He turned off the phone, dug out the battery and SIM card. One at a time, he hurled the three pieces out the window and into the woods.
“How come you were following me?” Aiden asked.
“I wasn’t.”
“But I saw you at the motel. And earlier at that cafe near Towson University.”
“I was trailing Farlin. He was following you. They must have picked up your trail recently. I spotted Farlin spying on your meeting with that prof. My bad that you spotted me at the motel. I was trying to avoid pulling into a space too close to Farlin and ended up parking near your ride.”
“So who are you? Some kind of federal agent?”
“Not exactly.”
Keats turned off the road. Dodging small trees, he plowed the Escalade through thick foliage. A hundred feet in they came upon his Bronco. It was hidden behind the crumbling stone foundation of what appeared to be a small derelict factory.
He wiped down the Escalade’s steering wheel and dashboard with a handkerchief.
“Clean anything you touched,” he instructed, handing the rag to Aiden. “Don’t want to leave fingerprints. No time to do a full DNA scrub so this’ll have to do.”
Outside the car, Keats cleaned off the door handles. He squatted at the rear bumper and from beneath it, retrieved an object the size of a hearing-aid battery.
“Tracker,” he explained, as they transferred to the Bronco. “Planted it after I found Farlin. Unfortunately, I made the mistake of falling asleep back at the motel. Didn’t think they’d try kidnapping you in the middle of the night. Lucky I downed a beer before hitting the sack.”
“A beer?”
“Woke up to take a piss. Checked the tracking software on my laptop and saw that Farlin’s car was already miles away. After I realized they’d taken you, I followed the signal. Hid the Bronco and crept up to the garage. Just before I got here I heard a ’copter take off.” Keats grimaced. “That was Nobe, wasn’t it?”
Aiden nodded.
“Anyway, heard your screams and came a-runnin’. Didn’t have time to find a proper weapon, like a two-by-four.” Keats gestured to the busted laptop. “So much for my tracking software.”
They drove back onto the abandoned road. Keats stopped long enough to sweep away their tire tracks with a leafy branch and cover the spot where they’d entered the woods with fallen branches and clumps of foliage. When he finished, there was no evidence to indicate the passage of vehicles.
“With any luck, it’ll be a while before the police find the Escalade. And getting an ID on the body might take some time. Did Farlin happen to say anything about meeting up with Nobe?”
“I think something big is happening Wednesday. Farlin was supposed to rendezvous with them at some cabin that morning.”
“They happen to say where this cabin is?”
Aiden’s throat was parched. “Got anything to drink?”
Keats gestured to the back seat. Aiden retrieved a well-worn backpack and plopped it on his lap. The contents included a change of clothing, first-aid kit, flashlight, water bottle and wallet. He took two hearty gulps from the bottle.
“The cabin?” Keats pressed.
“I don’t think they said. Just that the rendezvous was for some sort of op that’s going to happen that day at around 1700 hours. It had an odd name… Tarantian, that’s it.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell. Anything else?”
Aiden swallowed more water. “Nobe wanted the op to happen after dark. And then he mentioned some acronym I’d never heard before.”
“NVGs?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Night vision goggles.” Keats went quiet for a time, mulling things over. “OK, whatever this op is, once Farlin’s a no-show they’ll assume you’re still alive. Ideally, that gives us three days before they realize he’s missing.”
“Three days to do what?”
Keats steered onto the shoulder to dodge a massive pothole. He didn’t answer Aiden’s question but instead asked for a recounting of the exact events that had occurred in the garage.
Aiden related the story but left out significant parts, including his weird psychic ability and the reason for the torture, as well as the fact that he and Red were quiver kids. He wasn’t ready to spill everything to Keats, not until he knew a hell of a lot more about his mysterious rescuer.
At the end of the story, Keats frowned, as if sensing that Aiden hadn’t told all. But he didn’t press the issue.
“Pour some water on those burns. And pop a couple acetaminophen tabs from the first-aid kit. They’ll help with the pain.”
Aiden rifled through the kit and swallowed two pills with another hearty gulp from the bottle. He winced as he trickled the liquid onto his arms. The parallel gashes had lost their sharp definition, were now ragged and ugly. The skin was peeling in spots.
Replacing the kit in the backpack he glanced at the wallet. Unable to resist, he flipped it open to reveal a photo of a much younger Keats and a lithe pale-skinned woman. They were sitting together on a beach, building a massive sandcastle. Judging by the steep, white-capped waves breaking behind them and gloomy skies overhead, a storm was coming. But the couple looked happy, oblivious to the weather.
He flipped to the next wallet page, which showed a different woman, older and with short auburn hair and a generous smile. Flanking her were a teenage boy and girl. Opposite the picture was a contemporary photo ID of one Decimus Dionysius Keats, a federal employee. The card had been issued by the GAO.
“You work for the General Accounting Office?”
Keats glared. “Didn’t your parents ever teach you not to snoop through other people’s belongings?”
“You’re an accountant?”
“Analyst with the GAO’s Defense Capabilities and Management team. Part of my job is studying DOD operation of military facilities with an eye toward improving business practices.” Pride crept into his voice. “Every week, we save taxpayers millions of dollars.”
“And just for kicks, you rescue kidnap victims and kill bad guys.”
“Good to see your sense of humor’s intact. Some people who survive trauma take a long time to joke about it. Others never do.”
“Decimus Dionysius Keats,” Aiden murmured, committing the clunker to memory. “Unusual name.”
“Shit happens. Mother taught Ancient Greek and Latin. Oh, and speaking of wallets, here’s yours.”
Keats handed Aiden the second wallet taken from Farlin. Aiden checked it. His money and various cards and IDs seemed intact. He shoved the wallet in his back pocket but bumped his burned left arm as he did so. He winced with an explosion of fresh pain.
The worst of the agony passed. Aiden realized how tired he was. He leaned the seat back and tried closing his eyes. But there was still too much adrenaline flowing for slumber to take hold.
“What happens when they find out I’m still alive?” he asked.
“Next time, they’ll make sure the job’s done right. But look on the bright side. They probably won’t torture you again. I’m sure they already got what they needed.”
Keats paused, as if waiting for Aiden to take the hint and come clean about the reason for the torture and what really had gone on in the garage. But he remained silent.
His rescuer shrugged. “Anyway, next time it’ll likely be a quick execution.”
“Lucky me.”
SEVENTEEN
By the time the abandoned road intersected a highway, the crimson glory of a new dawn painted eastern skies. Traffic was light but Keats waited until no vehicles were visible in either direction before guiding the Bronco around a weathered barricade. They bounced across a shallow drainage ditch and accelerated onto the four-laner, heading west.
“Where are we going?” Aiden asked. “Not back to Baltimore?”
“Bad idea. Nobe may have left one of his men at the motel to see if anyone comes asking about you.”
“So the nearest police station, then.”
“Bad i
dea number two.”
Aiden didn’t object. No matter how crazy things were, no matter how much pain he was in, he didn’t want to involve the authorities either. Considering that he wasn’t prepared to tell Keats the entire truth, he certainly wasn’t ready to unload to a bunch of cops. But beyond that there was a reason more profound: a persistent and inexplicable urge to continue his quest no matter what the cost.
“What about my car? My phone, clothing and the rest of my stuff is back there?”
“Consider them lost. How much cash do you have?”
Aiden eased a hand into his back pocket for the wallet, winced as his burned forearm rubbed the material.
“About $600.” It was pretty much all he had to his name and included the money from Jarek. He’d withdrawn nearly everything from his bank account for the New Hampshire trip, and the motel had nearly maxed out his credit card.
“That should hold you for a little while.”
“I need to call my sister. Do you have a phone?”
“You don’t want to call or text anyone. I’m not sure how long Farlin was on your tail, but it’s possible they bugged your sister’s phone as well as yours. If so, letting them know you’re still alive could put her in danger.”
The thought of Darlene and Leah under threat sent a stab of worry through Aiden. But if Keats was right, it was best to avoid any contact, at least for the time being.
“So where are we going?” he repeated.
“Got an old buddy living in Virginia, about an hour’s drive. He can look at those arms.”
Despite the pills, the pain wasn’t lessening. Aiden didn’t relish waiting that long. “Might be a hospital closer.”
“Doctors will ask about those burns and possibly call the police. Even if you make up some bullshit story and they buy it, once Farlin’s body is found you’ll become a suspect. Then you’ll have cops on your ass as well as mercs.”
“That’s what Farlin was? A mercenary?”
“Yeah. He worked for Nobe.” Keats again grimaced at the name. “Noa Bruno Novakovic. Born to a well-to-do Croatian family who moved to Scotland after the father was accused of war crimes. Nobe joined the army, worked his way into the SAS – British special forces. They booted him for excessive brutality. He was a PSC for a while – private security contractor. Then he went rogue, put together a gang of like-minded killers. They’ve been linked to the Russian drug trade, assassinations in Colombia, tribal massacres in Nigeria and South Sudan, you name it. If it’s nasty you want, they’re top of the game.”
Keats reached into the glove compartment and withdrew a manila envelope. He handed it to Aiden. Inside were autopsy photos of a naked man whose face and upper body were badly scorched. One photo showed a closeup of the forearms, which had escaped the worst of the fire. A pattern of burns similar to Aiden’s was faintly visible.
In contrast to the grisly images was a photo of him in better days, probably a high school graduation picture. Rodrick O. Tyler, age twenty-nine at the time of his death, was the only child of British husband-and-wife orthodontists. His olive skin tone suggested either a Latino or African-American heritage.
“He was my age,” Aiden whispered.
Keats raised an eyebrow. “That mean something to you?”
Aiden responded with a noncommittal shrug. He still wasn’t ready to tell all. But if his interrogator back at the garage had been truthful – and Aiden had no reason to suspect Red had lied – the dead man was the quiver kid known as Blue.
“You sure you didn’t know him?”
Aiden shook his head. “Where did this happen?”
“Scotland Yard found him three weeks ago in an abandoned, burned-out apartment building in London. They suspect arson. Rodrick Tyler was a long-time addict. Heroin, fentanyl, whatever he could get his hands on. The cops figured he crossed some drug gang and it was a revenge killing. Of course, you and I know different.”
Keats again waited expectantly for him to divulge more. Aiden changed the subject.
“Why burn the bodies?”
“Good way to eliminate evidence of a crime. Besides, it was one of Farlin’s special delights. Those civilian massacres I mentioned? His weapon of choice was a flamethrower.”
“So what’s your connection to all this?”
“I’m trying to track down Nobe’s employer, the person behind it all. From what you’ve told me, this man Red sounds like a prime candidate. Did your captors ever mention someone called ‘the Clerk’?”
“No. Who’s that?”
“Not sure. Just a name I came across.”
“Are you really a GAO analyst?”
“I am, but I’m on a leave of absence.” Keats hesitated. “Let’s just say I have a night job.”
“Working for whom?”
“Can’t say.”
Aiden stuffed the photos back in the envelope and returned it to the glove compartment. An immense tiredness rose up from deep inside. He felt his eyes drifting shut.
“I think… I need… to sleep.”
He leaned back. Before consciousness dissolved, he perceived a blurred image of a room filled with six cribs, three on a side. The cribs were empty but the room echoed to the sound of crying babies.
EIGHTEEN
The trailer park looked clean and tidy. Preschoolers romped in a playlot under the watchful eyes of two obese young women in shorts and halter-tops. A group of older kids with bats and gloves ambled toward an adjacent field for an early Sunday game.
Aiden awoke and stretched to wipe away the vestiges of sleep. The movement brought stabs of pain in both arms. The nap had eased his fatigue but had done little to relieve his burns.
Keats parked the Bronco in front of a well-maintained trailer with a fenced-in vegetable garden. A one-legged man sat on the stoop reading a newspaper. He was in his forties and had ruddy skin, long sideburns, and a receding hairline. His attire consisted of a Baltimore Ravens sweatshirt and tie-dyed shorts.
His left leg was missing from mid-thigh down. In its place was a crude prosthesis, obviously homemade. A series of anodized rods were held together with an ungainly collection of hinges, ratchets and ball joints. The foot was a flat aluminum plate with a decorative clump of sneaker glued to the top. A tiny American flag decal marked the spot where a big toe should have been.
Keats and the man greeted one another with smiles then a bear hug that could have crushed diamond.
“Rory Tablone, Aiden Manchester,” Keats introduced. “Aiden’s had a little accident.”
Rory held open the screen door and ushered them into the trailer. The funky prosthesis worked well; his limp was barely noticeable. But there was a click-clack noise whenever he bent at the knee.
They sat at the kitchen table. Rory gripped Aiden’s wrists, studied the scorch marks. “Somebody don’t much like your ass, huh? Hope you got payback.”
Aiden didn’t reply. Rory turned to Keats.
“Pretty decent clinic a few miles down the road. I know one of the docs.”
“Rather not.”
“You flying under the radar here, Deke?”
“Yeah. Can you help?”
Rory disappeared through a draped partition into the bedroom. He returned with a medical kit and bandages. Motioning for Aiden to stretch out his arms, he probed at the wounds with surgical scissors. Aiden tried to keep still but flinched each time he was touched.
“Mostly second-degree burns. If they were third degree, it actually might not hurt as much. Underlying nerves would be gone.”
“You’re a doctor?”
Rory chuckled. “How many docs you know who live in trailer parks? No, I was squad medic way back when.”
He dabbed at the wounds with a cool wet cloth and trimmed loose pieces of skin. Aiden clenched his fists against the pain and looked away. He found himself gazing down at the prosthesis. Rory took notice.
“Don’t see one of these everyday, huh? Want to guess where I lost the original?”
“Iraq? Afghanis
tan?”
“Interstate 81,” Rory said with a wry grin. “Did a couple tours, including some unconventional ops, and hardly got scratched. Then came home on leave and crashed my Harley into an eighteen-wheeler.”
Aiden guessed that “unconventional ops” referred to special forces missions. Keats and Rory must have served together in one of the elite units.
“The VA fitted me with an artificial limb but I didn’t take to the sucker. Used it as a template to make this one.” He turned to Keats. “How’s family?”
“Fine.”
“Alexandra?”
“Hanging in there,” Keats mumbled, quickly changing the subject. “What about you? How’s Cindy?”
“Marriage is one wicked-ass seesaw, never know who’s going to have the upper hand.” Rory grinned. “But hey, at the end of the day it all balances out.”
“Sorry I couldn’t make the wedding.”
“No sweat. Toothpick and Bling showed their ugly mugs, so the old gang was represented.”
The small talk continued as Rory cleaned the burns. Aiden learned that Deke Keats had a wife, Tonya, and two children, and that they lived in a northern Virginia suburb within commuting distance of DC. The son was in middle school and the daughter was doing well as a freshman at the University of Delaware. They were obviously the ones Aiden had seen in Keats’ wallet.
It wasn’t clear who Alexandra was. But Keats definitely didn’t want to talk about her. He chopped off several more inquiries before Rory finally got the message. Aiden had a hunch she was the lithe woman from the other photo, the one building the sandcastle with him on the beach.
Rory finished by coating Aiden’s burned skin with silver sulfadiazine, an antibiotic cream. He dressed the wounds with strips of gauze and secured them with tape.
“That’s about all I can do for you. I’ll give you some extra bandages and cream. Change the dressing and recoat the wounds at least once a day. Don’t break the blisters. And these should help with the pain.”
He handed Aiden a pillbox with two dozen ivory tablets.
“What are they?”
“Basement baddies.” At the look on Aiden’s face, he explained. “Homemade shit, a variant of oxy. They can be addictive little suckers so don’t get carried away. Pop one only when the pain gets real bad.”
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