A Vicious Balance: A Mystery Thriller

by Jolyon Hallows

  “Sounds as if he was consumed by rage.”

  “He was. I couldn’t just sit there and listen to him. I had to pound some sense into his head. I pointed out that he was a middle-aged, sedentary man who had no chance against young paranoid thugs. That didn’t sit well with him. He turned on me, threatened me. Told me I was a coward. I guess I was getting angry myself and said some things I probably shouldn’t have. He got even more furious and threw something at me. That was more than I was willing to take. I started toward him ready to fight, but he collapsed into his chair in tears. The thing he threw was a glass statuette that had been a gift from his father.”

  “So that ended his isolation?”

  “Yes and no. Yes, he came to his senses and saw how futile it was even to think of attacking terrorists. But no, he still longed for revenge. After that incident, he seemed to pull into himself even more, although without the rage.”

  “Depression?”

  Sanderson nodded. “I think so. We tried to get through to him, but nothing worked. On one occasion, he and I talked. He told me he saw his great challenge as avenging his parents. His life’s choices had taken him down the wrong path. He was a dealmaker, an agent for people who wanted to buy and sell businesses. That was useless in helping him fight terrorists.”

  Travathan said, “Did he ever give up on the idea of getting revenge?”

  “Are you kidding? He seemed to fall even deeper into depression. Then one day, everything changed. He called me, more excited than he’d been since his parents were killed. He wanted to get together with me because he had figured out how he could avenge them.”

  36

  Early in the evening, three of them gathered in a small motel room bound not so much by a mission as by a hatred of all they saw around them. Their indoctrination had hammered out of them all ability to see the world other than through the lens of retribution and the commands of their leaders. They had been taught to embrace the slogans of martyrdom, to profess their eagerness to die for their cause. But their proclamations of self-sacrifice were fraudulent. They lived only to kill.

  Their leader, the man who brought them together and whose news of the death of their sister, Mujaahida, had invoked not grief, but a template of rage, told them of the mission he had been instructed to complete. He lied to them. He told them their leaders were outraged by the death of Mujaahida. He said that their orders were for retribution against the Sandersons and Jake Handley, along with the two men responsible for the martyring of their sister.

  Handley was being taken to an agency safe house. With luck, the Sandersons would be there as well, vulnerable to the revenge they deserved. Travathan and Kagan would have to come later. Their leader told them their goal now was to destroy these defilers, a goal to which they pledged their lives, not with any solemnity, but with a casualness that betrayed their refusal—or inability—to question any request.

  Tracking the cell phone was easy. They studied the maps of the area around the prison, and made repeated calls to the phone, following its progress until it turned onto a road that led into the wilderness near the base of a ridge of mountains. The leader grunted. “Fools. If they had gone to a spot with several roads, it would have been more difficult to track them. But now, where there is only one possibility . . .” The signal stopped moving. Their map showed the road ending at a lake.

  They piled into a van and checked the weapons they had gathered from small stockpiles around the city. They had assault rifles, grenades, and night vision goggles. That, plus the virtue of their cause, would be enough.

  The van followed the road through the darkness of the forest until its GPS told them it was within a mile of the end. They shouldered their weapons and crept forward, the goggles allowing them to follow the road in the almost-blackness.

  In the distance, a glow appeared. To the naked eye, a suggestion of light, but blinding through the light amplification of the goggles. The leader cursed at the useless things. They could no longer wear them, and they dared not risk betraying their presence with a flashlight. But without the goggles, the darkness made walking around the potholes and detritus of asphalt difficult. He wished for modern goggles that adjusted to light levels, but they were more expensive, and it was better to spend the money on weapons. He conceded the logic, but he would have preferred not to have to depend on tools that hampered him.

  They made their way to a spot where the road descended down a hill, ending in the yard of a house that faced the lake. A light atop a pole illuminated the main house, the yard, and a couple of outbuildings. A car and a van were parked beside the house. A man, probably an agent, was sitting in the car.

  The leader snorted with contempt. There was only one guard outside the house. Apparently, these fools were too sloppy to expect company. It would be easy to demonstrate to them how a real army should fight. But he had learned caution. Before he would attack, he needed information. He nodded to one of his men, who moved down the hill, keeping to the bush at the side of the road. About twenty minutes later, he returned.

  His report was concise. There was nobody in the yard except for the lone guard in the car. At the front of the house, picture windows faced the lake from the living room. There were drapes over the windows, but one of them had snagged on something, giving him an opening through which he could peer inside. There were two guards armed with automatic weapons and six other people—five men and a woman—only one of whom appeared to be armed.

  The leader praised his fortune. The armed man would be the agent in charge of the guards. Of the others, one would be Jake Handley, who had been taken there in the van. The woman and one of the men would be the Sandersons. And the other two? In his gut, he knew they were the men who had martyred his sister. Fate had favored him. In one blow, he could destroy everyone who had dared challenge the Hammer.

  He gave his orders. The three of them would move down the hill in the shelter of the bushes. One man would head for the trees opposite the main door. He and the other man would move into the bushes between the house and the lake. When they were ready, he would give a signal: the hoot of an owl. The first man would shoot the agent in the car while he and the other man would attack the house. His companion would fire at the front window, his automatic rifle shattering the windows, shredding the drapes, ripping through the flesh of anyone in the room. Then he, the leader, would toss in hand grenades. Once the room was in ruins, they would move through it, shooting anyone who had survived. It would be over in minutes. Then they would celebrate their victory.

  One of his men objected. What if there were other guards in the bushes around the house? “We have night vision goggles and if we cut the power line to the house, everything will be in darkness. The advantage will be ours.”

  Fool. “Cut the power line? This is a safe house. Do you not think it would have a backup generator? And our enemies probably also have night goggles, so there will be no advantage in taking out the light. This is my plan and you will follow it.”

  The other man just nodded. They clutched their hands together in a ritual of comradeship and started down the hill.

  Keith Donner was nervous. Since this was his first field mission as an agent, he could be forgiven, even if the risk was low. Agent Meyer had brought him along as a trainee, having him drive the van that carried Jake Handley from the prison and assigning him to stand guard in the bushes behind the house. Meyer didn’t expect any trouble. Other than his superiors, nobody knew where they were going, so giving Donner this job would be a safe part of his training in real-life surveillance. He had told Donner to stay camouflaged and hidden in the bushes where the glare from the yard light allowed him to watch the side of the house as well as the yard and the bushes between the house and the lake.

  Unfortunately for Donner, his nervousness filtered down to his bladder. He was supposed to remain in the bushes beside the house, but the pressure grew in his groin until he was forced to give in. He slipped deeper into the bush, propriety pushing him far enough
into the trees that the bush and the dark concealed him as he luxuriated in his relief.

  He returned to his position and scanned the bushes around him. He yawned. This was tiresome. The minutes crept by. He looked at his watch. It didn’t seem to have moved since the last time he checked. Out of boredom, he scanned the terrain around the house through his scope. Beyond the side of the house where the car and van were parked, one of the bushes moved. There was no wind. Probably a raccoon or maybe a coyote. Out of curiosity, Donner trained his scope on the bush. A bird call sounded. An owl. Coming from the direction of the lake. The timing alarmed him.

  He turned toward the front of the house and scanned the area through his night-vision scope. Two figures emerged from the bushes. One of them raised a rifle toward the window.

  He fired, his automatic rifle chattering in the night. One of the men fell backward, his rifle spraying bullets into the air. The second man grabbed his leg and collapsed, hurling two objects at the window. They bounced off the reinforced glass, landed on a verandah, and exploded, shattering the glass. More gunfire. Closer. Behind him. Bullets smashed into the trees around him. He dropped to his knees, slid into the bush, and moved toward the sounds of the shots.

  Inside the house, a burst of machine gun fire froze the conversation. Meyer yelled, “Get down.” An explosion. A spray of glass sliced through the room. “Kill the lights,” he yelled. “The yard light, too.” The room went black. Meyer and the guards pulled their night goggles down. “Hold your position. Roll call. Larry, are you okay?”

  “Okay.”

  He called out each of their names, Maureen, Jake, Max, Gord. All responded. “Follow my voice. I’m getting you into the basement.” He scuttled across the floor, calling out as he went, moving down a hallway to a door. “There’s a set of stairs here. Call out your names as you go down. Once you’re all there, I’ll close the door. It’s steel reinforced. The last one in locks it. There’s a backup light but don’t turn it on until I’ve closed the door. Stay there. There’s an intercom. I’ll call you with the password: bookend. Stay put until you hear that. Don’t open this door, and don’t come out until then. Now get going.”

  Each of them filed past him and fumbled down the stairs. All but Travathan. Meyer called out his name.

  Travathan replied, “Sitting in some basement isn’t my style. I’m staying here and fighting.”

  “Damn you. I don’t have time to argue.”

  “So why are you?”

  Meyer cursed, “Have it your way.” He slammed the door shut and made his way to a weapons locker. He picked up two assault rifles, and handed one to Travathan. “I hope you know how to use this.” The snap of the clip being seated gave him his answer.

  One of the guards said, “We’ve not been able to raise Higgins or Donner. We have to assume they’re dead.”

  “Right,” Meyer said. “We don’t know if these bastards have night goggles, but if they do, we’re sitting ducks here. We’ll use the back door. Travathan, we don’t have goggles for you. If you stay behind this couch, you’ll be hidden. Let’s go.”

  Meyer and the two guards disappeared, leaving Travathan alone in the living room, part of him regretting his decision not to go into the basement, part of him thinking, No. Even if the odds are tilted, I’d rather fight. And this house, even the basement, was not safe.

  Outside the house, Keith Donner pulled on his night goggles and slipped his intercom off his belt. It had vibrated. Meyer was calling him. But there was an attacker out there and Donner didn’t dare reveal his position by speaking. He bent a willow down almost to the ground, and hooked the clip of the intercom onto a branch. He slid deeper into the bush and peered into the blackness around the house. Whoever had shot at him would be looking for him, and he was determined to put up the best fight he could.

  He waited, willing the intercom to slip from its hold on the willow. There was silence. In the green glow of the goggles, he struggled to make out anything that looked human or that moved, but all he saw was bush, all he heard was the lapping of waves on the lake. With a swish, the willow discarded the weight of the intercom, springing back up. The air filled with the sound of machine gun fire. Bullets ripped through the willows. Donner aimed his rifle at the muzzle flashes and fired. There was a scream.

  He crept forward, eyes and ears straining to catch the slightest of signals. A man lay on the ground. He was in his late teens or early twenties, looking like a college kid sleeping off a party. Donner turned and ran in a crouch back toward the bush. Bullets slammed into his side, knocking him to the ground. The figure of the man who had thrown the grenades stood over him, blood staining his leg. Donner swung his rifle toward the man, his finger squeezing the trigger as the man aimed his rifle at Donner and fired. Keith Donner never knew that some of his last, sprayed bullets struck the man in the midsection, knocking him back toward the clearing between the house and the lake.

  Inside the darkness of the living room, Travathan could hear gunfire. He feared that one of the terrorists equipped with goggles would attack the house, and he’d never even see him. He couldn’t stay trapped here. If he could make it to the bushes, he’d have a place to hide, and maybe he’d be able to find a target.

  Clutching his rifle, he edged his way across the floor, his feet crunching on shards of glass. He slipped through the shattered window onto a verandah that spanned the front of the house. He dropped to the ground, his eyes becoming accustomed to the dark, picking up varying shades of blackness. He edged toward the bushes between the house and the lake. Feeling his way. Hoping that the ground was relatively clear of obstacles. His feet bumped into something. He stooped and ran his hands over it. A body. His fingers stained themselves with a stickiness that had the smell of decay. On top of the man’s head, his hands traced the outline of a set of night vision goggles. He started to pull them off, but in the blackness, he had no forewarning.

  A blow ripped his rifle from him. A pair of hands seized him by the front of his jacket slamming him on his back onto the ground. A man threw himself on top of his body. His face smashed into a pair of night goggles. Arms encircled him, pulling him close. He pushed against his attacker, but his hands slipped over clothes soaked with blood. A voice, close by his ear, tinged with pain said, “You are the murderer of our sister. You will pay the price.”

  The man fumbled with something and pulled Travathan even tighter against him. Between them, crushed into his chest, Travathan felt something hard and round.

  A grenade.

  He heaved back. His arms were pinned. He struck out. His fists slammed into the man’s sides. He jammed his legs into the man’s groin. His attacker seemed immune to pain. His arms gripped like steel bands. Travathan thrashed against those arms, imagining the timer inside the steel sphere pressed tight against his chest, ticking down the final few seconds of Gord Travathan’s life.

  The world exploded into light.

  The man screamed and grabbed at his face. Travathan rolled toward the bushes. The grenade exploded. The blast deafened Travathan, bathing him with flesh and blood and shrapnel. He lay on his back, hearing the agents calling out to one another. And he realized he was laughing and crying at the same time.

  37

  Agent Meyer was grim. He had lost two men in the battle. Higgins, the outside guard, never knew he was at risk, but as for the second, Keith Donner, Meyer said, “If it wasn’t for him, we’d be dead. He was a trainee, but I couldn’t have expected more from any seasoned agent. I will make sure he receives a commendation.”

  They had arranged the bodies of the terrorists on the ground beside the house as Meyer moved among them, feeling for a pulse, a sign of life, in any of them. There was none. He cursed and said, “It’s going to be tough to find out just what the hell they were after if they can’t talk.” He yelled at the black sky, “What did they want that was worth all this?”

  Meyer radioed for reinforcements and posted his two guards in the bushes beside the house in case there were oth
er terrorists who had held back in reserve. He stormed into the house, yelled the password into the intercom, and ordered his guests upstairs. He waited, his face taut, as they filed out of the basement.

  They cleaned up the living room as best they could and seated themselves. The night air, cool through the remnants of the window, contrasted with the heat from the fireplace insert that still radiated warmth.

  “Understand,” Meyer said, his voice low and with a tone that would tolerate nothing but compliance, “I have just lost two good men and we have had to kill three terrorists. You will tell me why. Now.”

  Larry Sanderson took a deep breath and said, “Agent Meyer, I think I am responsible for the deaths of your agents. I and Ed Handley. I am truly sorry. We never intended for something like this to happen.”

  Meyer’s voice was a snarl. “I am not interested in apologies. I want an explanation.”

  “Yes. I was about to tell you how Ed Handley planned to get his revenge for the murder of his parents. He decided to become an arms dealer selling weapons to terrorists. After all, he was a deal-maker. Whether he was selling a company or a crate of grenades, it’s just another deal. His specialty.”

  Travathan snorted. “Well, that would sure show the bastards. Tell me, how in hell would selling them weapons get him his revenge?”

  “The weapons were defective.”

  “Defective? How did he get defective weapons?”

  “He didn’t. We made them defective. We sabotaged them. Ed got a small group together, guys who’d lost family members to terrorism, and he rented a warehouse where we collected a bunch of weapons. Things like assault rifles, grenades, detonators, plastic explosives. He told us that while he was researching the arms business, we were to figure out how to sabotage the weapons.”