by James Hunt
But Kasaika wasn’t listening, and Dylan saw the man’s hand keeping pressure on a bloody wound near his lower left abdomen. Kasaika gently peeled his palm off, and the sunlight caused the blood to shimmer across his stomach and fingers. “The mercenaries will give us one of their boats. My men will transport the materials on board.” Kasaika forced himself to descend from the wheelhouse, his face wincing with each step.
Dylan cut the engines and was about to join him when he remembered the radar gear. They’re just going to sink it. Dylan quickly took apart the radar-jamming devices the ship had been fitted with, tucked them in the bag he used to keep his clothes, then made his way down to the rest of the terrorists.
The sight of so much death triggered mixed emotions. He found himself glad that so many of the terrorists had been killed and that Kasaika was injured, but the price of his survival had cost the lives of soldiers and civilians. It was a debt charged to his life that he knew he wouldn’t ever be able to repay, and he wasn’t sure how many more lives he could bear.
The cargo was transferred over to the mercenaries’ boat as quickly as it had been loaded into the first ship, and they sped off toward the rendezvous point down the coast, hoping that the mercenaries’ colleagues were able to keep the sailors off the eastern seaboard busy enough for them to make the journey.
The small fleet of four boats made its way down the winding coast, putting some distance between itself and the shore but still keeping close enough in case any of them had to make an impromptu docking.
It was less than an hour before they made it to their destination, and judging by how quickly they arrived, it was a completely different location from the one that Dylan had been told. The boats came to an idle and coasted into the narrow mouth of a small river, barely wide enough for two boats to travel at the same time.
A cluster of men met them on a small dock as the mercenaries tied off and the terrorists unloaded their stolen cargo. Dylan noticed that the crates they lugged off from their heist were being handled more delicately than the others he’d seen. Everything he’d seen them loot so far had been tossed around with the recklessness of a bagger at the grocery store handling canned goods. But these were different.
Kasaika had one of his men zip-tie Dylan while the ship was unloaded and his gunshot wound was attended to. Once everything was moved, the mercenaries paid, and Kasaika patched up, all that was left to deal with was Dylan. He watched Kasaika and his men whisper to each other, gesturing over to him then shouting at one another. Finally, with Kasaika raising his voice, the discussion ended, and one of the terrorists stomped over, wielding a knife.
Dylan recoiled the closer the terrorist moved but was unable to escape from the restraints around his wrists. The terrorist lunged with the knife, and Dylan stiffened his body, but when the pirate was done, the only thing Dylan felt was the release of his hands. The zip ties had been cut off, and the pirate pulled Dylan to his feet then shoved him into the back of a van.
Kasaika climbed into the passenger seat while another got behind the wheel, and the rest joined Dylan in the back. Kasaika turned to him from the front. “You move... you speak... you try and do anything without me telling you, and I will kill you. Understand?”
Dylan gave a light nod, and the van lurched forward. A crowbar rolled with the momentum, and Dylan braced himself. The entire trip, Dylan stared at the barrel of the pistol. Everyone in the van was silent, and not a word was spoken until Kasaika turned to the man watching Dylan, and then a blindfold was tossed over his head.
Dylan rocked back and forth as the van weaved in and out of whatever back roads they were on. He had no sense of time with the blindfold over his face. The entire trip, all Dylan felt was the cold, bare sheet metal that composed the van’s floor and the bumps and divots the van mowed over. Maybe they were done with him? Maybe they were going to use him as some sort of scapegoat to offer Perry to save themselves, sacrificing him for whatever blunder caused the authorities to chase them?
Unanswered questions flew through Dylan’s mind, and when the van came to a squeaking halt, he heard the voices of his captors murmur back and forth, and then a hand grabbed his arm and lifted him off the floor. Dylan swayed wildly as he heard the van’s doors slide open, and he took a wobbly step onto the earth below. He jerked forward from a shove, stumbling a few feet before regaining his balance, and then was led forward.
The whine of old door hinges sounded, followed by them being slammed shut behind them. Whatever place they stepped into was hot and humid, with the heavy stench of sweat and metal. The place was also filled with more people, as Dylan listened to dozens of different voices fade in and out.
Another door opened then closed, and finally Dylan was forced to a chair and the blindfold was ripped off. One fluorescent light bulb hung from a string in the center of the room, and Dylan blinked as his eyes adjusted to the brightness.
“You will wait here until we can move you,” Kasaika said then tied his wrists to the table.
Dylan pulled against the ties. “Wait! Is my son here?” Dylan’s words were desperate. He extended his body as far as it would go before the restraints stopped him. “You need to let me see him. Let me see my son.”
Kasaika lingered at the doorway, staring at Dylan with empty eyes, but said nothing. He finally left, leaving Dylan alone in the room, the light bulb above gently swinging back and forth.
It didn’t take long for Dylan’s clothes to become drenched in sweat. What air was in the room was stagnant, hot, and decaying. He writhed and shifted uncomfortably in the chair, his heart racing, not knowing the future of his life or the life of his son.
Then the door flung open, and Kasaika burst through along with a few others, and then Perry, and finally, his son. The moment Sean made eye contact with Dylan, he rushed to him, throwing his arms around Dylan’s neck and squeezing hard. “Are you all right?” With his arms tied behind his back, Dylan couldn’t hold his son, but the boy stuck to him like glue.
Finally, Kasaika peeled Sean off Dylan and held him back. Perry took a step between them and bent over to his knees so he could look Dylan in the eye. “Enjoying the room?”
“Let my son go. Let him come home with me.” Dylan’s words had an edge to them. A calm, stoic anger that accompanied the throaty annunciation.
Perry patted Dylan’s leg. “You love your son, don’t you, Dylan?” He spun around and grabbed Sean from Kasaika’s grip. Perry ran his hands through Sean’s dirty-blond hair. The boy looked like he hadn’t showered since he was taken. It was the first time Dylan got a good look. The soiled clothes, dirt-smeared face, greasy hair. Perry pulled out a knife and kept it hovered just above Sean’s chest.
Dylan jolted and spasmed in the chair at the sight of the knife, violently trying to shake himself free from the restraints. He jumped from the chair and lunged for Perry, dragging the heavy desk with him, as it was still tied to his hands and wrists. The explosion of energy happened in the blink of an eye, and before Dylan managed to get to Perry and Sean, two of Kasaika’s men grabbed hold of him and muscled him back into his chair. “You don’t touch my son!” Spit flew from Dylan’s mouth like venom. His neck and cheeks flushed red as Perry inched the blade closer to Sean’s chest.
Perry wiped Sean’s hair off his forehead and leaned down like he would whisper in his ear. “And you love your father, don’t you, Sean?” Sean nodded his head, and Perry scraped the tip of the blade across the fabric of the T-shirt but without breaking through the cloth.
Sean broke down, crying, his face twisted in fear and pain. Dylan’s stomach churned, and his body continued to fight against the pairs of hands holding him back. No matter how hard he pushed, no matter how hard he fought, Dylan couldn’t spare his son this suffering.
Perry rolled up the sleeve of his left arm, revealing scarred and disfigured flesh with raised red bumps and sporadic, poorly shaped spider-web designs. He held up the arm for Sean to see. “I loved my father too when I was a boy. And this is what
I got for that love.” Perry dropped his arm and then placed the tip of the blade in the top left corner of Sean’s chest. “And this is what your father’s love will get you.”
“No!” Dylan exploded from the chair, this time making it two feet before Kasaika and his henchmen tackled him back to the floor. Sean’s screams filled the room, and Dylan looked up to the sight of his boy squirming as Perry brought the blade down across his chest. Blood erupted from the line cut in the fabric, and Perry didn’t stop until he made it to the middle of Sean’s chest. Perry tossed the blade on the ground, and Sean wailed as he was carried away.
Dylan squirmed under the pressure of the three bodies holding him down. He looked up to Perry, who was wiping the blood from his hands. “I’ll kill you. You hear me? I’m going to kill you!”
Perry knelt as Dylan’s cheek was pressed harder into the floor. “Every time you ask to see your son, I’m going to cut him. In fact, every time I think you’re even thinking about your son, I’m going to cut him. Each one will be worse than the first, and I won’t stop until every inch of your son’s skin is bloody.” Perry kicked Dylan’s forehead with the toe of his boot on the way out, and Dylan was left in the room, disoriented.
Kasaika and his men were last to leave, and Dylan was left alone in his chair, shackled to the table. His head ached, and the pain in the rest of his body was catching up. He slumped down, his eyes wet and red. He forced the tears back and dug his palms into his eyes, trying to dig out the image of his son screaming, the blood running down his chest, the pain on his face, the tears, the knife, but the harder he fought it, the stronger the images grew. Dylan screamed, every ounce of frustration and pain leaving his body in one long, primal yell.
Dylan’s voiced boomed and echoed against the walls. Heat rushed through his body, up his neck, and into his face. He felt the pressure mounting in his head and the strain on his jaw, opening his mouth wide, letting all the rage and pain empty from him. But instead of fatigue, the screams only brought more energy, more rage, more pain. It fueled him, gave him strength. And that’s what he would use, that’s how he would get his son to safety. It didn’t matter what it turned him into or what his fate would be attached to his choices. He was going to free his son. And all of the debts Dylan racked up would cost his own life.
Chapter 5
Cooper sat next to Diaz as Jimmy Moringer, director of the DEA, stepped inside along with a few of his deputy directors. Cooper noticed the bags under his eyes, the sloppy knot in his tie. She’d never seen him look so tired.
“Cooper, Diaz,” Moringer said. “Don’t bother getting up.” He took his seat across the table and slapped a file between them. “Well, you were right. The moment the convoy made it into an area that wasn’t deemed high risk, the transport was hit. This terrorist group had a plan for everything. The river, the Coast Guard and Navy that were stationed outside the Hudson. It was smart.” Cooper went to grab the folder reinstating her to active duty, but Moringer stopped her. “It comes with some conditions, Cooper.”
Cooper sat back in her chair and crossed her arms. “Can’t wait to hear this.”
“With you suspended and on the outside, we can use that to our advantage.” Moringer pushed the file toward Cooper, and she grabbed it. “We’re upping your security clearance but keeping you off the books. You will get information from me, and me alone. We don’t know how many people Perry have with him. If we’re going to catch him, we need to do it ourselves. It comes with some risks, though.”
Cooper looked it over. According to the file, she’d have just as much access as the director himself. “I’m used to the liabilities, sir.”
“We can’t touch Perry. Not now at least. Both Homeland and FBI directors hold him in high regard. He’s had a hand in making policy for a very long time.”
Son of a bitch. “He’s been planning this for a long time.”
“If it’s him,” Moringer replied. “All you have right now is speculation. We need hard evidence, and I won’t go to the other directors until you give it to us.” Moringer rose, along with his deputies, and the three men headed for the door. “I suggest you make it fast, Cooper. We’re running out of time.”
Cooper knew he was right. The attacks across the country were becoming more frequent every day. The breakdown in communication, transportation, security, all of it was mounting to unprecedented levels. And every day this group of terrorists found new ways to torture the country. Attacks on food banks, fuel tankers, power stations, cell towers, cable lines, train stations, public transportation, anything and everything to keep people from moving.
Tanks and Humvees roamed the streets, as martial law had been enacted for most of the country. People were growing restless. Maybe complete social disorder was what he wanted? But there was a sinking feeling in the back of Cooper’s mind that it was something more. “C’mon.” She slapped Diaz on the arm. “Let’s see how far I can push my new clearance.”
“No can do, Coop.” Diaz shook his head. “You can’t have any contact with anyone from the department moving forward except for Moringer. He made sure I understood that before the meeting took place.” Diaz walked to the door and gave a shrug. “We can’t make it look like you’re getting any help. As far as the director and I are concerned, we asked you to come in here to tell you to stop snooping around.” Diaz lingered at the door before opening it then looked back at her. “But if you do need help with anything, I’ve gotten pretty good at lying.” He flashed a grin and then left.
Cooper reached for the file on the table once more, flipping through the pages. The file contained information on attacks out at sea. A number of Coast Guard vessels and Navy ships were being pestered by pirates and mercenaries, but so far they’d done nothing more than lead them on wild-goose chases. However, there was a report listed that showed two Coast Guard ships missing, with the last radio transmission coming from somewhere off the Atlantic Coast near Boston. She shut the file and drummed her fingers on the table and quickly left the room.
The moment Cooper was out the door and into the hallway, any DEA agent or staff member in the area stopped what they were doing to look up at her. It was like she had the plague, a witch marked and not to be spoken to or interacted with in fear of catching whatever she had. But despite the most recent events, the plague that her peers thought her to have had been growing for quite some time.
Mistrust and rumors were two of the worst stigma an agent could have, and Cooper had both. She ignored the whispers as she walked past her peers. Half of them probably either thought she had been fired or was one step closer out the door.
Outside, the sun was up, and Washington, DC, was alive and locked down. From the steps of her department’s building, she could see the hundreds of troops in the streets. The capitol had been granted an excess number of soldiers, which seemed to have kept the terrorists from performing any attacks, but the rest of the cities of the country weren’t as lucky. DC was nothing more than a symbol.
With the president in Air Force One, circling the atmosphere and waiting for the culprits to be caught, the city didn’t hold any real strategic value for the mayhem that the terrorists enjoyed practicing.
The file that Moringer had given her had no mention of Captain Dylan Turk, the central focal point of how all of this had started. No doubt excluded on Perry’s orders. It’d been a while since she had spoken to Dylan. With Dylan’s son captured by the terrorists she was willing to bet that would be good motivation for blackmail. She decided it was time to go and have a word with the captain.
***
The monitors on the screens had faces from every major city on the West Coast, and Perry watched each and every one of them squirm. It gave him a certain satisfaction, something that he couldn’t find anywhere else except within the realm of authority.
Perry had found that all men craved power, even if they didn’t realize it. It was the aphrodisiac that corrupted businessmen, politicians, anyone and everyone who managed to get a taste.
It was the same power that his father had seemed to grasp, but once it was gone it had left him twisted and beaten, which had caused him to physically leave his own marks on Perry.
The ascension of Perry’s career had been a long, strenuous climb. He lacked the political connections, looks, and charm that his peers relied on. But none of them could outsmart him. Add that to the fact that no one expected much from him, and he managed to sneak up behind every doubter and choke them out with their own tie around their neck.
“You said we’d be making money. You said we’d be rich!” The grey-haired, heavy-set, flushed-red-faced man on the screen just left of the center pointed a fat finger at Perry and slammed his fist on a table. “But money won’t do us any good with half the country in chaos!”
The rest of the men on the screens echoed their discontent with similar gestures. The last-ditch effort to save face and pretend that they didn’t fear what was coming, offering the illusion that they still had control over their own destinies, much like children throwing tantrums in a department store.
“You came to me, gentlemen,” Perry said. “There is no other course of action. You keep the shipments coming into the West Coast for my men, or I send what units I have in the area and kill you.”
“You can’t do that!”
Perry twirled the flag pin on the lapel of his jacket. The outline was crusted with gold, and the red, white, and blue shimmered under the lighting in the office. He plucked it off and pinched it between his fingers, holding it up for the men on the screen to see. “Do you know what this is? It was given to me by the vice president of the United States after a Senate hearing three years ago. I’d just been promoted to deputy director of Homeland, and the Senate meeting I was a part of was a subcommittee for wiretapping and surveillance of criminal activity in the United States.” Perry dropped the pin to the table, and it clanked lightly against the wood. “I can do whatever I want. Whenever I want. I have power. I have reach. I have authority. I have everything that you need to keep your operations running, and if I hear one more piece of pathetic, whining, sniveling shit tell me what I can and can’t do, I will bring you down with the force of the United States government, which is willing to grab any scapegoat it can as to who is helping orchestrate these attacks.”