Off the Grid (A Gerrit O'Rourke Novel)

by Young, Mark

  He felt dizzy, light-headed. He was in no condition to argue. They eased him onto the wooden pier and into the backseat of the Chevy. Another man operating the boat pushed the vessel away from the pier before disappearing into the blackness with a roar.

  As they pulled away in the vehicle, Alena—sitting in the front passenger’s seat—turned toward him. “Tell us where to go.”

  He gave directions as they left the lakeside and headed for the outskirts of Seattle.

  The man cringed as Kane’s voice screamed over the phone line. “I told you idiots not to move until I gave the order.”

  He glanced at his partner next to him in disbelief. “We did not set the charge off. I am sitting right here with the transmitter turned off. I never got a chance to use it.”

  “Well, it did not blow up by itself, you imbecile. Did you guys screw up setting the charge?”

  “Sir, it just blew up. I can’t tell you anything more.”

  “Any witnesses?”

  “Not that we can tell. Saw a boat out on the lake, but as soon as everything blew up, the boat hightailed it out there.”

  “Who was in the house.”

  “Just O’Rourke. The woman left a few minutes before everything went up in smoke.”

  “You still have someone on her?”

  “Yeah. They’re bumper-locking her as we speak.”

  “So she failed?”

  “Uh-huh. She said the guy would not change his mind.” The phone line remained silent for a few seconds. “Sir, what do you want us to do?”

  Kane’s voice came back, low and terse. “Clean up the mess. You know what you have to do. And take care of the other matter as soon as you leave the area.”

  “His partner?”

  “Do I have to spell it out for you? Clean up loose ends and get out of the state. Now!”

  The man heard the line click and the connection die. He pocketed the phone and turned to his partner. “Let Bravo-Two know to move in and take care of business. We’ve been ordered to clear out and head to our second objective. The boss has a team coming in to shadow the investigation.” He pointed with his chin at the smoking heap of wood and twisted metal below.

  Sirens began to wail in the distance. “Here comes the cavalry. Better late than never.” He chuckled as he dumped everything back into a black drop bag. “And we’re out of here.”

  Chapter 20

  Gerrit’s body felt like he’d gone fifteen rounds with a heavyweight champion. Head pounding, he eased himself from the backseat of the Suburban and tried to stand. The other two quickly shed their wet suits. They emerged from both sides of the vehicle wearing blue denim trousers and dark shirts. His legs felt weak, and his head throbbed like a madman beating on a set of drums.

  “Let me help you,” Alena said, rushing over. She put his arm over her shoulder and supported him as they walked toward the house. He heard the dog’s nails clicking on the concrete.

  Tall, scraggly weeds and dry grass in the front yard advertised what this building represented—a dwelling abandoned by foreclosure. An under-the-table agreement between the police department and certain rental agencies allowed detectives to use selected residential housing to put up protected witnesses or give informants a place to crash during short-term sting operations. This was one of those places he and Taylor stashed Gregori before the ferry shooting.

  “Reach under the second rock, near the front steps.” He pointed to the right of the concrete steps. “There should be a key.”

  Alena’s heavyset partner stooped down, flicked over the rock. “Here it is.” The man sounded like he’d grown up in New York, a heavy Brooklyn accent, a strange contrast to Alena’s Eastern European inflections. The man stood, leaped up the front steps, and popped the door open. He turned back toward them. “Now where?”

  Gerrit made his way up the steps with Alena’s help. Once inside, he extricated himself from her grasp and tottered toward a rear bedroom. He dropped to his knees and leaned under a queen-size bed. “Help me move this.”

  Once they dragged the bed to one side, he found where loose boards had been pried up. Mark’s handiwork. Yanking up the boards, he saw it—the briefcase he had been given in Vienna. Opening up the case, he sighed with relief when he saw the laptop and thumb drive inside. He closed the case, then glanced up.

  “Got it. Now let’s get out of here.”

  Alena momentarily eyed the briefcase. “How do you say it here in America? Let’s scram?”

  Gerrit smiled. “That’s what we say.” He rose to his feet and then his world turned black again.

  Marilynn Summers climbed out of her coupe, closed and locked the door, before activating the alarm. She walked from her assigned parking space in the federal building toward the stairway leading to the lobby.

  She began to relax, knowing that once inside she would have complete protection. She knew security cameras recorded her movement right now. Any hint of trouble and security would be running to her aid.

  The only unease she felt at the moment had to do with a man a thousand miles away. Richard Kane. He had sent her to change Gerrit’s mind. That was her mission and she failed. Kane did not tolerate failure.

  What was he going to do? Shoot her? Daughter of Senator Summers?

  I think not, Mr. Kane.

  The more she thought about it, the more secure she felt. Being John Summers’s only child brought some perks. Nobody but the senator could mess with her—and survive politically.

  Footsteps echoed behind her.

  She turned her head to see a man a few yards away. Funny, she had not seen another car enter the garage.

  “Ms. Summers?”

  She turned toward the voice as the man drew closer and her chest suddenly tightened. Just for an instant she saw a metallic reflection from something in the man’s right hand.

  A gun.

  Her brain registered an explosive flash. Then pain. Then nothing.

  Chapter 21

  Clearwater River, Idaho

  Daylight streamed through a dusty cabin window when Gerrit finally managed to open his eyes. He tried to remember the details of the ride from Seattle during the night. He must have slipped in and out of consciousness several times. He barely remembered climbing into bed.

  Noise from a television drew his attention, his eyes slowly focusing on the screen. A news reporter, mike in hand, stood near where Gerrit’s boathouse once stood.

  “A joint local, state, and federal task force investigation continues as authorities sift through what is left of Seattle Police Detective Gerrit O’Rourke’s home. A source close to the investigation revealed that there appears to have been a body inside the residence at the time of the explosion, possibly that of the missing officer. However, investigators refuse to confirm the identity as bomb experts continue to search for clues. A spokesman for SPD did confirm the explosion was intentionally set.”

  Gerrit closed his eyes, a headache nagging at the backside of his brain. He reopened them to see that the television screen moved to another crime scene at the Henry M. Jackson Federal Building in Seattle. The garage entrance was taped off, and two uniformed officers stood guard, prohibiting a number of reporters and television camera crews from entering. The same announcer’s voice continued.

  “In a related investigation, task-force representatives are looking into the shooting death of federal prosecutor Marilynn Summers, whose father sits as chairman of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. Police say Ms. Summers was shot and killed after she parked her car and began walking toward the U.S. Attorney’s office. And in a third killing— Wait, we just have this in. Seattle Police Department has an announcement to make. We switch you live to Seattle PD headquarters.”

  Gerrit raised himself onto one elbow, peering at the television screen, gritting his teeth. A knot developed in his stomach. A third killing? Oh, God, no. He seemed to know what was about to be disclosed.

  Lieutenant Stan Cromwell, his craggy face tired and angry looking, l
oomed on the screen. It seemed the lieutenant had aged ten years since Gerrit last saw him. His boss approached a sea of bristling microphones, his broad shoulders rounded and hunched.

  Cromwell glared into the camera. “I’m going to make a short statement and I will not answer any questions. Our patrol units were called to a warehouse near the waterfront shortly before nine o’clock this morning. They found the body of Seattle Detective Mark Taylor who has been missing for eight hours. He’d been shot at close range, and there is evidence he had been subjected to torture.” Cromwell’s voice cracked.

  Gerrit pounded the bed in anger. No. No. No. Mark had nothing to do with anything. Kane reached out and killed his partner just to send a message. No one ever turns his back on Kane. Raised voices on the television drew him back to the screen. He watched with clenched fists, a wave of fury pounding his head with pain.

  A flurry of voices followed.

  The lieutenant waited until everyone quieted down. “Let me finish my statement.”

  Silence followed.

  Cromwell brushed the corner of his right eye before continuing. “There has been a body recovered from the explosion at SPD Detective Gerrit O’Rourke’s residence. There is no identification on the body; however, it is believed that the remains may be that of our officer. Lastly, we are continuing to investigate—along with the FBI and other state and federal agencies—the shooting death of the federal prosecutor, AUSA Marilynn Summers.”

  Cromwell paused and took a swig from his water bottle. All eyes focused on him.

  “We’re pursuing all possible leads. The only connection we have at this time in all three deaths is that these victims were connected to a strike force case involving Russian organized crime groups. The primary suspect in that OC case was killed by Detective O’Rourke during the execution of search and arrest warrants in a San Diego, California, residence a few weeks ago. We’re continuing to investigate. There will be no further comments at this time.”

  Cromwell turned and walked away. No one seemed brave enough to follow.

  Gerrit dropped back on the bed. He felt weak, and the news seemed to wrench away any strength he had left. So the cops thought that Russian organized crime might be responsible.

  Richard Kane covered his tracks well.

  He thought of Senator Summers. Could he be involved in his own daughter’s death? This seemed highly unlikely. The senator might be the person to start with to get some straight answers. Maybe Marilynn’s father finally had enough of Kane and might be willing to talk.

  He heard several sets of footsteps on the porch outside. The door swung open and Alena and two men entered. She smiled as he turned toward her. “We are so pleased you are alive. I worried.” She came to his bedside, stroking his forehead. “How do you feel?”

  He glanced at the television before speaking. “Two of my friends are dead, and the world thinks I was blown up. Other than that and a bad headache, I’m doing just great,” he said, anger building up with each word. “How do you think I feel?”

  Her eyes softened. “I’m sorry, Gerrit. You heard.”

  He looked away and focused on the other two men.

  “I want to introduce you to a very special man, my good friend Joe Costello.” She pointed to the older of the two men, who had been intently watching them as Gerrit and Alena conversed. The man stepped forward, extending his hand. His freckled face and curly reddish-brown hair—lightened by the onslaught of gray—complemented his hazel eyes. The man looked to be pushing seventy.

  “Glad to meet you, Dr. O’Rourke. I’ve been wanting to talk with you for a long time.”

  Something about the man’s voice sounded very familiar, as did the man’s eyes. Very familiar. “Have we met before?”

  Joe smiled. “A long, long time ago, Gerrit. Before we get into all that, I want you to meet a very good friend of mine: Travis Mays. This is his cabin. He’s a professor at Washington State University in Pullman.”

  Travis stepped forward and shook Gerrit’s hand. “I am glad to see you awake and breathing, Detective. You gave us all a scare.”

  Gerrit felt something cold and wet press against his arm. A dog’s nose. He glanced down, thinking it was Bones. It wasn’t.

  Travis laughed. “Let me introduce you to another member of this household. Sam…Sam Spade.” A yellow lab nudged his arm almost on command.

  “Glad to meet you, Sam.” Gerrit smiled as he stroked the dog’s head. Bones emerged behind Sam, tail wagging. Gerrit looked up at Travis. “Thanks for putting me up here.”

  “Hey, glad to help. And Sam’s thrilled to have a new friend.”

  “I’ll try to be out of here real soon.”

  Joe took a step closer. “That’s what we need to talk about. A lot has happened while you were out.” Joe drew up a chair and nodded at the others. Alena and Travis headed toward the door, with Sam padding behind. Alena turned for a moment. “We’ll take a walk and give you two a chance to talk.”

  Bones seemed undecided. Alena coaxed the dog outside and closed the door.

  Joe watched them leave and then turned and smiled at Gerrit . Those eyes seemed so familiar to Gerrit, just like his… No, it can’t be.

  The man seemed to fathom what Gerrit was thinking. “So you are starting to understand.”

  Gerrit stared back. “It’s impossible. My dad and mom…” He couldn’t bring himself to utter the words.

  The man leaned closer and took Gerrit’s hand. “Your mother and father were killed because of what your father tried to do. To make the world safer for everyone. They died as true heroes.”

  “Some lowlife blew them up and got away scot-free. Wrong place. Wrong time. How do you figure they’re heroes?”

  “Because they were willing to put their lives on the line for something they believed in. Just like you did in Iraq and Afghanistan. A family of heroes…and one coward.”

  “One coward?” Gerrit stared at the other man.

  “I should have died that day with your folks. Instead…”

  An eye-piercing pain shot through his forehead as Gerrit tried to focus, tried to understand. “Are you telling me—?”

  “Joe Costello’s not my real name, Gerrit. I’m Joseph O’Rourke, your uncle.” Joe faced Gerrit. “Reconstructive surgery can really change one’s features.”

  “I thought you were dead.”

  “I should have been,” Joe said, a look of sadness in his eyes. “I should have died that day with your folks.”

  “What happened?”

  “Before I tell you, I just want you to know that I—along with Alena and others—have watched over you ever since we believed Kane might be targeting you. It has taken seven years, but Richard Kane finally made his move. Finally tried to kill what he thought was the only surviving member of the O’Rourke family.”

  “Why is Kane trying to do this?”

  “That’s what I am here to tell you. About Kane, and about a war going on inside our own country. It is about whether we will survive as one nation under God.” Joe leaned back in his chair. “I’d better start from the beginning.”

  Chapter 22

  Before his uncle could begin, Gerrit heard a car braking outside and looked through a cabin window. A patrol vehicle with Nez Perce Tribal Police markings pulled off the highway on the far side of the river. A man in plain clothes and a woman emerged. Police officers?

  He glanced at his uncle. “Should we get out of here?”

  Joe shook his head. “They’re on our side. His name is Frank White Eagle, chief of the Nez Perce tribal police, and his daughter, Jessie. Both are close friends of Travis Mays.”

  “And how does Mays figure into this?”

  “He helped me disappear after they killed your parents. We met through the university many years ago when I was a panelist on a cyber-security symposium in Seattle. Travis was an ex-cop teaching criminology. He introduced himself and posed some interesting questions that made me pay attention to this guy. We struck up a friendship, and
when—”

  “You were there when Mom and Dad died?”

  “Nearby. I was in Seattle at the time. Found out that night I might be the next target. At the time, I knew very few people in law enforcement I could trust. Travis was one of them. He put me in touch with an FBI agent. Together, they and another person helped me disappear.” Joe looked around the cabin. “That’s when it all started. The day I became Joseph Costello.”

  “And your face? I see you still have my father’s eyes. And I remember your voice. But everything else…”

  “Yeah. I had them reconstruct my face and Malloy—FBI Special Agent Beck Malloy—contacted a source in the U.S. Marshals office. Between the four of us—and my knowledge of computer systems—we created who I am today.”

  Gerrit steeled himself. “Tell me why you called yourself a—”

  “Coward?” Joe finished the sentence, a look of regret darkening his face. “First, you need a little background. Your dad, through his work at MIT, became aware of certain outside influences on some of his fellow researchers in the area of nanotechnology, quantum computers, and biotechnology. Governmental and private interests working together to gather and control any research developed in these fields—particularly in the U.S.”

  “That would be impossible to control,” Gerrit said. “There are too many studies and too many researchers to allow any one group to control their efforts and findings.”

  Joe nodded. “True. However, what your dad learned was that this group—whoever they are—was able to control government financing for any projects of interest. This was a big hammer to wave in front of those researchers scrambling for money. And what this group could not control, they began to monitor and sabotage.”

  “You mean like blow up and destroy?”

  “In a way. Key scientists yanked from their projects through any number of dirty tricks—trumped-up criminal charges, accidents, medical issues, fabricated claims about their characters. The list just keeps growing.”

  “And my folks?”