by David Perry
“I smell it, too. It’s musty and moldy. What else do you see?”
“There are lots of tools. I see a pitchfork, rakes, and a couple of barrels. The kind they use to make wine. There are racks and racks of wine bottles, too.”
“When I was outside, the air was warm and I could hear the ocean.”
“You were outside?”
“Yeah, I had to pee … and do the other thing.”
“They took me to a smelly bathroom in here,” Chrissie explained.
“Why are you here?” Michael demanded.
“I don’t know. I think the people that took us want to get to your father.”
“Why?”
A curtain of silence descended between them. Strong wind gusts buffeted the building. Dust and debris floated about. Chrissie felt it on her face and in her nostrils.
“I don’t know,” she replied.
Her response was the truth. She had no idea why they’d been taken. There was no reason. Everyone from the past was either dead or in custody.
“You need to remove your blindfold,” Michael demanded, trying to take control. “Lean back and rub your head against the wall.”
Chrissie chuckled. “Michael, I’m not as young as you and my body won’t do that.” She sensed Michael’s power play. He was acting with a machismo she could tell he didn’t feel.
“You need to try.”
Chrissie leaned back. But her weight caused the chains to become taut and her wrists began to burn. She tried several times. “I can’t do it, Michael.”
“My mom would be able to do it.”
“I’m sure she would,” Chrissie scoffed. She tried once more to lean back but was not able to reach the wall. “I guess I’ll have to just stay in the dark. You’ll have to be our eyes. Is there anything in here we can use to escape?”
The dying Hummer limped, steaming into the BP gas station on Hampton Boulevard outside the main gate at the Virginia International Terminals. Peter had coaxed the Hummer off of I-64, eventually taking Terminal Boulevard paralleling the railroad tracks to the intersection with Hampton Boulevard
“She said to look for a man in a Red Sox jacket,” Jason instructed. “His truck is parked in the lot away from the pumps.”
Peter pressed the gas. The Hummer moaned. The engine groaned and sputtered as steam and smoke roiled from under the wrinkled hood.
“This thing’s dying,” Peter said.
“Just a little farther,” Jason urged.
They swiveled their heads, searching. The Hummer stopped near the air station away from the pumps.
“There!” Jason pointed to the left.
Standing near a small building just off the gas station property, an elderly man leaned on a cane, staring the Hummer down. He was swallowed up by the bright-red pitcher’s jacket with the words Red Sox scrawled across the front. His face, puckered with leathery skin, appeared shrink wrapped over his facial bones.
Jason hopped out, circling around the front. Peter rammed the Hummer into park and followed as Jason marched toward the old man. The shriveled human removed a nickel-plated revolver from the pocket of his jacket.
Jason showed his hands.
“We don’t want any trouble,” Jason said.
“There ain’t gonna be any trouble as long as I’m holding this,” he replied. He stood beside a small shack in the shadow of a wide oak tree.
“We need to find a truck,” Jason continued. “I have these.” Jason held up the keychain.
“I know what you need to find.”
“Where is it?” Peter demanded. “We don’t have much time.”
“Not so fast, marine boy. Empty your pockets and give me your phones.”
Jason and Peter pulled out their wallets, pocket money, the Hummer’s keys, and their cell phones. They held them up.
“You … drug man,” the old man pointed at Jason. “Both cell phones. Yours and hers.”
Jason removed both cell phones, his and the one Delilah Hussein had left for them, the cash, his gun, and the ammo. Peter held out his weapon and the keys to the Hummer.
Red Sox Man pointed to a leather bag sitting on the asphalt. “Put ’em in there … Good. Now follow me.”
The old man backed up and circled, giving the brothers a wide berth.
“There she is,” he said.
A mid-sized Freightliner with a twenty foot cargo hold sat thirty yards away. Over the cab attached to the square cargo hold, a sleek blue refrigeration unit hummed. From this unit a long yellow cable snaked over the cab and down the front of the vehicle to an outlet on a small building. Keeping his gun trained on the brothers, Red Sox man removed the cord from the receptacle.
“Look for the crumbling house on Turkey Run Road.” He motioned with his arm toward the vehicle. “Have a nice trip.”
“The cops are after us,” Peter said.
“Don’t worry. When they find your truck, I’ll be long gone. You’ll have a good thirty-minute head start.”
Peter and Jason exchanged glances and jogged to the truck. Along the side panel near the rear wheels, in two-inch letters, was the word Vengeance.
Red Sox Man hollered after them. “Two more things … No stopping … And don’t try to open the back! The keys are at the destination.”
“They are now on the Eastern Shore,” Oliver explained, ninety minutes later. “They have just left the bridge-tunnel and have turned north toward their rendezvous. It should be an hour or so before they get there.”
“Any signs of the authorities? police? FBI?” Hussein asked.
“None. The Watcher stayed behind and is monitoring all local, state, and federal agencies for any kind of response. He just texted me over the secure line. There is no activity.”
Hussein checked her Rolex.
Oliver knew she was calculating the time remaining. “When does the delivery have to be made?”
“They are starting the production run in twenty-four hours. The cargo needs to be there. Rodgers and his brother should arrive at their final destination in less than five hours. That leaves plenty of time. Phase two of Operation Hygeia will begin then.”
“Shouldn’t we have someone tailing them? Making sure they don’t try something?”
“No,” Hussein barked. “We have his son and fiancée. He will not try anything as long as he thinks they are in danger. And we are listening to and watching what’s going on inside the truck, remember? That’s enough. How are the woman and the boy?”
It was Oliver’s turn to check his watch. “I just checked on them. They are fine.”
“How many times have you visited?”
“Three times since they arrived. I will check again in a few hours.”
“Any problems?”
“None.”
“Where is the drone?”
“Just left on its latest sortie. It will return and we will download the messages within two hours,” Oliver replied.
“Any issues with our earlier breach in protocol?” Hussein asked.
Oliver frowned. “None that we can detect. Luckily, the live transmissions did not occur for very long. I think we are okay. Our Russian friends have been monitoring their perimeter detection sites around the Atlantic. There have been no reports of any unusual movements by federal authorities like FBI or naval ship or troop movements. Homeland Security is on alert, but nothing is being mobilized.”
The breach in communication protocol earlier had risked exposing their operation. Hussein’s lapse in judgment was caused by her desperate need to know what was going on with the pharmacist. They had transmitted text messages to The Watcher live with the drone at altitude over the ocean. In her frustrated desperation, Hussein used Jason Rodgers’s name, a key word no doubt being monitored by the American intelligence community.
“Continue to monitor the truck. I am expecting a communication from our asset inside Dawson Pharmaceuticals. He will want an update on the shipment.”
“When did we receive this?” The deputy direct
or of the NSA asked.
“About two hours ago,” came the reply.
“Jesus,” the DD said, exasperated. “What the hell took so long?”
“We have not been able to locate the source of the transmission to a specific point. Only to a general range of islands in the eastern Caribbean.”
“This name ‘Rodgers’ refers to the pharmacist?”
“Yes, sir. We believe so. The same message was sent four different times in a thirty minute span, relayed through a communications apparatus somewhere over the Atlantic. Each transmission was separated by ten or so miles.”
“Call the National Reconnaissance Office. Get me satellite recon photos over this area. I want every inch of that area photographed. And get me Clay Broadhurst in the SIOC!”
“Do you have any idea where this is taking us?” Peter asked.
“Not the foggiest,” Jason replied.
Jason, in the driver’s seat, had the Freightliner M2 box truck headed north on Route 13. They had just passed over the twenty-mile long Chesapeake Bay Bridge and Tunnel complex and Fisherman’s Island and gone “feet dry” at the southern end of the Eastern Shore ten minutes ago.
“We’re five minutes from Townsend,” Peter said.
“We’ve got to make contact with someone who can help us,” Jason said.
Route 13 bisected the Delmarva Peninsula, normally an easy, unstressed drive along well-maintained pavement. But not this early morning, only minutes from sunrise. The last time Jason had driven here was ten years ago, with Jenny, when Michael was three years old. They had spent the weekend in Cape Charles, a quaint little bayside town with good shopping and uncluttered beaches.
Not much had changed in a decade. The divided, four-lane highway carried traffic north toward Delaware, Maryland, and Washington. Long stretches of the flat roadway allowed for a smooth, comfortable ride.
Traffic lights slowed the journey when small business districts in cities like Birds Nest, Nassawadox, Painter, and Melfa popped up. If you wanted to get away from city living, the Eastern Shore was the place to do it. Jason felt like he’d traveled back in time to what life in fifties America could have been. But the tranquil environs of gentle farmland, thick-forested stretches of highway dotted with farmer’s markets, and down-home country folk were not to be enjoyed this morning.
His unintended reverie was interrupted by a ringing noise.
“What the hell is that?” Peter asked.
Two more rings.
Peter tried to open the glove compartment. It was locked.
“It’s on the key chain,” Jason declared.
Peter leaned over and wrestled the remaining key from the key chain as it hung from the ignition. He opened the glove box and found another cell phone as the phone rang for the eighth time. This one was marked with a three in white grease paint. “She doesn’t know I’m here.” He handed it to Jason.
“Hello?”
“I see you have picked up the truck and you are headed north. Most excellent!”
It was her.
“We are about an hour from the address on the paper,” Jason replied.
“We have a tracking device on the vehicle and are monitoring your location. No stopping or deviations. Stay on Route 13 until you reach Mappsville. You have plenty of fuel. If you stop or change course, your woman will pay. Understood?”
“Yes,” Jason seethed.
“Also, the material you are delivering must be kept below freezing. If you allow the product to thaw, you will never see your family again. Make sure the engine is not turned off for any reason! Acknowledge that you have heard me!”
“I heard you!”
“You brought along a guest, Jason. You were not instructed to bring your brother.”
“How did you …”
“Our man at the gas station reported in. He said there were two men that approached him. That was not wise.”
“My brother will do everything needed. He wants my family back as much as I do … How did you know it’s Peter?”
Hussein ignored the question. “You should not have disobeyed.” Hussein paused, turned, and spoke to someone beside her. “Bring the Pettigrew woman here!”
“What are you doing?”
“I told you. No deviations. Your girlfriend will be held accountable.”
“If you hurt her … or my son …” Jason hesitated.
“What?” Hussein demanded.
“I will drive this truck to the nearest police station. And I will not rest until I find you and kill you. Think I’m kidding? Try me!”
Jason’s body shook as he spoke the words. They sounded weak and tremulous. He was taking a gamble. Hussein still needed him. But he was betting with Michael and Chrissie’s lives.
A long silence followed. Finally, Hussein spoke. “I will overlook the transgression this time. The next time I will personally put a bullet in her head and video it for you to watch!”
Jason exhaled audibly and managed to say “Thank you!” He sighed. “I have a question.”
“I’m sure you have many. In time, they will all be answered.”
“Why have me go to all the trouble of getting the keys from William Luther? Why not just have me get the keys from the old man at the terminal?”
“Why, Monsieur Rodgers, that would be no fun, would it? And, by the way, do not try to call anyone. That would be unwise. We are monitoring the phone as well.”
Before Jason could reply, the line went dead.
“What did she say?” Peter asked.
“They’re tracking the truck. Have a GPS on board. She also knows you are with me. She knew it was you! The old man in the Red Sox jacket told her. Said we weren’t to make any calls.”
Jason’s last statement caused Peter’s forehead to tighten with concern. “Really?’
“What’s wrong?” Jason asked, five minutes later.
Peter held a finger to his lips. He mouthed two words: No talking!
“What is it?” Jason whispered.
Stop talking! Peter mouthed again. I think they’re listening.
Jason: How do you know?
Peter: Something you said.
What?
She told you do not try to contact anyone. Almost like she was listening.
I got it, Jason replied. You think they have a microphone planted?
They may have a camera in here as well, Peter replied, nodding. I’ll look.
Peter scanned the interior of the cab. He flipped down both visors. He opened the glove box. He did not see anything untoward. Next, he perused the dashboard and the steering wheel. Nothing.
Then Peter noticed a small dial on the rear wall of the cab. It was a temperature gauge. The needle registered a temperature of minus two degrees Celsius.
“Whatever is in the back of this thing is kept below freezing. If we let it thaw out maybe we spoil all their fun,” Peter mused.
“I’m sure they are monitoring that as well. If we do that, we risk Michael and Chrissie!”
They came to a red light. Peter’s eye narrowed. He angled his head and pointed to the rearview mirror.
What is it? Jason mouthed.
The pharmacist adjusted the mirror. His hand touched something on the underside of the housing. He motioned toward it. Peter leaned forward and checked the backside of the mirror. There it is, his brother mouthed.
Jason motioned that he wanted to write something. Peter found a pen and the registration in glove box. He handed them to Jason.
The light turned green. Jason pressed the accelerator. Peter grabbed the wheel and kept the truck straight as Jason scribbled.
Mike?
Peter checked the mirror again and ran his hand along the wires. A small microphone was attached to a wide-angle surveillance lens on the underside of the mirror.
Peter smirked and nodded.
Jason spoke aloud. “This damn mirror is dirty. Hand me something to clean it with.”
Peter rummaged around in the glove box and came up with a
small piece of cloth from an eyeglass case. “Here, use this,” he replied out loud.
Jason drove and wiped the mirror. As he did so, he grabbed the small camera and microphone system and turned it 180 degrees so it faced the roadway.
“Just leave that up there,” Jason said, “in case I need it again.” Peter gave Jason a thumbs up.
“We can’t see them anymore,” the technician explained to Oliver as Hussein’s aide-de-camp entered the bedroom-cum-tech center.
The technician’s heart beat in his chest with the speed of a hummingbird’s wings. A palpitation fluttered beneath his ribs, taking away his breath. The technician knew what happened when someone messed up around here.
He had screwed up and breached protocol. The two sodas he had drunk in the last hour had caught up with him. He’d left the terminal to relieve himself and missed what had happened. He summoned Oliver when he returned to his work station and found the camera had been turned around. The brothers were talking about cleaning the mirror. It was a convenient excuse.
“What happened?”
“He messed with the mirror and dislodged the camera. It’s pointing at the roadway. We still have audio, though.”
“Did they find the camera?”
“I don’t think so.” The technician replied.
Oliver watched the asphalt and dashed white lines of Route 13 on the Eastern Shore rush past the lens.
“Merde!” he hissed. “Is the GPS beacon still active?”
“Oui.”
“I’m going to call the phone in the truck. Keep monitoring.”
Jason drove as he mouthed another set of instructions to Peter while keeping one eye on the road.
Find out where the wires lead.
Peter traced the wire leading from the mirror. It snaked up a channel on the back of the mirror support toward the top of the windshield. From there, the wire disappeared under the lining on the interior ceiling. Peter pressed on the cloth, feeling the wire beneath, tracing them until his fingers palpated a hard, square object under the fabric.
Where the rear window met the roof lining, he pulled at the cloth until he freed a small section. Inserting a finger between the cloth and roof, the former marine yanked the cloth down, exposing the underside of the metal roof, the wire, and a small black box.