With a combination of eagerness and trepidation, he opened the line. “What have you got?”
“Can you talk?”
“For the moment, yeah.”
“It’s not good.”
Wilmot closed his eyes in dismay. “What happened?”
“He switched cars with some poor schlub just outside of Flagstaff, and then rolled the Mercedes off a cliff with the other guy in it.”
“Do you have an ID on this other guy?”
“My thoughts exactly, but there isn’t enough left of him to fit in a cigar box.”
“Dental records?”
“Not a single tooth left. He must have smashed his face to pieces to get ‘em all out. Apparently his jaw was completely shattered and every inch of the rest of him was burned to a crisp. Not even a fingerprint survived.”
“Damn!”
“All we’ve got here is a John Doe, who’s gonna join a long line of missing persons.”
“What do you have planned for your next move?”
“We don’t know who this other guy was, so we have no idea what the hell he’s driving. There’s only one thing I can do.”
“What’s that?”
“Follow the blood trail.”
“Keep me posted.” Wilmot’s hand came up to his forehead despairingly. His brow damp, he felt the blood draining from his face as he sat back in his chair infused with dread.
Fifteen
Invisible Protector
On the second n
ight following his acquisition of the Chevy, Drake checked into a run-down motel in Oklahoma. A rural backwater on the approach to Arkoma, it provided him with another remote location to sleep. The night before, he’d slept in a similar motel on the New Mexico/Oklahoma border.
After showering, he took one hundred dollars from the money in his backpack and locked the remainder in the closet. He’d noticed a biker’s tavern a mile along the dirt road from the motel, and decided a few drinks would be in order.
With the hood over his head, he sat in the corner of the biker’s bar, appropriately called Choppers. It had turned 9:00 p.m. and it was growing darker outside by the minute. He stared at the empty glass before him. It had been his second beer but they’d had little effect on him.
A rockabilly band played at the far side of the room. The wooden, dusty floor and the upkeep of the place left much to be desired. Biker regalia adorned the walls, covering much of the eroded paintwork, but the patrons seemed unconcerned, even comfortable. They were a fraternity of leather-clad, bearded, long-haired and balding bikers, whose only agenda was to get hammered, as shown by their intoxicated mirth.
Drake caught sight of an attractive brunette dancing with one of the male patrons. Garrett had been his last screw—an experience he’d found far from satisfying. He gazed with predatory lust at the woman on the dance floor, estimating she was perhaps twenty-five and in particularly good shape. Scantily-dressed in hot pants that rode up her buttocks, and a low-cut blouse, her ample cleavage was totally exposed. Red lipstick and heavy makeup made it clear she was out to seduce. Her companion appeared to be somewhat conservative and out of place in the bar.
But what was it about her that had captured his attention so profoundly? The style and color of her hair seemed familiar somehow. He just couldn’t place it.
He stood, approached the bartender again, and pointed to the beer dispenser.
“You want another?”
Drake nodded but didn’t speak. He simply kept his head bowed, his eyes shadowed over by the hood. The bartender handed him the beer, and Drake placed the cash on the bar.