Peak Oil

by Arno Joubert

  He chuckled. Andy had handled it well, and he had paid Harvey enough to cast a blind eye, enough to put his kid through college. But Fitch had gone too far this time, screwing with Interpol agents the way he did.

  Harvey sighed and punched a number into his phone. The call was answered after a couple of rings.

  “You found her?” Fitch asked eagerly.

  Harvey blinked. “What did your people do to her, Andy?”

  Fitch went quiet for a second. “Nothing. She fell.”

  “Don’t bullshit me, Andy. The situation is getting out of hand.” He paced through his office, mopping his brow with a handkerchief as the heat rose to his face. “It looks like a damn steam train drove over her. And now there’s an army in my backyard.”

  “Listen, Harvey,” Fitch whispered gently, “if I go down, you go down with me. And all the money disappears.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “No damn buts, Dwight. The college fund for the kids, holidays in Hawaii, all gone. Think about it, Dwight. Is that what you want?”

  Harvey’s phone beeped in his ear. He looked at the screen. “Andy, I have another call. We need to talk, soon,” he said and disconnected the call. Then he answered the waiting number.

  “Deputy Harvey?” the voice asked in a strong French accent.

  Harvey rested his head against his arm on the wall. “Yes, that’s me.”

  “I believe you have information on one of my agents, Alexa Guerra. Her father messaged me that he had found her, but she is in a serious condition. He’s busy but said I should get hold of you.”

  “Who am I talking to?” Dwight asked irritably.

  “This is General Alain Laiveaux, Head of Investigations, Interpol.”

  Harvey snapped to attention. “Ah, yes, General. They were stopped in a roadblock, but we let him through.”

  He was her father? Harvey straightened up. “I was on my way to the hospital right now to see how she is doing.”

  “What was her condition like when you last saw her?” Laiveaux asked.

  Harvey slid into his chair. “Serious, General. Broken nose, I saw lots of blood.”

  “What happened?”

  “They say she fell down a flight of stairs.”

  Laiveaux snorted. “Now you listen to me, Deputy. I’m on my way to you now, and I’m about to unleash the wrath of God on you. After I’m done with you, you’ll wish your little backwater town would disappear off the face of the planet.”

  Harvey rested his head on his hand, closed his eyes, and nodded.

  Laiveaux paused for effect and then continued. “You rednecks have screwed with the wrong people, Deputy. Get your shit sorted and your house in order. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  The phone disconnected, leaving Harvey staring at the screen. He swallowed hard. “Oh, shit.” He got up as his phone rang again. He sighed as he answered. “Harvey.”

  A husky female voice spoke. “Deputy, this is Martha Williamson. What the hell is going on down there?”

  “Um, what do you mean, Judge?” he asked and slapped his forehead.

  “What the hell do you mean, ‘What do I mean’? You know exactly what the hell I mean, you prick.”

  “Well, some Interpol agents are investigating one of our residents. Two of them were murdered, and the third is in a serious condition in the hospital.”

  “Name them.”

  Harvey flipped open his notepad and licked his finger. He flipped through the pages. “One was Bis Latorre, and the other was a man named Reg Voelkner.”

  The woman grunted. “Voelkner is alive. What about Neil Allen?”

  Harvey shrugged. “He’s okay, I guess.”

  She cursed. “He’s dead, you imbecile. I know more about the goings-on in your backwater little town than you do. Phone me if you find out anything new.”

  The phone disconnected. A couple of seconds later, his phone beeped. He read the message. It was Martha Williamson’s mobile number.

  He laid his head back against the chair and closed his eyes. Could things get any more complicated?

  The black Jag sped down the blacktop at a hundred and twenty miles an hour. Laiveaux was impatient. “How far?” he asked the driver.

  The man looked up at Laiveaux through the rearview mirror. “Another thirty miles—fifteen minutes.”

  Laiveaux nodded. He dialed a number. “Deploy the troops. ETA fifteen minutes,” he barked into the phone.

  He patted his pockets for a cigarette. The driver frowned in the rearview, took a pack from his breast pocket, and offered it to Laiveaux over his shoulder.

  “No,” he barked. “I’m trying to quit.”

  The man nodded and then looked straight ahead.

  He was being an asshole and he knew it, but he was worried about Alexa. Extremely worried. “Go to the hospital first. I want to check in on the captain.”

  Harvey’s door flew open and he looked up. “What the hell? Haven’t you heard of knocking?” he shouted at an agitated-looking Tony.

  “Deputy, you have to come see this,” Tony said, bouncing from one foot to the next. The man’s ashen face made it look like he had seen an alien spaceship.

  Harvey stood up impatiently and followed Tony outside. A crowd had gathered, all staring up at the sky. He squinted up to where Tony was pointing, and he couldn’t believe his eyes.

  A Transall C-160 flew low over their heads, emitting a deep droning noise. It made a wide arc in the sky, soared back, and climbed into the air, leaving dozens of tiny speckles in its wake.

  Harvey gaped at the show. The speckles became larger and morphed into men, pulling and yanking the cables on their parachutes, drifting toward town.

  He made his way to his car as fast as his portly frame allowed him to. Climbing in, he looking up at the sky, trying to judge where the men were headed. They drifted toward Prairie Lookout, next to Saint Josephine’s. He turned onto the main road, still glancing up at the sky.

  A loud honk blared behind him as a black Jaguar flew by, the wind trail rocking his patrol car from side to side. He ripped the wheel to the left and ended up driving up the sidewalk. He cursed and reversed the car off the curb.

  “Asshole,” he shouted and waved his arms.

  He slammed the car into gear, jammed the accelerator to the floor, and headed toward the park. In front of him, the black Jag turned left and drove into the entrance of Saint Josephine's. Probably some medical emergency.

  As he arrived at Prairie Lookout, the final soldier had landed and was busy rolling his parachute up in a bundle. The other men had formed into two rows, five in front and six at the back. They wore indistinct, dark army camouflage uniforms with black berets, no rank or identification tags. They clutched Heckler & Koch MP7s to their chests with both hands, each rifle equipped with suppressors and extended ammo magazines. Harvey didn’t know a lot, but he knew plenty about guns. And these guys were prepared to go to war.

  Eight more objects floated down to the park, landing on the ground with a dull thud. The soldiers grabbed crowbars and started stripping the containers. They contained entire damn Humvees, boxes of supplies, and tents rolled up in plastic sheets. The soldiers started erecting the tents, carrying supplies and boxes around in a well-drilled manner. They had done this before, he guessed. Lots of times. Ten minutes later, an entire camp had been set up. Small diesel generators provided power to the site, and stacked sandbags formed temporary walls inside the tents. Harvey swung around as the black Jaguar pulled into the parking lot next to his patrol car.

  A tall wiry guy with grey hair climbed out of the Jag, barking orders at the squadron. He wore light blue, army-style pants and a crisp white shirt. Golden, braided fringe was fastened to the epaulets on both shoulders. He walked up to each man, shaking a hand and sharing a couple of words. The men smiled and nodded at him as he passed. He held a short baton behind his back in both hands. His self-assured behavior told Harvey that he was their leader.

  The old guy barked congratulations to the
troops in broken English. “Good, Forrester, your men have done well. Stand down, relax,” he yelled at the other men.

  Harvey sauntered closer. He was hell-bent on finding out what these assholes were doing in his town, and this guy was their leader. The men shuffled into the two lines again and then saluted, stamped their feet together, rifles snapped sideways across their chests in perfect unison. “General, yes, General,” they shouted in one deep voice.

  So this was General Laiveaux, the man who had spoken to him over the phone.

  “Um, excuse me,” Harvey said, tapping the man’s shoulder. Laiveaux’s head jerked around, and the general studied Harvey for a few seconds, looking him up and down, judging him with a stern look on his face. He had penetrating blue eyes that made Harvey shift his weight between his feet uncomfortably. He was deeply tanned and had a square jaw that jutted out at Harvey.

  The General removed a white kepi from his head, his hair cut in a short, crew-cut style, and he had day-old silver stubble on his cheeks and jaw.

  Harvey stuck out his hand. “General Laiveaux, I presume.”

  The man snorted and then glanced up over Harvey’s head. “Un moment, s'il vous plaît.”

  Harvey glanced over his shoulder as a car skidded to a halt behind them, and Bruce Bryden climbed out. The wrinkles around the general’s stern eyes softened, and a smile appeared on his face.

  “Major, how is she?” he called, walking to the car with an athletic bounce in his step.

  Bryden opened the door to the backseat and removed the woman from the car. He cradled her like a child, holding her close to his chest. “She’s getting there,” he said and looked around the campsite. “Infirmary?”

  The older man walked to one of the tents and opened the flap. It resembled a hospital inside; boxes marked with red crosses were piled high. A trolley filled with medical supplies and syringes stood to the side. The general barked some orders in French, and two soldiers proceeded to make a bed with clean sheets and cushions.

  “I don’t want to keep her at the clinic,” Bryden said. “I’ll feel safer where all the men can keep an eye on her.” He gently put her down on the bed and pulled the sheet up to her chin. They marched out of the tent and closed the flap. Two soldiers stood in front of the tent, cradling their weapons in their arms.

  Bryden extended his hand to the general. He was even taller than Laiveaux by at least two inches. They shook hands, clasping each other’s elbows, the other hand on a shoulder, and then embraced like old friends who hadn’t seen each other for a long time.

  “She’s stable,” Bryden said. “I put her in an induced coma.”

  The general nodded. “How long? I need to have a word with her.”

  Bryden glanced at his watch. “Three hours or so.”

  “Very well then,” the general said and swung around on his heel. He headed straight toward Harvey. He stopped in front of him, bent down, and then locked eyes with Harvey. “I’ve taken over command of your jurisdiction,” he said and pointed his baton toward the police vehicle. “Now, bugger off.”

  Harvey could feel the blood drain from his face. “What?”

  The general sighed. “I’m the new boss. You are relieved of your duties.” He slapped the baton in the palm of his hand. “As you are unable to perform your judicial duties, I have decided to do them myself.”

  Harvey removed his hat and scratched his head. “Well, okay then. You sure I can’t—”

  The general shook his head and pointed the baton at the car. “Bugger off, and don’t get involved in anything.”

  Harvey shrugged. “Well, okay then,” he said and slunk off to the car.

  These guys had taken over his town. He guessed he better tell Fitch.

  Alexa groaned as she opened her eyes. The smell of disinfectant permeated the air, and an air conditioner droned incessantly in the background.

  She blinked. The harsh fluorescent glare hurt her eyes as she tried to focus on her surroundings. She was in a tent somewhere. And Neil was dead.

  She shivered even though she was burning up from the inside, probably from the shock starting to set in. She felt like she had been run over by a tanker truck. She propped herself up on an elbow, but her vision blurred and she fell back with a sob, biting on her teeth as the pain seared through her shoulder.

  Her fingers lingered over the painful area in her stomach. She brought her hand up and briefly glanced at her bloody fingertips; Bruce had probably drained the blood.

  She sobbed as the memories came flooding back.

  Fitch had been deliberate in every sickening and calculated move he had made, observing closely what had caused her the most pain and then doing it again.

  She didn’t know how long the torture had lasted. Her body’s natural self-preservation mechanism had kicked in and she had passed out, although she had been trained not to. Thank God she did. Fitch didn’t give a rat’s ass about the Geneva Conventions.

  Bruce placed a cool hand on her shoulder. She instinctively flinched and hit it away.

  She felt him dab her brow with something cold. “Don’t worry, baby. I’m here.”

  She blinked and looked up at him. “What’s the damage?”

  Bruce studied her face grimly and then lowered his eyes. “Bruises, lacerations. You were right, massive internal bleeding.”

  “You drained it?”

  He shook his head. “The CAT confirmed my suspicion. You had a ruptured spleen, I had to operate.”

  She swallowed painfully, then cast him a hopeful glance. “You got the bastard, right?”

  Bruce pursed his lips and slowly shook his head.

  Alexa growled and swung her legs over the side of the gurney. Bruce tried to stop her, but she grabbed the pistol from his shoulder holster and pointed it at his head in a single fluid movement.

  “Stand back, Daddy. I swear . . .”

  Bruce lifted his hands in the air, backed away. She tore the IV from her arm and scanned the room for her clothes.

  Alexa saw her pants where Bruce had flung them hastily over the back of a chair. “I’m going to kill the bastard,” she snarled as she limped to the chair.

  Neil was dead and Fitch had killed him. Fitch needed to be dead as well. Alexa felt it imperative that Anderson Fitch should die, as if that would somehow restore the balance to her teetering universe.

  She pulled on her pants; they were damp and caked with dirt and blood. The rich bastard was a sick psychopath; all he cared for was money. He wouldn’t hesitate to kill people who got in the way of his greedy goals. But he had screwed with the wrong woman. She knew she was going to kill him. She hadn’t felt more certain of anything in her life. Bruce wouldn’t stop her; it would be futile on his part to even try.

  “Where are the meds?” she asked, scanning the room.

  Neil is dead, the thought hammered in her brain incessantly.

  Bruce pointed to a drawer next to the bed. She ripped it open, rummaged through the contents, and then dug out a bottle and held it to the light. The label said “Silenor”.

  “What’s this?” she asked, shaking the bottle.

  “We use it for severe pain and as an antidepressant.”

  She grunted and tossed it on the gurney. No, she wasn’t depressed. She scavenged around some more. Found the good stuff. She lifted it up and read the label. “Ketamine.” This she knew. If it worked on horses, it sure as hell would work on her. She threw back her head, shook some pills into her mouth, grabbed a water bottle, and took a long draw.

  “Look, Alexa. This isn’t necessary. I’ll take it from here.”

  “You don’t understand, Daddy. I need to do this.”

  Bruce pursed his lips and then nodded reluctantly. “Okay, at least allow me to get you some clean clothes.”

  Alexa slowly lowered the gun.

  Bruce yanked opened a cabinet door, removed some clothes, and then tossed them on the bed. “Meet us in the mess tent in five minutes. You’ll be able to follow the mission from there.”<
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  Alexa got dressed, trying to suppress the sobs that ripped through her body.

  Neil is dead. Neil is dead.

  Her heart pounded in her chest, more painful than any physical wound could ever be. She never realized how much he had meant to her, how empty his absence made her feel.

  Neil is dead.

  She needed to restore the balance. She needed to somehow fill the empty place in her heart he had left behind.

  Bruce Bryden looked up at the white screen that had been erected in the tent. The soldiers had taken their places at a couple of metal tables around him in the mess tent. The dining area now also served as a meeting place. Dr. Joseph Ryan sat next to him, slurping his coffee noisily. Laiveaux stood up, holding his hands behind his back, the baton tucked under his armpit.

  “You managed to get into the security system, Major?” Laiveaux asked, looking up at the screen.

  A magnified version of Sal Frydman’s face nodded on the screen; Bruce could make out the pores on his nose. “Yes. Captain Guerra did well, this is a live feed.”

  Frydman’s face shrunk and moved into a window at the top right of the screen. Behind him, a camera feed appeared. Two uniformed men dragged a woman in a white lab coat into an office. They dumped her roughly into a chair. Andy Fitch walked around her and then bent down, his face close to hers, having an animated discussion.

  “No sound?” Bruce asked.

  Frydman shook his head. “No, Major, visuals only.”

  “Who is the lady in the chair?” Rosh asked.

  Before Ryan could respond, a female voice answered from behind them. “Her name is Dr. Lucy Beck.” The men all turned around. “They’re going to kill her,” Alexa said.

  Alexa was dressed in her black Mossad uniform. She looked pale; her face was bruised and her eyes blue and swollen. But she stood up straight. Her two guards stood on either side of her.

  Laiveaux jumped up, grabbing her elbow, trying to usher her out of the tent. “You need to lie down, my girl. We will deal with things from here on in,” Laiveaux said in French.