by David Perry
“Five thousand.”
“That’s it! That’s all my life was worth? What’s his name?”
Hutton shifted his gaze from Jason to the weapon pointed at his nose.
“I’m not going to ask again.”
Jason pressed the Colt into the weasel’s neck. Hutton took several deep breaths. He pressed his eyelids together. Beads of sweat popped out on his skin. Jason smelled urine.
“If you don’t tell me, you’re a dead man. If you tell me, you live a little longer.”
Hutton swallowed hard. Jason pulled the hammer back on the Colt.
“Okay, okay,” Hutton said, pleading. “I’ll tell you. Just relax with the gun, will ya?”
“Who is he?”
“I don’t know, man. You fucked him up pretty good in the cell. I never saw him again.”
Jason pressed the weapon deeper into the neck. “You’re lying.”
Hutton closed his eyes one more time. His body shook. Weak, pitiful sobs escaped his lips as his body quaked. “Just do it, get it over with. I’m a dead man anyway! Even if you don’t kill me, I’m still a dead man!”
“You weak-ass pussy.” Jason pulled the weapon back and aimed it between Hutton’s eyes. “So be it, Clyde.”
Jason sucked in a breath, held it a beat, and pulled the trigger.
Chapter 13
Oliver returned from the villa and handed Hammon a kitchen knife with a four-inch blade. The tall manservant stepped back and trained a handgun on the overweight spy. Hammon removed a box of wooden matches from his shirt pocket, striking it against the arm of the chair. A long, thin flame flared. Hammon held the knife to the flame, moving the blade back and forth along its length.
“Can’t be too careful,” he explained. “I understand MRSA is a bitch.”
He blew out the match and lifted the tent-like floral print shirt exposing his fat-filled girth. Pressing a fold between his fingers, he dug the blade into his belly. Blood seeped along the incision. Hussein watched Hammon’s face. His expression never changed. No sign of pain moved over his countenance.
With two bloody fingers, he removed a small capsule from beneath the skin. He picked up one of the cloth napkins from the small table between them and pressed it into the wound. Using the other hand, he showed the small implant to Hussein.
“This device has tracked my travels since I left Washington. The data has been transmitted to a secure computer in my home office. If I do not enter a pass code into the program within twenty-four hours, that data along with your file will also be sent to the authorities.”
Hussein nodded with a tight smile. “Impressive. You’re a regular James Bond!”
“I know how much you despise technology. But I thought you’d like it.”
“I do,” Hussein answered, taking the small implant. “You are quite ingenious.” She paused and continued. “Why would you reveal the device to us?”
“I want you to know that my movements are being tracked. If you kill me, the information I possess, including my last known whereabouts, will be delivered to the highest levels of government. They will be able to find you.”
“You haven’t been listening, Hammon,” Hussein spat. “We are nowhere near my compound. They will not find me.”
He tried to remain stone-faced under the mask. His eyes leveled an unflinching stare at Delilah Hussein. He had been a fool to think she would allow him to lead the Feds to her.
“You can’t be sure,” he replied.
Hussein grinned, dropping the tiny, bloodied tracker to the patio. She crunched it under the heel of her sandal. Hussein raised the gun again, aiming for the fat man’s torso. She winked and fired.
The leader of Team Muhammed pressed his back into the wall beside the back door and nodded to his young team member. The recruit removed an electronic lock pick from his satchel. He dispatched the storm door with ease. The storm door creaked but its sound was swallowed up by the waves crashing on the beach. The back door followed a moment later. The team leader turned the knob and pushed the door in.
With one man watching the beach and another in the shrubbery out front, the two mercenaries crossed through the living area to the stairs. Intel had told them there was no security system. After a moment’s hesitation, they climbed the stairs, stopping on the second floor outside the master bedroom.
As they had practiced countless times in the last three weeks, they burst in. The husband shot up.
“What the hell …”
They covered the distance with two long strides. The architect husband was in the process of whipping off the bed sheets when the butt of the machine pistol rammed into the bridge of his nose. The crunch of the breaking cartilage snapped in the darkness. The man crumpled back onto the bed and did not move.
The young soldier grabbed the woman by the hair, cutting off her shriek with a gloved hand. He jerked her off the bed and onto the carpet, dragging her a few feet. The woman opened her mouth to scream. The gunman rammed a balled up cloth into it, covering it with his hand. He wrestled her to the floor before sitting on her chest, pinning her arms. With his hands free, he pulled a length of duct tape from a roll on his belt and pressed it across her mouth.
He produced a syringe from a sheath on his thigh. The woman saw this and squirmed, bucking him. He uncapped the needle awkwardly and rammed it into her neck. In less than three seconds, she was unconscious.
Though not moving, the husband was sedated in the same manner. The two intruders waited thirty seconds to make sure the couple was down. They exited the master bedroom and headed down the hall.
The door shot open before they could kick it in. The boy’s eyes widened at the sight of the black-clad men.
“Michael, it’s me,” the leader said.
The boy’s face twisted with confusion at the sound of his name.
“Who are—”
The young Muslim soldier grabbed him by the neck and turned him as he drove him down, pressing Michael’s face into the carpet, pinning him with a knee to the back. Michael Rodgers tried to rise up.
“Hel—” he began to scream. The leader covered his mouth with a gloved hand and pushed a cloth into it. Another needle was inserted into his neck.
“Get some clothes,” the leader commanded. He removed a business card from his shirt pocket and placed it on the nightstand.
Chrissie kicked her legs twice under the sheets, trying to free herself. They felt as if they were stitched with lead, crushing her beneath an iron curtain of anxiety.
Her potent, latent angst would not allow her to rest tonight. Her mind went back to the second time she’d followed Jason. Her trepidation and curiosity had kept her awake that night also.
A sharp, single creak penetrated her bedroom door from the hallway.
Her heart skipped.
Screw the ghosts, she thought. I’m getting the gun!
Chrissie rolled over and pulled open the bottom drawer of the night stand.
The bullet had missed Hutton’s skull by millimeters, rupturing the interior of the driver’s side door. Jason averted his aim at the last instant, trying to scare the drunkard into an answer. The report beside his ear caused his muscles to seize and had probably ruptured an ear drum. Hutton tried to reach up to cover his ears. Jason’s legs pinned them down.
“The name?”
Hutton turned away thinking he was going to take a bullet in the face. Jason grabbed the stringy, unwashed hair and forced Hutton’s face back toward him. Hutton went into panic mode.
Somehow, he managed to free his right arm. It arced in wildly. Before Jason could react, a fist slammed into his temple, blurring his vision. His head slammed into the rearview mirror. Jason’s eyes began to water and burn, the remnants of the tequila. A barrage of wild punches hammered about Jason’s head. Unable to see clearly, Jason brought his arms up to block. Hutton’s hand clutched the gun, wrenching it away from his face. It toppled, thumping onto the floorboard.
The former guard managed to raise a knee, p
lacing it against Jason’s sternum. Hutton’s right hand continued to pelt Jason. Jason scrambled to block the blows. His own fist was forced back into his face multiple times. Clyde Hutton was a desperate—and therefore—a dangerous man.
Jason attempted two wild punches that missed. Hutton raised up, forcing Jason farther backward. Hutton’s arms pistoned back and forth, connecting up and down Jason’s face and neck. Jason was completely defensive.
The pressure on Jason’s chest released a moment after the driver’s side door opened, illuminating the cab. Hutton scampered through the opening.
Jason grabbed his boot. Hutton kicked. The heel connected with his chin, snapping Jason’s head. Hutton’s foot slipped from Jason’s hand as Jason slumped into the passenger-side foot well.
Dazed, Jason collected himself as he leaned against the passenger-side door. Shaking away the dizziness, he raised himself up and looked through the windshield. He shook his head, trying to clear the disorientation and pain, but with no success. With the acid sting still burning his eyes and his nose on fire, he tasted blood flowing over his lips.
He managed to reach into his pocket and remove his keys. His eyes followed Hutton through a curtain of water as he climbed into his pick-up truck. Two seconds after the headlights came to life, the truck lurched forward onto Warwick Boulevard, spitting pebbles and dirt.
Jason wiped his eyes and fired the engine. By the time he was on the road, Hutton’s pick-up was two hundred yards away.
Jason slammed the steering wheel. Idiot!
He floored the accelerator, willing power from the Mustangs eight cylinders. They engaged and the engine pitched higher. Forced deeper into the seat, he wiped his eyes once more.
All the months of planning and watching, Jason had managed to keep his surveillance of the former jail guard secret. Then tonight, he’d fucked it up.
If Hutton got away, he would disappear!! And Jason would never know the real name of the man who’d attacked him in the jail. Tattoo Man.
The Mustang hurtled north on Warwick Boulevard gaining on the twin taillights of Hutton’s pick-up truck.
Four members of Team Isaiah had moved in from the tree line beside the decaying shed in the back. The fifth man sat in the black SUV down the street, waiting for them to reappear.
They entered the house and moved to their designated positions. One man at the front door, one at the back. The team leader and his second moved up the stairs single file, taking each step as if it might explode.
Now, they were frozen at the top of the stairs. The floorboards beneath the carpet in the decades-old house had creaked seconds ago. The two men had waited for any sign that the woman had been alerted. Nothing!
After a series of quick hand signals, the pair inched down the hall.
Chapter 14
“Tout va bien?” Oliver demanded. Everything okay?
Charlie nodded a single, defiant nod. Oliver bristled at the reaction. It was becoming more and more frequent. After Madame had shot the overweight spy, Oliver did not wait around. He left to check on his most talented soldat, who had been acting and talking like a prima donna. The boat trip back to the main compound took two hours.
Hussein’s second-in-command reached and grabbed the long-haired soldat with both hands, pulling his face to within inches of his. “I have protected you from Madame. But I will not be able to protect you much longer. Toe the line or you will be dealt with. I said, ‘Is everything ready?’”
Charlie again provided a single nod again, this time adding a single word. “Oui.”
Oliver had reached his breaking point. He recalled the days back in Newport News as he searched Thomas Pettigrew’s and his daughter’s homes looking for the box of files. He remembered thinking that the assassinations would be his last mission. That he would retire when the job was done.
Then they had failed. He should have known Miss Delilah would not allow them to stop until they had avenged her daughter and her son. So much for living the good life, he thought. Now he had to babysit this idiot!
“Très bien. I will be over to check the accommodations shortly. I am here for your evening dose.”
Oliver scanned the space. Standing inside the single-story barracks at the southern end of the compound, three other guards looked on with rapt curiosity.
“Allez!” Oliver demanded.
They dispersed, disappearing out the door.
Charlie moved his head in the direction of his bunk area. On a short shelf above the neatly made cot sat three prescription bottles. Oliver released his grip on the senior guard and picked up the amber vials. He palmed a pill from each and grabbed a bottle of water from a small refrigerator in the kitchen area.
Oliver picked up the prescriptions personally every month at the local pharmacie, delivering them to the barracks. He made sure that Charlie swallowed every dose. It was the only way he could guarantee Charlie could continue his service to the cause.
“Now!”
Oliver handed the pills to Charlie. Charlie placed all three on his tongue and closed his mouth. Oliver unscrewed the cap from the bottle and handed it over. Charlie gulped down a swig.
“Show me!” Oliver demanded. “I must return to Miss Delilah on the other island.”
Charlie stuck out his tongue.
“They will arrive in six hours. Make sure you and Pierre are prepared. Si vous vous vissez …” Oliver switched to English for emphasis. If you screw up…
Charlie responded with another single nod. Oliver felt his jaw muscles tighten. He cocked his head and lifted his arm, prepared to launch a backhand across Charlie’s face, but stopped.
“Batard!” he whispered, walking away.
Charlie waited until Oliver exited the barracks into the Caribbean morning. When the door closed, Charlie walked into the bathroom, reached into his mouth and from under his tongue and removed each of the wet, sticky tablets. Palming them, he moved to the five naked toilets. He dropped the pills into one and flushed.
He had stopped taking the pills a week ago. He’d practiced the maneuver for weeks: rolling his tongue and lodging the tablets beneath it. He was feeling like a man again, his energy and strength returning.
But so were the urges. The pills dulled his senses, making him lethargic and clouding his mind. The irrepressible urges had almost gotten him killed and incarcerated. Charlie held no illusions about his illness. As a serial rapist and sex addict, he needed to feel the power and the raw energy he experienced when he ravaged a woman beneath him.
Miss Hussein, the Boss Woman, had saved him from a long sentence in an Algerian prison for raping and mutilating a young local. Oliver took up his cause, insisting the team needed him. His skills could not be replaced, Oliver had pleaded. To save one of her trusted soldats, Hussein intervened by bribing a corrupt judge. But she insisted that he be treated. That was six months ago.
Charlie hated the pills. He didn’t like what they did to him. They made him feel weak and sluggish, always tired. Worse, yet, he couldn’t get it up. His member hung between his thighs like a limp sausage.
Pas plus! No more!
At the moment, he didn’t give a shit about Hussein. It was good to feel like a man again.
They hurtled toward the Lee Hall Depot. Jason in the Mustang trailed Hutton’s Ford pick-up by a car length. Hutton jerked the truck to the right, negotiating the two-ton vehicle north onto Yorktown Road. They had several close calls, barreling through junctions with intersecting roads in the populated sections of schools and businesses along Warwick.
Jason was cautious and lost ground three times at the lights. Fifty yards behind now, he closed the distance again. Yorktown Road cut through a rural area with dense forests punctuated by large, flat fields. On this stretch, Jason closed to within a few yards. Hutton’s adrenaline must have waned and his drunkenness had taken over again. The truck weaved and swerved along the roadway, hurtling through the night toward Jefferson Avenue.
Jason pulled alongside, the Mustang’s grill
even with Hutton’s door. Hutton pushed the barrel of a rifle out the window, laying it across his left arm.
Taking an unsteady bead and glancing back and forth between the Mustang and the roadway, Hutton pulled the wheel left, crumpling the Mustang’s quarter panel. Jason braked, swerving left, catching the shoulder of the two-lane road. A blast erupted from the barrel. The passenger side of the windscreen crackled into multiple spider webs. Chunks of glass sprayed his face.
Jason slammed the brakes. His car nosed down. The engine of the pick-up pitched higher. The vehicle lurched forward and sped up, creating separation. Fifteen seconds later, Hutton hung a left, west onto Jefferson Avenue. Jason floored the pedal, fishtailing back onto the road.
He roared into the intersection. A horn blared. Tires screeched. Jason narrowly missed a compact car as a horn wailed then died away.
A burning sensation crept up Jason’s shoulder to his neck and down his right arm. A rosette of crimson circled the holes in his sleeve. A trail of blood oozed from the wounds. Glass from the windshield had sprayed his arm and shoulder.
Nausea welled in his throat. His right hand shook. Jason drove for another mile, never letting his eyes leave the pair of taillights ahead. The Mustang drifted toward the right shoulder as Hutton’s taillights became fainter through the web of cracks in the glass.
Then in the distance, the taillights disappeared. The disappearance coincided with a cyclone of smoke and dust and the sound of twisting metal. The sight of intermittent flashes of red taillights pulsed as the truck cartwheeled along the roadway. Jason yanked the steering wheel hard to the left, overcorrecting. The Mustang responded, its tires grabbing asphalt. Jason recorrected in the opposite direction.
Through the passenger-side window, he saw a large fireball mushrooming up from the overturned vehicle. An instant snapshot singed into his memory a spilt second before he felt his own car leave the roadway.