On The Black: (A CIA Thriller)

by Theo Cage

  It didn't matter anyway. The paid killer lost patience with the kid behind the counter and pumped three bullets into his chest. Then he thought, what the hell, the guests are awake anyway, and unleashed his AK-47 on the reservations desk. He tore the restored barn wood into exploding shards. Then he decimated the computer screen, and blasted the back wall big-screen display.

  The owner of the lodge was stupid enough to poke his head out of his corner office at this point, shocked by the damage to his newly renovated lobby. The two killers turned on him, guns raised.

  They stared at each other for several seconds; plaster dust and gun smoke billowing around them.

  “He’s on the second floor. Room 212,” the owner said, looking more pissed off than scared. The killers nodded and ran for the elevator.

  CHAPTER 87

  Casey’s Mill Lodge, Indiana

  RICE RAN THROUGH A PICTURE of the retreat in his head as he pulled Britt down the hallway. The main building was a long rectangle, the long side facing the drive that rose up the hill, giving guests lots of time to be impressed by the massive front porch, high walls of grey stone and expanses of glass. The back of the rectangle faced Corydon field and forest that stretched out for miles.

  The pick-up team had likely reconnoitered from the west through the heavy tree cover. Rice picked out at least four from Britt's second floor view. Assume two more in the lobby, potentially a unit commander, additional lookouts. He could potentially be dealing with a dozen men positioned at various points of the compass.

  Rice was puzzled by the gunfire from the lobby. That wouldn't have normally been part of the plan. There was no sense in waking dozens of guests who would now be making panicky cell phone calls to the local police. Who were already missing one officer on site. Unless they weren't worried about the police. The downed officer might have been close by and took the call without checking with the sheriff. Pretty unusual to respond to a situation like this without backup. Rice had to assume there wouldn't be any more attention by local peace officers. At least not in the short term. This team expected to kill Rice and be gone before police had time to respond properly.

  There were three ways down to the first floor - stairs at either end of the long hallway, and a bank of elevators in the middle. One pinged just as Rice considered this. Someone was coming up. It could be the killers from the lobby or guests escaping the gunfire. If he was running this operation, he would have at least one man on each stairwell moving up with the alpha team in the elevators. Rice would have no escape.

  Britt looked at Rice just as he turned to her. In seconds, trained assassins with automatic firearms would pour out of the elevator. There was no place to run.

  Rice stopped ten feet from the elevators and turned Britt towards the door to room 212. He swiped a passkey and they watched an LED blink green. He pushed her inside and pulled the door quickly closed. They both heard the elevator doors rumble open in the hall.

  Through the peephole, Rice could see two shadows moving across the carpet outside. The killers were heading for the room registered under Britt Johnson, the VIP suite near the end of the hall. Rice was right. The same people who had kidnapped her in Bismarck had somehow kept her under surveillance, despite their efforts to lose the tail. That was impressive. In the meantime, he had booked three other rooms under other aliases, all programmed to one security pass.

  Rice heard other doors opening in the hall. As he expected, guests had heard the gunshots, had called the front desk, to no avail, and were now considering their options. That complicated matters. He didn't want to risk innocent bystanders.

  Rice held his fingers up to his lips and waved Britt back from the door. He carefully turned the knob and pulled the door back a few inches. Two men dressed in black jackets and pants had just passed their room. On his knees, he pulled the door open with his left hand, and shot upward into the back of the first man's head. Just as the second man dove to the right, he placed a second bullet into that killer’s right ear. The second soldier slumped to the carpet, a splash of dark red painted across the expensive wallpaper.

  Rice slipped back into the opening and quietly closed the door. He listened. He was waiting for the men in the stairwells to make their way into the hall. If they were careful, the killers wouldn't be able to hear them. And seeing their two comrades lying in a heap in the corridor would definitely make them cautious. It would also give them a clue to Rice's whereabouts, if they were smart enough to put the clues together.

  Rice moved up beside Britt who had her back to the wall beside the bathroom door. He could see in her eyes, she was in triage mode. He recognized the look of detachment he had often seen in ER nurses and doctors facing life and death situations. The only problem was, in an emergency ward, a nurse can take action and let her training take over. Right now, Britt had no options. Rice was taken aback by her coolness and her control. He stared at her for a few seconds, the adrenaline pumping through his system adding some new kind of clarity to his thoughts. He kissed her then, wondering if he would ever get another chance. She moved against him, her arms still at her side, like a soldier at attention.

  “Are you alright?” he asked, stepping back.

  “I'm better now,” she said. “Did you get them?”

  “We're down three. Six or eight to go. But that's a guess.”

  “You don't have a gun for me?”

  “You know how to use one?” asked Rice.

  “Show me,” she said, her eyes on his. “I hate these assholes. Will they ever leave you alone?”

  Rice wanted to kiss her again but he knew he didn't have time. He could hear noises in the hall, faint closings of the steel fire doors at each emergency exit. They would soon have more company. He smiled at Britt.

  “Yes. We will finish this. But first, we have to get out of this place, and now.”

  “That's too bad. I was looking forward to the milk bath.”

  “I'll make it up to you,” said Rice, checking the clip on his gun.

  CHAPTER 88

  Casey’s Mill Lodge, Indiana

  THE HIRED GUN WHO PEEKED through the south fire door opening saw the two other members of his team sprawled on the carpet in the hall. The bodies were halfway between the elevators and the target suite. He had heard two shots just as he arrived on the second floor landing. Two shots. Two apparent kills. This was no amateur. The man on the stairs used to be a cop in LA. He had seen experienced officers fire a dozen shots at close range and miss a three hundred pound cocaine addict. He got a quick chill. This Rice character was dangerous.

  Then down the length of the hall he saw his counterpart wink the door open at the other stairwell. He was trying to rebuild the scene in his head. His peers were both shot from behind, not more than thirty-to forty seconds ago. There was no turn off in the hall; it was one long unbroken string of doors and two elevators. Rice had to be in one of the other rooms. He guessed a west wall room judging from how one of the bodies was positioned, some of his brains smeared across the woven-grass wallpaper. In fact, if you worked out the angles, he was pretty sure he knew which door; he just couldn't see the number from his present vantage point.

  The contractor waved his hand to the man looking out the North fire door, pointing to the suite just down from the bodies. He crept out into the hall. He held his AK-47 at waist height, aimed to his left, expecting Rice to leap out at any second. But he was also guessing the ex-agent might just stay in his room. The contractors had the firepower advantage. A handgun is no competition for two machine guns. The two of them could just shred the door and work their way in. The command had been crystal clear. Kill Rice. Don't hesitate and don't worry about collateral damage. He was slippery. Don't give him any chance to run again.

  And there was a target bonus. The man who took Rice down got an extra fifty thousand. The hired gun had never heard of such a thing before. Rice must know something. Something dangerous and fucked up to have a target like that on his head - him versus a dozen crackerjack
mercenaries.

  CHAPTER 89

  Casey’s Mill Lodge, Indiana

  RICE PEERED OUT THROUGH A SLIT in the window coverings. He couldn't see any movement outside, but he knew there were men stationed around the perimeter; men being paid exorbitant amounts of money to insure George Kreegar never had to come face-to-face with his ex-employee again.

  Rice felt a wave of hate suck at him. He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, feeling cold. How much money did they have invested in his termination? More than he could probably imagine. So he had to think there were more killers stationed around the Lodge than he would normally imagine. Twenty? Fifty? It seemed ridiculous. But you could never underestimate Kreegar. He ran the largest secret U.S. government agency in existence for over two decades. His ruthlessness was legendary. And he had never lost. He always out-thought his enemies.

  Rice flashed back to the last time he spoke to Kreegar, almost eleven years ago. Rice hadn't threatened to go to the media or blow any whistles or join the other side. He had a simple request; he just wanted out. He'd always been a team player and he had an impeccable record. He wasn't a threat. Kreegar wasn't happy, but Rice assumed that was to be expected. Rice was going to be hard to replace. They were standing on the Millennium Bridge, opposite the Tate Modern Art gallery in London. Kreegar's face was like a piece of contemporary sculpture - the heavy lips, the drooping left eye and misshapen skull. People would turn as they passed, not sure if they were seeing an apparition. But Kreegar was used to the attention. He could have worn a hat or grown a beard but he preferred a shaved head, the sun glaring off his massive warped cranium.

  “You're going to regret this decision,” said Kreegar, looking down at the muddy Thames.

  Rice had his elbows on the railing. Kreegar's comment sounded like a threat - but then everything he said, even the most trivial sound bite, seemed to carry a whiff of malice or retribution.

  “You'll be bored within six weeks. I guarantee it. Shit, you're bored now and your last assignment ended yesterday.”

  “You mistake relaxed for boredom, George. I'm just unwinding.” said Rice.

  Kreegar looked over at Rice, any resemblance of collegiality gone from his face. He shook his head slowly. “Huge mistake, Rice,” he said. “My advice? Never relax.”

  . . . . .

  Rice turned back into the room and took Britt's hand. He put his head so close to hers, their foreheads touched briefly.

  “There might be as many as twenty more soldiers in or around the building.” He watched her eyes grow wide. “You need to do what I say. If I ask you to jump, just jump. Don't stop to think about it. Every second could be the difference between seeing tomorrow or not. OK?” She nodded. “I got you into this. Now I'm getting you out.”

  He led her into a crowded sitting area off the bedroom. There was another door, this one connecting them to the next suite. He pulled his swipe card out of his pocket, then turned to the lock and hesitated. This door used a standard key. A key he didn't have.

  He put the card back into his pocket, swore under his breath, and kicked the handle hard with his right foot. The frame rattled and the jam shattered. He pushed through with his shoulder into an identical suite, only a mirror image. Britt followed right behind him.

  They both turned then to the harsh explosion of rapid gunfire coming from the stairwells. Rice had made a quick deduction. The killers were both laying down a barrage of bullets that was turning the door of suite 212 and the wall and adjoining room into a cloud of splintered wood. Rice and Britt dove into the space between two beds. Rice could tell from the look on her face, she knew death was only one room away.

  Rice knew something else. The assassins had a limited supply of ammunition. They had powered their way into room 212, but once they realized they hadn't made a kill, they would be more conservative. Rice had an idea, but he needed to cover for Britt.

  Rice had spent hundreds of hours in hotels on surveillance. He knew something about how the rooms were designed. Hotels didn't use beds like the ones people slept on in their homes. These units were built in. Under the mattress was a box attached to the floor. That way, cleaning people didn't have to worry about cleaning under beds every day. Rice pulled the mattress aside and tapped Britt on her shoulder. There was a dusty space inside with a bare concrete floor. He motioned her inside. She moved fast, probably more out of fear than obedience. She gave him a surprised look when he slid the box spring back into place. She must have thought he was going to join her. As he straightened the bedclothes, he could hear the crunch of boots next door on the shattered wood and glass. They would be through the door in seconds.

  Rice raced across the carpet to the front door, pushed open the lock and peered into the hall. He could hear a smoke alarm whining somewhere, but the hall was empty. Both of the soldiers had entered suite 212. It's not the way he would have done things, but he hadn't heard any radio chatter, so these men were evidently operating on their own recognizance.

  Pulling the door back as wide as possible, he ran along the hall to the pulverized entrance of the first suite. He raised his gun, turned, and planted his feet in the doorway. Against a background of the shattered wall of windows and the filtered glow from a yard light he could make out one dark shape. He placed two bullets into the center of the mass. The killer stumbled and went down. Rice couldn't see the other man, but he badly wanted to take the showdown out into the hall. Britt's hiding place was not immune to stray bullets. These were AK-47 shells, over two inches long and traveling at twenty-three feet per second. They plowed through just about anything. Suite 212 was testimony to their firepower. He hardly recognized the room anymore.

  Rice was about to turn back to the second suite to deal with the second killer when he heard the muted sound of metal against fabric. The second soldier was standing partially in the hallway, his semi-automatic leveled at Rice's chest. He had his left foot just inside the frame of the opening, holding the door open, half of his body shielded by the wall.

  Rice had opened the door wide when he left the room hoping to lure the shooters back into the corridor. The tactic had worked - too well. The killer was wearing a black watch cap but Rice could see grey hair poking out around his ears. His eyes looked tired; an old soldier on one last assignment?

  “So you are the famous Rice,” said the soldier betraying the merest hint of a Russian or Ukrainian accent in his voice.

  “What are you waiting for?” said Rice.

  “A witness,” smiled the Russian. “They are paying a generous bonus to the man who finally kills you. Others are on their way. Don't worry, this won't take long.”

  “How many others?” asked Rice.

  “For a celebrity like you, we have a small army. But they are mostly brats. This is really between us.”

  Rice could hear no activity on the floor below, the elevators were silent. Any additional support must be coming from the stairwells again. This floor would soon be a shooting gallery. Then they both heard the elevator chime.

  “Ahhh,” said the Russian. “Almost time to go home.” And he lifted the barrel of his gun.

  Then the killer grunted. A body charging from inside the room hit the Russian hard, peeling him away from the door and twisting him down into the carpet. The killer held onto his firearm and as a result hit the floor hard with his shoulder and neck, bellowing out some native expression of surprise and anger Rice had never heard before. Britt had rolled away from him, trying to stay out of the range of his gun.

  The Russian twisted, bringing his sites back to Rice, who ended things quickly with a shot to the man's throat. The killer rolled back, one hand on his neck, blood pumping out between his fingers, his eyes curious. He tried to say something, his lips moving, but his voice box was shattered.

  Rice kicked the gun out of the Russian’s hand and pulled Britt up from the floor. They moved toward the elevators. Rice wasn't going back into the rooms again. He pressed Britt up against the wall and stood in front of her, his back to
her, his arms bracing his weapon. When the occupants exited the elevator, he would take them all out. Rice had to get off this floor and he didn't think the stairwell was safe.

  Finally after what seemed like minutes, the elevator door rolled open. Rice tensed. They waited. Impatient, Rice slid forward and peered into the car, his gun at eye level. In the back corner huddled an older couple, their eyes closed. Rice could see the older woman's hands vibrating in fear.

  The Russian would have been surprised, he thought. It wasn't time to go home just yet.

  CHAPTER 90

  Casey’s Mills Lodge, Indiana

  IN THE ELEVATOR, going down to the service level, Britt explained what she had done.

  “I could see through the gap in the bed frame, but it was too hard to make anything out in the dark. When the killer opened the front door, the light from the hallway lit him up. Then when I saw he was holding the door open with his leg, and heard him talking to you, I crawled out and ran at him.”

  “Now this is the second time you've saved my life. You sure you haven't taken any Navy Seal training?

  “What do we do now?” she asked.

  “I picked this retreat for a reason. I've always been interested in Civil War history and Corydon Field was the scene of a famous battle.”

  Britt looked puzzled. He didn't blame her. What could a civil war battle have to do with their present situation? Surrounding the building were trained killers. What could be more important than dealing with that?

  The elevator opened one level below the lobby into a service corridor. The walls were scratched and dented, in need of paint. Garlic, rotten fruit and fish odors lingered in the stuffy air. Most of the lights were out. A sign in front of them said, “Staff Only Beyond This Point.”