by David Perry
A mile down the road, he turned the Freightliner around, executing a six point turn on the narrow road. He zipped past the ruins of the house and the mobile home with the grizzled fat woman holding her shotgun. Peter hoped a bullet didn’t shatter the window and lodge in his skull. When Peter reconnected with Route 13, he breathed again, the pulse in his head thumping his temples.
He turned north, gunning the engine.
Where the hell are you Jason?
“Agent Broadhurst,” Maria Gonzalez, the Secret Service agent’s day shift assistant, said. “We just received a phone call from a Newport News homicide detective. His name is John Palmer.”
“What did he want?”
“We don’t know he’s still on the line. Said he’d only talk to you.”
“What line?”
Gonzalez held up three fingers. Broadhurst rolled his wheelchair to the nearest landline and punched a button, picking up the handset.
“Broadhurst.”
“It’s John Palmer in Newport News.”
“Tell me you found Jason Rodgers.”
“No, but he just called me.”
“Where is he?”
“Somewhere on the Eastern Shore. Don’t know exactly. He was not very forthcoming. He asked me to call you.”
“We already know that. Why is he there?”
“You’ll have to ask him. He wants you to call him. Can I text you the number? He gave it to me before the call dropped. He said the battery was dying.”
“Go.” Broadhurst gave Palmer the cell number.
“What do you want me to do?” Palmer asked.
“Stay by the phone. Call me if he calls you again.”
“One more thing. Take down this Virginia tag number.” Palmer recited the license plate number. “He’s driving a Chevy Malibu.”
“Thank you, Detective.” Broadhurst ended the call and hollered to an agent across the command center. “You. Here is a cell phone number. I want it tracked and traced. I want to know where it is. I’m dialing the number now. Also, I want these tag numbers run through the NCIC.”
Broadhurst dialed the contact Palmer had texted him and lifted the phone to his ear and listened. It rolled to voicemail without ringing. Broadhurst heard the greeting, the squeaky voice of a very agitated female, Sheryl Penney.
“Sonofabitch! Bring up a map of the Delmarva Peninsula.”
Seconds later, the screen on the wall switched to an overhead view of the Eastern Shore of Virginia. Broadhurst moved to it. Broadhurst used a laser pointer to highlight the map. “I want two teams to head south from DC. And two more teams from the FBI Office in Norfolk to cross the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel, heading north, now!” Broadhurst screamed with what little energy he had left. He coughed, recovered, and continued. “Get me a chopper airborne and scanning the area. Where is the nearest Virginia State Police Office?”
An analyst directly in front of Broadhurst pounded a keyboard. Muted clicks sounded in rapid-fire succession. “Sir, there’s an office in Accomack County in Melfa about halfway up the Eastern Shore.”
“Get the watch commander on the line.”
Charlie stood over Chrissie for several minutes, taking his time and massaging himself into readiness. She looked up at him through a curtain of blood-soaked eyelashes.
At first, Chrissie refused to turn her head toward him.
“Watch me,” he had commanded earlier as he stroked. “Or I will cut you then take you as you bleed to death. Watch me, whore!”
He had unchained her hands and legs from the wall. Her wrists were still chained together. But her legs were completely free now. He stood between her legs, spread-eagled on the dirty floor. Charlie kicked her about the legs and buttocks, pummeling her. Then he launched several kicks about her head. Chrissie curled into a ball. Despite the pain he was causing her, she sensed his growing frustration. Not satisfied to just hurt her, he wanted more. The monster wanted to violate and humiliate her, mouthing invectives in French. Her reddened face swelled and bled. She sensed an urgency in him, an uncontrollable desire feeding him. He was making her pay for the blow to his manhood.
“I’m sorry,” Chrissie pleaded. “Please don’t hurt me anymore. I’ll do what you want me to do.” Tears leaked from her eyes, mixing with the grime on her face. She tasted the saltiness on her lips. “Please don’t do this!”
That’s when the beating had ceased and Charlie had dropped his pants and began stroking himself once again.
Now, Charlie stopped massaging himself. His trousers were still open, hanging from his hips. His manhood, hard and angled toward the ceiling.
“Puta!” he seethed. Whore! “D’Accord!” Okay! “I will stop beating you. But we are not done! Take off your clothes!”
Chrissie pleaded with her eyes. An animal rage resided in the Frenchman’s eyes. She had never before seen such a quality in another human being. His chest heaved in a slow, methodical manner.
As she cowered before this beast, she knew she was a dead woman. He would ravage her and then kill her. Even if she managed to survive rape, whoever was holding them was going to kill her and Michael to torment Jason.
Everything she did now was buying time in a life that would be cut short. She had to buy as much as possible … for her and for Michael. She prayed he was safe and not being tormented … or not already dead.
Chrissie reached deep into her soul and summoned courage she had never before grasped.
“Take them off now or I will rip them off!”
Chrissie forced a tense smile. She placed her cuffed hands on the hem of her shirt and began to lift it.
“I’m transferring my screen to your terminal,” the technician said.
Broadhurst was already seated in his wheelchair at the three-screened terminal. “What am I looking at?” he wheezed.
“It’s a blow-up of the Delmarva Peninsula, specifically, Route 13, in Parksley, north of Accomack. He’s about five and half miles south of Mappsville.”
Broadhurst watched a blinking red dot on his screen moving slowly north along the yellow line marking State Road 13. An identical image displayed on the massive wall screen simultaneously.
“How did you find him?”
“The Malibu is equipped with Lo-Jack.”
Broadhurst smiled, shouting his reply as best he could in his weakened state. “The state police are closer than any of our units. Get their asses on him. And find out where we can land a helicopter.
Thinking a moment, the Secret Service agent turned to another agent several workstations to his left. “You,” he demanded, pointing. “Have the agents from the Norfolk Field Office mobilized to the Eastern Shore yet?”
“No, sir. They are getting ready to leave now.”
“Good. Tell them they are, instead, to go to Jason Rodger’s home and search the place.”
“Do we have an address?”
“You’re the goddamned FBI. I’m sure you can find it.”
“What about a warrant?”
“This is national security. He’s not home. He’s on the Eastern Shore. Screw the warrant!”
Chapter 38
“Alright already,” Pierre said. “Finish up.”
Michael had finished peeing ten seconds ago. But he pretended he was not done. He waited another few moments and demonstrated the task was completed by shaking up and down.
“Pierre,” Michael said, “with all that’s going on, my stomach is upset. I have … you know … diarrhea. Very nasty.”
Grunts and shrieks filled the air, Miss Christine was putting up a good fight. But she still needed his help.
“Mon Dieu,” Pierre replied, “go behind that tree. But stay where I can see you.”
Michael shuffled over to the large palm tree, his leg irons rattling, closer to the object. He pulled down the blindfold so he could see better. Pierre was oblivious.
He crouched, slid his pants to his ankles and pretended to evacuate his bowels.
“Your friend seems to be having a
good time in there,” Michael observed.
Pierre grunted, lighting a cigarette. “I get her next time.”
Michael reached down with his right hand, his pitching hand, and grabbed a rock the size of his fist. He sucked in two quick breaths. He would have one chance. If he missed, he would die. A bullet would rip through him. If he did nothing, Miss Christine might die.
Bad things happen when good people do nothing!
Michael rose up pretending to be done. Squeezing the rock under his arm, he snapped his jeans closed. He let the rock slide down into the fingers of his right hand. It was oblong with sharp edges.
That’s good, he thought. If I hit him, it will do more damage.
“Stay there, Pierre,” Michael called out. “It’s pretty disgusting back here. I’m coming out.”
There was just enough play in the ankle chains to allow him to shift his feet. Any good ballplayer—and Michael considered himself one—pointed his shoulder at his target and stepped into his throw for maximum velocity and accuracy. The ankle chains would not allow him to step. This heave would be all arm, like he was turning a double play at second base with the runner at his feet.
He peeked out from behind the tree and spied Pierre, dropping the stub of his cigar to the ground and crushing it under his foot.
Now!
The chains at his feet rattled. Michael pushed out from behind the tree, his shoes scuffing the sandy ground. Hearing the commotion, Pierre started to raise his lowered head. Michael stared at his target, the small space between the Frenchman’s bushy eyebrows.
Aim small, miss small!
He rotated his upper body as he had done thousands of times on the pitcher’s mound. Pointing his left shoulder, he cocked his right arm behind him. Pulling down and back with his left arm to create torque and rotation, Michael slung his right arm up and out in a three-quarter arm slot, just like his pitching coach had instructed. He released the rock as his arm reached full extension.
Michael felt a pain and heard a pop in his elbow as the rock left his hand.
The words “Please God!” slipped from his lips.
Part Four
Chapter 39
Fifteen hundred miles to the northwest, the large black Chevy Tahoe skidded to a stop in the driveway of Jason Rodger’s York County home. A mother pushing a three-wheeled stroller across the street stopped and looked on in wide-eyed amazement as a team of five agents all wearing blue windbreakers emblazoned with the large gold letters, FBI, on their backs rushed to the front door. One carried a large black ram.
In five seconds, the door crashed open and the men disappeared inside, fanning out through the residence, two upstairs, two downstairs, while the leader strode into the kitchen.
The first thing that caught his eye was the black smartphone, lying face down on the kitchen counter. A large white numeral one had been painted on its back. Under the phone, he spied a torn slip of paper with numbers scribbled on it.
The rock pierced the stiff ocean breeze, traversing the twenty feet toward the guard. Michael’s stomach flipped as he watched it tumble end over end in its trajectory.
Pierre’s eyes were still directed toward the ground and coming up when the projectile left Michael’s hand. It somersaulted and dropped. He watched the stone begin to tail off course.
It was going to sail by Pierre’s left ear. He was still focused on crushing out the cigar stub when the sound of Michael’s whooshing clothing alerted him. His eyes searched for the source of the sound. At the same time, Pierre removed his foot from the squashed cigar. In doing so, his weight shifted from one foot to the other, causing his head to move into the path of the hurtling rock.
It struck him above the right eye with a sharp crack. Pierre’s head snapped back and to the side. Small droplets of crimson became airborne around his head, arcing into the breeze.
Pierre staggered and reached for his face with both hands. His gun tumbled into the sand. Pierre twisted and fell face first to the ground.
Michael stood transfixed for several seconds, amazed and paralyzed while Pierre groaned and squirmed on the ground.
Move!
Hobbling over to the fallen weapon, he picked it up and shuffled toward the wounded man. Blood seeped through the fingers covering his face onto the grass and sand. His legs squirmed about as he writhed in pain.
His father and his uncle Peter had shown him how to handle a weapon. He found the safety and clicked it off. Staying out of reach of the fallen guard, he raised the handgun, holding the grip with both hands.
Fueled by adrenaline, his fear was gone, replaced by the frustration and helplessness of captivity. He leveled the gun at Pierre’s torso. He had been firing guns at his uncle’s gun shop with his father and uncle since he was nine years old. The targets were always paper. He had never fired in anger.
Manhood was upon him now. He closed one eye and pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened.
There was no flash from the barrel. No recoil, forcing the gun back higher. The trigger clicked against the trigger guard. Michael pulled it again with the same result.
He pulled back the slide, exposing the empty chamber. He turned the gun upside down and looked at the bottom of the grip. It was hollow and dark. It held no magazine. Michael whispered expletives.
He eyed Pierre again. The Frenchman had stopped moving. His face rested in both blood-covered hands. One leg was bent out to the side. Michael studied his chest. It rose and fell. The man was alive but unconscious.
Another cry spilled forth from the wine cellar.
Michael felt time ticking away.
He skirted Pierre, staying out of reach, and shuffled toward the building. Kneeling by the small rectangular window, Michael peered in. In the dim light, what he saw horrified him.
Chrissie’s shirt and bra were off. Her jeans and panties hung from one leg. One eye was swollen and almost closed. Blood, dirt, and sweat smeared her face.
With her hands free from the wall, Chrissie planned on fighting Charlie. Months ago, after much prompting, Jason had shared a few details of his encounter with the male pharmacist in the towers the day of the christening at the shipyard. He had shown her the two-fingered attack to the eye that had ended the fight with Delilah Hussein’s assassin son.
As she’d disrobed for Charlie, Jason’s description of his attack came to her. She had planned to try the same maneuver. But the guard had foiled that plan. Once her clothes were off, Charlie had chained her wrists to the wall once more using a long length of chain, slapping her a few more times for good measure, leaving her legs unchained and free for obvious reasons.
He yanked her hard. The long length of chain allowed her body to become completely horizontal; her back on the cold, dusty floor. Her exposed breasts swayed as she struggled and squirmed. Nothing but a few short inches stretched between her loins and an exposed Charlie. He knelt between her legs with his own pants around his ankles.
The guard leaned forward, attempting to kiss her.
Chrissie turned her head, avoiding his putrid breath.
“Bitch,” he spat. “Kiss me!”
His fist came down hard again on Chrissie’s cheek.
He grabbed a handful of hair and yanked her face toward him, lowering himself once more, and put his lips on hers.
This was not going to happen without a fight!
Chrissie opened her mouth. As his filthy lips connected with hers, she grabbed his lower lip with her teeth and clamped down with all the strength in her jaw. Blood seeped into her mouth a moment before he screamed like a dying animal. Chrissie did not let go. She twisted her head, pulling him by the mouth side to side. His right fist slammed down on her face repeatedly, trying to make her let go. Chrissie pulled her face farther to the right, ripping the flesh.
She opened her good eye. Through the blood and sweat and Charlie’s stringy, wet hair, Chrissie detected movement to her right. She saw Michael coming at them.
He held a long, rusty pitchfork
in his hands, poised to strike.
Jason swerved the Malibu into the left lane, zipping past a slower car, an older model sedan being driven by a hunched old lady who had to look through the steering wheel to see the road.
He guessed he was about thirty minutes from the first rendezvous point. But he couldn’t be sure. Penney’s phone was dead and he had no map. Time was of the essence. He would drive until he found the Freightliner.
As he scanned the roadway, Jason’s eye caught a flash from the rearview mirror. He studied the shaking image on the glass in the morning glow of light. His heart sank.
Three dark police cars, single file, their lights bars angrily spewing spasms of multicolored lights, rapidly closed the distance. Virginia State Troopers!
Shit! I can’t be arrested again! Need to get to Broadhurst!
Jason pressed the accelerator. The Ford’s engine hesitated then whined to a higher gear. Jason was forced back into the seat. The lead car shrank in the mirror.
The traffic around Jason began to pull off the road, leaving him isolated. The line of police cars split, creating two lines, one in each lane. Two by two, they gave chase and moved in.
The four cylinders of the Malibu were no match for the cruisers’ high-torque engines. The phalanx of police cars were upon Jason quickly. He was now in the right hand lane and the two cars to his left had pulled even. The lead car sped up and took up position in front of him while the second car stayed even with the Ford. The two cars behind him stayed stacked close to his bumper. He was boxed in.
Jason glanced at the car beside him, its light bar pulsing reflections off automotive metal and glass. The trooper behind the wheel met his gaze and motioned for him to pull over.
Jason sighed, checked the rearview mirror then slowed. The tires crunched the gravel along the side of the roadway. Each state car stayed in their positions relative to the Ford, leaving Jason without an escape.
Not wanting to be accidentally shot, Jason kept his hands on the wheel and in plain sight. Two troopers approached from the driver’s side, their guns drawn. Jason sensed movement and heard soft footfalls to his right. Two more troopers stood on the passenger side near the rear window, guns also drawn.