by Roger Weston
They had always said that Erica had a calm face and the kind eyes. They thought she was their angel and their mother. If she left them, then they would not raise their eyes. As she walked away, she heard Sofia weep. Then Valeria. Then Diego. Erica did not turn back because she would not have been able to leave. Then heard little Mateo speak. He said, “Mothers always leave, Sophia, but Jesus is with us.”
CHAPTER 1
Port Gamble, Washington State
The white pickup truck rolled into Port Gamble at a relaxed twenty-five miles-per-hour.
Port Gamble was an old company town on the Olympic Peninsula. It was a 19th- and 20th-Century lumber mill that had been closed since 1995. With the steepled church and the gabled clapboard houses with colorful paint and white picket fences, the community resembled old-time New England.
The classic buildings, the lush green lawns, the old cookie-cutter company houses lined up like dominoes—it looked like a little slice of heaven. Only today, Chuck Brandt, disguised as a painter, saw it as a potential death trap. He hoped not, but it was a risk he had to take. He needed to sneak his crab fishing boat out of port and flee north to Canada and the Inside Passage, Alaska.
Looking for signs of surveillance, he rolled into town in the white truck with tinted windows and cruised slowly past the row of old company houses. The terrain to his right sloped down to the site of an old log mill and beyond that a pulsating blue-water cove. His boat was tied up down at the wharf, and he had reason to fear. Since his trip to Venezuela, all kinds of lies about him had gone viral. He was presently the most-wanted man in the world—public enemy number one. On the seat next to him, his face was emblazoned on the front page of the Seattle Times.
At first, as his truck rolled through town, he saw no signs of trouble.
He parked in front of the general store and went in. With his bushy red wig, thick red beard and sideburns, sunglasses, painter pants and paint-splattered t-shirt, he looked nothing like the Chuck Brandt CIA-surveillance photo that had gone viral.
The doorbells rang as he entered the establishment. It was a tourist shop with lots of postcards, art, driftwood, and coffee mugs.
He walked over to the window and checked out his fishing boat, which was down at the wharf at the edge of the old mill yard, a large swath of dirt leading up to the shoreline. He saw no surveillance down by his boat, so he wandered around the store.
He noticed a van with tinted windows parked out front as he bought a sandwich, potato chips, and a cup of coffee, which he took out to his car. He sat behind the wheel and had lunch, taking his time. He even took a well needed catnap.
After a while, he was woken by a brief chirp from a police siren.
The cop pulled over behind him, blocking him in. His mind was racing, but the cop had just pulled someone over. Ten minutes later, the officer drove away.
A nervous-looking girl parked two cars down. She was a tall, lean girl with straight black hair that flowed half-way down her back. She had brown eyes like topaz, and they were compassionate, courageous eyes.
She threw her glances around as if she was expecting someone. She walked down the gravel road, across the dirt flats of the old mill yard, and out onto the wharf. She boarded Chuck’s fishing boat, which was tied up bow-on, so Chuck couldn’t see much of what she was doing on the back deck. From his angle in the truck, the view was blocked by the boat’s wheelhouse and accommodation. He did notice that she was digging in the dirt of his three-foot potted apple tree by the port railing. He’d left it there to collect rain while he was gone. Then the girl walked forward along the side deck, and knocked frantically on the side door.
Evidently, Chuck wasn’t the only one who’d seen her go down to the boat. The van raced down the little gravel road and across the dirt reaches of the old lumber mill. The wheels skidded on gravel. It came to a stop by the wharf as the girl walked back up the dock. A big slack-jawed creep with greasy hair got out of the van and wrapped his arm around her neck, probably choking her as he shoved her toward the van’s open door. She reached back and clawed at his face, but his free hand punched her in the kidney. With the arm wrapped around her neck, he thrashed her left and then right. Then he forced her into the back seat. She struggled, but the big creep threw another punch, got in the van with her, and slammed the side door shut.
The van slowly drove across the mill yard, up the little gravel road, and headed toward Port Townsend.
Chuck grimaced. He needed to take his boat and go north, but now this girl was messing things up.
Chuck threw his truck into gear and followed them, the engine purring like a cat. He kept his distance so he wasn’t conspicuous, but he didn’t get too far behind. The roads in this area were curvy at times, so he was worried that he might lose sight of the van. Countless side roads and driveways shot off into the trees. After seven miles, he came around a corner just in time to see that the van swing down a gravel road toward an old farmhouse and a big red barn. As Chuck cruised by, he thought he saw through the trees two men taking the girl into the barn. He’d almost missed it.
He kept going and drove a quarter mile. By a real estate ‘For Sale’ sign, he pulled down a dirt road into the evergreen forest. Once his rig was out of sight from the main road, he parked it and got out. It was time to make an unexpected visit on the members of the hit team.
CHAPTER 2
Keeping an eye out for security measures, Chuck jogged through the woods. He had to hurry because he didn’t know what they’d do to the girl.
It was a quarter mile over moist, soft earth, but he had to leap or climb over a dozen fallen trees then slide down a dirt slope into a fern-covered gorge with a stream at the bottom. Climbing back up the other side was sleep and slippery, but he grabbed onto vine maples in the worst area and used several vines to pull himself up over the ridge. Then he was rushing through the woods again until he came to a lush green field with a large barn near the tree line. He saw a water trough but no horses or cows. The grass was long and wet. He slipped through the cedar fence and skulked up near the big red building.
Slowly, he stepped into a wooden feed trough and eased over by a feeding port. Carefully, he leaned over and looked inside the barn. Piles of used metal fence posts and barb-wire rolls filled one shadowed corner. Four horse stalls along one side were marked with tack and feed chests. The black-haired girl was sitting on a chest. She already had a bloody nose and a bleeding lip. Chuck was surprised at the defiance in her brown eyes. She clearly was not looking her best. This was no social call, which was verified when a swarthy, unshaven Italian-looking man with a pocked complexion and black hair together with tinted glasses smacked her in the face. Her head slammed back against the wooden door of the horse stall.
“You’re gonna wish you talked, sweetheart,” he said.
The second hardcase, a heavyweight who was probably six-five and two–eighty, spat on the ground. His cheek had a big lump in it from chewing tobacco. He was a big slack-jawed creep with long, messy hair and a Hawaiian shirt.
The girl’s eye was puffing up and Chuck figured it would soon be black. She wiped away tears, but winced when her wrist touched a sensitive area.
The Italian with the tinted glasses said, “Who the hell are you?”
“I told you! A television reporter from Texas.”
“That’s a lie. I’ll kill you slowly if you don’t come clean.” He walked over to a square wooden column by the wooden hay platform and grabbed a hay hook that was hanging on a nail. Attached to a red metal handle, the hook was a foot long with a wicked-looking curve.
“One more time, what’s your name?”
“Erica.”
“Your whole name!”
“Erica Rivera.”
“What were you doing on Brandt’s boat?”
“I already told you. I wanted an interview.”
As he walked back to the girl, he said, “You better start talking, or I’m gonna gag you so no one can hear you scream when I sink this into the
soft area under your chin and drag you all around this barn like a dead animal. You’ll wish you were dead.”
“I forgive you,” she said. “May God forgive you, too.”
“Shut up or I’ll kill you right now.”
“What’s death to me?” she said. “Everyone dies sooner or later. The only question is how did you live? You’re not doing very well.”
“I’m about to do a lot worse.” He lifted the sharp tool and stepped toward her.
CHAPTER 3
Chuck rose up a little, aiming his 9mm through the feed port at the burly little thug with the hay hook. “Stop there,” Chuck said. “She may forgive you, but there are still consequences.”
Chuck heard a rustle of footsteps and realized that there was a third person in the barn. Just then a whole pile of metal fence posts collapsed, blocking the feed port and Chuck’s view. He moved to the next feed port, but the men had already run for cover. The girl was left behind, but now she got up and started running.
“No,” Chuck said. “Wait!”
She didn’t listen.
Chuck sprinted to the corner of the barn to give her cover so that they wouldn’t just gun her down. He swung his Glock around the corner and opened fire on the trees, where he estimated the hardcases had fled.
Gunfire came right back at him, and they blasted away at each other as the girl fled to the van. Chuck heard the engine start up, and the van raced down the driveway.
He didn’t like three-on-one odds, but then again, he had to find out what was going on. He had to find out who these lowlifes were working for and who was destroying his life.
He sprinted around the back of the barn and into the woods. He ghosted from tree to tree as he moved in, ready to outflank the killers.
Then a man stepped out from behind a mammoth, ten-foot high rotted stump.
Chuck fired one shot as he swerved behind a tree. The slug tore into the shooter’s shoulder. Now the other gunners opened up on Chuck’s location, pinning him behind his cover.
Now it’s two-to-one, Chuck thought. My odds just got a lot better.
There was other good news, too. They were now weighed down with a wounded man. And even if they had Chuck pinned down, he was breathing down their necks.
Then someone opened up on his tree with an automatic assault rifle. Chuck suddenly felt very small and vulnerable. With only his pistol, he was outgunned. Then the onslaught stopped. He stood behind his tree watching the forest to both sides in case they were trying to outflank him. He waited but nothing happened. He chanced a look and caught a glimpse of two men helping the wounded man clear out of the area. They were fifty yards away and took cover behind a small home.
Then the Italian with the tinted glasses and the assault rifle started back for the barn.
Chuck burst into a sprint. He weaved through trees as the shooter squeezed off a burst. A few slugs hit a tree inches from Chuck. He was stung on the cheek by flying bark.
When he came to the ravine, he tried to keep his balance, but the descent was too steep. He slipped and rolled down the bank. Something hit his spine hard, but other than pain, he was fine. Near the bottom, he ignored the pain and crawled behind some large, moss-covered rocks. He lay there on his back, just waiting for the shooter to appear.
He waited several minutes, but his target never showed up. Chuck was not about to move from his place of cover if a gunner with an assault rifle had the high ground—if he was still around. Chuck had to believe that he was.
He lay there for several hours until it was dark. Then he crawled down the gorge fifty yards and climbed the bank. The woods of Washington State were pitch dark at night. Chuck couldn’t see anything. He felt his way up the slope and hoped for the best. When he crawled over the ridge, he had made progress, but not much. He still had to find his truck in total darkness. This would not be easy. And if he did find it, he feared they would be waiting for him.
CHAPTER 4
With a million dollar bounty against his life, Chuck decided not to return to his truck. He figured it could be a trap. They’d had plenty of time to make a move. Whether by an ambush or a booby trap turning his Ford ¾ ton into an improvised explosive device to detonate once he was inside, he didn’t like the odds.
It took an hour, but he bypassed his rig and eventually came to a property with a Mercedes in the driveway. The car was locked, so he kept on. At the fourth property, he found an unlocked car in the driveway, which was good. Within two minutes he hotwired the Oldsmobile, wrote down the address, and hit the road.
He figured that at least he was still alive. That was good, but he was still thinking about the girl. From what Chuck could tell, she’d gotten out of there. But who was this supposed reporter from Texas named Erica Rivera? Why had she gone to Chuck’s boat? For a story? Given that every story about him was going viral, that seemed probable—except for one thing: Chuck had seen her hide something in the planter of the tree he kept on his fishing boat. At least that’s what it had looked like. He would have to go and check it out, but he would have to find a way to do it given that they would be watching, waiting to take him out, eager to collect a hefty bounty.
Keeping to the speed limit, he drove past a mini storage that was halfway to Port Townsend. Living on a fishing boat didn’t give him a lot of room for storage—not that he had a lot of possessions, but he did live in the real world. There were a few things that he needed.
He parked the Olds behind a gas station two miles past the mini storage. He left the paper with the owner’s address on the dashboard then backtracked two miles on foot. There were few cars on that country road at 4 a.m., but when he did see cars coming, he slipped into the woods and ducked behind a tree until they passed by. Finally, he arrived at his mini storage unit.
He punched in the key code, and the gate rolled back. The facility had 24-hour access, a benefit that always appealed to Chuck. The guard dog was kept on a leash by the night security man.
Chuck opened his garage-sized unit. His flashlight beam glinted off the chrome of his ’67 Chevy.
Most of his toys were boxed up in locked chests—assault rifles, handguns, the H&K PSG1 sniper rifle, climbing gear, surveillance equipment, scanners, parachutes, grenades, GPS units, first aid kits, rubber rafts, ropes, throwing knives, the kind of stuff Chuck kept in several secret caches like this. As a black ops contractor for the CIA, such tools were needed, but now the agency had turned against him. And they weren’t the only ones.
He opened a wooden chest that was fitted out with scuba diving equipment. He shoved some gear in the Chevy and hit the road. He drove five miles then made a call to his CIA pal Lawrence Robertson on a private emergency number.
“Chuck, what are you doing? Have you seen the news lately?”
“Someone in the agency set me up. They recruited me to eliminate a human trafficker that didn’t exist. They put me in the wrong place at the wrong time. Any idea who would’ve done this?”
“No,” Lawrence said. “Are you insane, Chuck? You’re being blamed for assassinating the president of Venezuela. Your face is everywhere. I’m sorry, man. I wouldn’t wanna be you.”
“I don’t have much time to talk. Somebody is trying to kill me. I need a favor.”
“Whatever I can do…”
“Thank you. I need you to find out about an investigative reporter from Texas named Erica Rivera. I tried to look her up online, but nothing came up.”
“I’ll see what I can find out.”
“Also, see what you can find out about Todd Kielce.”
“Who’s that?”
“You don’t know?”
“Should I?”
“Just let me know what you find out, alright? I think he’s with the agency and set me up.”
“Fine. Look, you have other problems.”
“What do you mean?”
“For starters, over 300,000 matchboxes with your photo and the reward have been passed out all over Seattle. Your photo has also gone viral.”
“I know about the headlines. What about the reward?”
“Real simple, there’s a million dollar bounty on your head.”
“Who’s paying the tab?”
“Allegedly, an international lawyer named Martin Hurst will release the cash upon proof of your death, but the lawyer can only be contacted by email. Sounds phony.”
“I need to find this guy.”
“You can’t. The word is that he’s presently sailing around the world and working from his yacht. Nobody has any details on his boat or location.”
“What’s his email address?”
Lawrence gave Chuck the information.
“Look, Chuck, you need to take a drive in the country tomorrow.”
“What?”
“You need to drive down Loggerhead Road between nine and ten.”
“I’m not following you.”
“Just be there.”
“Okay, should I pull over at some landmark?”
“No. Just dive.”
“Okay, pal.”
“Go the speed limit. There’s a cop out there named Ramos who does radar. Good guy.”
“I’ll keep my speed down.” Chuck squeezed his forehead.
“Do that.”
CHAPTER 5
An hour later, Chuck was swimming underwater just offshore of the old mill at Port Gamble. He had no doubt that the dock was under surveillance, but the operatives apparently expected him to approach by land—if at all—so just like earlier they were waiting in a vehicle up on the hill by the little store. Of course, by now there could be others. Anything could happen.