by TJ O'Connor
There would be time, much time, for the demons of sensory deprivation to seize him.
LaRue understood those demons. It was his means of interrogation, preferable to more arcane, brutal methods that employed violence and left scars. Methods that often facilitated death.
“Shepard, let us have some dinner. Shall we?”
“Dinner?” Shepard regarded their captive. “What about him?”
“Time, Shepard. Just give it time. We will have what we need.”
Shepard narrowed his eyes on LaRue. “Sir, the FBI is tracking a few dozen groups. NSA says the Islamic chatter does not indicate any unusual activity. None of the known threats are on anyone’s radar. We stand alone with what we know.”
“Ah, you need assurance?” LaRue removed his eyeglasses for a polishing. “Sometimes, Shepard, surveillance and intelligence chatter do not return the only meaningful results. Some rely too heavily on electronic wizardry. Let us see what our guest brings us, shall we?”
“Yes, sir. How long do we wait?”
LaRue contemplated the question. “Tomorrow, I think. We shall hope for tomorrow.”
“Until then?”
“Patience.” LaRue climbed the stairs. “Well, patience and perhaps Chinese takeout.”
CHAPTER 18
Day 2: May 16, 2200 Hours, Daylight Saving Time
Old Town Winchester, Virginia
“WHAT DO YOU think you are doing, chess boy?”
The larger Arab kicked the side of the table and toppled chess pieces. He laughed and spit a gooey mass of intimidation onto the middle of the board.
“Hey, chess boy.” The big Arab nudged Bobby’s arm. “What are you talking about with this old man?”
Old man? “As-salamu alaykum.” I offered them “peace be upon you”—the traditional Arabic greeting.
Neither Arab looked at me. How rude.
“Not speaking, chess boy?” the larger Arab said.
“Nothing, Azar.” Bobby’s voice quivered. “We’re playing chess. That’s all.”
Azar. At least he had a name. Maybe it was Azar the Magnificent or Azar the Great—wordplay kept me calm. Sometimes.
I looked at Sam, who watched Bobby. He showed no concern. What did he know that I didn’t?
Considering the events of the past twenty-four-plus hours, I needed to keep things calm and cool. No fuss. No mess. Nirvana—grace, not the rock band.
“So, Azar, where are you from?” I asked, smiling. “Kabul? Cairo? No, I’m thinking—”
“Detroit.” The word was overly heavy and poorly pronounced.
No, Azar and his pal were not native Detroiters. My accent meter pegged on Iran.
Azar kicked the table again. A few chess pieces leaped to their deaths onto the patio. “Chess boy, you need to speak with us. Now. We want a private game.”
“No,” Bobby whispered. “Everything’s cool, Azar.”
“Fariq does not trust you. Neither do I.”
Fariq, the shy one, grinned and looked at me. His eyes were dark, and behind them, hate seemed ready to boil over. He had one hand in his raggedy sport coat pocket gripping something—a knife, a gun, something that would make me bleed.
Bobby started to speak, but I touched his arm as I slid my feet away from the table and focused on Fariq. “Look, fellas, chess boy is with me. We’re minding our own business and you should, too. Motevajeh?—Understand? Walk away. You know, Borow kenâr.”
“Leave?” Fariq’s eyes flared as his left hand reached into his rear jeans pocket. “You must leave, madar ghahveh.”
I wasn’t sure, but I think Fariq just called me a bitch. Hmm, I saw this scene in a bad B-rated movie once. If I didn’t get control soon, things would get nasty.
Easy, Hunter. Don’t do anything stupid.
“You walk, old man.” Azar smiled a crooked, toothy smile. The mood changed when he and Fariq flipped open wide-bladed pocketknives and aimed them at me. “You do not understand who you are interfering with, old man.”
My .45 begged to come out and join the fun, but I resisted. One, two, three. Steady.
“Come on, guys. This isn’t necessary. We’re just playing chess. How about I buy you some ice cream? Two scoops.”
Azar snapped forward, pressed his knife beneath my chin, and forced me to my feet. “Chessmate, old man.”
“That’s ‘checkmate, old man.’” The words slipped out before I thought—not uncommon.
Rage. Azar jerked his knife back and swung it in a vicious arc. The knife stabbed through the vinyl chessboard into the tabletop and sank halfway to its hilt. He held it there, grinning at me as violence churned in his eyes.
Bobby pushed back from the table and sucked in air.
Sam raised a hand. “Azar, no.”
Fariq slashed his knife back and forth as adrenaline fueled him. He jabbed toward Bobby and laughed. He jabbed again and again.
I fought the urge to pull my gun and kill this little twerp, but a gunfight in the middle of Old Town was not a great idea. I’ve seen maniacal grins from toothless al-Qaeda terrorists and one-eyed barkeeps. Azar’s and Fariq’s were worse. Fariq toyed with Bobby, poked and prodded with his knife. One stab drew blood across Bobby’s cheek. Azar focused on killing me. But anger often fuels mistakes and creates vulnerability. Now, if I was wrong and Azar was a controlled killer, I’d never realize my error.
Calm. Steady. Focus. One, two, three.
“Stop this! Stop this now!” Edik Petrov exploded through the café door with his arms flailing. “Azar, no more. Not at my place. You go. Go now.”
Azar whirled around and slashed his knife through the air toward Petrov. “Keep away, Edik. Go back inside. This is not for you.”
Petrov braked six feet away. “You must stop. I don’t want this here.”
I took a breath and assessed my situation.
Special Forces CQB—close quarter battle training—includes combatives. That’s the meat and potatoes hand-to-hand stuff. Contrary to what Hollywood thinks, not all SF guys are black belts in karate or kung fu masters breaking bricks with their minds. But we can get the job done. We’re taught the ancient martial art of KISS—keep it simple, stupid. When it’s life and death, spinning back kicks and fancy Bruce Lee chicken-dancing will get you fitted into a body bag. You strike first and fast and with lethality. You go for the kill. When you’re up against multiple opponents, speed, surprise, and violence-of-action decide who’s going home.
Action. Fariq grabbed Petrov’s arm. Azar lunged at me, blade first.
Reaction. I snatched Azar’s outstretched knife-hand wrist with my right hand and yanked him toward me. His momentum allowed me to pull him off-balance as I stepped out of his path. Before he could react, I grabbed his elbow with my left hand, levered his arm up and over his wrist, and twisted his hand backward until he cried out. The knife dropped away. My heel drove into the back of his knee. He started down and I slammed his face onto the table amidst the remnants of chess pieces. But Azar’s superior strength allowed him to rise quickly, so I grabbed Bobby’s steaming cup of coffee and smashed the cup into his face. Scalding coffee cascaded into his eyes, nose, and cheeks. His scream was as maniacal as his grin—almost.
I finished him with a powerful knee to the side of his head. His lights flickered and went out.
Fariq shoved Petrov away and charged me.
I lunged forward, drove my instep into his groin, and, as he dropped down clutching his privates, I pounded a shattering right hook into his jaw. Still, his arm slashed back and forth, trying to fillet me with his knife. I blocked his last slash, grabbed his arm, twisted, and landed another knee to his head. The knife beat him to the ground, but he joined it a second later.
Moments lingered before Fariq and Azar began to stir. When they did, Fariq tried to get to his feet and revive his attack.
Sam jumped between us. “Enough. No more.”
Petrov jumped in and held his arms out between us like a referee.
“Old man,” Fari
q groaned and looked past Sam at me. “Another time, madar ghahveh. You will soon bleed.”
I looked from Azar to Fariq. “Go.”
Petrov went to Azar, grabbed him by the arm, and helped him to his feet. “It is over. Go. I will not call the police if you go now.”
Fariq took Azar by one arm and hefted his weight against him. He looked at me with murder on his mind. “You will die. You know this, right? You are one of the dead.”
“So many people wish that were so.” I wasn’t lying. I stopped and picked up Azar’s knife. “You’ll get this back when you learn to play nice.”
Fariq aimed a gun-finger at my face, growled something, and the two limped down the street into the shadows where they’d emerged.
Petrov sighed and straightened the table. “They are dangerous young men, my new friend. You should go. I must calm the customers inside.” He returned into the café, where customers stood at the windows, watching.
I turned to Bobby and Sam. “Okay, Bobby, those two have a beef with you. Anything to do with the river?”
He stared after Azar and Fariq. “No. I don’t know what they want.”
“Bull.” I reached for Bobby’s shoulder, but he recoiled from my touch. “No one will hurt you. I promise.”
“The cops can’t help. Neither can you.” Bobby backpedaled more, turned, and ran away.
I looked at Sam. “Care to tell me how you know these two?”
“It’s not my fault.” His face twisted. “None of this is my fault. You can’t blame me. Leave me alone.” He followed Bobby into the night.
CHAPTER 19
Day 2: May 16, 2215 Hours, Daylight Saving Time
The Darby Farm, Rural Frederick County, Virginia
THE DARBY FARM sat nestled in the climb toward the Appalachian Mountains ten miles west of Winchester off State Route 50. The farm lay in a tiny draw valley—some of the locals called it a “holler”—and it had been gone from local memory for at least ten years. Crumbling roofs, peeling paint, and overgrown pastures were all that remained. During the Second World War, the farm was the once-thriving source of West Virginia beef and produce. That was no more. Now, it sat as a crumbling shell of what it once was.
Its newest tenants—unpaying visitors, really—were neither farmer nor country folk. Not this country folk, that is.
Caine turned off the old pickup truck’s headlights before he turned off Route 50 and onto the rutted gravel road. He wound through the dying apple orchard toward the main farmhouse and outbuildings.
Easing slowly forward, he pulled the pickup around the rear of the ramshackle barn and killed the engine.
In Farsi, he said to the two Iranians sitting on the seat beside him, “You two bring your friend into the root cellar. Wait there for me. Make it quick.”
The two men, cousins and inseparable since arriving in the United States, had been with Saeed Mansouri from the beginning. Often, with regret. This was one of those moments. The eldest nodded and slipped from the truck. A moment later, he and his younger cousin had hefted the rolled canvas package with their friend wrapped inside. They carried the package from the truck bed and disappeared into the darkness.
None of Saeed’s men knew Caine. Neither did the Foreigner’s men. They only knew what he allowed them to. What they should know. Part of his survival was the aura of the unknown. What your enemies didn’t know, they feared. Fear kept these men wary. Fear that he was the alqatil—the assassin—who struck at will. They knew he came from the darkest sources somewhere in their world before this country. He had worked for organizations—for dangerous men—whose goals were accomplished by fear and intimidation—terror. Goals they understood and knew well. Caine’s talents were reputed to have taken down cities and countries, even reversed Western gains in Syria, Afghanistan, and Iraq. That knowledge spread through his clients like a virus.
Caine had killed often and violently. He had no compunction against killing again. His reputation was a man without governments or causes. His was a trade of the most basic common denominator—profit. That’s all Saeed’s and the Foreigner’s men needed to know. Anything else was simply irrelevant.
Caine hefted a heavy, green, military-style rucksack from behind his driver’s seat and followed at a distance.
Secluded two hundred yards beyond the barn, concealed by an outcropping of apple trees and thick brush along a hillside, an armed sentry sat on a large rock. Standing beside him were the two Persian cousins. They were hefting the heavy canvas wrapping containing their dying comrade—a young twenty-five-year-old who had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time when a stainless-steel case was breached and unleased the unthinkable into the night air.
The lone sentry stood as Caine approached. “Salaam, Caine. I keep my eyes out. No one went in.”
“Good.” Caine shifted the rucksack’s weight. “Then you have done what I told you.”
“Baleh.” Yes.
Caine held up a hand for the cousins to remain behind and moved through the brush to a bulkhead door obscured from view had he not known it was there. He propped open the rusted metal door and descended a steep flight of heavy oak steps into the earth. Twenty feet down, a single propane lantern hung overhead, and he struggled in the darkness to light it. Finally, it flickered and shined through the fifty-year-old iron door in front of him.
He bent down and examined the door frame. There, he found a short, thin piece of tree branch positioned between the door frame and door. If the door had been opened, the twig would have fallen. A trick of Cold War spies and pulp fiction novelists.
The twig was intact. The treasure inside was secure.
With a key from his pocket, he manipulated the heavy security lock and tugged on the iron door. With effort, he pulled it open and slipped inside. He found the second lantern and lit it, bathing the root cellar in fluttering light. The room was about twenty feet square with wooden shelves on two sides. The walls were timber. The floor was fieldstone. Along the far wall was a workbench where a heavy steel chest rested. Beneath the bench were four large five-gallon cans of gasoline, cases of machine oil, and sundry storage boxes.
Everything was as he’d left it.
He opened his rucksack and withdrew a bulky case with a strange digital keypad beside the handle. He set it on the workbench and punched in the combination. Inside were three stainless-steel cylinders, each nearly two feet long and six inches wide, berthed within protective foam cavities. He removed the cylinders and laid them on the bench beside the case. His movements were careful and practiced. The contents of the cylinders would kill him should he make any wrong moves. Like a venomous snake, the contents existed for the kill.
Next, he manipulated both combination locks on the chest, and with a long, pensive breath, opened the lid and exposed the foam liner.
There were three cavities cut into the protective foam, holding heavy cylinders identical to those from his rucksack. It took him only a few moments to swap the cylinders. Before he secured the case back into his rucksack, he took out his pocketknife and carefully carved three notches into the side of each tank.
Afterward, he secured the steel chest atop the workbench, slipped the case back into his rucksack, and called for the cousins.
A moment later, the two Persians descended the stairs, struggling with their canvas coffin.
“Lay him down there in the corner,” Caine ordered and watched the two Iranian men maneuver the canvas roll across the room. He pointed to the steel chest on the workbench. In Farsi, he said, “Take that to Doc and tell him to lock it up very carefully. Don’t open it. Don’t drop it. Don’t even breathe on it. Understand?”
“Baleh.” The older cousin looked from Caine to the canvas roll. “Alhamdulillah”—Praise be to Allah.
Caine waited until the cousins left with the steel chest. Then he went to the rolled canvas and pulled part of it down, revealing a frail, withering body. He could hear the man wheezing inside. A painful breath. A raspy, dead cough.
The end.
“You saved us at the river.” He withdrew a small-framed semiautomatic from the small of his back. The pistol had a stubby silencer affixed to it. “No good deed goes unpunished. Salaam.”
Three minutes later, Caine locked the heavy iron door and ascended the stairs to the sentry. He was barely away from the entrance when the smoke began billowing out.
“Stay clear of the stairs. It’s going to get smoky and hot.”
“Baleh, Caine.” The sentry’s eyes were round and fearful. “Baleh.”
“No one gets close until the smoke’s gone. If they do, I’ll bury you inside.”
CHAPTER 20
Day 2: May 16, 2230 Hours, Daylight Saving Time
Old Town Winchester, Virginia
ON MY WALK back to my rental car parked along a side street adjacent to the Old Town Walking Mall, my inner radar began pinging and my eyes began swiveling around looking for the reason. In the shadow of a building, I slipped my .45 semiautomatic out and held it close to my side so not to attract attention. As I did, I noticed a dark-colored Mercedes three cars ahead of me on my side of the street. A few steps from the front of it, the door opened and a dangerous man stepped out and faced me.
Dangerous was an understatement. He was a skilled assassin and a professional mercenary. His skills in combat were twice mine. Yep, hard for me to admit that. I’d learned much from him. He was average height with dark hair and a narrow, dark-skinned face. Without light I knew he had two scars along his left temple but couldn’t recall the story of how they came to be there. The last time I’d seen this man was nearly six months ago just outside Kandahar. He’d been sitting across the table in a dusty café waiting to deliver a message to me.