by Theo Cage
Listening, she could hear the sound of footsteps above her, cautious and slow. Then she heard a voice, deep and raspy, the voice of an older man.
“Mary! Are you there? If you can hear me, make a sound.”
Mary, thought Britt. She had forgotten about the older woman, the writer. Could she have survived? Maybe the entire basement hadn't collapsed. But there were other concerns. The blast wave caused horrible internal injuries. She would need medical care stat. Britt was about to yell out to the man above, and then stopped. Where were the killers now? They had destroyed someone's home without a moment's hesitation. And shot up a hotel simply because they thought Rice was inside. They seemed capable of anything. How could she and Rice escape the coal bin without being seen by everyone?
She heard an ambulance wailing in the distance. Then another siren. The authorities were near. But did that even matter?
In the end, her need to respond to Mary took precedence, as difficult as that was for her.
“Down here!” yelled Britt. “She’s in the basement. She needs help.”
Above her, she could hear the man stop his slow advance across heaped lumber and drywall.
“Who is that? Who are you?”
“A friend of Mary's.”
“How is she? Is she alright?” His voice was tight.
“I don't know. I can't see her. I'm in the coal bin.”
“Where is she? Why isn't she answering?”
“She wouldn't climb in for some reason.”
The older man continued moving lumber aside, struggling with broken wall sections. Britt could hear him grunt. Then she heard other voices and more movement. “Who are you,” he asked, yelling down into the wreckage.
“Britt.”
“You don't know Mary that well. If you did, you'd know why she would never go into the coal bin.”
“I wish she had.”
“I do too. But her sister died in that coal bin when she was six. I tried to have it removed. She wouldn't let me. She's a stubborn woman.”
Britt wiped a tear away from her cheek. Mary's sister could have been hiding in the coal bin as a child, maybe playing hide and seek. Maybe stuck inside because of the rusted latch. Sixty years ago on a day the coal delivery truck came to dump a ton of black rock into the chute.
Was that her only sibling, her only playmate out on the farm, miles away from other children?
Britt heard the dirt scrape behind her, so she crouched in the dark, reaching for Rice. “Are you OK?”
“I should be asking you that question. I feel like a tank rolled over me.”
“No broken bones that I could find.”
“Patting me down in the dark again?” When Britt didn't answer, Rice grew more serious, the sound of digging above them growing more widespread.
“Do we know who's up there?”
“Mary's husband, I'm guessing. Plus several emergency vehicles and the police.”
“That would mean our friends haven't been able to keep the police away any longer. But there will still be contractors up there. Someone to verify the kill.”
Britt heard the sound of Rice clearing the chamber of his gun. “They don't know you're down here,” she said. “At least they haven't mentioned anything.”
“Razer is up there right now. The police have probably been told he's looking for a terrorist. They'll co-operate. It's in their nature.”
“They can't just drop a bomb on a farmhouse and get away with it,” said Britt.
“They'll report this as a gas explosion or old paint cans blowing up. Who's going to question that? A Stinger missile doesn't leave any telltale signs. It just blows everything up quite efficiently. And who would believe that story anyway?”
“Are you still there?” yelled a voice from above. The old man.
“I'm fine. But we need to get to Mary.”
“Can you get out of the coal bin?”
“No. The doors jammed.”
“Kick it hard. The lock is rusted right through. I've been trapped in there before.”
Rice scrambled up off the floor and felt for the door, sliding past Britt.
“Watch out,” he said. She stepped aside, and she heard his boot strike the back of the door. The dull sound of old metal rang out. He tried again, and she heard the scrape of rust against concrete. The door screeched open. Rice crawled out first and helped Britt follow.
The cellar was piled with rubble. All the glass jars full of preserves and old bolts had shattered, littering the floor and shelves with pickles and burst tomatoes.
Spread eagle on the floor a few feet away, laid Mary. Britt's worst fears were confirmed. Both of the old woman's eyeballs were lying on her dusty cheeks, the overpressure from the bomb forcing them out like corks in champagne bottles.
CHAPTER 111
Logan Farmhouse, Ohio River Scenic Byway
TRENT KNEW PEOPLE WOULDN’T UNDERSTAND. They never did.
Brent was his identical. People had always thought it was cute when their parents dressed them alike as kids. Or heard them whispering their own special language to each other. But it was always more than that. Like God had decided to split one soul in two - to see what became of it.
If Brent lay dead in the helicopter wreckage, a thought Trent could barely process, it would be the same as cutting off half of Trent's body. And then wondering why he missed his left hand so much.
Trent felt like dropping to his knees on the gravel driveway, right where he stood, and burying his head in his hands. That would be quite an emotional display to make in front of half a dozen local constables and the paramedics. Instead, he tramped along the driveway, his eyes down at his feet. Moving beat standing. One foot in front of the other, breathing. And miles away from kneeling down in the dirt like some prisoner of war waiting to be shot in the neck.
Trent had driven up to Lanesville alone, along the Ohio River Byway. Without backup. Satisfied Rice would finally be put to rest by a smart missile. But he couldn't be sure. Trent believed in the missile. It wasn't an elegant solution, but he was truly past caring. He just wanted this job behind him. But could he be sure about its effectiveness? The missile leveled the house, but something else nagged at him. They were fighting an unstoppable force. Maybe Kreegar's karma had finally caught up with all of them.
Then he heard a commotion back at the sight of the rubble that used to be a two-story house. Men were running and yelling. He could hear exhilaration in their voices. He turned, biting down hard, feeling his teeth grind. What right did they have to celebrate? He stood there, tracking their movements. It had to be more than a found body. That was always a somber discovery, especially for locals who might know the occupants; had shared potato salad with them at a local church picnic. No. They’d found someone alive. How? The building was shards. Only a large chunk of the main roof had survived and crashed down on a sorry heap of shredded furniture and lathe and plaster.
Trent turned, his hand going automatically to his gun holster. Walking slowly towards the rescue team, he felt everything slip away; his face a mask, a soldier’s grim glare. He didn't care anymore what happened to him. Or what the police had to say about the attack at the Inn. Rice was more than a target now. He had become his brother's killer, pure and simple. This was personal. Tribal. He pulled the gun out, squeezing the handle.
The farmer and four other rescuers were pulling up sheets of plaster and drywall and carrying them to a pile a few yards outside of the foundation. They had created a small opening between two joists blackened with age. A foot of space, not really enough for any of them to get through. They were looking down into the dark, waiting for their eyes to adjust.
“What have you found?” asked Trent.
“No terrorists. Just this man's wife and another woman.”
“Woman?”
“She says she's a friend of the family.” Trent turned to the farmer, who was blubbering like a six-year-old.
“You know her?”
The farmer didn't answer. He just turned away
and buried his face in his scarred, sunburnt mitts.
“Shit,” said Trent loudly, which made one of the rescuer's jump. He angrily pushed one of the paramedics aside. He could see down into the dark hole cutting across the jumble of litter and glass. If Rice was down there, if he had somehow escaped being blasted into atoms, he would be trapped. Trent couldn't see any way out.
“I'm taking over this site,” said Trent to the rescuers. “Bring your supervisors to me. Now. I have reason to believe a terrorist is trapped in the basement. He's dangerous, and I'm not letting him escape.”
“But that man's wife is down there…”
“Did you hear me? This is a matter of national security.” He stepped up to the rescuer, clearly a volunteer based on his clothing. “And no unauthorized visitors on the site!” The man looked at Trent, closed his mouth and headed back to the crowd of onlookers by the road.
Within fifteen minutes, Trent had met with the Chief of Police, the Fire Superintendent and the Mayor. They all chose to co-operate, for the moment, except the fire department.
“We have a responsibility to the victims here. Think of 911. The fire department was key to the rescue despite a terrorist attack. I don't work for you, and there's an injured woman down there.” The firefighter was a volunteer. For all Trent knew, he could be a local farmer or the owner of the town hardware store - a skinny guy with red hair who took his job too seriously.
Trent stared at the fire fighter. “How do you plan to help the farmer's wife? There is a man down there who has killed a dozen of my men.”
The firefighter put his hands on his skinny hips and looked over at the wreckage. “It is what it is. We don't know what her injuries are, but every minute counts.”
“I'm going with you,” said Trent.
The firefighter looked up, checking out the agent. “Yeah. You'll do. Get on a vest. She's not a small woman so I could use the muscle.”
CHAPTER 112
Logan Farmhouse, Ohio River Scenic Byway
RICE AND BRITT HAD MOVED back to the far corner of the basement, as far from the stairs as possible. Rice could hear the growl and the crunch of a diesel Caterpillar tractor as it pushed debris away from the space above the stairwell.
Britt had checked the farmer's wife, and though she looked pale and lifeless, Britt said she still had a pulse. She was likely suffering from internal hemorrhaging and damage to internal organs. Britt had removed her jacket and laid it over the woman's face so falling dust and dirt wouldn't continue to contaminate her wounds.
Someone leading the rescue effort had told them about their plans to clear a space to the entrance. So far, Rice had stayed out of the conversation. His plan was to slip away into the crowd of volunteers once they had Mary topside.
Rice watched as shafts of light began to break through the dust-filled darkness at the far end of the basement. Clouds of plaster dust were billowing down, and the occasional chunk of wood or trim would clatter down the stairs. He had his eyes on the top step, wondering who would climb down first. The rescue team, paramedics, or Razer's men? And could he even tell them apart?
Rice led Britt back into the far corner, over fallen tools and broken crockery. She wanted to be beside Mary, but Rice kept leading her away, deeper into the area behind the furnace, as far from the windows as possible. Then he moved up behind one of the thick, rough-hewn support columns leaning dangerously in the center of the room.
The Cat above them paused, then the engine increased in speed and the steel tracks crushed across more broken lumber. Light flooded in, and the machinery stopped moving. A foot descended onto the first stair, then another, and onto the next. The person moving down the stairs wore rubber boots, but not the kind you would buy at Wal-Mart. Industrial work shoes with steel toes. And well worn.
“Are you still OK down there?” said the man on the stairs. No one answered.
“How's Mary?” he asked.
Rice knew it took everything Britt had not to answer, but until they knew who was part of the rescue team, their plan was to stay quiet.
“Mary? Can you hear me?”
The rescuer stepped halfway down into the gloom, waiting for his eyes to adjust. Behind him, Rice watched as a second pair of feet began to descend the steps. Military style boots. New, but not clean. Covered in mud. The kind of mud Rice was now quite familiar with from the area by the river. The two men carried a stretcher, making their way carefully around the debris on the stairs. Then they both stopped.
“Rice,” said the man near the top of the stairs. It was Trent Razer. “I'm not armed.” Nobody moved for at least thirty seconds, the rafters groaning above them, water dripping off in a corner somewhere.
“I'm coming down to help remove the farmer's wife. Once I'm done, I'll come back. By myself. Unarmed. And we can talk. There's no way out. This place is crawling with Feds of every stripe.”
Rice said nothing. Then he watched as the two men continued on their way into the basement. They laid down the stretcher beside the farmer's wife. They moved closer, one silhouette leaning down over the body. Then they rolled her with some difficulty onto the fabric and lifted her, the shorter man struggling, and groped their way back through the dark and up the stairs. Ten minutes later Razer returned with his hands over his head and sat on the bottom stair. He squinted into the gloom.
“You can shoot me if you want, Rice. I don't really give a shit at this point. Although, I would like to see how you plan to get out of this one alive. Kreegar’s on his way by private jet from California. He wants to be the one to put a bullet in your head. And since he now knows your Zulu threat was just a scam, there's nothing standing in his way.”
They both listened to the sounds outside for a few moments, footsteps on the rubble above them, more sirens, what sounded like a news helicopter hovering above the farmyard.
Rice stepped from behind a pillar, his gun held out at waist height.
“Stand up and walk towards me,” said Rice.
“Fuck you!” said Trent. “I'm not going anywhere until Kreegar gets here.”
“I'll remove a knee cap. That might get your attention.”
Trent shook his head. “You're not here because of some insane violence you heaped on some fellow soldier. You're here because you wouldn't follow a simple order. Sure, you killed some nasty folks for the DIA over your career. But you're not a knee-capper from what I hear.”
“Maybe I've changed.”
“And maybe mess kits are filled with sirloin steak and sautéed mushrooms now, but I doubt it.”
“How about your brother then?” said Rice.
“What?” Razer lifted his head sharply; his whole body tensed.
“I could have spared your brother's life. But I didn't. What do you think about that?”
Before Rice could finish the sentence, Razer charged him, his hands clenched, his eyes blazing in the dark.
CHAPTER 113
Logan Farmhouse, Ohio River Scenic Byway
TRENT RAZER’S SPEED caught Rice by surprised. He charged off the stairs like a short distance runner, his head down, a cloud of dust swept up by his boots. Rice felt adrenaline pump through his body, slowing everything down. His instinct was to shoot, but he needed the angry agent alive and able to walk out of the building under his own steam, so he feinted to his right. Razer didn't seem to notice. Blind with rage he flew at Rice like a guided missile. He was also wider than Rice, with longer limbs. His right arm, fully extended, clipped Rice brutally above the eye as Razer plowed past him and crashed to the floor. Away from the light filtering down at the far end of the cellar, Razer became just another shadow in the dark. Rice squinted, circling the agent, trying not to create a silhouette that would make him an easy target. Razer picked himself up before Rice could attack.
“I still have the gun,” said Rice.
“Coward,” growled Razer, spitting out dirt. “Let's settle this now. Hand to hand, like they trained us.”
“You think this is an exercise?” a
sked Rice.
“I think you didn't have to kill Brent. You had a choice.”
“Yeah. I could have let him kill me,” said Rice. “You know your brother better than I do. Did he seem like the surrendering type?”
“Put down the gun,” said Razer. “Make this a fair fight for a change.”
“It still won't be fair,” said Rice.
“Big talk for a guy who hasn't seen action for ten years.”
Rice opened his jacket and slid the gun into the inside pocket and zipped it closed. Both men knew what that meant. Rice had taken his gun out of play, but he wasn’t putting it down on the ground. Rice watched Razer relax slightly, his arms down by his sides. Razer believed he had the advantage now - at least by fifteen years and maybe forty pounds. Rice could see it in his body language. Razer waited for him, letting his eyes adjust.
“What's fair about a fight when you've got a team of agents upstairs just waiting for me?” asked Rice.
“There's no one up there except the local police. And they have no idea who you are.”
“What about Kreegar and his swat team?”
“He's an hour away, Rice. It's just you and me. But I'm going to beat you to a pulp, so who cares about Kreegar and his keystone cops.”
Razer stepped forward like he had all the time in the world, and kicked high with his right foot, a vicious steel toed assault on Rice's rib cage. Instead of turning away, which would have meant more than just a few broken bones, Rice stepped into the attack and grabbed Razer's leg with both hands and twisted the leg inward, adding to the bigger man's existing momentum and causing him to turn sideways and down. Rice drove his elbow into Razer's neck as he fell face forward onto the littered cellar floor.
Then Razer surprised Rice by kicking backward and knocking the older agent off his feet. Rice went down, concerned about jagged shards of broken glassware on the floor. He felt a sharp pain in his forearm as he scramble back. It was hard to make out against the black sleeve of his jacket, but Rice knew he was cut. And deeply, his arm already slippery with blood. He felt his gun bump against his chest and fought the urge to reach for it.