by David Perry
Jason paused the recording and tapped the text-message icon. A single message appeared with photo attachments. Christine lying on her back, asleep, or unconscious, or dead, on a sofa of some kind on the right side of a cramped space. The curved walls in each photo looked like the interior of an airplane cabin. The second was of Michael, also unawake, on a sofa of a similar design. But it appeared to be on the left side.
Jason placed the phone on the console between them, bowed his head, and rubbed his temples. “I can’t believe this is happening … again.”
Peter picked up the phone and continued the voice message.
“Fear not, Jason. They are still alive. They were drugged during their abductions so as not to put up a fight and risk getting injured or shot. I will send you additional photos of your loved ones as we progress through your new mission.
Yes, you now have a mission to complete. A simple three-part job. You must find something for me. Then you will find someone. And finally you will make a delivery.
It is a mission that you must complete if you wish to see them again.
Now listen carefully … bring a laptop. You have one more package to retrieve …”
Hussein’s gravelly voice, accented in a thick Mediterranean French, hung in the cab of the Hummer. Her utterances reverberated off the glass and leather interior, filling the space with an ominous timbre. The intensity and volume of Jason’s fear swelled like a storm surge before an approaching hurricane.
Jason lowered his head, his chin falling to his heaving chest, his rapid breaths punctuated by short, groaning sobs.
Delilah Hussein stood between two eight-foot-high cases stuffed with dusty wine bottles, laid horizontally, watching her two captives. She’d wanted to observe their isolation and terror in anonymity. It was not time for them to know anything about her and why they were here. Their ignorance would add to their mental discomfort. She wanted them to hurt in every possible way.
Hussein was certain the boy had no idea why he had been kidnapped. The woman might have an idea, but Hussein doubted it. As far as Christine Pettigrew was concerned, Hussein was dead.
The subterranean wine cellar dug from the sand and clay of her island, mountaintop villa measured fifty by fifty with a dusty concrete floor. A small phalanx of racks had been removed to make room for her captives. The space held a variety of tools, rakes, hoes, and pitchforks, overflow storage from the utility shed. The folded clothes taken from their rooms had been laid neatly on one of the racks holding hundreds of dusty bottles of wine.
Hussein scrunched her nose at the musty, dank, and foul odor that suffused the air and walls. Her wine collection and now her hostages resided in the anteroom of the two-room cellar. A small, arched, doorless passageway led from the anteroom to a larger, less-utilized space filled with rotting, discarded wine barrels. The villa had once been home to a small winery. Hussein had the vines torn out after acquiring the property, installed a barracks, and had a landing pad poured for her drone.
Turning her attention back to her guests, she studied their uncomfortable accommodations. They were chained in distress positions against opposite walls, facing each other. For the moment, neither of them knew the other was there.
Blindfolded, their mouths were stuffed with dirty cloths secured in place by gags wrapped tightly around their heads. Their noses and a small patch around them were the only visible skin.
Hussein sipped from a glass of Bordeaux in a clear plastic cup as she contemplated the boy. Michael Rodgers’s hands were cuffed behind him. The cuffs were chained to the east wall of the cellar. In a kneeling position, he leaned his full weight against the chained handcuffs, with each ankle chained from a different point on the wall. The ankle chains were sufficiently short that he could not sit back on his rump, but had to rest his weight on his knees and lean forward, pulling his arms backward and up.
Extrêmement inconfortable, Hussein thought.
The discomfort would grow with each hour, expanding through their bones and tissues. Muscles would cramp and tire. In a few hours, he would be begging and crying to be released. Hussein had ordered the use of this position many times. Seasoned soldiers and agents had been unable to withstand this position for longer than twenty four hours.
Before his eyes and mouth had been covered, Hussein had caught a long look at the boy’s face as he was carried unconscious into the makeshift cell. The firm set of his jaw and lips resembled those his father. The eyes and the facial bones around them did not hold Jason Rodgers’s genetic makeup. They were softer, more handsome than the pharmacist’s. No doubt a quality derived from the mother. But nonetheless, he bore a strong resemblance to his father.
The sight of Michael Rodgers’s face, so similar to that of his father, sent waves of hatred coursing through her stoic veins. It was an unexpected reaction.
Hussein smiled as she took another sip of wine. The photos and a video had been shot a few hours ago. The stills had already been sent to the cell phone Jason Rodgers would find in its hiding place.
Operation Hygeia was well underway. And Jason Rodgers was at its very core.
By now, Rodgers knew that she was behind the disappearance of the two people he loved most in the world. But she also knew that when he saw the pictures of them as her captives, his worst fears would be confirmed.
That’s when the real fun would begin.
“Here we go again,” Jason sighed, tapping his pockets frantically. “Where’s the cell phone number one. The one she sent us?”
“Calm down!” Peter tapped his shirt pocket. “I have it right here.”
Jason climbed back in the Hummer with a small cardboard box after exiting the Grafton Post Office. He sliced through the thick tape using his car keys. Opening the flaps and rifling through the crumpled paper, he removed another symbolic container, a coffin identical to the first. This one had Michael’s name branded into the lid.
Gently, Jason shook the box and something rattled inside. He pulled open the lid and peered inside. With two fingers, he removed a sleek black flash drive wrapped in clear plastic. The outside of the plastic bag was covered with a red liquid.
“What’s that?” His brother asked.
Jason examined the pads of his fore- and middle finger. They were streaked with red.
“Is it paint?”
Jason sniffed his fingers then rubbed them together. A crawling dread swept over him. “I think it’s blood.”
He examined the box and found a red smear on the underside of the lid. Jason shook his head and exhaled.
“She’s going to kill them, Pete. No matter what I do, she’s going to kill them.”
“You don’t know that. She’s screwing with you. Stay focused.”
“Grab the computer.”
Chapter 24
Consciousness seeped in, crowding out oblivion like the dawning sun nudging aside the night. As the darkness of her mind receded, Chrissie’s last memories replayed with the flurry of an out-of-control slide show: the bedroom door crashing open, knocking her backward; the masked face; the monster-like goggles; and the sharp sting in her neck.
Pressure surged from the center of her skull expanding outward with each passing second, creating the sensation that her head would blow apart. Chrissie tried to open her eyes, but couldn’t. Her eyelashes rubbed against something rough. The blindfold felt as if it would push her eyes backward into her brain.
She tried to suck in lungsful of air. Each inhalation was met with stiff resistance. A vile odor permeated her nose and mouth. Chrissie moved her tongue back and forth. A disgusting cloth had been rammed into her mouth, filling it, restricting the movement of her tongue and choking her.
She gagged and pushed forward with her tongue. The pressure against her throat eased. She managed to suck in some cool, moldy air through her nostrils. At the moment, her nose was her only connection to the world.
A searing pain scorched her arms and legs. The muscles burned. Her arms felt like they were being pulled apart
from her shoulders. Behind her, outstretched, taut, her wrists were held aloft and she could not lower them. Every time she tried, the pain intensified, becoming molten. Something held them aloft. If she tried to force them lower, her arms screamed in protest.
The large muscles in her legs had begun to cramp and spasm. Tears tried to drip from her eyes only to be swallowed up by the repugnant cloth around her eyes. Chrissie’s stomach wanted to expel its contents. If she did, she might choke to death because of the gag. She willed herself to focus on other things, blocking out the pain and the nausea.
Where the hell was she?
Who had taken her? And why?
Where was Jason? Had he been taken too?
Chrissie tried to cry. But her whimpers were absorbed by the filthy cloth in her mouth, her tears sopped up by the irritating fabric over her eyes.
She couldn’t even weep.
Amid the rustle of her clothing and the brush of the blindfold and gag depriving her senses, another sound intervened, inconsistent with and independent of her movements. It emanated from somewhere close by. The soft, gentle whoosh, a scraping noise caused by two rough surfaces rubbing against each other. Faint but unmistakable, it was there.
The cold floor felt like concrete coated with dirt or sawdust. The sound coming to her was the same sound she made when she moved her legs along the floor. Chrissie froze and listened.
There it was again!
A panicked anxiety shook her. Another living creature was alive and moving in the space near her.
Was it a mouse … or a rat … or something worse?
Whatever it was, she realized she was not alone.
The flash drive held a single video file. Delilah Hussein’s, formerly Lily Zanns’s, puckered puss dominated the computer screen. The recording had been paused. A large right-pointing triangle poised mid-screen waiting for a command.
They sat in Peter’s idling Hummer in the parking lot of the Grafton Post Office. Before clicking the play icon, Jason studied the frozen image.
Despite the fact that he’d last seen her less than three years ago, Delilah Hussein looked fifteen years older. Her black eyes exuded a hard sadness. The skin around them was markedly wrinkled. Her lips were pursed in a condescending pout.
Acid in his gut roiled. The pulse in his temple and wounds raced. Jason sucked in a tremulous breath, pushing back hatred, frustration, and a horror-filled dread.
The scene behind Hussein, frozen on the screen, appeared tropical. Slanting palm trees jutted from thick ground cover. A serene azure body of water stretched calmly to the horizon, the antithesis of Jason’s life at this moment.
Jason hovered the mouse over the triangle then clicked.
“So, Monsieur Jason, you have found the flash drive inside the second coffin. Michael and Miss Christine are only a few meters from me at this very moment. They are alive. Confused and afraid, naturally. But still among the living. Let me show you …”
The image on the screen shifted from the placid outdoor backdrop to a dark, murky room. Jason squinted, moving his face closer to the screen. Seconds elapsed, the videographer adjusted the aperture of the lens and the picture exploded in light. Another adjustment and the level of light corrected itself once more.
The same two silhouettes knelt before opposite walls, in a basement of some kind lined with racks holding wine bottles laid horizontally. Farm implements leaned in clusters against the four walls. The prisoners were blindfolded, perched forward uncomfortably before opposite walls. Their arms secured behind them as taut chains angled from their arms to the brick.
If any doubt existed, Jason had none now. He recognized the familiar outlines of Michael and Chrissie. The image zoomed in to Michael, filling the screen on the left, and then panned right.
Jason did not need to see their faces—Michael’s mop of hair and his strong angled chin, and the curve of Chrissie’s delicate, tear-stained cheeks. Their faces were swathed by gags and blindfolds. Miniscule patches of skin along the jawline and around the nose were visible.
Next, the image moved to the dirt-covered floor between them. A pristine newspaper lay there. The camera zoomed in on the masthead, focusing on the date. Yesterday’s edition of the Washington Post.
His eyes welled with moisture. Jason blinked them away, finishing with a wipe of his sleeve. Delilah Hussein reappeared and spoke:
“Here are your three objectives. You must secure a vehicle. Go to the address inscribed on the underside of the lid of the second coffin, Michael’s coffin, and retrieve a set of keys to a vehicle from the man there. You will be given the location of the vehicle later, if you survive. With these keys and the vehicle, you will make a very important delivery for me. It is out of state and will take no more than ten hours.
“Remember, the lives of Michael and Miss Christine depend on your success. It will be a difficult task, but one that you are capable of completing. I have complete confidence in you.
“Once you have obtained the keys from the male resident of the home … you are to use the cell phone from Chrissie’s miniature grave … the one marked number two … and call the only number in the address book. You must report back to me by one am your time tomorrow. Monsieur Jason, after you retrieve the keys and before you make the delivery, you will need to do one more thing … You must kill the man who gives you the keys … Bonne chance!”
“We have to take this to Palmer,” Peter demanded. “He’s the only man who knows what happened. He can help us!”
Jason shook his head. His first inclination was to get the police involved. But he’d reconsidered. “I don’t know. You heard her. ‘No police or Feds.’”
“She has Michael and Chrissie. We don’t know where they are. We can’t do this alone. Let the police crash the house and shake this guy down!”
The video had finished a minute ago. The brothers sat in silence contemplating Delilah Hussein’s instructions, absorbing the shock of the ultimatum, the enormity of their dilemma swelling.
“Stop and think a minute, Peter, will you?” Jason shot back. “We don’t even know if this guy knows where they are. If we get the cops involved, Hussein will know. I can’t risk it. If we take this to Palmer, the whole Newport News Police Department is going to descend on that house. Then they’ll bring in the Feds. And she will kill Chrissie and Michael. I know it. We can’t. We have to find another way.”
“Jason,” Peter replied. “This thing is way too big for you and me. Hussein could be holding them anywhere. If she’s telling the truth and they are no longer on American soil, we have no way of finding out where they are, let alone mounting a rescue. Look, I love them, too. But we need help.”
“I agree we are going to need help. But not yet.”
“So what are you … we going to do?”
“We’re going to follow her instructions to the letter … until I can think of a way of getting help without Hussein knowing it. Think about this: Hussein is trying to manipulate me. She took Michael and Chrissie because she wants me to deliver—whatever it is. She’s taken them to control me, to make sure I do what she wants. I’m going to do just that.”
“She wants you to kill someone! Are you planning on doing that too?”
“I’m going to try everything I can to avoid it. Let’s go back to my place. I’m going to need some things … and I’m going to need a better weapon than the Colt. And I need to make a stop.”
“I’m not letting you go alone. You need someone watching your six,” Peter declared.
They had driven back to Jason’s place in York County and were standing at the kitchen counter. Peter had cracked a Miller Lite. Jason sipped from a bottle of water. Peter had placed the first cell phone on the counter between them along with the password scribbled on a piece of paper.
The determination in Peter’s words possessed an iron finality. When this marine got something in his head, he would not let it go. Nonetheless, Jason put up a token effort to resist.
“Pete, you can’t be
involved. If I have to kill again, you can’t be involved. What about Lisa and the girls?”
Peter held Jason’s gaze. “Michael’s family. So is Chrissie. I’m going. That’s final.”
Jason nodded. “Okay. Let’s get out on the deck. You can have a cigarette. We’ll need a plan.”
On the deck, Peter shook a Marlboro from its box, lipped it out, and touched the lighter’s flame to its tip. He sucked in two long draws and exhaled them into the cool, spring air. Jason sipped from the water bottle. The brothers stared into the wooded lot. They had done this countless times in the past under less trying circumstances.
“I have a question,” Peter began, “with you here and Chrissie…unavailable, who’s minding The Colonial?”
“I’ve got two great pharmacists. Billy Parks is in charge. I checked with him about fifteen minutes ago. Told him Chrissie and I were going on a long weekend. That we’d be back next week.” Jason hesitated, his voice wavering. “If we get them back.”
“Don’t worry, we’re gonna do everything. And I mean, everything.” Peter placed a firm hand on his brother’s shoulder as he pulled two quick drags from the cigarette into his lungs and flicked the butt away.
“Alright bro,” Peter began, “where do you have to go to find this man you’re supposed to kill. The video said it was on the lid of the second coffin. What’s the address?”
Jason hefted a thumb over his shoulder. “It’s in the house. We’ll look at it in a minute. Where’s your gun?”
“Under the seat of the Hummer.”
“Ammo?”
“Three fifty round boxes, also under the seat. That should be plenty.”
“That depends on where this takes us next.”
“How about your weapon?”
“The Smith and Wesson nine mil is upstairs. I’ll get it in a minute. I have two boxes of rounds. I’ve got about five hundred in cash in my dresser. I’ll bring it … in case. Is your phone fully charged?”