State of Emergency

by Marc Cameron

  Less than five minutes later, they’d set timers on six two-pound blocks of C-4 explosive. Two under the gas hogs out front and the others under the support columns of the building. Pollard had wanted to use remote detonators, but the good ones, the kind that would ensure they all didn’t get blown to hell by some idiot’s garage door opener, were out of his price range. Zamora, who seemed to be an expert at such things, had convinced him to use timers, planning the sets so they’d go off at roughly the same time.

  All three of them ran across the frontage road to the safety of the overpass, sliding into their hiding spot in the tall grass.

  “Put these in.” Valentine held a pair of earplugs out to each of the other team members.

  Pollard was in the middle of inserting the foam plugs when he felt Care tense beside him.

  “Holy shit,” she whispered. “There’s someone in there.”

  Pollard snatched up the binoculars.

  “Where?”

  She pointed with a shaking finger. “Coming out of the service area, just on the other side of that window. It’s a girl.”

  Pollard’s breath balled up in his chest as he watched a young woman in a smart gray pantsuit walk from a back office into the showroom. Without thinking, he dropped the binoculars and gathered himself up to run.

  “What are you doing?” Valentine yanked him back to the ground. “We have ninety seconds before twelve pounds of explosive and who knows how many gallons of gas blows that place to hell.”

  Pollard jerked away, staring back at him. “We have to warn her!”

  “Be still!” the Venezuelan hissed. “If you tell her about the explosive she’ll know you’re responsible. I’m not going to prison because some chica decided to work late.”

  Care gave an emphatic shake of her head, eyes wide, body twitching. “Matt’s right,” she said. “We have to let her know.”

  She got up to run, but Valentine was on her in an instant. He grabbed a fist full of dreadlocks and heaved, jerking her over backwards. She hit the ground with a groan, but he split her lip with a quick fist to the face to make sure he had her attention.

  The fireball from the first explosion reflected off his twisted face as he pulled back to strike her again and again, turning her face into a bloody pulp.

  Pollard sat motionless, trapped between the murder of an innocent dealership employee and the vicious assault of one of their own by a member of his group.

  The third explosion sent the hood of the black Suburban shrieking overhead to slam into the overpass abutment. The sickening crash snapped Pollard out of his stupor.

  “Knock it off!” he said, shoving Valentine off a bewildered Care.

  Blood poured from her nose and lips, dripping from her chin and soaking her blond dreadlocks. Her teeth showed pink in the firelight of burning cars. “No one was supposed to get hurt,” she moaned.

  “Just keep our heads,” Valentine said. “If we keep our heads, everything will be fine.”

  “Oh, you mean like when you were beating the shit out of me?” Care winced. She clutched at her forehead with both hands. “You bastard, I think you broke my skull.”

  “You’ll be fine,” he said, waving her off. “We did what we came to do—send a message. There is often collateral damage in this sort of action.”

  “Screw that,” Care said, stumbling to her feet. “I’m going down there to see if maybe she’s alive.”

  Sirens wailed in the distance.

  Pollard froze. He knew Care was right. There was a chance the woman had survived the explosions. Someone should go check on her—but he couldn’t bring himself to move. Zamora pulled a pistol from his waistband and made his choice for him.

  “You hear that?” he said, pointing the gun at Care. “The cops are on their way.”

  “Good.” She rocked back and forth, clutching her head. “I can talk to them when they get here.”

  The dealership was fully engulfed in flames now. Every few seconds a fuel tank on one of the gas hogs blew, sending jagged shards of glass and metal whirring into the night sky.

  Care swayed, blinking dizzy eyes. She looked at the pistol and smirked, her bloody face backlit by the orange fireball. “Put that away,” she said. “You wouldn’t shoot me, Valentine.”

  Pollard felt as if his joints were locked in place. Unable to make himself move, he watched helplessly as Valentine Zamora fired twice. The first shot hit her in the throat, the second in the shoulder.

  The gun hung motionless in Zamora’s hand. For a terrifying moment, Pollard thought the man might turn it against him.

  Instead Zamora shoved it back in his waistband, spitting on the ground in disgust. “Stupid bitch,” he said. “I just blew that lady to hell. What made you think I wouldn’t shoot you?”

  He turned to Pollard, mistaking his fearful inaction for complicity. “Come on,” he said, already grabbing the girl’s feet. She was still moving, tragic sounds coming from the wound in her throat. “Help me drag her body out of sight.” He looked up and grinned. “Like it or not, we’re on the same team now, amigo.”

  CHAPTER 38

  Zamora lay naked, facedown on the padded massage table in his motor home with a cell phone pressed to his ear. The soles of his feet were on fire, but luckily there appeared to be nothing broken, no long-term damage.

  The shorter of the gap-toothed twins worked on the small of his back and the taller kneaded the knots out of his calves. The familiar buzzing of Lourdes Garcia’s angry voice helped to chase away memories of his beating at the hands of the Chechens. He found that he missed her more than he’d imagined and could almost smell the familiar burned-sugar odor she got when she was mad.

  “I want to punch this boohooing woman in the face,” Lourdes said. “She is so weak . . . and the awful little baby . . . I cannot stand to look at it.”

  “And you say I get into moods, my darling,” Zamora said. His voice shook as the twins began to beat on his back. “Let Jorge and Pete watch them and you relax.”

  “I cannot relax with the worm squealing his face off every five minutes,” Lourdes snapped. “Have you forgotten me completely? The men you assigned here are pathetic. Pete does little but sit in his chair and tell her nasty jokes when he is not playing video games. He is like a stupid teenager—and do not get me started on the whining Jorge. He is useless. I can no longer trust him. He even gave the bawling worm some of my chocolate milk. Can you imagine?”

  Zamora smiled to himself. Beautiful, crazy Lourdes, she was passionate about so many things. He would have to give her some little something to appease her or risk a mutiny.

  “I believe it is time for you to make a statement, my darling.”

  “What do you mean?” She paused her rant to listen.

  “Send Jorge and Pete to buy ten bags of cat litter. When they return, have them dig a grave some distance from the house—large and deep enough to hide the bodies of a mother and child.”

  “Then I will be alone with the woman and her worm while they work,” Lourdes said, sounding almost giddy. “That will probably scare her to death.”

  “Now, now,” Zamora said. “We need them alive for the moment, remember?”

  “I know,” she said. “I hate it, but I understand.”

  “I promise you, my love,” Zamora said. “When you see what I have in mind, you will find it so very entertaining.”

  He ended the call and summoned Monagas with a snap of his fingers.

  His face pressed against the cool leather bed, he watched through sleepy eyes as his faithful companion ushered in Fabian, one of the mechanics.

  “How long have you been with me, my friend?” Zamora’s voice was muffled against the table.

  “Four years, patrón.” The man’s knees shook.

  “Four years . . .”

  The gap-toothed twin used her fists to beat the muscles of Zamora’s back like a drum.

  He groaned as the days of tension began to bleed from him. “You would think that would be long en
ough to know me. . . .”

  The mechanic stood quietly, twisting a ball cap in his hands.

  “Have I not treated you well?”

  “Very well, patrón.”

  “I think so as well,” Zamora said, languidly twisting his neck as the short twin continued with her work down his spine. “That is why I am so distraught at your actions.”

  “I beg your pardon, patrón?” Fabian’s teeth chattered as he spoke.

  “It had to be you, my friend,” Zamora said. “No one else had access to the motorcycle and my road book.”

  “What?”

  Zamora cocked his head. “Monagas, I believe Fabian is having some trouble hearing me.”

  The mechanic shrieked as Monagas stepped up behind him and sliced off his ear. The gap-toothed twin, numb to such things, continued to knead Zamora’s buttocks without so much as a flinch.

  Zamora held out his hand, taking the bloody ear and holding it up to his mouth.

  “Can you hear me now, my friend?”

  “They have my family, patrón,” the man sobbed. “What was I to do?”

  “Well,” Zamora said, “certainly not what you did. What else does Rustam Daudov have planned?”

  “He says you have a bomb, and he wants it for himself.”

  “I know what he wants,” Zamora hissed into the ear. “I asked you what he has planned.”

  “I do not know, patron,” Fabian sobbed. “I swear it. He did not tell me.”

  Zamora gave a tired sigh, sitting up on the table. The twin felt him moving and scrambled out of the way. “You won’t be needing this then.” He sniffed the severed ear, then dropped it on the floor, nodding at Monagas.

  CHAPTER 39

  January 7

  It was nothing short of a miracle that Pollard had gotten as far as he had with the austere environment and simple tools Zamora provided. He’d told Yesenia that it would have been easier for the professor on Gilligan’s Island to build a bomb from scratch than it was for him to try and repair one, but she didn’t understand the joke.

  On the stifling afternoon of his tenth day in the jungle, he reassembled a section of the PAL and heard a faint click. He grimaced, waiting for whatever came after death, because he knew if the bomb blew, he’d not be conscious to experience the moments in between. There was no detonation, but along with the now living circuitry, Baba Yaga’s design clicked in Pollard’s brain. As if a veil had been lifted, everything became clear. He understood her.

  Peering with a flashlight at the top of the metal tube, deep into the guts of the thing, he took a look at the row of capacitors from a fresh perspective. Dizzy with the new information, he fell back on his cot and rubbed a hand over his face. There was something about her that had bothered him from the beginning—and now he knew what it was.

  More dangerous than even Zamora imagined, Baba Yaga was not what she seemed.

  Revitalized, Pollard jumped up as quickly as he’d sat down, pacing back and forth, shaking the hut on its piers. Finally, he threw open the flimsy door. Technically, he wasn’t even supposed to use the latrine without an escort, but boredom and oppressive heat had made the guards lax over time.

  Angelo, the camp’s second in command, sat in a folding chair flipping through a magazine about fishing. His rifle leaned against the woodpile beside him. He nearly fell over at Pollard’s shrill whistle. Angelo spoke no English and looked terrified whenever Pollard spoke to him.

  He held up his hand as if he wanted Pollard to stay in place. “Yesenia,” he mumbled, shoving the fishing magazine in his hip pocket and scooping up his weapon. Two other guards, also Guarani Indians, glanced up from the cook fire for a moment, then resumed whatever it was they were doing.

  “Yes.” Pollard nodded to Angelo. “Yesenia.”

  The Indian girl came trotting up a moment later, breathless and smiling. Pollard realized he’d never called for her before.

  “I need to talk to Zamora immediately,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm.

  Yesenia sighed, nodding softly before walking away. She seemed to realize that things were about to change.

  “I need assurances,” Pollard said, “before I go any further.”

  Zamora gave a slow sigh on the other end of the phone and was quiet for a long time. Finally, Pollard heard his lips smacking.

  “Very well then,” the Venezuelan said. “You may be assured that if you play games with me, I will chop your wife and son into fish bait.”

  “I’m serious, Valentine.”

  “And I am suddenly playing games? You know what I am capable of, my friend. Do us both a favor and complete your mission.”

  “So,” Pollard said, biting his lip as he spoke. “How does this work when I do figure it out? How can I know that my family will be safe?”

  “I do not know,” Zamora said. “I have been focused on other endeavors. Present a plan to me and I will consider it. But know this, my customers need your expertise, so you will stay with the device until she is delivered. This is a package deal.”

  “If one hair on my son’s head—”

  “I know, you will kill me,” Zamora chuckled, cutting him off. “You’re making yourself look foolish, Matthew. Call me when you have good news.”

  Zamora ended the call.

  Pollard took a deep breath, clutching the satellite phone in his fist. He looked down at Yesenia.

  “Things are about to change,” he said.

  She smiled, blinking her eyes like a schoolgirl with a crush. “I know.”

  CHAPTER 40

  Zamora set the phone on his chest and smiled. Pollard had done it. It was apparent in the timbre of his voice. He’d figured out a way to arm the device, and though he harbored well-placed concern for his family, the scientist in him couldn’t help but brag about his accomplishment. Valentine had known all along that the man could do it, but the fact that plans were moving forward so well was cause for celebration.

  The taller of the gap-toothed twins—he could never remember their names—gave a plaintive whine from where she lay beside him. Naked but for an Egyptian cotton sheet pulled up to her waist, she snuggled in close, causing him to sweat despite the chilly desert air coming through the motor home window. The other twin peeked over the point of her sister’s shoulder, grinning broadly enough to whistle when she breathed.

  “Are you finally done with your calls, Vali?” she asked. He really hated it when she called him that. She and her sister were a pair, though, one never far from the other. He thought of them as bookends, something to admire while he searched for something else but never really study too deeply.

  “Almost, my darlings,” Zamora said. He stared up at the ceiling, thinking of what to do next. By all rights he should have been exhausted from the long day of riding, but instead of fatigue he felt a sort of wishful anxiety, as if something very wonderful was about to happen and he simply could not wait. There was so much yet to do and Pollard’s assistance would be necessary until the end. Still, he could tell from Lourdes’s voice she was getting to the very last knot on her rope. He had to figure out a way to placate her somehow. She was like a kiln, a furnace that he needed to feed from time to time.

  He picked up the cell phone again and punched in Lourdes’s number with his thumb, smiling at his own brilliance.

  “Come on, Vali,” the shorter twin pouted from behind her sister.

  He put a finger to his lips. “Shhh,” he said. “If Lourdes suspects you are with me, she’ll peel the skin off the soles of your feet and make you dance with her.”

  Both girls fell silent immediately, taking care not to even breathe too deeply, for they knew he wasn’t joking about such a thing. They’d seen her do it.

  “Hello, my darling,” Zamora said when Lourdes answered. “I need you to do something for me. It will upset the good professor, to be sure, but I believe the time has come to make some changes in our arrangement.”

  CHAPTER 41

  Idaho

  Marie’s body jerked
awake from a fitful sleep when Lourdes stomped into the room wearing her lime-green ski parka and wool tam. Simon, who’d grown even more sensitive to his mother’s moods than normal, looked up with a trembling lower lip. Tears brimmed on his tiny lashes and he swelled his lungs, gathering breath for a horrific squeal. He’d already lost so much weight. His little face was sunken and pale. Marie clutched him to her chest and tried to comfort him, but the squeal came anyway. Her teeth ached from constantly clenching her jaw. Stress hormones coursed through her body without a break, wearing her down and eating away at her mind.

  “Time for a hike,” Lourdes said. She stomped her foot on the tile floor, making a dull thud and rattling the mostly vacant farmhouse.

  Pete looked up from his recliner with a sideways eye. “Are you serious?”

  “Valentine demands it,” Lourdes said, glaring at the bawling baby. “It is not good for me to be cooped up in this house for so long. I become impatient, and when I become impatient, I become violent.”

  “Well, I haven’t been cooped up for that long,” Pete said. “I’ll just stay here with the prisoners.”

  “They are coming as well,” Lourdes barked. She clapped her hands. “Apúrate,” she said. Hurry up.

  “It’s freezing out there,” Marie argued. “I’m afraid Simon is already getting sick.”

  Jorge, who’d been making sandwiches in the kitchen, poked his head around the corner. “My leg is bothering me,” he said. “I can stay with them.”

  “Aaahhhhhhh!” Lourdes screeched. “We all go! Put on your coats or not, I do not care. We leave in two minutes.”

  “Oh, mi madre,” Jorge whispered, biting his bottom lip. His eyes fell on the crying baby.

  Marie scrambled to fit a squalling Simon into his hooded fleece jumper. In between shuddering sobs he looked up at her with accusing eyes, not understanding why she had to be so rough. It killed her inside to force him.