by David Perry
One cop yelled through the Ford’s glass.
“Step out of the vehicle. Keep your hands where I can see them!”
Jason swallowed hard and moved his hand to the door handle. He pulled on it and pushed open the door. It felt like a ship’s anchor.
He stepped out and raised his hands over his head.
“Turn around and put your hands behind your head!”
Jason complied. In fifteen seconds, his hands were in hand cuffs again. With a state trooper on each side, he was led to a cruiser and placed in the rear seat of the lead car.
The four cars sped off single file, heading north, with Jason in the second car, with two State Troopers up front and one beside him.
Jason explained what had happened earlier with the woman named Sheryl Penney. “Can you please make sure someone gets her to a hospital?”
The trooper in the passenger seat looked back at Jason with a confused smile.
“Please,” Jason asked.
The trooper called in and requested they check on the woman.
“How did you find me so fast?” he asked when he’d finished his transmission.
The cop in the passenger seat turned. “Got a call from Washington. Some government agencies are good at what they do. Now sit back and shut up!”
Three steps away now, Michael advanced. More slowly than Chrissie would have liked. She could see how petrified he was. The pressure in her skull increased. Her head felt like it would explode.
Two … one …
At the last moment, Chrissie released her grip on Charlie’s devastated lower lip. Blood coated both their faces.
Michael lunged, thrusting the rusty farm implement at Charlie. The guard saw Michael at the last moment. He rolled away, trying to avoid the thrust.
The corroded tines penetrated the guard’s flank above the hip. Charlie howled, spitting a curtain of blood into the air. He grabbed at the tines.
The boy did not hesitate. He pulled the pitch fork out, plunging once more with much greater force. This time it delved deep above the belly button.
Charlie opened his mouth and what was left of his lower lip dropped, a severed flap of flesh. He screamed. Both hands grasped at the tines again, trying to remove it. It did not budge.
He tried to kick at Michael, missing the first time. The second one connected with his arm, knocking him to the floor. Charlie gripped the pitch fork again, removing it as he screamed. Michael scampered away, pushing himself across the floor on his backside. Slowly … awkwardly, Charlie struggled to his feet, naked from the waist down, with blood seeping from multiple wounds. The lower half of his face was nothing but blood, exposed teeth, and torn flesh. The guard wavered from side to side but managed to inch toward Michael. A walking dead man.
Charlie lowered himself to the dirty floor. Michael breathed easier.
He’s going to die, Michael thought.
Charlie picked up the blood-stained pitchfork and struggled back to an erect position. Hunched over, he walked, dragging one leg, toward him. Michael peered into the eyes glaring at him over a curtain of mutilated, crimson flesh. Michael’s heart skipped in his chest, followed by the sensation that it might stop.
Michael’s weapon was about to be turned on him.
“We have Rodgers in custody. Where do you want him?”
“Bring him here to FBI headquarters. I want to know as soon as he arrives.”
Broadhurst sank into the chair at his workstation, his head spinning. He lowered it into his hands.
“Agent, are you okay?” Gonzalez asked.
“No, give me a minute.”
Michael scooted farther backward, sliding on his butt. He stopped against the brick wall under the window. Charlie was fifteen feet away, limping and dripping, in his direction.
“You should have run,” Charlie declared in a wet, barely comprehensible lisp. “Now … you are … going to die …”
In his peripheral vision, Michael saw Miss Christine struggling. Her face and bare torso covered in blood. Her eyes wide with fear for him.
Michael brushed up against another tool. A metal rake. He grabbed it, leveling it at the crazed human. Charlie swung the pitchfork in a quick, sideways arc. Its bloodied tines connected with Michael’s rake, knocking it from his hands, clattering to the floor.
The thirteen-year-old bent to a crouch, staying on the balls of his feet. His heart felt like it would fly from his chest. His breaths came hard and fast, but he still could not suck in enough air.
Charlie lunged, stabbing the pitchfork at him. Michael jumped to his left. The tines sparked against the bricks. Michael grabbed the distal end of the wooden shaft. Charlie tried to pull it back out of his grasp twice but Michael did not release his grip. The guard swung the tines into Michael. The boy never released his grip, remaining stiff-armed, not allowing it to connect with his body.
Charlie tugged a third time, yanking harder. Michael let go. Charlie reeled backward, stumbling onto his buttocks, nearly on top of Miss Christine. The pitchfork landed on the dusty floor. Michael careened hard against the wall.
Still on her back and with arms chained to the wall, Christine wrapped her free legs around the weakened guard, pinning his arms to his sides.
Charlie struggled, trying to slide away. She tightened her squeeze.
Slowly, Charlie wriggled one arm up between his torso and Miss Christine’s leg. He pushed against her leg, freeing himself. In an instant, he was on her. His hands went to her neck and began crushing her windpipe.
Chapter 40
“Get our asset in New Jersey on the line,” Hussein commanded.
Two minutes later, Oliver handed her the secure satellite phone.
“What is the password?” the male voice on the other end demanded.
“Hygeia,” Hussein replied.
“This is Quinton Boyd. Proceed.”
“Allo. Comment allez-vous?” Hussein asked. “Is everything ready?”
“Everything is as well as can be expected.”
“That statement does not fill me with confidence. Can we depend on you and your man?”
“We will not fail. When can we expect the shipment?”
“It is en route as we speak.”
“How long?
“Three hours. Is the room ready?”
“Yes, temperature is at the prescribed 28 degrees Fahrenheit. What about payment?”
“The money will be wired when you secure the package and provide us with video evidence that is in place. I want to see the drums with their identification numbers visible being placed into the hold.”
“It will be done.”
Christine struggled to get air into her lungs. The guard’s large bloodied hands had clamped off her throat. With her arms chained above her, she was defenseless. She flailed her legs, trying to bend her right leg up to put it between her and Charlie’s chest.
She couldn’t execute the maneuver. Each attempt became weaker.
She stared up into the distorted, torn face. The muscles in her neck burned under his grip. Christine opened her mouth in one last effort to allow air in.
Nothing!
The black curtain began to close.
Before it completely descended, a shadow crossed before her dwindling field of vision. A quick, thin, darting outline. Something warm splashed her face, a jet of warm stickiness. The taste in her mouth was a familiar one. Blood.
The shadow retreated to the right and in once more. The pressure on her throat and neck eased. Cool, dank, delicious air flooded into her lungs. She gasped a long, deep breath. As blood rushed back into her head, a large volume of Charlie’s blood hit her face and mouth.
Opening her eyes fully, she spied snippets of the violent scene through a blood-coated curtain. Charlie’s dead weight slumped on her naked chest. The skin of her wrists, supporting the man now, began to tear. The pain, though excruciating, felt good. She was alive!
“Help me,” she squeaked.
Michael shuffled into view,
his trousers and arms covered in crimson splatter. His eyes wide with terror, the shaft of the pitchfork whose tines were buried into Charlie’s neck, were clutched in his hands. Michael’s gaze, far away and unfocused, remained riveted on the dead man.
“Michael, please help me. Get him off of me.”
Several seconds later, he reacted.
He grimaced, pulling the pitchfork from the man’s neck. Christine used her legs to push and partially squirm from under the body.
“Pull him off.”
Michael circled the body and grabbed a fistful of shirt, pulling with all his might. He elevated the corpse a few inches, allowing Christine to scooch free. Michael grabbed the ankle and slid him another foot.
Michael looked into her eyes, tears welling. Fear consumed him, his mind now absorbing the extent of blood and gore. He furrowed a brow and turned away.
Chrissie could not see him. But she heard him, retching, emptying the contents of his stomach near the body.
The helicopter landed on the tarmac in the middle of the H on the helipad. The hangers and buildings and their layout were familiar to Jason. He’d been here before.
“This is Andrews Air Force Base!”
“It’s called Joint Base Andrews now,” the agent beside him said, “but it’s the same place.” He pointed to a two vehicle convoy of Chevy SUVs approaching. “Here’s your next ride.”
Before he could fire any more questions, Jason was whisked by another team of FBI agents to the second vehicle. Pinned to the back seat by the g-force created by the accelerating SUV, Jason closed his eyes and prayed that Hussein had not discovered that Peter was alone in the truck and that Michael and Chrissie were still alive.
Standing on wobbly legs, Chrissie looked down at the carnage. She was covered in crimson. The body of the dead guard was bathed in blood. The face a mutilated piece of meat.
Using a small hand tool he found along the wall of the cellar, Michael worked hard for ten minutes, gouging out the soft mortar fastening the iron rings to the wall, freeing her. Her wrists, still wrapped by the handcuffs, were sore and lacerated. Chains, handcuffs, and iron rings dangled from each wrist.
The boy retrieved a dirty cloth from atop one of the wine racks. Michael carefully wiped Miss Christine’s face with the cloth, removing the blood, grime and sweat. Miss Christine winced as he gently caressed the cloth around her swollen eye and lips.
Michael removed his shirt. Kneeling beside her now, he worked his sweaty shirt over her head and into the arms. His feet, still chained together by a single strand of chain did not allow him freedom to move freely. His eyes were swollen and red. Tear tracks snaked lines through the dirt and sweat on his face. He saw the folded clothes their captor had placed on one of the wine racks. He fetched them and changed quickly behind one of the wine racks.
He returned to her, kneeling beside her as she sat on the floor. Now that her nakedness was covered, Michael looked at her without awkwardness. She smiled at him. Michael collapsed into her arms. With no words to describe what they’d just experienced, they sat in each other’s arms, making no sound.
Finally, with his head still buried in her neck, she whispered.
“Thank you, Michael. Thank you. You saved my life.”
Michael squeezed her tighter. Christine could feel his shoulders bobbing. As each second passed, she felt the tension release from his body. His sobs increased in number and strength.
When he’d finished crying, she spoke, “Let’s get out of here. Where is the other guard?”
“He’s unconscious outside. I hit him with a rock.”
Christine placed a hand on his cheek and smiled again.
“We need to get the keys to these chains,” she said.
Michael eyes widened. He glanced at the body warily and shook his head.
“Don’t worry,” she calmed. “You’ve done enough.”
Christine moved to the body and patted Charlie’s pockets, avoiding a look at the corpse’s face or naked butt. She found the lump in his trousers and pulled the keychain from the blood-soaked pants. She found the key and freed herself from the chains and handcuffs. Then she unshackled Michael’s leg irons.
“Let’s go. I don’t want to be here anymore.”
Chapter 41
Rain angled down from the slate gray sky like bullets, pelting the outside of the four-story grandstand overlooking the track in North Baltimore. Inside the glass, four casual but well-attired men sat at a square table twenty yards from the finish line. Three large, green-and-yellow John Deere tractors hummed by in wing formation dragging large iron plates across the dirt of the oval track, smoothing the pockmarked mud created by the horses’ morning workouts.
Three of the executives of Dawson Pharmaceuticals poured over their racing forms and tip sheets, pondering their next wagers. With no races at Pimlico today, they were betting on races simulcast from tracks around the world. Amid the paper and cellphones on the table, four-rocks glasses containing various levels of bourbon sat surrounded by a plate of half-eaten Oysters Rockefeller.
The fourth man, sitting distracted near the vaulted glass, watched the tractors make their way around the oval. His name: Juan Santos, chief executive officer of Dawson Pharmaceuticals. The distant look in his eyes belied a lack of concern for the upcoming races.
“I’m going for the longshots for the rest of the day. I should be wiping my arse with these tip sheets for all the good they do me,” Sir Quinton Boyd complained. Boyd, the vice president of Injectable Production sat beside his boss, Santos, and faced the other pair at the table. “I’m down five thousand quid already. I need to recoup my losses.”
“Stop griping, Quint. You’re royalty for God’s sake. That’s a drop in the royal piss pot. Just ask the queen for an advance against your allowance,” Andrew DeNiro chided him. DeNiro, Dawson’s VP of marketing and strategy, straightened his polka-dot bow tie against the starched white button-down shirt. The leather patches on his tweed sports coat gave him the appearance of a tenured professor. His bald pate reflected three circles of light from the fixtures hanging above. “And that sounds like a wonderful strategy. Throw good money after bad! Just like a researcher.”
Boyd sat more erect, defiant and proud. His cool blue eyes hardened. His British accent notched an octave haughtier. “I’m not royalty. I was knighted for my clinical research. And I only met Her Majesty on the day I was knighted.” His head of snow-white, perfectly-coifed hair glistened against his tan face.
“I like Cloverbrook, Tecumseh, and The Bard in the sixth race at Aqueduct,” Anson Wellington announced. Wellington’s short, stout frame, round face, and the flabby skin waggling under his chin made him look like a bullfrog. As the chief financial officer, Wellington retained the facts and figures of Dawson’s books with computer-like clarity.
“How much are you betting, Duke?” DeNiro asked.
“A grand on each,” he replied. “And I’ve told you a thousand times, don’t call me Duke.”
“Why?” Boyd added. “The Duke of Wellington is revered in the United Kingdom. He conquered that heathen Bonaparte.”
Santos winked at his money man. “I’m taking Sly Fox to win, place, or show.”
“How much?” Boyd and DeNiro asked.
“The usual,” Santos replied.
“Come on, boss,” DeNiro said. “You’re killing me.”
“You guys know it’s the same bet every race. A Lincoln on each one to win, place, or show.”
“Only a fifteen-dollar bet, JS?” Wellington chided. “I know how much we pay you.”
“I knew I made the right decision when I hired you. You always show a real proclivity for numbers.”
Wellington shook his head.
Santos slapped the table. “It’s time to talk turkey, gents!” Santos glanced at his watch, then the scoreboard in the infield. Santos turned to Boyd. “We have twenty minutes until post time. Let’s figure this plan out. Is it doable?”
They ascended the stairs and loo
ked through the small portal cut in the planks of the old door, watching and waiting. Now, Michael slowly pulled open the heavy door. The warm breeze pulsing through the door felt like a slice of heaven. But the elation was cut short.
“Circle the building immediately!”
The volume of the spoken words and the alacrity with which they were delivered told them the speaker was close. Very close!
Christine snuck a peek around the door frame. A gaggle of guards carrying weapons and wearing matching uniforms of khaki shirts and dark blue jeans had fanned out behind the tall, dark-skinned leader who stood over Pierre who was trying to get to his feet.
Morning was in full bloom. Sunlight glowed everywhere. The tall, muscular leader stopped short and continued barking orders in French. A nauseating ache leadened Chrissie’s gut. Oliver!
She turned to Michael. “Too late. They’re here. We have to get back inside.”
They moved back down the stairs, through the cell past the dead body and the pooling blood. The room that had been their prison was an anteroom for the rest of the building. She led Michael by the hand to the entryway to the next room.
Thin shards of light cut into the long, narrow space from the ceiling-high windows. Mostly empty except for empty wine barrels and wooden crates, Christine spied a large wooden door similar to the one at the top of the stairs.
“There! Hurry!”
Racing to it, they both saw the large, rusted padlock hanging from a steel hasp.
A low-pitch, muffled, and irritated voice could be heard at the top of the stairs in the anteroom. Oliver barked loud, single-word exclamations. Then a profanity-laced tirade in French.
In the anteroom, his words halted. He’d seen the body.
Their only avenue of escaped was blocked. They had no time to sift through the keys.