A Deadly Distance

by L. T. Ryan

  I got up and left my office and walked back to the infirmary. Frank glanced at me and said nothing. He concentrated on the guy's broken arm. I took a few more steps and stopped inside the doorway and leaned against the frame.

  "Out," the doctor said.

  I could tell by his tone that he was serious. We tried hard to avoid pissing Doc off, because you never knew when you were going to need him to treat you. I shrugged and backed up a few feet. Turned around and leaned back against the wall a couple yards from the door. I lifted the coffee to my face and inhaled. Steam singed the inside of my nose for a second. I took a sip. It was strong. Perhaps a bit too strong, if there was such a thing. I decided it didn't matter. The brew helped clear the cobwebs from my head, and that was always welcome.

  Behind me, I heard the sound of bone grating against bone. The doctor was setting the fracture. The man screamed as his ulna and then radius were placed in their natural positions. I took his cries of pain as a sign that the doctor hadn't bothered to numb the guy up. I was OK with that, and apparently Frank was too. Why waste our supplies on a criminal?

  With the doctor almost finished, I started to think about what questions to ask the man. We didn't know much about him, except that he showed up at a place that our intel indicated would be a spot where something would happen. But we had no idea who this guy was. What was he doing near the bus stop? Was he a part of the group we were tracking, or doing business with them? Why did he run from us? Why did he try to kill me?

  Both Frank and I had a feeling we were closing in on something big. Every piece of evidence we had gathered so far pointed to this being a terrorist cell. The only good thing about that was that we didn't have to turn it over to the FBI or DEA. These guys had been running drugs and guns and smuggling people in and out of the States for months. If it were one of those activities, we'd be out of the loop. But it wasn't one activity. It was the full gamut.

  It also appeared that they had funding from some big businesses in hostile places, as well as possible connections with powerful people in the U.S. Homeland tried to take over on account of this. Frank managed to push them back.

  The men themselves were a mix of U.S. citizens, Colombians, and guys from the Middle East. That was the only thing that clouded our initial assumption. Why were so many different groups working together? I hoped that this guy, who looked like he might be Colombian, could tie some of those loose ends together for us. Assuming he talked, that is.

  "OK, Mr. Noble," the doctor said from the other side of the wall. "He's all yours."

  I drank the last of my coffee and pushed off the infirmary wall and met Frank and the man at the entrance. The doctor had set the bone and placed an air cast over the man's forearm. The guy sat on the edge of the gurney, shoulders slumped, head hanging, and eyes focused on the floor.

  "Take him to room one," I said to Frank. Then I turned to the doctor. "Can he hold up?"

  The doctor shrugged. "Maybe. I'll stick around. I've got a few things that can help keep him up and awake through whatever you do to him."

  "You won't want to watch if it gets to that."

  "With what you guys pay me, I can watch anything."

  "Go wait in your office. We'll get you if we need you."

  The doctor held up his hands. He then crossed the room and went into his office, which was on the wall opposite of mine. He closed his door and took a seat behind his computer. I glanced in as I passed and saw the familiar green game board of computer solitaire.

  Frank had placed the guy in the interrogation room and now stood on the outside, watching the man through the smoky mirrored glass.

  "What do you think?" I said as I stopped next to him, a few feet separating us.

  "No doubt he's got information. And if our intel was right, he was at that bus stop for a reason."

  I nodded and said nothing, waiting for Frank to continue.

  "Something was about to go down," Frank said.

  I nodded again, remaining quiet.

  "Question is what, Jack? And is he one of them? Or was he there to meet them?"

  "Great questions, Frank," I said. "Only one way to find out."

  He nodded and smiled. "You ready?"

  "Not quite." I took two steps to the right and adjusted the thermostat, turning it down to fifty degrees. "Let's freeze him out for a bit."

  Half an hour passed while we downed two cups of coffee each. Neither of us said much. After two years of working together, there was no need for idle banter between us. Both of us knew what needed to be done. We each had our own tactics, and they played well off one another.

  I got up and went to check on the man. He looked considerably uncomfortable. "Let's go, Frank."

  Frank entered the room ahead of me. He sat at the far end of a rectangular wooden table. I sat in the middle, opposite our prisoner. The man looked between us. His lips quivered and his teeth chattered. He sniffled and shivered.

  "Can we get you anything?" Frank asked.

  "A coat," the man replied.

  "We can do that," Frank said. "Can't we, Jack?"

  I nodded. "Sure, but first you need to answer a few questions for us."

  The man stared at a spot on the table and said nothing.

  "What's your name?" I said.

  The man said nothing.

  "Your name?" I said again.

  "Pablo," he said without looking up.

  "What were you doing at that bus stop?" I said.

  The man slowly turned his head. His teeth stopped chattering as he clenched his jaw. Muscles rippled at the bottom corners of his face. He licked his lips and calmly said, "I want my lawyer. I'm not saying anything until my lawyer is here."

  Frank laughed. "I'm sorry. Do you think you have rights down here? Jack, did you read this guy his rights?"

  I shook my head and said nothing.

  Frank stood and positioned himself next to me, across the table from the guy. "OK, asshole, here are your rights. You have the right to sit in that chair. You have the right to answer every friggin' question we ask you. You don't have the right to remain silent. Your efforts to remain silent are going to be met with a pain so intense you'll wish we had amputated your arm instead of breaking it. You don't get a lawyer or a chaplain or your mommy. That doctor over there, he's on our side. He can give you medication to keep you awake through any amount of pain we put you through. You won't pass out, asshole. You'll cry until you have no more tears. You'll puke until all your stomach is barren and all you can do is dry heave. So answer my partner's question or your pain is going to start in about thirty seconds."

  The man clenched the hand of his good arm into a fist. His eyes watered. I assumed the reality of the situation hit him at that moment. We weren't the cops and there was nothing legal about us. At least not in any sense that he, or most people, understood. Frank and I were authorized to do our jobs, no matter what it took. We could come and go and shoot to kill without asking questions, and without having questions asked of us.

  Frank placed both hands on the table and leaned over until he was no more than a foot from the guy's face. "So what's it going to be?"

  The man pulled his head back a few inches. His lips thinned and his cheeks puffed out. Frank jerked to the side in time to avoid most of the spittle that flew out of the guy's mouth.

  Frank reached out and grabbed the man's right wrist and yanked up, then down. The man screamed as the jagged edges of his broken bones grated against one another.

  Frank pulled out a knife. "The bones are already broken. Shouldn't be tough to cut through. Then there's a mess of veins and nerves and meat and flesh. You want to see what it's like to hold your own severed arm?"

  "Enough," the man said through clenched teeth. "I'll talk. I'll talk."

  The left side of Frank's mouth turned upward in a smile. He broke the guy down fast. While we'd seen some turn faster, we expected this guy to last a few rounds before caving in.

  Frank let go and the man pulled his broken arm to his
chest and cradled it with his left arm. He let out a couple sobs, and then wiped his eyes dry. Tears stained his cheeks and settled into his thin facial hair.

  "What do you want to know?" he said.

  "I want to know what you were doing at the bus stop," I said.

  He licked his lips and leaned back in the chair and let out a loud exhale. "Got a smoke?"

  I looked at Frank and nodded. Frank reached into his pocket and pulled out a soft pack. He tapped the open end against his palm and retrieved three cigarettes. He lit two and handed one to the man, then rolled the third across the table to me. I tucked it behind my ear, choosing to save it for later.

  "The bus stop is where the pickup was going to be made," the guy said.

  "What pickup?" I said.

  He shifted his eyes from the table to me. "The kid."

  I felt Frank's eyes settle on me, but I didn't look back at him. "What kid?"

  The man's facial expression changed. The pain and anger lifted, and a bemused look crossed his face. "What did you pick me up for, man?"

  "We've been tracking you guys for months. We've got you for drugs, guns, and smuggling terrorists in and out of the country."

  The guy his head back and laughed. The spasmodic motion of his body jolted his arm a few inches more than was comfortable and he scrunched his face in pain. After a few seconds he steadied himself and said, "OK, you're onto something with the guns and drugs. They pay well. But the terrorists in and out, you're way off."

  "What then?" Frank said. "And what about the kids?"

  "Is that all you got? You think these people entered and exited the country alone?" The smile returned to Pablo's face.

  "Stop screwing with us," Frank said. "What are you talking about the-"

  "Frank," I said. "He's talking about us being way off. This isn't a terrorist cell."

  Pablo's eyebrows arched up into his forehead and his smile widened. He looked between Frank and me and nodded vigorously.

  I continued, "They're child smugglers. He was at the bus stop today because he was going to kidnap a child."

  "You son of a bitch." Frank charged the man and punched him three times in the head, rendering him unconscious.

  By the time I got across the table, Frank had backed up. He looked down at the bloodied face of Pablo and shook his hand, which was equally covered in blood. I couldn't tell if it was all Pablo's, or if Frank had split a knuckle or two.

  "Well, that was tactful," I said.

  "I got kids, Jack."

  "I know."

  "Christ," Frank said as he stepped around Pablo and made his way toward the door. "What now?"

  I followed Frank out into the lobby. The door slammed behind us, echoing through the room. The doctor looked up and saw us and opened his door.

  "Need me to do anything?" he asked.

  "Smelling salts," I said. "And check his arm. It might need to be set again."

  The doctor reached for his bag. "That's why I went with the air cast," he said with a smile.

  Frank stood in the middle of the room with his hands on his hips and his head leaned back.

  "You need to get it together," I said. "I'll have you pulled from this."

  "I'm good. I'm good."

  "OK," I said. "We need to get some more information out of him. Now, I don't think he's going to give up anyone else, at least, not yet. But maybe we can get the location of where they are keeping these kids."

  "You sure about this? What if he's jerking us around?" Frank said.

  "That's why we need the location. We can verify it in person, then come back and hammer on him some more, and then we'll lead a raid on the place."

  Frank nodded as the doctor emerged from the interrogation room.

  "He's ready for you guys again," the doctor said.

  I grabbed Frank by his shoulders. "Let me do the talking." Then I pushed him toward the room. I wanted Frank to enter first, figuring it would cause the man to feel a little more unsettled.

  Pablo was conscious when we entered, but he looked confused.

  "Where are you keeping them?" I said.

  "Who?" Pablo said.

  "The kids."

  "In a house."

  "Where?"

  "Northern Virginia. Suburbs."

  "Which one?"

  "I don't know the name of the neighborhood. Spring Street. Ninth house on the right."

  "Going which way?"

  "You can only enter from the north."

  I looked at Frank. He nodded.

  "Good enough." I stepped to the door and pulled it open. Turned back and saw Frank stop in front of Pablo and lean over and drive his fist into the side of the man's face again.

  "Was that necessary?" I said.

  Frank looked at me, then at Pablo, then back at me. "Yes."

  CHAPTER 3

  Spring Street was full of cookie cutter colonials that sat side by side, a few feet of lawn separating them. The exteriors alternated between white siding with red or blue trim, and brick facades. The target house's lawn was cut close, now a mixture of green and winter brown. Not quite alive, but not totally dead. The entryway was inviting. Christmas lights wrapped the porch rails and lined the edge of the roof. It looked like a normal house and certainly not one that held the deep and dark secrets Pablo inferred.

  I started to wonder whether or not Pablo had purposefully led us in the wrong direction. Maybe he had something worked out with the group that if he didn't return by a certain time, they'd take off and go underground or into some state of emergency. In which case, we'd be screwed. And by sending me and Frank out to the suburbs, they'd have even more time to get the hell away, damn the consequences to Pablo.

  We sat in a parked car three houses away. The engine had been off for close to three hours and the air inside the car was almost as cold as the air outside. Steam rose with each breath we took.

  We positioned the car so the main road was behind us. If anyone entered or left the house, we'd see them. We could also monitor who turned into the neighborhood by looking in the rear and side mirrors.

  "Jack?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Think we're wasting our time?" Frank turned his head slightly and looked at me out of the corner of his right eye.

  I shrugged. "Was beginning to wonder that myself."

  Frank took a deep breath and exhaled loudly and said nothing.

  A flash caught my attention. I looked from the house to my side mirror. A van approached from behind. I nodded and said, "Look."

  Frank reached for the steering wheel. The muscles in his forearms flexed as his hands gripped the leather cover that wrapped around the wheel like a boa constrictor.

  "Relax," I said. "Even if it's them, we aren't doing anything yet."

  Frank's behavior, while understandable, was not typical. I referred to the guy as Ice Man at times because there was no one cooler under pressure. Stress rolled off him like water off a wax statue. He never made a mistake. Not while in the military, and not since I'd worked with him in the SIS. I believed he was incapable of screwing up. But his behavior started to worry me, and worry wasn't a feeling that men in our position could afford.

  The van passed us at a steady pace. Stenciled on the side was Freddy's Cleaning Service and there was a phone number and the phrase We've Got A Lust For Dust written across the rear doors. It didn't slow down as it neared the house. Passed right by, and then continued to the end of the street where it pulled into a driveway.

  "Watch the van," Frank said. "I'll keep an eye on the house."

  "Got it."

  A heavyset man got out of the van and walked toward the front door of the house. His shoulders were hunched over, like a man who'd busted his ass all day long to afford the four bedroom house that kept his family sheltered. I kept my eyes trained on the front door and the windows of the place after he went inside. A minute passed, then two. No action. I glanced to the side and checked the mirror. Another car had turned onto the street and was approaching at a speed slow
er than the van had traveled.

  "Frank?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Look behind us."

  The car slowed as it passed. It was red with four doors and had tinted windows. Our car had the same. We couldn't see him any better than he could see us if he had attempted to look. The driver slowed to a crawl as he passed the house. Frank tapped on the dashboard with his right hand and pointed.

  "I see him, Frank. Give it a minute." Despite the calming tone of my voice, I felt as anxious as he acted.

  The vehicle continued past the house, but not for long. It came to a stop half a block away and parked next to the curb. The driver's door swung open, but no one got out.

  "Think they're watching to see what we do?" Frank said.

  "I think you're paranoid," I said.

  He waved me off. "I want to get one good look at the guy. If he fits the bill, I'm taking him down."

  "We don't know what the bill is. You bring this guy in and one of two things happens. A, someone tries to sue the government because they think they were illegally detained. Or B, you blow the operation."

  "Operation? We don't have an operation, Jack."

  "Not yet." I felt like yelling at him, asking, what the hell is wrong with you? Instead, I bit my tongue and kept calm, at least on the outside. I needed to find my inner calm as well, because both of us acting like jack asses wasn't going to do anyone any good, least of all kids who might need to be rescued.

  We watched the car for ten minutes. There was no movement. The door remained open. The brake lights lit up. A slight halo circled the red dots due to a film of condensation on our windshield. Maybe whoever was in the car watched us. Maybe they had called another group of guys and were waiting for them to arrive. Or maybe it was some guy on the phone with his mistress, wanting to finish their illicit conversation before heading inside to kiss his unaware wife.

  "Look," Frank said. "He's getting out."

  I leaned forward and watched as the man stepped out of the vehicle. There was nothing special about his clothing, which consisted of jeans and a sweatshirt. It looked like he wore hiking boots. He wore a red cap on his head. He looked South American.