Dead Reckoning

by Ronie Kendig

  Why was Brutus helping her? Did he think she had answers to this puzzle? But he hadn’t interrogated her. That’d be the prudent route. Drill her full of questions until she sunk in a sea of guilt. Only, what guilt did she bear? That stupid dive trip wasn’t her fault. He sure seemed interested in the cylinder, though. Silently, she entertained the idea of finding her way to the bay, diving, and figuring out what was in that thing. Was it even there still?

  Who were the men from the street? The ones with the big weapons?

  A scent, clean and crisp, sailed over her. Brutus. He’d held her so close in that abandoned shop, sheltered in his arms. Though his grip was tight, it hadn’t been rough. She’d found it oddly reassuring—his strength and those muscles …

  Shiloh blinked. What am I doing? She stared at her engagement ring, but it blurred in the background. She drew the navy sweatshirt close; the odor of sweat, not pungent but clearly there, and something like Old Spice mingled together. Heat seared her abdomen as she remembered his blazing eyes.

  Rolling onto her back, she groaned, remembering how she’d shuddered at his touch. As they had stood by the door, a tinge of light haloed around him, accenting his jaw, the intensity in his eyes, and the way his T-shirt stretched across his bulky, well-toned chest.

  At the sound of loud rapping, her pulse catapulted. She scooted upright and visually inspected the locks she’d snapped into place hours earlier.

  “Shiloh?” Khalid's voice jabbed her with guilt. She slid the sweatshirt under the pillow and drew the comforter over it. More rapping. “Shiloh, let me in.”

  Material peeked out from under the pillow. “Just a minute.” Heart pounding, she grabbed the hooded sweatshirt and stuffed it in her pack. “I’m not decent. What is it?”

  “Open the door a bit—I’ve brought you something.”

  What was so urgent? With the chain still in place, she eased back the lightweight door. A black mound of cloth slipped through the small crack.

  “Wear this. Bring your things. It's time to go.”

  Unfolding the garment, she resisted the urge to groan. The burqa would cover everything but her eyes. They’d be in Pakistan by morning. Already, she felt the shackle of ultra-conservatism tightening around her neck.

  I can’t do this. No way could she wear a burqa and live in that country. Married to Khalid, she’d be expected to remain at home and bear his children, which she couldn’t do. Even if she had a choice, she wouldn’t.

  Upending her pack, she buried Brutus's sweatshirt at the bottom. It was stupid to keep it, but it seemed like a good-luck charm or something. On top she planted her clothes, money, and toiletries. Her heart filled with dread as the reality of what she was about to do smacked into her. It was almost midnight.

  Where was Brutus? At this hour, would he be awake? Would he know where they were going? Her stomach seized. What if he didn’t? Why did she feel safer with a man whose name she didn’t even know than with the man she was pledged to marry?

  She glared at the pack that contained the forbidden sweatshirt. “I love Khalid Khan, and I’m marrying him.”

  “Well, that's good to know.”

  She whirled, heat singeing her cheeks. “Khalid. What … ? How did you get in here?”

  He pointed toward the door joining their rooms. “The chain slid off when I nudged it.” Chuckling, he came to her and slipped his hands around her waist. He bent to kiss her.

  “Khalid!” His father's voice seemed to rattle the windows. “Inappropriate! You should not be in her bedroom.”

  With a snort, Khalid pecked her on the lips and broke away. “Of course, Father.”

  Although fully clothed and buried in the burqa, Shiloh felt naked and exposed in front of the two men.

  Thud, thud, thud!

  Baseer and Khalid exchanged alarmed glances, and fear wedged into the recesses of Shiloh's heart. Both men started toward the other room. Khalid tossed her a backward glance. “Stay here. Don’t come out.” With that, he pulled the door closed.

  Why was everyone telling her what to do? She was perfectly capable of taking care of herself. Defiance hardened her resolve. Who could be knocking on the door at nearly midnight? The question hung in her mind like a dark cloud and lured her to the adjoining door. Ear pressed against the wood, she held her breath and listened.

  There is no time to waste.

  Our men are in place. Reassurance coated Baseer's words.

  Their men? What must Khalid think of his father's mysterious connections?

  You are sure it's safe?—Khalid's voice.

  If the authorities find you or her there is no telling what will happen.

  Shiloh stared at her pack. Was it too much to hope Brutus would trail them and keep her safe? How crazy that she found so much security in a stranger. The idea of going to the station, boarding, and traveling to Pakistan under Baseer's protection carved a river of fear through her.

  Rushing to her bag, she prayed she had time. She flipped open the phone Brutus had given her. Her heart plummeted. The battery! Not even a whole bar left. What did she expect? An endless lifespan? Tempted to call him, she stared at it long and hard. Finally, she pressed the talk button. Then cancelled it.

  What if her fears were unfounded?

  Trust yourself.

  Chewing her lip, she let Brutus's words seep into her brain. She opened her pack, withdrew a pair of jeans, slipped them on under the gauzy material, and tucked the phone into the pocket.

  Her door swung open. Khalid entered, his face grim. “It's time.”

  13

  QUIET BLANKETED THE DARKENED HALLS OF THE MINISTRY BUILDING. With the use of his cell phone, Reece jammed the signals controlling the motion-sensitive cameras. At this hour, his worst foe inside should be the night-cleaning crew and the tired security guard at the main desk. Outside would be a different story. Stealthily, Reece glided down the slick floors toward the stairs. He easily bypassed one checkpoint after another, marveling that India had kept its secrets this long.

  At his eleven o’clock, a shadow stretched into view. Whistling pierced the empty corridor. Reece ducked into the public restroom and waited, his back plastered to the wall. Steps grew louder. The whistling stopped. He inwardly cursed his choice of hiding places. The guard was coming straight to him!

  Shoes scuffed. The door cranked open. The guard entered, his wide girth filling the tight, cramped bathroom as he moved toward the bank of urinals.

  Reece slid around the open door as it swung shut.

  “Hello?” The guard's hesitant question propelled Reece toward the stairs. As his foot hit the first landing, he heard the door to the bathroom creak open and another muttered hello. On the second floor, Reece disabled the cameras and darted for the deputy minister's door.

  In the office he planted four discs, two on opposite walls from each other. Once activated, the discs would reflect the coded image—a wall-to-ceiling duplicate of the minister's office from last night. A gentle hum pervaded the artificially cooled air, massaging it with a special form of trick photography. The façade would allow him to scour the desk, files, notes, computers, trash … anything that might prove a connection between Baseer Khan and Osman Sajjadi, but more importantly, the source of the dead drop. And if he was really fortunate, the reason for the two-week deadline.

  Time trickled through his fingers. Tension bunched his neck muscles, and a bead of sweat rolled down his temple. He swiped at it and kept searching. He didn’t have much time before the train shuttled Shiloh out of his hands. Maybe following Baseer Khan to his hometown outside Karachi was the best thing to do. Let the guy lead him to the connection.

  If only.

  Reece had chased enough dead ends regarding Sajjadi to last several lifetimes. This situation, involving the possible dissolution of the nuclear proliferation pact between India and France and India and the U.S., demanded an aggressive approach. Too many links in the latest developments pointed to the master-mind—the brute force, the efficiency, the ex
tensiveness, and worst of all, the dead ends.

  Kneeling behind the desk, he felt along the mahogany panels, pressing gently. There had to be a concealed compartment somewhere in this office. His fingers slid over the floorboards, checking for depressions or pressure-sensitive spots. Nothing.

  He hunched, one arm propped on his knee, and looked around the room. Where would Abdul hide—

  Reece grinned as he noticed an almost imperceptible change in the pattern of the trim around the top of the desk. He cocked his head and inched closer. Fingers against the wood, he pushed. Click! The half-inch trim popped out. A blue folder peeked up at him. He set it on the desk and flipped it open. A coded document, too encrypted to be decipherable at a glance, lay on top. He used his watch and captured a snapshot of the page. He’d work through it later. Next he found several sheets of paper with three columns of numbers and letters. Nonsensical, random arrangements. Hundreds of them. He took a shot of that image too.

  A small stack of photos in the far, back corner snagged his attention. Reece thumbed through them. A woman. Child. Two children. A family—

  Abdul had a family hidden somewhere? Interests to protect. Interests nobody knew about. That could be useful. He snapped a copy.

  What else lay in the secret shelf of a ministry official? Like glacial formations, the pieces slid and collided against Reece's imagination. A key. No identifying marks. An account slip from a bank in Switzerland. Last, a hand-scrawled note.

  The timing must be perfect. Anything less will bring this down on everyone's heads. I entrust this matter into your hands, my friend. –BK

  While the field warbled and protected his location and signal, Reece sent the images spiraling through the air as a minute particulate straight to Langley and his private laptop on a secured, access-only signal.

  Staples held a stack of diagrams together. Reece fanned the pages. A half-dozen schematics of a boat. Details filled close to ten more. What was this about?

  Voices in the hall. His adrenaline spiked.

  In the exact order he’d removed them, he replaced the pieces, then shut the secret compartment. He planted a bug underneath the desk, snatched the devices, which deactivated the interference screen, and rushed into the adjoining room. A small desk straddled the space between the connecting door and the exit. Darkness embraced him as he peered through the scrollwork on the frosted glass.

  Abdul strode in, a woman trailing him. “Does the Prime Minister know?”

  “No, sir.” The receptionist scurried behind him. “You told me to bring this information to you first.”

  “Good.” Ali grunted. “You can leave.”

  Had he left something out of place? Reece watched the deputy minister move around his office, loosening his tie as he placed the phone to his ear.

  “It's in place.” Abdul glanced at his watch. His head snapped up, eyes wide. “Do you realize what will happen?”

  Craning his neck to see through the clear space, Reece prayed he wasn’t signing his death certificate by sticking around. Something told him this was worth seeing.

  “Call me when it's done.” Abdul clicked the phone shut and dropped into his chair, head in his hands.

  Seizing the moment, Reece rushed to the exit and carefully turned the knob. Checking right and left, he stepped out just as voices skated into his awareness. He yanked back and pulled the door to, peering through a slit of space.

  Several men stalked toward him. As they drew closer, the grouping separated. One stood at the juncture between the stair and the hall, another stopped a dozen feet away, and yet another rushed to the opposite end. The tactical positioning sent Reece's instincts buzzing. This had the smell of a protective insertion.

  As if to confirm his silent assessment, one thug called, “Clear.”

  Anticipation mounted as Reece waited for the mystery guest who felt the need to secure a government building that had been shut down for the night.

  An entourage clogged the narrow hall: three in front, three behind. The huddle warned him they were protecting someone important, someone who didn’t want to be bothered or seen. Their approach pushed Reece into the shadows, his eye still focused on the slight opening. Who had come to Abdul? Would this be the break he needed? The proof?

  Dark suits swam by the door.

  A tall man, partially balding with a dour expression to match, sauntered past as he mumbled to the team. Light skimmed his face. Kodiyeri, the man who had followed Shiloh.

  A chair squeaked and thunked, apparently as Abdul shot to his feet. “Why are you here?”

  The disbelief and fear in Abdul's question stopped Reece cold. The way Abdul had spoken sounded more like an underling speaking to a superior. Didn’t Kodiyeri work for Abdul? Despite the warnings blaring through his thick skull to make a hasty exit before he got caught, Reece hesitated. This could be colossal. But colossal could mean dead.

  Yet without big proof, the case was dead.

  The hulking man shifted toward the minister, a scowl etched into his dark brows. “We have unfinished business.”

  Kodiyeri's words drew Reece back to the scrollwork glass.

  “You could ruin me!” Panic laced the minister's words.

  “You are already ruined, old man.” Kodiyeri took a seat, two guards flanking him, making it almost impossible to see his face.

  A dark, sinister tension weighted the room. What Reece believed to be fact—that Kodiyeri worked for Abdul—had just been upended. If Kodiyeri wasn’t Abdul's hireling, then who did he answer to?

  The familiar knock of opportunity rang in his ears. Nielsen hadn’t believed Sajjadi, a Muslim radical based out of Pakistan, would be aligned with a conservative Hindu government offi-cial like Abdul. Could Kodiyeri be the missing link?

  If Reece could snap a picture and record a bit of this conversation, perhaps he could get the proof he needed. Angling the camera watch toward the glass, he aligned the lens with a clear spot in the frosted pane. He clamped his teeth. From this angle, he got nothing but the backside of a heavily armed mercenary.

  “Why do you come here? It is a delicate position. If the Americans learn—”

  “The Americans are being dealt with.”

  Abdul gasped. “What do you mean?”

  “You had your orders. You failed. Now, you’re out of time.”

  Kodiyeri was the link, Reece's fast-track to pinning this mess on Sajjadi. He had to snap an image of them together.

  “We are being watched, and you come here, spouting off about some horrible thing you have done.” Abdul paced and pivoted back to the all-too-relaxed power player, who lit a cigarette. “Have you killed them all?”

  “Do not worry, my friend,” Kodiyeri said. “You will not be implicated.”

  Reece ducked and swung to the other side of the door. Get the shot and get out.

  At his desk, Abdul lifted a file and slid a piece of paper toward the man. “This girl—she is trouble. Too many contacts, I think.”

  Reece snapped the photo just as the words hit him. Abdul was talking about Shiloh. He froze. He should have left when his instincts ordered him out. Was he too late? Had they already gone after her—or worse? Completed the mission?

  “She is not long for this world.” Sick laughter slithered around Reece's mind and stomach like a viper. Kodiyeri waved a dismissive hand at the deputy prime minister. “Such a pity, don’t you think? So pretty.”

  Go! Now! Heart thumping, Reece darted a glance at the door.

  “Wait!” Ali's breathless admonishment drove Reece out. Had he been discovered?

  Chaos erupted on the entire second floor.

  Armed with the element of surprise and his Glock, Reece burst out of his hiding place and shot the nearest guard. As the guy dropped hard, Reece had already taken aim and fired two rounds at the blue suit by the stairs. In a fluid motion, he spun. Zigzagged down the hall and eliminated the last guard who protected his exit.

  He flung himself at the fire escape door. Clanging open, the d
oor rebounded, but Reece rolled around it.

  Ping! Ping!

  Sailing over the steps, he ducked and hoped the bullets didn’t ricochet straight into the back of his skull. Seconds thundered in his head.

  Rounding a corner, he ignored the sweat that dribbled down his back. He headed for the side exit and punched the door, nearly breaking it from its hinges.

  “There! There!” Shouts erupted throughout the open area.

  Several guards jogged from the building and dropped to their knees. Gunfire punctuated the night. Reece broke into a sprint, aiming for the side wall. Floodlights swirled toward him.

  He dove behind a car. After a pause, he craned his neck to see through a window. At least a dozen heavily armed men raced into the open. He checked the rooftop, dust and dirt partially clouding his view. Yet through that haze, he saw them. Snipers.

  God, I could use a little Elijah action here—just transport me straight to Shiloh.

  Glock in hand, he sized up the safest route. A mere twenty feet lay between him and the wall. But those were twenty heart-pounding, bullet-piercing steps. Fairly certain he could make it without taking one through the head, Reece worried about scaling the wall. Eight feet tall and made of white, cracked plaster. Could he get enough traction on its smooth surface to climb over it?

  Ping! Ping! Crack!

  Reece pulled himself into a crouch. Shuffling toward the middle of the car, he prepped himself to cross the distance. Prepped himself to die. He used his shoulder to wipe the sweat from his neck. This wasn’t the place to die. Shiloh needed him, and with what he heard in Abdul's office, he didn’t have time to mess around.

  “Okay, God …” he mumbled and glanced to his right, his gaze tracking over the lit-like-day compound, searching for hostiles. And saw the power box. He grinned. “Thank you.” Peering down the muzzle, he lined up the crosshairs of his Glock and fired.

  Sparks flew. Hissing, popping. CRACK! Darkness reigned.

  Reece launched himself toward the plaster wall. Dirt burst up at him, as if reaching for his ankles to yank him down. The acrid smell of cordite enveloped him. Hurling himself at the wall, he prayed his landing wouldn’t hurt much. Plaster stabbed into his hands as he clawed up the barrier. Exploding paint chips peppered his face. Hooking an arm over the top, he grunted at the vibrating cement beneath his hands.