by John Shaw
With the prize stretched between his hands, the South African walked up to the remaining cap tive. The clicking of his hard-soled shoes on the concrete floor echoed through the warehouse.
"You're lucky—your brus gave it up quickly. Now all you have to do is confirm what they told us, and you'll be on your way."
Stanley wept. "Oh, god, I don't know why you brought me here. Ask me anything, I'll tell you whatever you want to know. I have a wife and a daughter. Please, I beg you."
"Where is Ed Sulari?"
Cuffed and restless, the man was barely able to catch his breath. The green-eyed captor flashed a wicked smile at his associate, pulled a pistol out of his jacket holster . . .
"No, no!" Stanley thrashed against his shackles.
. . . and fired a bullet through the kneecap of the screaming man.
After the cries of pain subsided, the questioning resumed. "I will ask you once more. Where is Ed Sulari?"
"He's . . . he's held up at my cabin. Near Lake Geneva," wailed the crippled man.
"Give us exact directions on how to get there."
"Yes, yes, just don't hurt me anymore."
***
Three murdered men with ties to the Chicago mafia lay dead in an abandoned warehouse on the South Side of Chicago as the two assassins headed north on Interstate 94. As they approached the Wisconsin border, the passenger turned to his partner. "I thought these mafia guys were supposed to be tough. Those three were a bunch of pussies."
"Yeah," the driver responded, "that fat tsotsi shat his bloomers before I even had a chance to cut his toes off."
"Craven says this Sulari is a pro, though. We shouldn't take any chances."
"He's not going to be expecting us," said the green-eyed South African, "although the cabin sounds as if it's got some security and a good field of fire."
"Surprise will win the day every time," the blue-eyed one said. "Every time."
***
Perched on a small hill, the A-frame was nestled into the verdant pine of the Wisconsin countryside. Heavily wooded, the area was blanketed by snow cover over a foot deep. The nearby lake lay frozen and foreboding, stretching out in the distance like a snow prairie.
Sulari had been living on frozen pizzas and coffee as he waited for Craven's wire transfer. He planned to head off to the Cayman Islands as soon as the money was sent to pick up his commission and forget his recent troubles. He kept the radio and TV off in case anybody tried sneaking up on him. The cabin was equipped with enough floodlights to light up Wrigley Field, but he felt it best to keep them off. The last thing he wanted to do was draw attention to himself while the heat was on. For now, he had one small lamp lit and the shades drawn.
Sulari was just starting to nod off at the table when his head jerked up, his skin crackling with the rush of adrenaline. Footsteps! Motherfucking footsteps. Drawing his weapon from his shoulder holster, he moved over to the window. With his gun trained outside, he flipped on the floodlights, lighting up the winterscape bright as day. At first he didn't see anything, but then a burst of steamy breath in the cold air gave away a big buck, standing rigidly at the edge of the woods. An instant later the beautiful animal made a quick, graceful turn away from the cabin and, in great leaps, crashed into the underbrush.
The thumping and slashing of brush was audible for several seconds as Sulari let out a sigh. "Jesus Christ," he said aloud. "I've had enough of this nature shit already."
He put his gun back in its holster, turned off the floodlights, and walked back toward the stove, shaking his arms and cracking his neck with a quick twist of his head. No sleeping tonight—there'll be plenty of time to sleep when I'm on the plane.
As he was fixing himself a fresh pot of coffee, he heard another noise out front. That sounded awfully close to the front door, he thought, adrenaline returning to his veins. The deer wouldn't come that close.
He drew his weapon and advanced to the front door in the moody glow of the lamp. This time he threw the door open and thrust his pistol into the darkness in the direction of the noise. Shots rang out, reverberating through the forest. The great buck, a quarter mile down the hill, came to a sudden halt and looked back toward the cabin.
Sulari dropped to his knees and fell face forward. Blood flowed from the two bullet holes in the back of his head, forming rivulets of red in the white snow. With his pistol still smoking, the blue-eyed assassin reached over and turned off the burner on the stove.
Chapter 35
Craven was not usually in a position to schedule meetings with Stedman, but things had changed. As in wartime, where the president caters to the five-star general in command, Stedman now needed Craven more than Craven needed Stedman. He even sensed in his boss's voice the unconscious shift in power.
When he entered the elaborate office, two executives rose from their seats and left without saying a word. At the moment, Craven was the most important person on the boss's agenda.
True to form, Stedman got straight to the point. "Catch me up," he said as he poured himself a stiff drink.
"The problem in Chicago is resolved. But—"
Stedman looked up from his drink. "There's something else?"
"On a hunch I decided to keep an eye on Maynard. I—"
Stedman cut him off. "We checked him out thoroughly years ago. He's as steadfast as they come, always has been."
Craven held up a hand. "Hold on. You know I don't do things flippantly."
But Stedman wasn't listening. "Just last week you had him intercept the package from Matthews. Doesn't that prove his loyalty and commitment to the cause?"
Craven's eyes narrowed. "Look, Mr. Stedman, you pay me not to trust anyone. You pay me to be suspicious when there's no clear reason to be suspicious. I have my reasons."
"Go on," Stedman said, nursing his drink.
"I had his phone tapped. Yesterday afternoon he took a call from Ryan Matthews and arranged a meeting with him for today."
"What did they talk about?"
"Matthews is ex-Bureau. They were both savvy enough not to say too much."
Stedman sat down. "I don't think there's anything to worry about. They have history. It makes sense that Matthews would go to him for answers. If Maynard refused to talk, it would make Matthews even more suspicious."
Craven didn't seem convinced. "Maybe, but they were speaking in code. They referred to a meeting place but didn't name it over the phone."
Either Stedman was trying to affect a sense of cool, or he was really convinced that Eric Maynard was not a threat. He locked eyes with his security chief. "Our men need to neutralize Matthews and Carver soon, along with any risk they may present. But we've worked on Maynard, and he knows what's at stake. He's not going to step out of bounds."
"I'm afraid there's more, sir. Last night, my security team did a complete audit on Maynard's computer and phone records from the past few months."
"What did you find?"
"We found out that he placed a call to Carver the night she first met Matthews. You remember, the same night that she was conveniently not aboard her uncle's yacht."
Stedman didn't show surprise often, but Craven's news put him at a momentary loss for words.
"And just last week, Matthews and Carver visited Maynard at his office. The next day they headed for Punta de Mita. You know I don't believe in coincidences, Mr. Stedman."
"So Maynard knew Carver?"
"From September through December of last year, Maynard placed eleven calls to Carver's old clinic in Chicago. However, we cannot find any record of calls before that time or since Carver resigned, and his division had no other business dealings with the clinic."
Stedman digested this news. "Is there anything else?"
"Maynard left work early yesterday. A search of his computer indicates that he accessed the files on Serapectin and the old files on Tricopatin. I think his old loyalties are resurfacing, and you know he could bring us down."
Stedman dropped his head into his hands. It was
hard to tell if he was more upset by the betrayal or the loss of control. "Do whatever needs to be done."
Craven bolted up like a loaded spring. "That's all I needed to hear."
***
When Jordan and Ryan arrived at FBI headquarters, Crawford led them to a room set up with a TV and VCR. As they watched the video surveillance from Kalliburton, they were disappointed to see firsthand that the person who received the package was unidentifiable. The man seemed to know the range of the surveillance camera and was careful to avoid showing himself onscreen, with the exception of his left arm when he reached for the package.
Ryan's eyes were glued to the screen. "Jim, back up the tape to where the driver hands off the package." The footage was repeated twice. "Can you zoom in on the hand receiving the package?"
As Crawford manipulated the remote control, Ryan squinted at the enlarged image. "The ring," he said, his voice distant. "It's a Duke ring."
"So? I have to imagine that quite a few residents in this area wear Duke class rings."
"You're right, that really doesn't narrow the field down much. I just have a hunch." Ryan glanced at his watch. "I have a meeting but I'll be back in two hours." He turned to Jordan. "I'd feel better if you waited for me here."
Crawford stiffened with concern. "You need protection, too, Ryan."
"Not where I'm going," Ryan said, heading for the door.
***
By the time Ryan pulled into the parking lot of the Eno River State Park and hiked the quarter-mile trail to their scheduled rendezvous, he had already made up his mind.
He spotted Eric pacing along the riverbank. He was clearly agitated, and when he saw Ryan coming up the trail, he strode anxiously toward him.
"Look, Ryan, I found out some stuff. You and Jordan had better go underground. And I mean fast."
"Why?"
"You doubt me?"
"No, not really. I just want to hear you tell me why."
"Because you've pissed off some powerful people. And I think you know what they're capable of."
"You mean the same people who've been trying to kill Jordan and me ever since we met on Exuma?"
Eric frowned. "Come on, Ryan. Why play Mickey the Dunce?"
Ryan hesitated, his face contorted with emotion. "Because I want to hear it from you."
Eric did not offer a response.
"I'll never learn anything if I'm deep underground. Besides, our trip to Mexico provided a lot of answers. There's no way I can go underground now."
"If you don't, you won't stay alive. Please, Ryan, take Jordan and go." Eric's voice was pleading. "I'm telling you, amateur hour is over. They're bringing in the pros. These guys don't make mistakes."
"I know, Eric."
"There it is. I've told you what I know."
"You haven't told me shit. And I know more. In fact, I know it was you who accepted delivery on the package I sent to Dave."
Eric fell silent. Their conversation gave way to the churning river. Neither man knew what to say.
"I never meant for any of this to happen," Eric blurted out. "I'm so sorry about what happened to you and Cindy and—"
The first punch Ryan threw was badly aimed, but the next landed squarely as Ryan pummeled the smaller man. Damn you, Eric, you were behind this all along! Years of anger flooded Ryan's body, made worse by the betrayal of a dear friend. Tears filled his eyes as he swung at the man he once trusted.
Suddenly, Eric went limp and Ryan held his blows. Something was wrong. Eric's shirtfront was covered with blood, and his face had blanched as he slumped to the ground. Stunned, Ryan knelt down and gave the area a quick scan but saw no one.
Eric gasped for breath. "They told me nobody would get hurt," he whispered. Ryan heard, but could not concentrate on the words. "The key. Take the key. I . . . I started checking . . . I . . ." Eric's head turned slowly to the side, his eyes wide and glassy. Ryan knew he was dead.
Before Ryan could interpret Eric's message, he sensed what felt like a gun barrel pressing into his back.
"Okay, bru. Where's the goose?"
"Goose?"
"The girl. You know who I mean." A tall, pale man with green eyes and dirty-blond hair carrying a sniper rifle with a silencer approached from the right. He tossed the rifle on the ground behind his blue-eyed partner and pulled a pistol, also with a silencer, from his coat. "We can't wait for your decision, bru. We're out of time."
Ryan heard the pistol cock. His back muscles clenched as he waited for the bullet.
"Last chance. Gonna talk?"
"Sure, mate," Ryan annunciated. "Right after you two queers are done fucking each other."
The assassins gave each other a surprised look before aiming their weapons at Ryan's chest. Before Ryan had a chance to speak again, the still air was filled with the sound of gunshots, and his body was covered with blood.
Chapter 36
In shocked silence, Ryan stared at the blood on the front of his shirt. He clutched his chest with shaking hands and was astonished to discover that he was not hurt. He had not been hit! The blood splatter belonged to his assailants. A long breath hissed through his pursed lips as he pushed one of the dead assassins off his legs.
He heard a rush of footsteps and looked up to see Jordan running toward him, followed by Jim Crawford and his men. Without a word, Ryan turned his eyes up at Crawford. The FBI man, gun in hand, was smiling. "Good thing Jordan talked me into following you."
Ryan's eyes drifted over to Eric, his bloody body sprawled out on the ground next to the two killers. Except for his developing relationship with Jordan, the past three weeks had been a living nightmare. Now Eric, his longtime friend, college roommate, business partner, and the best man in his wedding, lay lifeless before him.
Crawford's voice was low, and all business.
"I know you don't feel up to putting this all down in an official statement right now, but . . ." He spread his hands, palms upward, as if to say he had no choice in the matter.
Ryan knew the drill. "We might as well get it over with."
***
Back at FBI headquarters, a two-man team of hardtack senior agents conducted Ryan's interview. The relentless questioning was an eye-opener for Ryan as he experienced the role of the victim for the first time. It was more frustrating than he had imagined, but he knew these guys were just doing their job. Still, by the time Crawford showed up, Ryan was nearing the end of his rope. "Jim, enough. Call your guys off."
Crawford motioned his men out of the room and sat next to Ryan. "Sorry, Ryan, but you know the routine. It's a bitch if you're on the wrong side of the desk."
Ryan finished off the lukewarm dregs of his coffee and started to get up. Crawford motioned for Ryan to stay put.
"As a rule, I don't provide victims with the specific details of our investigation, but I'm going to make an exception. We've been concentrating on learning who the hired guns were. I'm hopeful that we'll be able to trace them back to their source.
We also followed up on the car they were driving. It belongs to a local businessman. We contacted his wife, who told us that he's traveling on business and had parked his car at the airport. We checked with airport security and located the surveillance video, which caught these same two men in the act of stealing the car. A search of their bodies revealed a small arsenal. In the car, we found their personal belongings, along with another cache of weapons and four passports with various aliases."
"I appreciate the update, Jim, but it sounds like a bunch of dead ends."
"So far, it is. I've spent the past two hours trying to trace the route of these men. We know that they boarded a South African Airlines flight in Johannesburg Wednesday morning and arrived at O'Hare the next day. This morning they used one of their bogus passports as identification to board the plane from O'Hare to RDU. I contacted some local sources in South Africa. They're looking into their identities, but so far, we have nothing. These guys appear to be nameless ghosts."
Ryan pondered the p
ossibilities. "Considering the arsenal and passports, those boys were professionals with some major cash behind them."
"I'll say. I've seen plenty of fake passports, and these were masterpieces. But what worries me most is the quality of their intel. Hell, we barely knew where you were, and these guys tracked you down within two hours of landing."
Ryan absorbed the implications of this before asking the unavoidable question: "Do you think there's a leak on your team?"
"I've worked with the same team for the past six years. My guess is they followed Maynard, and he led them straight to you." Crawford threw a glance at the two interviewers who were standing outside the door and motioned them in. "You guys about done?"
"We have a few more things to go over."
Ryan rolled his eyes. "By now they know more about the story than I do."
"Good, then they're doing their jobs." Turning to the agents, he added, "Give us another minute, and ask Dr. Carver to join us." The two agents left the room, and moments later, Jordan came in and took the seat next to Ryan. As the couple locked hands, Crawford grew serious. "Okay, here's the deal. Someone with an endless supply of money, high-tech intel, and ties to ruthless killers all over the world is out to eliminate the two of you."
"Sounds like the CIA to me," Jordan offered.
"Might as well be," Crawford said. "What makes matters worse is that we don't have a name or face to tie this to. Worse yet, there's not an admissible piece of evidence to even allow us a search warrant."
Ryan frowned. "Sounds promising, Jim. Any more good news?"
"The one piece of good news I do have is that we've kept the press at bay. They're still waiting for an official statement, but we need to talk about your futures first. As I see it, you have two choices. Go into protective custody, or get killed."
Ryan's frown was replaced by a sneer of disgust. Running away is not in the playbook, he told himself. Pausing to reassess, he thought, Who are you fooling, Matthews? It's the end of the game. There are no other options. "I'd just hate to see the bastards get away with it."