by R. R. Banks
I shake my head. “I got here about two minutes before you did,” I say. “I got a call from Calee and she was screaming. I heard the windows breaking and the door being kicked in. I got in my car and got here as fast as I could. Obviously, way too late.”
“Who is Calee, sir?”
I sigh and run a hand through my hair. And then I tell him everything. The whole story. I leave nothing out and when I'm done, he's nodding, but I can see something in his eyes. I don't know if it's disbelief or something else, but I can tell, just by the way he's looking at me, that he's not going to do a damn thing to help her.
“Unfortunately, because this is in another state, it's an entirely different jurisdiction,” he says. “I don't know exactly how it works, but I can pass this along to a detective. They're going to have to follow up with the Sheriff and go from there. In the meantime, we'll put out an alert for all cars to keep an eye peeled for the woman – for Calee.”
“So, that's it,” I say, my voice dark with anger. “These assholes come in here and take her, and you're going to pass the buck? You're not going to do a damn thing about it?”
“Listen, I know you're upset –”
“You have no goddamn idea,” I spit.
“If they're crossing state lines, it becomes an issue for the Feds,” he says. “Again though, I need to pass this on to a detective. I'm a patrol car cop, sir. My power is a bit limited. Frankly, in a case like this, it's useless.”
I see a woman step through the doorway. The officer nods to me and goes over to her and has a conversation with her. When they're done, the four officers all go outside while she steps over to me.
“Detective Whitson,” she says. “I'm very sorry for what's happened.”
“Yeah, he already filled me in,” I say. “You're going to pass the buck to the Feds.”
“Unfortunately, I have no choice in the matter,” she says. “If these guys took your girl and are heading for Wyoming, that's crossing state lines. That's a federal issue. But, I know a couple of field agents and I'll get on the phone with them. I'll get them up to speed and they'll take the ball from there.”
I roll my eyes and step away from her, the knots in my stomach twisting painfully. I'm angry at the world right now – but I'm angrier at myself. I can't shake the feeling – the certainty, really – that I failed Calee. I let her down. And now she's going to pay the price. Now she's going to pay for my fuck up with her life.
“Dr. Galloway,” she says. “I know this is difficult. I know you're hurting and you're angry. But in a case like this, you need to be patient. You need to let this –”
“What part of they're going to kill her is in any way unclear to you, Detective?” I snap. “This isn't a kidnapping for ransom. They took her because they're going to kill her. So, don't you dare stand there and tell me to be patient or let this process play out. Calee is going to die if I let this process play out.”
“I certainly hope you're not talking about taking this into your own hands, sir,” she says. “If you commit a crime –”
I wave her off. “Yeah, I'm well aware. I'll be punished for my crime immediately,” I hiss. “In the meantime, I just need to be patient while these assholes kill the woman I love.”
The words that just fell out of my mouth leave me stunned for a moment. I'd never given voice to those words before. But as I think about it, I realize it's true. I love Calee. I love her in a way I never thought I could love a person.
But then I feel my heart sink again. It's a great realization to come to and something I think I should share with her – except for the fact that she's about to be murdered.
I hadn't realized she'd even moved, but the detective is suddenly standing next to me, her hand on my shoulder, giving me what she probably thinks is a reassuring squeeze.
“Let the FBI to their job, Dr. Galloway,” she says. “They're really good at this kind of thing and they have plenty of experience. Just trust them to handle this.”
I say nothing and just stare at the wreckage of the house around me, my mind spinning a million miles a minute. Detective Whitson steps away and starts talking on her cell phone. An idea is beginning to form in my mind as I look around at the ruins of my house. Ruins that bring back some old memories. Raise some old ghosts in my mind.
I take it as a sign when I see Calee's cell phone half-buried under a pile of debris near the sofa. Looking around to make sure I'm alone, I step over and pick it up, slipping it into my pocket. Crime scene techs come in to start dusting for prints and all of the other shit they're going to do that will be utterly useless. This is going to be over before they even get some of their test results back.
I'm going to make sure of it.
Chapter Thirty-Four
An hour later, with the cops still running roughshod through my place, I'm sitting at a quiet, dimly lit little dive bar called Jack's. After giving my statements, I left the house and made a call, setting up the meet. Jack's is in a shadier part of town and only going by the reputation it has, it's probably perfect for the type of meeting I'm having. From what I gather, the place is pretty anonymous and the patrons have a great habit of not seeing or hearing anything.
“It's been a while,” he says as sits down in the booth across from me.
I push the glass of Irish whiskey across the table to him. “I assume you're still a Jameson's man?”
He holds the glass up to the light and then takes a long sniff of it. “Liquid ambrosia, my friend.”
I raise my glass and tap it against his. “Good to see you, Mike. It has been a while.”
“I was surprised to get your call.”
I shrug. “Sometimes, it's good to know people who have specialized skill sets,” I reply. “Especially when you happen to be in need of them.”
Mike Toomer. He's one of the baddest, scariest men I know. A former Navy SEAL, I'd run across him in Afghanistan on a few occasions. I'd patched him up in the field and I'd even had to patch him up again after I'd transferred to Landstuhl. Though the two things don't seem to be compatible, Mike is capable of some horrendously awful shit, and he's also a good man.
“In need of them, huh?” he asks. “Sounds interesting.”
“You still doing private contracting work?”
“You asking if my specialized skills are still sharp?”
I give him a rueful grin. “Are they?”
“Like a razor.”
“Good to know,” I say. “I have a job. Name your price.”
He swallows down his whiskey and looks at me for a long moment, saying nothing. I'd already had the bartender leave the bottle at my table, knowing that Mike likes to drink. I'm nothing, if not prepared and well organized. I pour him another shot and wait.
“You patched me up a few times,” he says.
“I remember.”
“Probably saved my life,” he says.
“I probably wouldn't go that far.”
“I would,” he says. “If you'd reported some of my wounds like you were supposed to, they probably woulda stuck a purple heart on me and shipped my ass home. That woulda been as good as death, you ask me.”
I shrug. “My job was to patch people up,” I say. “The paperwork and bureaucratic bullshit is better left for somebody else.”
He drains his glass and I pour him another. I'm not trying to get him drunk or make him sloppy – Mike is a seasoned drinker. I'm simply trying to grease the wheels. If I strike out with him, I don't know what the hell I'm going to do. Other than wait for the FBI to tell me that they recovered Calee's body.
Mike looks at his glass thoughtfully. “What's the op?”
“Rescue,” I say – and knowing what he likes to hear, add, “with the option to blow some shit up and kill some bad guys.”
His eyes light up and a slow smile spreads across his face. “No shit?” he asks. “You yankin' my chain?”
“Have I ever?”
“No, suppose not,” he says. “Where's the job?”
“Wyoming.”
“Militia country,” he says. “Bunch of Second Amendment freaks out that way.”
“And pseudo-religious, doomsday prepping cults.”
He laughs and nods. “Yeah, them too.”
“So, what's it going to cost me?”
“For you?” he says, sipping his drink. “Two fifty. That's my good friend discount.”
“Make it five,” I say. “Two things I need though.”
He looks at me curiously. “Name it.”
“One, it has to be now. We can't wait. Time is critical,” I say. “Second, I'm part of your team.”
Mike sips his drink and looks at me for a long moment. “Five hundred grand, huh?” he says. “Must be important.”
“You have no idea.”
“Done.”
“Perfect,” I say.
Over the next hour, I fill him in on all the details. I make sure to tell him that the FBI will be getting involved – something that seems to particularly delight him. He nods throughout, takes a few notes, but doesn't say much. But then, Mike's never been a big talker anyway.
“That it?” he asks.
“That's it.”
“Should be a walk in the park,” he says. “These doomsday preppers talk big, but they're a bunch of pussies when the real shit starts flying.”
“How soon can you have your team ready to go?” I ask.
“Given the urgency of the situation,” he says. “Give me until tomorrow morning. Wheels up at oh-six-hundred. That should be enough time for me to round up my team, brief them, and gather our equipment. I'll text you with the location.”
I nod. “Sounds good,” I say. “I'll wait for your text.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Calee
After taking me from Eric's house, Raymond and his men had bound and gagged me before tossing me into the back of a van. And when the hood was finally removed, I found myself on a small aircraft. I struggled against my bonds – which earned me another smack across the face from Raymond.
After that, we got airborne and it wasn't all that long before we were driving through the gates of the Ark once again. The night is pitch black, but I see that Raymond has made sure to alert the whole cult that their own personal Judas is returning. They line the yard, everybody bearing torches, giving it all a surreal quality.
“Home sweet home, huh?” Raymond asks as Harold pulls me out of the truck.
My hands are still bound and the gag is still in place. Raymond gives me a sickening smile and takes the gag off of me.
“Now, if you spit on me again, I'm going to have to do something incredibly mean to you, sweetheart,” he says. “So, do yourself a favor and let's just get along now, okay?”
I struggle with the bonds but can't break free. The adrenaline has long since worn off and my head is pounding. I'm exhausted, in pain, and frustrated beyond words. Tears well in my eyes and I can't stop them from falling. It kills me to be showing weakness in front of him, but I can't help it.
“Let's go,” Harold says, giving me a rough shove from behind.
I walk through the compound and glance at all of the faces glowing in the flickering torchlight, looking at me in silent judgment.
As they march me back to the Reflection Room, I contemplate making a break for it. I know I won't get far before they gun me down, but maybe that's a better way to go out than whatever Raymond has planned for me.
The door is opened and I'm shoved inside. Raymond follows me in and finally cuts the bonds from my wrists. They're sore and chaffed, hurting, but I rub them anyway. When I enter the room though, I'm surprised to find that it's not empty.
“Rachel?” I ask.
She's huddled in a corner and even by the meager light of the lantern, I can see the cuts and bruises on her face. She's been roughed up. She looks at me with wide eyes and I see the tears begin to flow.
“Apparently, your betrayal is contagious,” Raymond says. “It took me a while, but I finally found out it was my dear wife her who helped you escape. Oh, she resisted at first, but after a little – persuasion – she finally admitted to her crimes. And now, sadly, she's going to have to pay the price alongside you. Looks like we'll be having a two-for-one tomorrow.”
“Screw you,” I hiss at him. “Let her go. She's just a child.”
“She knew full well the consequences of helping you, I'm afraid,” he says. “She's accepted her fate. Maybe it's time you do too.”
I take a step toward him and he raises his hand, showing me the long-curved blade of the knife he's holding.
“Or, I can filet you up right here and now,” he says, his voice calm and cold. “I'd rather not though. I think the folks out there deserve a show. They've earned it for their loyalty.”
“You're sick, Raymond,” I say. “A disgusting piece of human garbage.”
He nods and laughs. “I've been called far worse,” he says. “By far better.”
“You just wait,” I say. “Eric is coming for me and he's going to kill you.”
“Oh, is he?” he asks.
“Yes. He is.”
“Well, I wish him the best of luck,” he says. “Army veteran or not, he's one man. And one man isn't going to be able to do much against my flock.”
Raymond turns and walks back toward the door and pauses. He turns and looks back at me.
“Tomorrow,” he says. “Midnight. You and Rachel are going to be executed for your disloyalty to this community. Take comfort in the fact that your deaths will serve a greater purpose. Your deaths will show everybody that disloyalty is not tolerated and there are consequences to our actions.”
He walks out and closes the door behind him followed by the sound of the locks being snapped into place. I turn and rush over to Rachel, drop to my knees and pull her into a tight embrace. She leans into me, holding me tight, and sobs. Her body shakes and her wails echo around the empty room. I stroke her hair and try to soothe her.
“He's going to come,” I say. “Eric. He's going to come and he's going to save us. And he's going to kill Raymond. Just wait, honey. You'll see.”
She looks up at me, her lips trembling, her eyes wide. “I'm so scared,” she says. “I don't want to die.”
“You're not going to die, Rachel,” I say. “Eric isn't going to let them hurt either one of us. You'll see.”
“Th – the things they did to me,” she says, her voice trembling and soft. “I can't –”
“Ssssh,” I say and stroke her hair. “It's going to be okay. You'll see. Everything is going to be fine.”
My heart is in my throat and my stomach is in knots. I need to stay strong. I need to keep calm and be reassuring for Rachel, So, I keep saying it, not knowing whether I'm trying to convince her or myself.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Eric
I'm thankful to have survived the plane ride from California to Wyoming – especially the landing. Wanting to avoid the authorities, Mike's pilot had put us down on a long, rough strip of dirt in the middle of cow country.
“Is that a legal runway?” I ask as we gather near an old dilapidated barn.
“Depends on your definition of legal,” he says. “I don't think the FAA would approve, no.”
“Why in the hell is there a runway out here anyway?”
Mike shrugs. “It's used by smugglers and other unsavory types.”
“And yet, here we are,” I say. “I guess that makes us the unsavory types?”
“Depends on who you ask,” he says and laughs.
His team consists of three others aside from him – all ex-Special Forces. They do private contracting work, which is a euphemism for privately contracted black ops – assassinations and the like. But I'm not picky. These men are hard, tough, and know what they're doing. And, they are willing to do the morally ambiguous things for a paycheck. In other words, they're just the kind of guys I need.
“We have a man in position outside the compound running surveillance already,” Mike tells me. “He'
s keeping tabs on things and says your girl was taken into a small outbuilding and locked inside. He's listening on a parabolic mike and they're apparently set to kill her tonight at midnight. That's the good news.”
“That's good news?” I say.
He shrugs. “Better than having to tell you they killed her already.”
“Good point.”
The day is warm and I can feel the sweat rolling down my back, conjuring memories of my time over in the Shit. We're wearing plain black fatigues, flak jackets, and standard issue boots. Just like the uniform I had to wear in-country.
“The bad news is that they know – or at least think – we're coming,” he says. “So, they're amped up and ready for us. According to my man outside, they've got at least a dozen heavily armed men inside the walls. The trouble is, because we don't have the time to run a proper recon, we don't know they're capabilities, so we're essentially going in blind.”
“But that's what makes it kind of fun,” says one of his guys named Manny.
Mike shrugs. “Definitely ups the adrenaline factor,” he smiles. “Not necessarily a bad thing.”
“So, what can we do to even the odds?” I ask.
Mike runs a hand through his short, salt and pepper colored hair. “Ideally? Get him to let his guard down,” he says. “If they relax a bit, it makes the target softer. The softer the target, the harder we can hit, the more damage we can do.”
I think about it, try to find some way to get Raymond to let his guard down. I rack my brain as my stomach continues to do flip-flops inside of me. I feel every second of the clock passing and know that with each second that passes, Calee comes one second closer to her death.
“Wait,” I say. “I think I have an idea.”
“What is it?” Mike asks.
“I've got Raymond's number,” I say. “He called Calee on her phone just before he took her. She dropped the phone and I've got it. Maybe I can call him. Make him think I'm still in California and that I'm letting the FBI handle things.”