Blind-sided

by Monette Michaels

  “Thank you.” Sam’s eyes shined with moisture. “I will stay with you until you get to the Embassy.”

  Scott shook his head. “There’s no need. You’ve done enough getting us here.”

  “I go to Embassy. Make sure you get there safe. Then my job will be done.”

  Scott could tell by the resolute look on Sam’s face that he would follow them no matter what Scott said.

  “Okay, but stay behind us. Don’t take any chances.”

  Sam nodded. “Si, I will how you gringos say ‘cover your ass.’”

  “Yes, Sam,” Rosalie said with a chuckle. “That is exactly how we say it.”

  ———

  With darkness on their side, the three set out for the United States Embassy.

  Scott led the way. He held the automatic weapon close to his body. He hoped he wouldn’t have to use it. The CD-ROM with the files was sealed in plastic and taped to his side below his armpit. A stray shot would have less chances of hitting the vital info there. Rosalie had a companion CD-ROM taped in a similar matter. Hers contained the pictures taken of the victims of One World, along with photos of the drug operations.

  The information they carried on the two, small disks should be enough to start the investigations that would lead to the arrest and incarceration of One World’s administration.

  More important, it would discredit Dr. Byron Rutherford and force the New Orleans’ federal prosecutor to charge the doctor with a myriad of crimes. Jeannie would be safe — for Rutherford was sure to spend time in jail.

  Silently, the threesome moved through the shadowy streets of Brasilia. An occasional shout of laughter floated through an open window. The rustling of little feet betrayed the presence of some street children as they scurried away from the strangers in their midst. But on the whole, deathly silence accompanied their journey. At times it was so quiet that Scott could hear the accelerated breathing of his companions.

  As they got closer to the embassy sector, the atmosphere changed. Now, open doorways of bars and houses of prostitution allowed the raucous noise of people to escape into the streets. Intermittent street lights cast long shadows.

  Then they acquired an extra set of shadows — ominous ones that moved from place to place, following, then stopping, then following. Never quite close enough for Scott to see who they were. They could be robbers. They could be the body police looking for fresh organs. One World was not the only body mafia in the South American country. They could be common criminals out to see what they could get.

  Or, they could be from One World.

  Scott sensed Rosalie close the gap between them. Sensed Sam move in to back up Rosalie. The trackers would have to make their move soon — before the embassy appeared.

  “Stay close.” Scott’s harsh whisper carried no further than his companions. “We’re going to lead them on a merry chase. When we get within sight of the embassy walls, I want you both to run for it. I’ll hang back and create a diversion that will bring out the Marines to see what’s going on.”

  “But Scott…”

  “Just do it. I’ll be fine. If I don’t make it, make sure the Marines get the disk off my body before the bastards get it.”

  Brasilia’s streets were shaped like boomerangs. Evenly spaced cross-streets intersected the parallel streets. From the map Scott studied, he knew that as long as he kept the main curved street in his sights he could not get lost. He might have to back track some to get to the cross-street that led to the U.S. Embassy, but get there he would.

  There were many potential ways of reaching his goal, so he could keep his pursuers guessing.

  For the next ten minutes, Scott wove his way through the streets and alleyways of the main part of town. Soon he would have to make the perpendicular cut to the Embassy’s cross-street. He hadn’t heard or seen his pursuers for a few minutes. It was highly likely they would have some people lying in wait at the embassy. Scott only hoped he would see them and could take them out before the pursuers caught up.

  He held his hand up, then pulled his companions into a shadowed doorway. He listened. No sounds of close pursuit.

  “We have a small lead,” he said.

  A rustling noise close by. Scott paused. Listened. A rustle then a squeak. He let out the breath he’d held. Only a rat.

  “If my calculations are correct, the next street over is embassy row. The U.S. Embassy should be half-way down the street on the right-hand side.”

  “Won’t there be some of them waiting for us?” Rosalie asked.

  “Yes. That’s why I’ll go first to take them out.”

  “No, Senor Scott.” Sam spoke for the first time since they left the cantina. “I will also help take out the watchers.”

  “Okay. Sam, you parallel the embassy from the next street over and come at the embassy from the far side. I’ll take the side closest to this position. You see anyone who doesn’t look like a U.S. Marine, take them out quietly.”

  Rosalie said, “Where will I be?”

  “You stay with me. I’ll hide you so you can see the embassy and my approach.” Scott tipped her chin up and caught her gaze. “Don’t make your move to the front gate until I signal you.”

  “How? How will you signal?”

  “I’ll whistle.”

  “Okay.”

  “If the ones who are following us manage to catch up, they’ll not be quiet when they realize we are close and their compatriots have fallen. So shoot to kill. I’ll yell for help.”

  Scott placed a hand on each of their shoulders and squeezed. “I couldn’t have asked for two better traveling companions. Thank you. God bless you both.”

  Sam nodded and left to make his way to his assigned task.

  Scott pulled Rosalie next to him. “Stay close. Keep your gun at hand. Ready?”

  “Ready.”

  Scott set out, hugging the walls of the buildings. The next cross-street was labeled Via N-1 Este. He turned right, once again staying in the shadows as much as possible.

  While not as brightly lit as the main streets, the gas lights and gate lamps on each embassy shined enough to light their way. He and Rosalie approached the U.S. embassy from the opposite side of the street. When they were two houses away, he halted and pulled Rosalie into an alcove on what was the entryway to the Canadian embassy.

  All was quiet.

  Scott signaled for her to stay and to keep her eyes open. Rosalie nodded.

  He crossed the street and cut into a small esplanade of trees between the U.S. facility and the neighboring embassy. The preternatural sense that had saved his skin so many times in the Marines told him that someone was hiding in the bushes that lined the brick wall of the embassy.

  He stopped. Listened. Sniffed.

  Smoke.

  Stupid, stupid.

  Scott stalked the careless hunters.

  There were two of them. He could tell by the small red ash on their cigarettes.

  Carefully, soundlessly, he drew his knives. If he timed it correctly, he could take both of them out with no one the wiser.

  Stealthily, he moved. His feet caused no more sound than the wind rustling the leaves on the trees. From somewhere within the United States embassy, music played. Sounds of quiet laughter filtered through the trees. The clink of glasses and silverware carried clearly on the night air.

  The ambassador was entertaining.

  The noise from the open windows would aid in covering his approach.

  When he was within ten feet, he stopped. Again, he listened. No one approached him from behind. His only enemy lay ahead.

  Timing was everything. They would not cry for help, because they were in a place they shouldn’t be. Their counter-attack would have to be as silent as his assault.

  Taking in a slow deep breath through his nose, Scott let it out in a silent rush of air. His knives at ready, he attacked.

  The last ten feet crept by in slow motion. Both men faced the street. His approach was on their flank side. At the last minu
te, the man closest to him must have sensed his approach. He turned and aimed his weapon at Scott.

  Scott threw his larger knife.

  It hit the man in the forehead. The man and his weapon fell to the ground.

  The second man rushed to meet Scott. The flash of silver indicated he also had a knife.

  Scott’s body flowed into the offensive moves of Krav Maga, the Israeli street-fighting he’d learned during Desert Storm. His boot hit the man’s elbow. The knife fell to the ground. Scott knew the man’s arm would be numbed from the harsh kick. With no conscious effort, Scott reached for the man’s head and slashed at the same time. The second man dropped to the ground, his life’s blood draining rapidly from the surgical slash across the carotid.

  The silent attack took mere seconds.

  Scott stooped to retrieve the knife from the first man’s forehead. He wiped it on the grass and slid it back into the sheath attached to his thigh. He repeated the motions for the other knife. Then he patted the disk taped to his side.

  Walking away from the bodies, he stopped at the corner of the brick wall. He peeked around the corner and looked toward the opposite end of the embassy enclosure. He wondered if Sam had encountered any opposition.

  A quick glance told him nothing, so he chanced another. Sam stood at the far end. Scott could make out his white smile. Scott sighed his relief.

  He signaled to Sam to make his way to the front of the embassy. Then he stepped out and whistled.

  Rosalie broke away from her hiding place.

  All hell broke loose.

  Shots were fired. They came from behind Rosalie.

  “Run, Rosalie!” he shouted. “Keep your head down. Zigzag fashion.”

  Lights on the corners of the embassy walls flashed on, spotlighting Rosalie. Scott turned and shot them out. He let out a rebel yell, then shouted, “Semper fi.“

  An American voice shouted, “What the hell?”

  Scott let out another rebel yell, another “Semper fi.“

  An echoing rebel yell came from the embassy gates.

  Confident that his rear was now covered, Scott turned. Rosalie lay in the middle of the street, firing her gun back at the men who shot at her. Scott aimed a swath of automatic weapon fire beyond Rosalie to where the men hid.

  The attackers continued to fire.

  Bullets sizzled past Scott. One caught the edge of his shirt. He slapped at the smoldering cloth with one hand while he continued to fire his weapon. As he reached Rosalie, she struggled to get to him.

  Her gasp and low moan told him she’d been hit.

  He pulled her up under his left arm and backed away from the attack, half-carrying, half-dragging her. He fired wildly in the direction of the shots.

  “Senor Scott. I cover you.”

  Sam’s voice came from close behind and to his right. He let Sam lay down a cover fire while he continued to back up to the embassy walls.

  Scott sensed rather than saw that Marines lined the upper walls of the embassy. They waited, not firing. Waited to see who was friend, who was foe.

  For a few precious seconds, Scott leaned against the wall to catch his breath. Sam crouched next to him, still firing. Rosalie moaned and hung limply from his arm.

  “Yo, Rebel. Identify yourself!” Someone shouted from above.

  “Dr. Scott Fontenot. Former U.S. Marine, Desert Storm. I have a wounded woman here.”

  “Good enough for me, buddy.”

  The man yelled orders to lay a cover fire. The sound of automatic weapons thundered over their heads.

  “Come on, Sam. Let’s get our butts in that gate.”

  “Si, si, senor.”

  Scott moved laterally toward the gate, which was now open. A Marine showed his head around the corner of the opening.

  “Doctor, you need help?”

  “No. Stay back. We’ll make it.”

  As Scott gathered Rosalie up into his arms, warning shouts came from above.

  “The bad asses are making a move.”

  “Stop them, Marines.”

  “Lay protective fire, boys.”

  “Doc. Doc. Move it.”

  The gate marine’s urgent voice wasn’t necessary. Scott ran toward safety, Sam close on his heels.

  As he reached the gate, he urged Sam around him. One Marine pulled the native inside. Another reached to take Rosalie, while another grabbed Scott.

  From the side of the embassy, out of the range and sight of the Marines on the walls, a One World thug ran toward Scott.

  Scott stiff-armed the Marine grasping his arm, shoving the man to safety. Then he raised his gun and got off several rounds into the attacker. Before he took the man out, a bullet hit Scott high in the chest.

  As the Marines pulled his limp body into the embassy, his last thoughts were of Jeannie and Little Bits. At least the information he carried would protect them.

  PART THREE

  The darkest hour is that before the dawn.

  — Hazlitt: English Proverbs.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  December 27th, Manchac, Louisiana

  It had been a Christmas of mixed emotions.

  Jeanette was thrilled to hear from Scott’s partner that they were alive and well and only a week away from their goal.

  Yet, she hadn’t heard anything since.

  Rutherford and his attorney, Ruel Dubois, had managed to use power and money to get the trial date moved up to January. Today Jeanette would answer questions in deposition. At least Evan had managed to move the location to a neutral place — Slidell, Louisiana.

  Rutherford’s spies and hired muscle had been scouring the bayous around Manchac, but hadn’t managed to find Jeanette’s hide-away. Tony, Frenchy and the swamp-men assisting her wanted it to stay that way.

  All in all, worry had become her closest companion.

  The site chosen for the deposition was a small restaurant in Slidell, renown far and wide for its home-cooked lunch specials. The owner of the restaurant was a friend of a friend of Evan’s family.

  Frenchy, Tony, and the other two men riding shotgun would hang around the kitchen, chowing down on left-overs. Evan felt her protectors were over-reacting, but had enough common sense to see that she felt safer.

  Jeanette felt her lawyer had a lot to learn about ruthless people.

  “Jeanette, cher, we’re here,” said Frenchy.

  His heavily accented baritone nudged its way through the miasma of Jeanette’s emotions.

  She exited the car and was immediately surrounded by her four protectors.

  The restaurant sat silent, sheltered among hundred-year old live oaks. Lingering on the air were the cries of swamp birds and remnant odors of the special du jour, fried fish by the smell of it. The lunch crowd was long gone.

  She wished she’d been one of them. Wished she could be anywhere but here.

  But she wasn’t. She had to see this through. She couldn’t allow Rutherford to harm anymore people. Couldn’t allow him to threaten her life and that of her child’s. Couldn’t let Scott down after he’d put himself at risk.

  Evan waited for her on the sagging front porch of the small eatery.

  “Jeanette?” His deep voice soothed the rough edges of her nerves. “You okay?”

  She nodded. Tried to speak, coughed, then tried again. “I think so. Just a little shaky.”

  Evan grasped her cold hand with his hot one. “You’ll do fine. Just remember. Let Dubois finish the question before responding. Don’t rush your answer. Measure your words. Keep your eyes on me. And…”

  “You’ll jump in to protect me whenever possible.” Jeanette smiled as she finished Evan’s cardinal rules of deposition-giving.

  “You got it.” Evan squeezed her hand gently, then led her inside.

  The dining area had been set up as a conference room. Four tables were pushed together to form one long one. Ruel Dubois sat on the far side of the table with a young man, probably an assistant. The rest of the table was filled with piles of paper and
files.

  She swallowed hard.

  Evan leaned down to whisper, “Puts out an impressive front, doesn’t he?”

  “Is that all it is?” she whispered back. “What’s in all the files?”

  Before Evan could answer, a woman said, “Ms. LaFleur. Mr. Devereaux. I’m Ms. Scorpius, the stenographer. I need to get some preliminary information before we start.” The business-like brunette held out her hand.

  Jeanette and Evan shook the proffered hand and followed the woman to the table. Jeanette had been so distracted by Rutherford’s attorney that she’d overlooked the small set up to the side of the conference table. Ms. Scorpius took a seat at the extra table upon which sat a laptop computer attached to a contraption with several keys sitting on a pedestal.

  “What’s that?” Jeanette blurted the question without thinking. Her face flamed at a sneering chuckle from the youth at Dubois’s side.

  Ms. Scorpius glared at the young man. Turning to Jeanette, she smiled.

  “This is my steno machine.” She pointed to the small machine on the pedestal. “I use a form of short-hand, which prints out on the tape you see. In the old days I would then retype my abbreviated notes into a final document. But with a software translation program, I can type directly into the computer. I use the tape to double-check the computer document, since my short-hand has some quirks.”

  Jeanette smiled at the kind woman. “You said you needed some preliminary information?”

  “Yes. Would you spell your name for me…”

  The preliminaries soon over with, the grilling began.

  For three hours, Dubois posited questions, then re-posited them in an attempt to trip Jeanette up over minute details of the daily operations of the Eye Clinic and the Epi Study and its protocols.

  Evan objected frequently.

  But Jeanette didn’t feel protected. She felt violated. Verbally raped.

  In the end, if the deposition had been a ball game, the home team would’ve lost — a zillion to zero. They’d been out-classed, out-gunned and out-manned. Even the stenographer looked frazzled and upset on their behalf.

  Jeanette glared at the urbane and smooth Dubois as he followed his legal gopher out the door.