On The Black: (A CIA Thriller)

by Theo Cage

  She relaxed a bit. As long as she stayed off the grid she couldn’t see them finding her. Unless she got careless. Her looks could give her away if someone from the family made the connection, but surely not here in the middle of the prairies, thousands of miles away from their powerbase.

  Addie’s only concern now was where to go - or if she should stay where she was for a while. She could find another server job just to give her something to do. A place to live wasn’t as easy as it seemed even with money. Landlords wanted ID and bank accounts, none of which she could use. So it was a short-term rented room or a cheap motel. Traveling was just as much of a problem. Flying was out of the question; even traveling by train now required photo ID.

  She zipped up her bag, all of her earthly possessions under one arm, and headed west to the glow of a streetlight. She decided she’d find a place to lay low for a few days and then pick her next destination. But first she was buying some new clothes and a real cup of coffee.

  CHAPTER 42

  Los Angeles, CA

  SIX OR SEVEN BLOCKS into Burbank's warehouse district, the hostage taker pushed his rifle barrel into Jeannie's ribs. “Take a sharp right at the next turn,” he growled. Jeannie started to argue, but he pushed the steel tip harder against her side. She turned off onto a poorly lit street filled with storage sheds and industrial buildings.

  “You think we can hide from the police? Are we going to do an OJ escape? Give CNN something to air at three in the morning?”

  “Shut your mouth, lady. We're going to get out of this van, and you're going to help or you'll be very sorry.”

  She couldn't see the headlights from the patrol car yet. What would the cop think when he saw the van veer off into the Industrial Park? How long would it take him to react? But what did she know? There may be a dozen cars converging on them right now. Or helicopters silently hovering above them. She didn't know what to think.

  The bear had them turn into a small lot full of trucks and stored trailers. They parked between two tall cube vans. He turned the gun on Scott and the two kids and told them to get up.

  “We're leaving by the back door. Anyone runs and I put a bullet in their back!”

  They stepped out onto the pavement. The lot was fairly dark; only one security light up by an office trailer about two hundred yards to the west of their position.

  Jeanne followed them out. She thought of leaping on the hostage taker, raking her long fingernails across his eyes. But she kept thinking of her kids. What if he fired the gun accidentally? She wanted to be brave, but it was hard to know what to do. Ten years as a real estate agent had not taught her how to deal with an armed kidnapper.

  The bear pointed his gun towards the back of the cube van beside them. “Open the back. It slides up like a garage door.” Jeannie looked at Scott. They were switching vehicles. These guys were organized.

  Then they all went blind. A searchlight, some kind of super bright halogen torch switched on, turning their entire world blazing white. Jeannie automatically put her hands to her eyes, to cut down the blinding glare, hoping to see what was happening with her family. They all heard the muted roar of helicopter rotors above the wind, the harsh light casting long, exaggerated shadows across the concrete lot.

  “This is the police. Drop your weapons.” The voice was amplified and metallic. Like a robotic angel.

  Jeannie burst into tears at that moment despite her embarrassment at being caught under the penetrating light of an LA police chopper in her night gown and bare feet. Then she heard a strangled squeak of protest to her left and was surprised when the hostage taker screamed back into the night.

  “I have the boy. You shoot, he dies.”

  Jeannie turned frantically, still partially blinded. She could only make out a shadow somewhere a few yards away. Her daughter was on the ground, on her knees, crying, scrambling away from the adults. Scott had his hands at his side, only feet from his son, his body tense and uncertain.

  Jeannie wanted to shriek. She had seen this scene a hundred times in movies and on TV. The classic hostage taking. This was all Burrough’s fault. By running away he had sentenced them all to a life of constant fear. For years she waited for the call. You're brother-in-law is dead. Or he's in some military prison. Or some terrorist fanatics have him and they want a million dollars. Always drama.

  There wasn't a night in ten years she hadn't thought about what he had done and the pain he had caused their family. And now this. Now her family was standing in some litter strewn storage yard and her son had a gun to his head.

  Jeannie moved closer to her son. She had to see the kidnapper’s eyes. Could he do this? Then she heard the voice of the policeman who had stopped them on the 405. “You’re surrounded. Put the gun on the ground. If no one is hurt, we'll go easy on you. Let the boy go.”

  The kidnapper didn't answer. Jeannie could see his eyes now, darting from the helicopter above to the headlights on the ground - at least three pairs now, facing them.

  “Move away now! Or this boy dies,” he yelled.

  There was no response for several seconds. Jeannie was frozen in place. She couldn't run away and she was afraid to step closer to her son and alarm the man who was hugging the boy to his chest.

  Then a strange thing happened. The kidnapper tensed and then toppled backwards, releasing her son. Jeannie couldn't believe her eyes. Then she saw a large chunk of his face just fall away, his left cheek bone exposed suddenly, one eye missing. He crumpled onto the pavement. Several police officers ran up to the body as she grabbed her son. She pulled him to her so hard she feared she might break bones.

  Jeannie looked into the dark beyond the ring of police cars. Somewhere back there, the same shooter who had taken out the first two kidnappers, was packing up his sniper’s gear. It had to be the same person, the same suppressed rifle. Like a vengeful guardian angel.

  The police quickly realized the shot didn't come from their own. One police car had turned and spun away, heading back to the next street. Jeannie hoped the sniper was away safely.

  Someone was still looking out for them. After ten long years. Which meant her brother-in-law was still alive and hiding. And still being hunted.

  CHAPTER 43

  Los Angeles, CA

  GRACE DISASSEMBLED THE BOLT-ACTION Winchester in her smooth and practiced way as she walked back to her Smart car. She preferred the diminutive vehicle on nights like this because it was the furthest thing from aggressive on the road. She couldn't imagine a police officer ever thinking for a second the cute little machine could contain a murderer or an assassin. It was completely invisible in a city crowded with Maybachs and Ferraris and monster Hummers.

  Back on the side streets, she began to compose her message back to Rice. She had traded a shift that night with Jimmy, who had a date, believe it or not, with some unsuspecting restaurant server. Grace and Jimmy had increased their surveillance on Scott's home in Brentwood once they learned that Rice was on the run. They knew that Rice's brother was under the microscope and had been from day one. But now that Rice was back on the black, a lot of nervous people would be looking for leverage. And Scott was the only family that Rice had.

  The three men she had killed likely worked for Kreegar. You could never prove that of course, but he was one of two people with the most to lose if Rice ever got to tell his story. And that was the plan. She had suggested they just take out Kreegar now - that she would track him like a rabid dog until he showed his face. But this was personal with Rice. He needed to look after Kreegar face-to-face and he didn't want to implicate her or Jimmy. At least that’s what her training told her.

  When Scott and his family were taken, Grace decided not to text Rice the details. She couldn’t see any point in worrying him and there was nothing he could do anyway. She had followed the white van and did what she was trained to do. Now she felt it was her professional duty to update him. Plus she needed to know if they should increase surveillance.

  The problem was Rice was
n’t responding. It might be nothing. Maybe he ditched his phone and hadn’t replaced it yet. Their strategy was never to go more than three days with the same cell.

  But maybe it was more than that. If Kreegar succeeded in capturing Rice, short of an eyewitness report, no one would be any wiser.

  They could be waterboarding him right now in the back of some mobile operations unit and there wasn’t a damn thing Grace could do to it.

  CHAPTER 44

  Bismarck, N.D.

  RICE RIPPED HIS BLANKETS OFF. He was lying in a single bed staring at faded blue wallpaper. He could hear voices in the other room.

  “You sure you haven’t seen anything ma’am? A stranger? A private plane that went down?”

  Then a female voice, “I’m on holidays this week. I’m home all day so if anything like that was going on, I’d know.”

  “If you do hear anything, here’s my card. This man who’s missing is armed and dangerous so don’t attempt to contact him. Just call us immediately.”

  “I will… special agent McKinnon.” Then he heard a door close and footsteps across a wooden floor. The door to his room opened. The woman stopped when she saw he was awake.

  “Are you dangerous?” she asked.

  “Only to myself,” he said, touching his head, feeling a bandage. “I don’t know why you took care of me, but I owe you.”

  “It wasn’t much,” she said, stepping closer to the bed, looking cautious.

  “I meant I’m thankful you didn’t give me away. If the Feds knew I was here, well, I wouldn’t be your patient very long.”

  “What did you do? Why are they looking for you?”

  “That’s a boring story.”

  “Somehow I doubt that.”

  “Look, I owe you an explanation, but right now I’ve got to go.”

  “You can’t yet. You’ve had a serious concussion.”

  Rice sat up on the edge of the bed. “I’ve had concussions before. I know how to deal…” Then he tried to stand up and collapsed on the floor. The woman took his arm and helped him back into bed.

  “Every concussion you suffer makes the next one worse,” she offered. “You need at least a few more days rest before you can get out on your own.”

  Rice laid back and closed his eyes. Then he struggled up again. “The ZI9? Why haven’t they found it?”

  “You mean that UFO you landed in? I used my new lawn tractor and towed it into the equipment shed.”

  “Your lawn tractor?”

  “It’s electric. Rechargeable. I always wanted one.”

  “Really!”

  “And I moved all the parts, too. And then plowed the area smooth. Next year’s garden.”

  Rice shook his head. “You sound too good to be true.”

  “I like to think so.”

  Rice looked around the room. He could see his kit bag on the floor beside the bed. He asked to see it. She hefted it up onto the bed and he shuffled through the contents, trying not to make them visible to his rescuer. The money was there, gun, a few possessions. No phone.

  “You didn’t see a phone in the wreckage by any chance?”

  She shook her head. “Do you need to call someone?” Rice dropped his head back onto the pillow when the room started to slide sideways again. He knew the only cure for a concussion was time. Something he was seriously short of.

  Losing the phone was going to hurt. Addie had programmed her number into it. Now he had no idea how to contact her. Thank God Grace’s and Jimmy’s contacts were burned into his memory.

  Thinking of Addie made him wonder what happened to his stowaway. He realized halfway into his flight plan the bad performance of the copter was due to a passenger hidden in the storage bay.

  “Did you see anyone else?” The woman cocked her head, probably thinking he was hallucinating.

  “You mean the men at the door?”

  “At the crash site.”

  “You were the only alien I found.” Rice digested that, not sure if he heard correctly. So Addie must have escaped. She could be hurt or injured somewhere, afraid to report to a hospital.

  “I can’t expect you to just look after me,” Rice said.

  “You don’t have a choice.”

  He tried to focus on her. “I guess you’re right.”

  “By the way, my name is Britt.” She put out her hand and he took it, the room still spinning. Was he going to lie to the woman who saved his life?

  “Ray. Ray Martin.”

  She cocked her head. “Nice to meet you Ray. By the way, those guys at the door weren’t FBI,” she handed him a business card. “They said they were from Homeland Security.

  CHAPTER 45

  Yakima, Washington

  WILSON LOST ALL INTEREST in playing secret agent less than two minutes into his interrogation. The two heavies who picked him up at the hospital in Yakima drove him to a residence on a quiet street, rolled up a heavily dented garage door, and parked inside.

  Within minutes, he found himself chained to a steel jackpost in an unfinished basement: cement floor and concrete walls, the windows covered with cardboard, a sixty-watt bulb hanging from a rafter. Half an hour later, he heard the front door open and heavy footsteps track across the floor above him and down the old wooden staircase. This guy was blonde, his muscles showing through his light gray jacket. A weight lifter. The other two men looked uneasy and stepped back, nervous smiles on their faces. They were clearly in the presence of their leader. He stepped up, just out of range of Wilson's legs

  “We've met before. I helped my brother push your crappy Volkswagen over a ravine - while you were still in it. Quite enjoyable.”

  Wilson recognized him then, the close-cropped haircut and unfeeling eyes.

  “If we would have known you had valuable information, we wouldn't have tried so hard to dispose of you.”

  The blonde killer had Wilson's wallet in his hands, taken from him in the car on the drive over. He opened the billfold and pulled out a driver's license

  “Wilson McFee. Well, Wilson. We believe you may have some information valuable to us. So we are going to need your assistance. But that usually means we need to soften you up first. What do you think of that? Do you want to save us the trouble?”

  Before Wilson could say anything, one of the other men picked up a rubber water hose that was attached to a water bib near a floor drain by the furnace. He went back to the tap and turned it on full, letting the water rush into the floor drain.

  “I know it's only water,” said the boss. “And a basic garden hose from Wal-Mart. But in the right hands, we can make art with this.”

  Before Wilson could react, the closest guard rushed behind Wilson and pulled the chain wrapped around his wrists so hard, he screamed. Wilson now had his back up against the lally column, his ribs screaming at him, both arms pulled awkwardly behind his back.

  The second man walked up to him, watching Wilson's legs, and let the water from the hose splash over Wilson's head and face. Wilson sputtered and coughed, but quickly learned to close his mouth and try to control his breathing. The water was icy cold and he was quickly drenched to the skin

  Then the man controlling the water carefully folded the hose over, kinking the flow down to a trickle

  “I believe in the power of sampling, Mr. McFee. Try before you buy,” said the leader. “So we are going to give you a small taste of our specialty first, then you can decide on your own if you would like to co-operate. Or not.” The blond man nodded at his employee.

  The man holding Wilson' arms pulled back as hard as he could, forcing the young man’s head back. The other man took the end of the hose and forced it into Wilson's open mouth. Then he covered the young man's face with his other hand and released the kink in the hose. Water came gushing out of the edges of Wilson's cheeks, his nostrils, and even a fine spray erupted from the corner of one eye, evidence that his sinus cavities were full and bursting with pressure. Wilson couldn't swallow and couldn't breathe. He flopped around on the wet
concrete floor like a fish out of water, breathing in the freezing water.

  After a few seconds, the man with the hose pulled the end out of Wilson's mouth and watched without emotion as his captive spat up water, choked and coughed for several minutes - his hands still painfully angled behind his back.

  “Fascinating, isn't it,” said the leader. “Millions of years of evolution swimming the oceans, and another nine months in your mother's womb, breathing water every minute. So why does this feel so horrible then?”

  Wilson was still gasping, his face purple, his legs spasming across the wet floor. He had never felt so afraid in his life. Drowning was a horrible way to die if this was only a sample.

  “Tell us everything you know about the mountain man you helped.”

  “Bite me,” said Wilson, but it was half-hearted and interrupted by another coughing spasm. The man with the hose expertly inserted the end down Wilson's gullet again, while the man behind him held Wilson’s head with a beefy arm. Wilson's eyes grew wide as he tried to move his head, the water spraying everywhere as he gasped for air. This time they left the hose in place longer - until Wilson had no choice but to suck down a futile lungful of icy city water.

  After a minute they pulled the hose out and waited, Wilson's body heaving and convulsing, the water driven down deep into his lungs.

  “We will do this until you talk or die,” said the leader. “Tell us something, anything. And we will stop.”

  Wilson's head was hung down, his wet hair in his eyes, his legs splayed out. “He - he - he liked dark chocolate.” Wilson coughed again, a long painful hack that came from the deepest recesses of his chest.

  “Dark chocolate. See! How hard was that? What else?”

  Wilson hesitated and the man with the hose stepped closer, the water splashing Wilson's high tops. “He never had visitors. Only me once a week.”