by David Perry
The words repeated.
“Vengeance is mine!”
The crawling sensation increased. Now, it felt like millions of insects were inching over him, biting him. His throat thickened and narrowed. His breaths came harder, faster. Less air was getting into his lungs. A low whistle penetrated the stinging in his ears. It was the sound of air trying to get into his chest.
His heart rhythm changed to a weird, uncomfortable thumping, strong and irregular.
Cooper’s head began to swim. The walls waved. A warm liquid oozed from his nostrils. Cooper moved his hand to his mouth and nose. His fingers came away coated in crimson. Collapsing to the floor, his body twitched. A moment before his eyes closed for the last time, the three words in that tinny, ominous voice repeated themselves.
“Vengeance is mine!”
Cyclops, lay in his bunk two cells removed from Steven Cooper’s. It had been three hours since he’d been tasered for his outburst in the exercise yard. He knew it was coming. His neighbor had created a diversion so Cyclops could drop the small gift. Then, in turn, the one-eyed prisoner had created his own commotion allowing his neighbor to pick up the small wad of paper, giving him the chance to pass it along to Cooper, the intended recipient.
It was a small, but necessary price to pay. Exhausted, as if he’d just finished a marathon, his motor skills had finally returned but his muscles still ached.
He spent those hours resting, recovering. But, he also spent them waiting. Waiting for the rushed, panicked movements of the corrections officers. That would tell him it was time to initiate the next phase of his plan.
The death of the weasel would only be a matter of time.
Cyclops also spent that time contemplating his fate.
He remembered how close they had been to striking down the infidels in Newport News. It would have been a swift, crushing blow, creating panic and worldwide terror. Stock markets would have crashed. The world would have recoiled in shock and horror. If the Americans could not protect two of their most important people against The Simoon, how could anyone be safe?
He had been a hair’s breadth away from pulling the trigger, sending the fifty-caliber projectile through the white screen, puncturing the cloth, and ripping through weak flesh and bone.
He would have been hailed a hero by the coalition he’d been tapped to lead—a coalition that would have united the Arab governments of the world, one he would have guided out from under the yoke of American colonialism.
But they had failed. He was holed up here, a prisoner no more important than a common criminal. If the failure itself hadn’t been enough, the memory that he had been thwarted by a no-name stung Cyclops even deeper.
Jason Rodgers wasn’t a law enforcement type. He was a pharmacist with, Cyclops grudgingly admitted, a strong will, a sense of purpose, and training in a martial art and weapons.
He had experienced it in the brief but fateful altercation in the condo of the Windsor Towers. The pharmacist’s technique, the way he’d handled himself and the handgun as he entered the condo—Jason Rodgers had been a formidable opponent.
Nonetheless, the pharmacist must pay. He would pay. If he ever got out of here, Sharif-al-Faisal, the Cyclops, would see to it.
I am invincible!
I cannot and will not be defeated!
I have not won all the battles, but the war is mine!
I am Sharif-al-Faisal!
I am Sam Fairing!
He rubbed the patch over his mutilated eye. It was gone, nothing more than scar tissue over a deep hole in his skull. It ached with phantom pain from time to time. He had become the one-eyed monster of Greek mythology.
I am the Cyclops!
I am Brontes! The blacksmith of the Gods, forger of weapons that will strike the mighty lethal blow to the American Titans!
I am the Cyclops! And I will have my revenge!
Though he wasn’t there to see it, he knew exactly when Steven Cooper placed the deadly poison disc in his ear. Though the doors and walls of his cell were solid cement and steel, the commotion caused could not be quelled.
Corrections officers rushed past his cell. Five minutes later, a stretcher arrived and was whisked past his small cell. Another few minutes after that and the stretcher reappeared, being wheeled in the opposite direction.
Cyclops caught a glimpse of a medical person performing chest compressions as they rushed by.
A smile crept across his face. It was now time begin the second phase. He would wait several hours. He did not want the medical team being distracted with attending to the dead-or-dying Steven Cooper. He would need the medical team focused only on him when the time came.
Cyclops checked the digital clock on the small shelf in his cell. Soon, he would begin his escape.
Chapter 44
“What am I doing here?” Jason demanded. “Who the hell are you? Where the hell am I?”
Jason sat in the den of an affluent, private residence outside Washington, DC. The dark wood furniture of the massive office was upholstered with brightly patterned fabrics and accented with highly-polished brass lamps. In the center of the desk rested a brass banker’s lamp. A green shade shone a perfect cone of light on the leather blotter.
A varied assortment of expensive Hummel figurines, antique handguns, and pens in cushioned cases lined wall bookshelves, dotting spaces between leatherbound tomes. Framed photographs and citations covered the walls above an ornate chair rail. Four decanters holding bronze liquids sat perched on a small corner table surrounded by crystal rocks glasses.
Sitting in a chair directly opposite a large, expensive desk, Jason scanned the room. Five stern-faced men in dark suits, four of them about his age ringed the walls. The fifth, his face lined with fine wrinkles that framed a pair of intense blue eyes, was an older gentleman around sixty. The perfectly trimmed, close-cropped, silver hair hinted at a military pedigree.
Jason’s eye caught the small bar, and suddenly he wanted a drink.
The older man noticed Jason’s glance. “My apologies, Mr. Rodgers. Can I offer you a something?”
Jason nodded.
He wore a dark navy suit and a crisply starched shirt. The red tie glowed against the white fabric of starched shirt. He poured three fingers of an amber liquid into two glasses, stepped over to Jason, and held one out. Jason accepted it.
As the man circled the desk to the thick, cushioned executive chair behind it, Jason placed the glass to his lips and gulped down the scotch, wincing as it burned its way into his stomach.
“Do you know who I am?”
Jason shook his head. “No.”
The fact that he was now sitting in front of someone from the federal government meant his ploy had worked. This fact concerned him and at the same time offered him a glimmer of hope. He was one step closer to finding Michael and Chrissie. He had abandoned Peter, leaving him to deal with the delivery of whatever lethal cargo the truck held. He tried not to think about what Hussein would do if she discovered that Jason was not in the truck.
“I am Giles Doyle, director of the Secret Service of the United States.”
“What am I doing here? I have no business with you. I need to be speaking with someone from the FBI.”
“For now you get me. I apologize for interrupting your quest.”
“My quest? You know about that?
“Of course we know. The government has many agencies at its disposal. You didn’t expect that Delilah Hussein would organize an assassination attempt on two presidents and that we would let it go at that, did you? I also know that your son and girlfriend have been taken and that Delilah Hussein has them.”
“How long have you known she was alive?”
“We found out two weeks ago.”
Jason shuddered. This whole thing, for him, Peter, Michael, and Chrissie, had started forty-eight hours ago. ‘Are you shitting me? Why was I not told?”
“That was not my call.”
Jason shook his head. He narrowed his eyes. His n
ext words were laced with contempt. “I could have taken steps to safeguard my family!”
Director Doyle absorbed Jason’s reaction without a flinch or narrowing of the eyes. In a soothing, calm tone, he said, “Jason …”
“That’s Mr. Rodgers to you!” Jason glared. He coughed and continued. “So why hasn’t she been taken down? It would have saved me a lot of trouble.”
Doyle nodded, then frowned. “I understand … Mr. Rodgers … that decision was made at the highest level. You have to understand there was concern that any communication with you could have been intercepted, or any actions taken by you after that communication could have tipped Hussein and her group that we are on to her, creating the chance the she could elude us. We need the element of surprise.”
Jason lifted an eyebrow as if saying: I don’t give a shit.
“We had no idea she was going to kidnap your son and Miss Pettigrew.” Doyle leaned forward. “Well maybe we can help each other out. We were hoping you might fill in some of the gaps.”
“You need my help finding her?”
“It would be a service to your country.”
“You guys knew she was alive. You knew what happened in Newport News. You knew she could retaliate against me and my family. No one bothered to inform me. And now you want me to help you?”
“Mr. Rodgers,” Doyle said, placing his drink on the end table, “her continued existence was and is a matter of national security. We know The Simoon has plans to attack the United States. We believe that attack is underway right now. But we do not know what it is, or where it is going to happen. She is using you to carry out part of her plan. What is in the truck?”
Jason gnashed his teeth. They knew! They knew two weeks ago!
Jason lowered his eyes to his lap and studied his hands. His fingers blanched as they dug into the fabric of his trousers. Betrayed!
Michael and Chrissie’s kidnappings could have been prevented!
Jason uttered the only two words that came to mind. “Fuck you!”
The words appeared to hit Doyle like a speeding truck. He appeared to be swallowing his initial, angered gut reaction.
“You asked a Newport News cop to contact us on your behalf. You reached out to us, remember?
Jason pushed out a long breath. “Yes.”
“So you must think we can help, right?”
“I don’t have any other options.”
He sighed. “I understand your anger. But you’re wrong. We didn’t know what was happening. We still don’t. Hussein’s plan, whatever it is, needs to be stopped.
Jason couldn’t get past what seemed obvious. “Perhaps, if you had warned me, and by proxy her, she would have ceased operations and halted the attack.”
“Doubtful,” Doyle retorted. “I repeat: if we had warned you, it could have alerted her that we knew. We couldn’t risk that. According to our expert on Hussein, she’s filled with a need for revenge.”
“So I’m a pawn. A chess piece to be sacrificed.”
“Jason,” Doyle persisted, “you contacted us through Detective Palmer. You wanted the government involved because you want your boy and your girlfriend back. You came to us. You’re here now. Make the most of it!”
Jason, at a loss for words, shook his head slowly
“Do you want your family back?” Doyle continued, raising his voice.
The betrayal Jason felt, the knowledge that they had known, had temporarily derailed him. Then the realization hit him. He was going to have to work with these men whether he liked their decisions or not. There were no other options.
“We suspected you would be distrustful. So we brought in someone we know you can trust … and someone that trusts you.”
Confusion mixed with a swirling maelstrom of frustration. A rattling sound interrupted Jason’s fugue. Coming from behind him, it reached a crescendo a few feet away. Jason turned for a glimpse. His eyes registered a shriveled form in the wheelchair.
Several long moments elapsed. A flicker of recognition passed through Jason’s mind. Doyle said the words before Jason’s mind formed the name.
“Mr. Rodgers, I believe you know Special Agent Clay Broadhurst.”
“The brothers stopped at the rendezvous point,” Oliver explained. “For about twenty minutes. They proceeded and are now heading north on Route 13 again.”
“That is good news, Oliver, mon cheri,” Hussein replied. “Has Pierre’s body been disposed of?”
“Oui, Madame. It has been dropped in the ocean four miles offshore.”
Hussein placed a gentle hand on Oliver’s shoulder as he sat at the computer terminal showing the blinking icon on the screen. She squeezed until Oliver winced. Hussein placed her lips beside his ear.
“You have let me down, Oliver. Your men royally screwed up. You better hope we find the boy,” she threatened. Hussein’s breath caressed the side of his face and neck, making him tense his muscles. “How long until they reach Dawson?”
“With no stops, should be three to four hours.”
Hussein smiled. “No more screw ups.” Oliver nodded as Hussein reached down and placed a pair of boning scissors on the table beside the keyboard. Instantly, Oliver’s two missing pinky fingers began to ache.
Moments earlier, Jason Rodgers and Clay Broadhurst had studied each other for several moments. Each nodded to the other, acknowledging a mutual respect borne out of a common fate forged in the Windsor Towers in Newport News.
“Did you know?”
“No. I don’t like any of what’s happening either, Jason,” Broadhurst replied. “I have made my objections known to Director Doyle, quite vehemently.”
Broadhurst shot a brief, harsh glance at his boss. Jason turned to see disgust register on Doyle’s countenance.
These two don’t like each other! Jason thought. For some strange reason, this fact comforted him.
Broadhurst continued. “To be fair to the director, the decision to not warn you came from above him … at the highest level!”
“So he said,” Jason replied. “The president, the man I helped to save, decided he would not return the favor.”
“It’s more complicated than that,” Doyle interrupted.
Jason studied Broadhurst’s weak, emaciated appearance. He’d lost an egregious amount of weight. His clothes hug from his frame. The eyes were dull. The man was a breath away from death.
“Let me help you, Jason. I owe you. Let me return the favor.”
“Maybe.”
“You don’t have a lot of options,” Broadhurst whispered. He lifted a white handkerchief to his lips and coughed several times into it.
Ten seconds later, Jason nodded.
“Good. Where is your brother now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where were you going?”
“Don’t know that either.”
“Then what the hell was the plan?”
“We were supposed to get more information at a location somewhere north of Exmore on the Eastern Shore. We would get further instructions then. Peter has probably already been there.”
“Where on the Eastern Shore?”
“Turkey Run Road in Mappsville. Get me a computer and I’ll show you on Google Earth.”
Broadhurst removed his cell phone from his jacket and dialed. “Get a response team mobilized. Eastern Shore of Virginia.” He ended the call and turned to Jason. “Show me where exactly.”
“The Greek Monitor has initiated contact,” the deputy director of operations of the CIA said.
“How?” John Beck, the director of operations of the Central Intelligence Agency asked.
Beck was acquainted with the secret CIA black site inside the Red Onion State Penitentiary in the mountains of western Virginia, staffed with corrections officers serving in a dual capacity as CIA operatives. These select agents drew two salaries, one from the Virginia Department of Corrections and a second, covert remuneration from the Central Intelligence Agency. Their directive was to maintain order in accord
ance with state protocols for the five ultra-secret political prisoners and collect information for the Agency, passing along any data gleaned from the inmates for evaluation by analysts at Langley.
In the wake of the security breach and assassination attempts, Beck had tasked the deputy director with placing an alternate agent onsite at the prison. This agent was an ultra-paranoid safety measure made necessary by the leaks and moles discovered in Washington. Someone whose presence was known only to the deputy director and Beck. Beck didn’t know the agent’s name. The deputy director did. The Greek Monitor’s sole mission was to watch the watchers. The dual agents at the Red Onion had no idea they were being scrutinized. Beck did know the agent was a woman who delivered meals to the ultra-secret detention unit.
“She sent an email with the code “GPI,” the deputy director explained.
“GPI?” Beck asked.
“It means ‘Greek Protocol Initiated.’ It references the fact that Cyclops, al-Faisal’s self-anointed nickname, is a mythical Greek figure.”
“Okay, give me the details.”
“She used a polygraphic substitution cipher in a long email to a phony boyfriend we set up months ago …”
“I don’t need those details, just what’s going on at the Red Onion.”
“Okay, first, there’s this.” The lieutenant dropped a flash drive and a file on the director’s desk.
“What’s this?”
“Clayton Usher has been missing for the last forty-eight hours …”
“Tell me something I don’t fuckin’ know,” Beck spat.
Beck had been briefed in the days and weeks following the assassination attempts in Newport News about the presence of a deep-cover mole inside the Agency. A classified team of select Agency personnel was assembled to find the double agent. They narrowed their search to three possible suspects. The trail ultimately led to one man who stretched head and shoulders above the other two possible spies. His name was Clayton Usher, director of communications at Langley. Codename: Hammon.
Shortly after the assassination attempts in Newport News, Hammon’s activity ceased. He had gone underground. But the team had traced his activities, whereabouts, communications, and personal finances, and by cross-referencing it with known activities of the perpetrators of the assassination attempts and information gleaned through the intensive interrogation of Cooper and Sam Fairing aka Sharif al-Faisal, they were able to train their sites on Hammon/Usher.