Wyatt's Revenge

by H. Terrell Griffin

  We left the Lakewood Ranch neighborhood through a back gate and drove about five miles north before turning east on a state highway. After a few miles we turned south and then east again onto a narrow dirt road running through groves of citrus trees. We turned onto an even smaller road, rutted with the weight of grove trucks used to haul citrus to the processing plants. In a few minutes we came to a dead end at a large well-maintained barn.

  We got out of the car and Tom opened the barn door using a key hidden in a crevice under the barn’s concrete foundation. He disappeared inside and came out behind the wheel of a green Jeep Wagoneer. The old gal was dented and pocked from years of driving the groves. Her paint was rusted off in more places than I could count, but her tires looked new, and the engine sounded strong.

  “Hop in,” said Tom.

  We followed a trail for about a mile, and then drove directly through the grove, between the rows of trees. The Jeep was in four-wheel drive and took the sand without missing a beat. Soon we came to another road that ran along the edge of the grove. There were citrus trees to our right and pines, oaks, palms, and palmettos to our left.

  Tom was concentrating on his driving, keeping the old Jeep at a conservative speed. “The creek is just beyond that stand of trees. These woods run right down to it. In a minute we’ll come to a clearing where the creek bends out. There’s an old house there, but there’s not much left of it. If anybody’s there, they wouldn’t expect us to stop. I’ll keep driving. You two see what you think about the place.”

  The house was in ruins. The tin roof had caved in and brought one wall down with it. Weeds had grown up in the clearing, encroaching on what remained of the house. The forest was reclaiming the land taken so many years ago by the farmers who’d homesteaded this part of Florida.

  “Nothing,” said Jock. “Nobody’s been near that place in decades.”

  “There’s another one about a mile farther,” said Tom.

  We crossed another farm road that seemed to be the boundary of the grove we were driving by. On the other side was another grove, stretching as far as we could see down the dirt track.

  “We’ll be there in a minute,” Tom said. “It’s farther back from the road, and there’s a lot of foliage between the house and the road, so you won’t be able to see much.”

  This house was in much better shape, but appeared abandoned as well. I could see the creek in front of the house, and the yard seemed relatively free of weeds. The woods between the road and the house were not as thick as those on either side, but my view was still restricted as we went by.

  “I don’t think anybody’s there,” I said.

  Jock shook his head. “Not so fast, podner. Did you see that glint in the woods to the right of the house?”

  “Glint?”

  “Yeah, like the sun reflecting off metal.”

  “No, I missed it. What was it?”

  “I’m not sure, but it could be a car. It was fairly big.”

  “Want me to turn around?” asked Tom. “Go take another look?”

  “No,” said Jock. “Let’s keep going. If somebody’s there, I don’t want them to get antsy. We’ll come back tonight.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Jessica was not happy. When we got back to Tom’s house, she was sitting in the living room drinking coffee. The morning’s newspaper was on her lap, an angry look on her face. “What the hell did you mean by running off and leaving me here?”

  “You needed your rest,” I said.

  She ignored me. “Where have you been, and why didn’t you get me up?”

  “Jess,” I said, “we went looking for a house out in the middle of nowhere. We thought three guys in an orange grove on a Saturday morning wouldn’t be suspicious. A pretty woman might make someone take notice of us.”

  She wasn’t placated, but I had gotten her interest. “What house?”

  I told her what Marie had said and how we’d found the house. “We think there may be a car parked in the woods next to one of the houses. It’s hidden pretty well, but Jock saw a reflection off something. We’re going back tonight to see if anybody’s there.”

  “I’m going with you this time.”

  “No you’re not,” I said. “Just Jock and me. We’re going in armed. This could be a dangerous situation, and you’re not trained for that.”

  She chewed her lip, thinking. “I guess you’re right,” she said, finally. “But don’t go off again without telling me what you’re doing.”

  Jock made a phone call and then left in the Suburban, telling us he’d be back in a couple of hours. When he returned he had several weapons in the car and camouflage clothes for him and me. I didn’t ask where he got them.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  The old cracker house was dark, no lights anywhere. Its front porch ran the width of the structure on the side facing the creek. It sagged in the middle, but appeared sturdy enough. Concrete blocks served as front steps. A lone plastic chair took up space on the porch. I couldn’t see any power lines running to the structure, so I assumed there was no electricity.

  The house sat alone on a wooded lot fronting Gilley Creek. Civilization had hardly touched this part of old Florida. There were no other houses for miles, a perfect place to hide. Thick stands of pine trees, palms, and palmetto surrounded the clearing in which the house sat. It had probably once been a farm, home to pioneers who came to this area of Florida before the Civil War. The little dirt farm road was lost in the darkness.

  We’d parked the Suburban in the middle of the grove and walked in. Anyone coming down the road wouldn’t be able to see the vehicle, and we’d come in from the other side of the grove without lights, slow and easy.

  Fog was rolling in off the slow-moving creek, wisps floating into the clearing. The humidity was higher than normal, and the fog was thickening. There was no sound, the animals quiet in the presence of humans. A dark green Nissan was parked nearby, camouflaged with branches, the source of the reflection Jock had seen that morning. We were hunkered down at the edge of the palmetto forest at the side of the house, our rifles ready, locked and loaded, safeties in the off position. We were carrying M-16s.

  Jock had worked his way to the creek, giving him a view of the front of the house. I was about 150 feet away with a view of the back of the place. We each had a small radio transmitter-receiver stashed in a pocket and tiny boom mikes attached to earpieces. We could talk to each other in whispers, unheard even a few feet away. Our side arms were Glock 17 semiautomatic nine millimeters. We wore camouflage clothing, and our faces and hands were blackened with grease paint. It was a little after midnight.

  We sat quietly for fifteen minutes. There was no movement in the clearing, no guards in evidence. I heard Jock whisper in my earpiece. “Let’s go.”

  We moved slowly into the clearing, snaking along on our stomachs, rifles held in the crook of our arms. As we got near the house, I saw a white light flicker in a front window. I couldn’t decide what it was, but it stopped us both cold. Somebody was in the house. Jock whispered again. “It’s a TV.”

  We moved closer and then stood and flattened ourselves against the side of the house, Jock near the front and I at the back corner. I crawled along the foundation until I got to a window. I eased myself up carefully, peering into the window with the flickering light. I saw a man watching a battery-powered black-and-white TV. He was engrossed in what appeared to be an infomercial, but no sound came from the set. Then I saw a small wire running from the TV to earphones clamped on the man’s head. He was keeping things quiet. Were there others sleeping somewhere in the house? No way to know until we got inside.

  I motioned to Jock to take the front, indicating that I would take the back. We moved away from each other, keeping to the side of the house, ducking under windows. There was no porch on the back of the house. The door opened directly onto two wooden steps that led to the yard. Jock disappeared around the corner, and I went to the back steps. I tested both of them. They would hold. The
door opened inward. I’d have to get to the top of the stairs before we moved. I wanted to make sure the door wasn’t locked. Jock’s voice came over my radio. “Ready.”

  “Hold,” I said. I eased up the steps and tried the doorknob. It turned. I pushed slightly, and the door opened.

  “Go,” I said, and stepped inside. I was in a kitchen. I couldn’t see much in the dim light from the flickering television, but I could tell nobody was there. I heard a surprised voice, raised, speaking in a foreign tongue, then a thud. I moved toward the door into the interior of the house. Jock was standing over a man collapsed on the floor. His rifle was pointing at the two doors that led off the small living room where he stood. A man came bounding out of the door nearest me, a pistol in his hand. Jock shot him in the chest. Another man was right behind the first. He stopped dead, flung his hands into the air, dropped to his knees, and said in English, “Do not shoot.”

  I moved toward the man, rifle at the ready. I pulled a pair of handcuffs from my jacket pocket, told him to put his hands behind him, and cuffed him. I searched him quickly. I found a cell phone, but no weapons. I nodded to Jock. “He’s clean.”

  “Jock was kneeling over the man he’d shot. “This one’s dead.”

  “The other one?”

  Jock went to him. “I hit him with the rifle butt. Must have broken his neck. He’s gone.”

  I moved toward the closed door to the other room. Jock took up position, his rifle trained on the door. If anybody came bursting through that door, he’d be dead. I slowly turned the knob, and violently pushed the door open, knocking it back against the wall, stepping backward as I did. There was no movement inside the room. I pointed my rifle into the darkness and went through the door. Jock moved to cover me, shining a large flashlight into the darkened space. The room was empty, except for Logan. He was tied to a cot, his hands bound to the steel rails that held the springs and mattress in place, his legs tied to the footboard.

  Logan blinked in the glare of the flashlight. “About time you guys got here. I gotta pee.”

  Relief surged through my body as my brain registered that Logan was alive. I went to him, used my knife to cut the ropes holding him to the bed. He got up on unsteady legs and moved out of the bedroom and toward the front door. He stopped in the living room and stood over the man I’d handcuffed. “This is the leader. He beat the crap out of me yesterday. Just having a little fun, I guess.”

  Logan unzipped his pants and urinated on the leader, saturating him from head to foot. The man yelped, and tried to move out of the stream, but Logan had been holding it for a long time. The torrent finally ended, and Logan zipped himself up. “Bastard,” he said, and kicked the man in the side.

  “Get up,” I said.

  The man rolled over and worked his knees under him. Then he stood, looking at me with a doleful expression. “I only beat your man because he told me I looked like a pig’s asshole. That is a terrible insult to a Muslim.”

  I laughed. “Logan can get a little feisty at times.”

  “And he pissed on me. That is not a manly thing to do.”

  “Hey, pal,” said Logan, “be glad I didn’t have to take a dump.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  We were in the Suburban, driving toward Lakewood Ranch. The fog was thicker, and our headlights bounced back at us, creating an eerie illusion of being under water. The leader, whose name was Tariq, was trussed in the cargo area. Logan sat in the front passenger seat, I in the rear. We’d stopped at an all-night McDonald’s for food for Logan.

  Tariq was wearing clean clothes. I’d held him at gunpoint while he washed urine off his face and hands and changed into dry clothes. He’d told us his name, but refused to answer any other questions.

  Logan was in good spirits, his ordeal over. He’d been worried about Marie, but I assured him she had not been harmed. I explained that the reason for his kidnapping was to get me back to Florida, where I could be killed. I told him about Jessica and explained why she had come back with us. “I’ll give you all the details later,” I said.

  “Why didn’t they just kill you in Europe?” Logan asked.

  “They tried. Somebody took a shot at me in Frankfurt, and then this Arab guy tried to kill us in Fulda. After that we went to ground. They couldn’t find us. I think they wanted to get Jessica and me back home before killing us. Maybe they were afraid that if they killed us in Germany, somebody would put together the research we’d done on the Nazis and our deaths. I don’t think it occurred to them that I might bring the cops here into this thing. If Marie had called the police, you would have been just the victim of a random kidnapping. There’d be no connection between them and me.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “I think they were going to kill you and bury you so that nobody would ever find the body. If they did the same to Jessica and me, it would be almost impossible for anybody to make the connection to what we were doing in Europe. If we disappeared while in Europe, somebody might have put two and two together. But by getting us home, there’d be airline reservations to prove we had left Europe.”

  “What are you going to do with Tariq?”

  “Kill him, I suppose.”

  Tariq had been listening. “No,” he said.

  “Tariq,” Jock said, “you’re of no use to us. You won’t answer questions and you whine a lot. It’ll just be easier to kill you.”

  “No. I can answer questions. Lots of questions.”

  “Okay. When we get home, I’m going to need some information from you. I know a lot, but I don’t know it all. If you lie to me, I’ll probably know, and you’ll be dead. Understood?”

  “Yes.”

  We pulled into the garage in Lakewood Ranch. Hickey was in the kitchen making sandwiches. The wall clock showed 2:30 a.m. “I figured you guys would be hungry after an operation. Who’re your friends?”

  Jessica walked into the kitchen, relief painted on her face. She came to me and hugged me, then Jock. “I’m glad you guys are okay.”

  Jock pointed to Logan. “This is Logan Hamilton and he needs a bath. This other person is Tariq, the kidnapper.”

  “I thought so,” said Hickey. “The handcuffs sort of gave him away. I’m done with the sandwiches. There’s beer in the fridge. I’ll be in my bedroom if you need me.”

  “Jess,” I said, “you might want to go with Tom.”

  “Not a chance. I’m in this too.”

  “This could get a bit nasty. We might have to kill Tariq, or at least cut him up some.”

  I heard two sharp intakes of breath, Jess and Tariq.

  “No, you won’t have to do any of that,” said Tariq, a tremor in his voice.

  “I hope not,” said Jessica, looking at Tariq, “but I’ve seen them do worse.” She understood the game.

  Jock unlocked Tariq’s handcuffs and pointed to a chair. He placed a sandwich and a glass of water in front of the Arab. “You have one chance of leaving this place alive, Tariq. You have to tell us what we want to know. If you lie to us, I’ll kill you.”

  “What will you do with me if I cooperate?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ll probably turn you over to the police. They’ll prosecute you for kidnapping, but that’s a lot better than the alternative.”

  “Okay. What do you want to know?”

  “Who do you work for?”

  “I do not know. I am a soldier of Allah’s Revenge. I do what I am ordered to do.”

  “I’m familiar with your organization. Did you blow up Mr. Royal’s car?”

  “I had it done.”

  “Who did it?”

  “I do not know his name. He was sent by our leader. I showed him the car that belonged to Mr. Royal, and he put the bomb in it.”

  “Where is the bomber now?”

  “Again, I do not know. I think he works for an embassy in Washington.”

  “Which one?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Who is your contact person?”

  “
What do you mean?”

  “Who do you report to?”

  “A man in Germany. His name is Farouk. I call him, and he gives me direction.”

  “What’s the number?”

  Tariq recited a number.

  Jock looked at me. I looked at the stored numbers on the cell phone I’d taken from Tariq. The number was there, along with the name Farouk. I nodded.

  “Do you have a specific time to call him?” Jock asked.

  “Yes. I call him at eight each morning to let him know we are okay. I can call him anytime if I need something. He calls me sometimes as well.”

  “What happens if you don’t make the eight o’clock call?”

  “I do not know. I guess he will know we’ve been compromised, and he will do whatever he has to do.”

  “What were your orders concerning Mr. Royal and the woman?”

  “I was to kill them and drop their bodies into the sea.”

  “What about Logan?”

  “Him too.”

  “Bastard,” muttered Logan.

  Jock gave him a sharp look. Logan raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, and then made a zipping motion across his mouth.

  Jock asked, “Why were you supposed to do these things?”

  “I do not know. I do not question my orders.”

  “Would you recognize the bomber if you were shown a picture of him?”

  “Of course.”

  “Have you ever met Farouk?”

  “No. I have only talked to him on the phone.”

  “When did you come to this country?”

  “I have been here for six years. I was a student at the University of South Florida.”

  “And now?”

  “Now I live in Tampa. I am to hold myself ready in case I’m needed.”