Kerrick

by Dale Mayer

  He quickly read her dossier, which stated she was a biochemist and had been kidnapped outside a specialized center in France. Their intel said she was somewhere in England, having been seen at the Dover ferry crossing. He frowned again. If she’d been sighted, somebody must have already been following her, and they shouldn’t have lost her once she had reached the English shores. He couldn’t wait to hear that explanation.

  He found plane tickets between the papers. Checking his flight info, leaving at 11:24 a.m., didn’t give him any time to finish his coffee. But, after a twelve-and-a-half-hour flight, involving one stop, he should be in London. He stuffed the rest of the file back in the envelope and headed to his vehicle. As he got to the parking lot, a cab waited for him, and his vehicle was nowhere to be found.

  The cab driver looked at him and said, “Are you the guy going to the airport on an express run?”

  Kerrick asked, “Do you have my bags?”

  The cabbie nodded and pointed at a black carry-on duffel bag and a small backpack visible on the floorboard of the car.

  “Good enough,” Kerrick said, already in the back seat. As the cabbie pulled out of the parking lot and headed toward the airport, in the back of his mind, Kerrick wondered what had happened to his car—which wasn’t worth a hell of a lot but was still his. In the taxi, he had just enough time to flip through the rest of the paperwork but not enough time to ingest it all. Just when he thought he’d gone through all the information though, he noticed a tiny microdot in the bottom of the envelope. He pulled it out slowly, staring at it.

  Just then the cabbie called out, “Forgot to give you this,” and tossed him a box.

  In the back of the cab, almost at the airport, he quickly dismantled all the packaging. He took out a pair of sunglasses. A quick inspection didn’t reveal anything special about them. Also he found a Bluetooth headpiece that went to the accompanying burner phone. One number had been programmed in.

  As soon as he exited the cab at the airport, he walked to the counter and checked in, wondering why he was flying commercial to begin with. Once he was at his gate, he headed into an isolated corner. There, he dialed the one number programmed in his disposable cell. Instead of hearing a voice, a series of tumblers clicked into place. A secure line. Interesting.

  “State your name.”

  “Kerrick.”

  “Full name.”

  He rolled his eyes and gave it.

  “We have you at the airport right now,” the voice said. “You will arrive on target according to our schedule.”

  “Yes, according to the current airport schedule.”

  “The microdot has information you need,” the voice said, “use the sunglasses.”

  Hmm. The sunglasses can send info to me? On the lenses themselves, I presume. Interesting.

  “We’ll contact you when you land.”

  He shut off the phone, tucked it in his pocket, and wondered about the cell phone. Depending on how dangerous this op turned out to be, this disposable cell would be one of the first things he dumped. But he couldn’t do it yet. He looked at the microdot and sunglasses, finding a small hole to drop in the dot. Then he put on the glasses and stared out the window. Immediately information flowed on the glass lenses, displaying further details on the case. He didn’t know what anybody’s involvement in this kidnapping was yet. Including his own. If he hadn’t known Beta, Kerrick wouldn’t have taken this step at all. Beta already knew about Kerrick’s history and knew where he was at in this stage of his life. But then, of course, Kerrick had been targeted just for that reason.

  Dr. Amanda Berg shifted uncomfortably on the hard bed. It wasn’t concrete but it was more like an old metal cot with a mattress on top. Or what had been a mattress at one point in time. It was so thin and so flat that no cushion was left to it. In addition, she only had a thin blanket for warmth. Her initial panic over being kidnapped and drugged had subsided somewhat, and her brain was now finally working again.

  She’d been taken off the street right outside the building where she worked, in broad daylight, a hood pulled over her head before being tossed into the back of a lorry, and then locked up in this windowless hellhole. The only glimmer of light that she saw came from outside her solid wood door. All had been a nightmare of silence and fear, but her anger simmered deep beneath the surface.

  Was this because of her research work? She came from a wealthy family, but did these kidnappers know that? That didn’t matter to her as much as her research. She was working on specific cancer genes and cures too, but did her kidnappers care about that? Not likely. The only person she knew, who hated her, was her ex-husband. Their nasty divorce was still fresh on her mind, even five years later. Probably more on his mind than hers though. She’d figured that she was safe when the ink was finally drying on the legal document, but was she? Was he behind this? In which case, he might just leave her here to rot.

  She had married in the thralls of her first real love affair and had found out very quickly that her husband was nothing more than a user, after her family connections and money. He’d never intended in any way to be monogamous. The shattering of her dreams had sent her spiraling into depression, her anger not far behind. Six months into that marriage, she had discovered one of his affairs. They had fought over it, only to have him confess to multiple affairs; then he had brutally taken his fist to her jaw. She vowed that no man would ever hit her again.

  She had managed to escape from him once and had yet to come face-to-face with him again. She wouldn’t be surprised if he was behind this. They had signed prenups at her father’s suggestion which she then insisted on. With her divorce, that meant her ex-husband got nothing. He had fought hard on that issue, but, with only six months of marriage and the physical proof of her injuries, the divorce had been swift and easy on her side.

  The judge had ruled in her favor, and her ex got nothing. Which was, as he had put it, a waste of an eighteen-month investment, and he should have at least gotten the house. But her house was worth almost one million dollars, so how he figured a year of dating and half a year of marriage should have garnered him that, she didn’t know. Or her father’s side, he’d been worried and upset but had been pretty caustic in his tone when saying, “I told you that he was nothing but a user.”

  Being told I told you so at that time of her life was not exactly a highlight either. Regardless, that had been almost five years ago. Surely her ex would have gotten over it by now. She hadn’t seen him since, but her name and her work had recently been in the news. Had that set him off again? She was still in the same house, and she’d worried about that at the time of the divorce, but her father had set up a high-end security system.

  But the trouble with her home security system was that it only worked if she were inside her home. The minute she went outside, she was fair game, and that’s where she had been taken. She groaned as she shuffled on the lumpy excuse of a mattress. She closed her eyes, feeling sleepy. After all, without her watch, she was listening to her internal clock, which told her that she had woken up in the middle of the night several times, needing a bathroom.

  A chamber pot was in the far corner of her cell, and she had been forced to use it several times. Even now, once again, her bladder was bursting. And yet, she’d had very little water. They had thrown a bottle in with her originally, but she’d had no food, and she didn’t have a ton of body fat to begin with.

  She had to escape before she was too weak to fight. If they didn’t give her any food soon, that point would be facing her within hours. She got up, forced herself to the pot, where she relieved herself yet again, and then laid down on the cot once more.

  Surely this nightmare would be over soon.

  Chapter 3

  Amanda slept for a while, woke to use the chamber pot yet again, fell asleep only to wake up chilled on the uncomfortable cot, contemplating what day it was. She counted this as Day Two of her captivity, but she had no way to confirm that. Something odd sounded outside her door
. She bolted to her feet, swaying a bit with the effort, and tiptoed to stand behind the door, her ear flat against it. She heard sobbing. Horror swept through her. She wasn’t alone? It’s one thing if she was the only prisoner, but to think that there might be others? It was definitely a female crying too.

  A hard rap came on her door, and then a voice called out, “Step away from the door.”

  She frowned but immediately obeyed and stood about four feet back from where the door would open. When it did, a man dressed all in black, his rifle over his shoulder, held a tray in his hand, while a second gunman stood guard. The first thrust the tray forward, and she grabbed it immediately. Without another word, the door slammed in her face. She stared in shock at her first contact with anyone since she’d been here. Not a word, not an explanation, nothing.

  Just silence. Even her neighbor no longer cried.

  Horrible thoughts assaulted her mind. She shook her head, not able to handle all this … evilness.

  She slowly walked back to her cot and sat down with the tray. There was a sandwich and a bowl of what appeared to be a thin soup. The food was lukewarm, but it was food. She ate slowly, knowing that she would need all the sustenance she could get, and, if she was only getting fed once a day or every other day, this wasn’t enough. Still, she would survive.

  They gave her another bottle of water and something in a cup too. She looked at it and frowned, wondering if it was safe to drink. Then again, was any of this food safe to eat or drink? Not that she had much choice. She picked up the sandwich, studied it carefully—old stale bread with mayo and what looked like tuna and lettuce. She took a tentative bite and then couldn’t help herself from taking several bigger bites. Her hunger clawed at her, digging deep into her stomach.

  She could only hope that somebody had seen her as she was snatched off the street or that someone had at least put out a call of alarm when she hadn’t shown up for work the next day. Somebody should have contacted her father. And, if that had happened, he would have contacted somebody. He was high up in the government in Norway, but her birth in the States gave her dual citizenship in America. Her mother was a politician in Maine, but her parents had divorced long ago. Amanda had remained much closer to her father that her mother. Surely, between her parents, somebody would have put out a call for help.

  After her initial bites, she slowed down and ate the rest of the food slowly, nibbling away at it, trying to make it last. When she’d eaten half the sandwich, she lifted a spoon and tried the soup. Canned tomato but, again, it was food. And she couldn’t afford to be picky. She sipped it as slowly as she could. She needed the liquids too. She put the tray down with half the sandwich still on it but with all the soup gone. Then she picked up the cup of what? Coffee? And sniffed it. For whatever reason, she was more afraid of drugs being in the coffee than in the soup. The soup was pretty acidic, being tomato. And she hadn’t tasted anything off in it. She took a tentative sip of the coffee, lukewarm but soothing.

  Something else sat in the last dish on the tray and jiggled at her every move. Jell-O? That didn’t make any sense, unless she was in an institution, like a hospital, where they give you the whole meal all at once. Was that a possibility? She studied her concrete cell, built of cinder blocks but missing windows. The floor was concrete as well. If she was in an institution, maybe it was a prison, and she was in solitary confinement because that’s what it looked like. Or a storage room?

  Then another thought came to her, and she was afraid that, if they came and took away the tray, they’d take away any remaining food too. She couldn’t take that chance, so she ate the second half of her sandwich and then her dessert, polishing off the last of her coffee at the same time. She automatically checked her wrist. Old habit. But they had taken her watch, so she couldn’t confirm the time or the date. But approximately an hour later she heard voices yet again. She stood with the tray in her hand as the door opened. The guard looked at it and gave a clipped nod. He took it and disappeared.

  Amanda called out, “I need another chamber pot.” It made him hesitate, but he still slammed the door shut. She groaned. “Surely, if this were a prison, there’d be a toilet.”

  As she sat on the cot again, nobody returned to talk to her. She pulled the thin blanket over her shoulders, her stomach finally full for the first time in recent memory. But now she was worried. Her mind tried hard to work on solutions to getting out of here, but, unless she was capable of fighting two armed gunmen, both apparently trained and healthy, she didn’t have a hope.

  Mentally she reached out and said, If anybody out there is looking for me, please don’t take too long …

  Kerrick had slept on the plane enough that, as soon as it landed, at roughly 8:00 a.m. Monday, London time, he was energized, despite the eight-hour time difference between here and San Diego. And, with a transatlantic flight, he had also had time to review the materials given to him so that he could move forward with this op. With his carry-on bags in hand, his mind buzzed with all the intel, yet with no leads, as he tried to figure out where Dr. Berg was being held. In his head, he called out to her and said, Amanda, I’m coming. Hold tight.

  The trouble was, he didn’t really know what resources he had available to find her. The wad of cash in that envelope had been in the local currency. That helped. Also the microdot had revealed a series of bank accounts and related statements—hers, her father’s, her mother’s, even the corporation Amanda worked for, but Kerrick’s quick review of the screenshots revealed only one year’s worth of statements from each source. Yet nothing stuck out as a questionable transaction.

  Kerrick had hoped his new employer would have provided him with more. Having been thrown into the deep end with little explanation or underlying supporting information, Kerrick was walking in the dark.

  Still, he’d spent years walking in the shadows. He was plenty used to it.

  Outside, he stopped and looked around, but nobody waited for him. He headed over to a rental car office. His envelope had also contained fake IDs. Using one of them, he quickly rented a car and headed to London. For all he knew, Amanda could have been flown to a different country by now. But this kidnapping had only recently been reported, not even fourteen hours ago, although her kidnapping had originated earlier, around 2:00 p.m. on Sunday, Paris time. Why had she been under such close scrutiny in France by Kerrick’s new employer, who even now remained nameless? Why did the kidnappers take her to England at all? Scotland and Ireland were options as well as all of Europe.

  Once he booked into a small cheesy motel, keeping his budget money in mind, he tossed everything onto the breakfast table to figure out his next step.

  He pulled out his personal laptop, hooked up to the internet, and downloaded the research he’d gathered while in the air. He had done a background check on her history and had collected any connections Berg might have to England that he could get, courtesy of science conventions, medical conferences. Technically he didn’t find much. But Amanda was a reclusive researcher, not a party girl tweeting incessantly or taking selfies and updating her dating status on Facebook.

  So, while he was online, he checked his email. Almost immediately a small window opened on his laptop with a message at the bottom and a link. His first thought was that he had been hacked. Then he shook his head. Yeah, he had been hacked all right—by his new employer. He studied the message and the link. Then he clicked it.

  The message gave him an account login, while the link took him to a strange site that he’d never seen before. Hesitantly but willingly, he typed in the required login information. He was logged into a server instantly. Immediately a chat window popped up.

  Welcome to England.

  Well, I’m here, but I’m not exactly sure what I’m supposed to do.

  If you don’t know by now, then you’re the wrong man for the job. And, with that, the chat window disappeared.

  He glared at it. “Well, that’s fine,” he said to the empty room. “It’s not that I don’t know wha
t I’m doing. Study the victim first. Then study the crime scene to get a feel for your enemy. I’m just not exactly sure how I’m doing it yet, with my newfound parameters.”

  Irritated, he ignored the chat box and resumed his research, checking for any connections and further history on Amanda Berg. The web had scant information on her marriage and divorce, but, just when he had settled into studying her childhood and early school years, the chat window popped up again. He wanted to ignore it but knew that was foolish too. Words formed on the chat window.

  Time is running out.

  Do we know what the end game is? He typed his question, hoping his terse and direct communication with Grumpy—as he deemed his helper—if this was still Grumpy, would get Kerrick what he really needed: intel, not lip.

  No.

  Father, ex-husband, company?

  Possibly all of the above or none.

  Studying her history online right now.

  At that, a couple more links appeared. He clicked one to see a full dossier on Amanda, much more complete than what had been given to him before on the microdot with its single sheet of data regarding Dr. Berg, some three hundred words tops. More than what he could dig up on the internet. He now read her detailed history. It was all about her schooling, her university, the awards she’d won, and the company she worked for.

  The fact that she was doing cancer research could mean her kidnapper wanted Dr. Berg to treat them as a private patient, who had then kidnapped the good doctor because it was the only way they thought they could get her attention. Or possibly her kidnapper was somebody who didn’t want Dr. Berg to find a cancer cure, when she seemed at a breaking point of something big per the recent newspaper articles.

  Kerrick studied the various links which Grumpy had provided, realizing he was in a database. A government database that somehow Kerrick had been cleared to use. He didn’t have a clue as to what his clearance would be normally. But this? Pretty awesome. He read on. … Both her parents were politicians. Immediately he asked in the chat box, Blackmail? Kidnapping note? Ransom?