Primeval: An Event Group Thriller

by David L. Golemon

  “You wanted to know what the director wanted to talk about; well, it was just small talk.”

  “Oh, I forgot I even asked.”

  Jack winked and smiled as he liked doing the unexpected lately where Sarah was concerned.

  “Hey, do you know how much I love you?” she asked, a hint of a smile crossing her features.

  Collins tilted his head and looked into Sarah’s green eyes.

  “Oh, I think I do, Short Stuff.” He looked around and then leaned in, squeezing her hand even tighter. “You are the most important thing . . .” He stopped and closed his eyes, leaned back in his chair and released her hand, and then reached for his beer and downed half of it before he looked back at her. “I’m worried about someone. You don’t know her, but she’s brought a bit of my past up to me that I really didn’t want to face.” He tried to smile but it died on his lips.

  Sarah looked down at her empty hand where Jack’s had been a moment before and then slid it into her lap. As long as she had known him, she had never seen him at such a loss. His eyes, since having returned from the dead, were haunted, and she could see through his actions that he didn’t know why.

  “Is it . . . is it another woman?”

  Jack saw the hurt in her eyes and immediately reached out for her hand. That look almost killed him as he now knew his words made her think that it was an old lover from his past.

  “Oh, no, no, nothing like that.”

  Sarah started to say something when she noticed a figure walk out of the darkness.

  “We have company,” she said in a low voice as she quickly swiped a tear away, momentarily relieved by his words.

  Jack turned and saw Compton slowly walk up to their table.

  “Are you stalking me, Niles?” he asked as he turned back to his beer.

  Niles tried miserably to smile, but it seemed it went the way of all smiles lately; a brief appearance and then gone.

  “Jack, you have a minute?”

  “I’ll go and see what Carl and the others are doing on their day off, it has to be more exciting than anything here,” Sarah said as she pushed back her chair.

  Niles looked around the dark interior of the bar, and then at Sarah, and then he placed a hand on the top of Jack’s shoulder as he came to a quick decision.

  “No, Lieutenant, I think you should stay.”

  McIntire was caught off guard. She hoped the director didn’t pick this moment in time to bring up regulations about the fraternization between personnel. She didn’t think Jack, at least at the moment, would be too receptive to the reprimand.

  “Please sit,” Niles said as he came around and pulled out a chair. As he sat, the bartender brought over a small glass filled with ice and amber liquid and placed it in front of Compton.

  “I didn’t think you were a drinking man, Mr. Director,” Sarah said in amazement.

  Niles looked into Jack’s blue eyes as he took a deep drink of the whiskey. Then he grimaced and then placed the glass down in front of him and then finally looked at Sarah.

  “There may be a few things that our head of security doesn’t know around here.”

  Jack half smiled. “Maybe even more than just a few, Mr. Director.”

  “Oh, I don’t expect you to be that good at your job. I may still have secrets you know nothing about.”

  “Niles,” Jack said as he tore at a napkin, tossing the pieces onto the table, “you’re drinking one-hundred-year-old Kentucky bourbon. The brand is an obscure make named Delahey’s. The bartenders keep two bottles underneath the bar for the rare times you come in here when no one is around, usually around closing time. You never drink while you’re on the clock and you keep one bottle of that particular bourbon in your private quarters when there are personnel present at The Ark. You use it more in a medicinal capacity than you do for the whiskey’s effects. You’re not a drinker in the loosest term of the word, but you do use it to sleep, or when you have something unpleasant to say to someone.”

  Niles looked from Jack to Sarah, who sat quietly, listening to the exchange.

  “I take that back, I guess you do know everything.” Niles grew quiet as he slid his empty glass away from him. “Unpleasant. Yes,” he said looking at the melting ice in the glass. “You know, I don’t know anything about you, Colonel, other than what’s in your damned file.” He looked at Collins. “For instance, the little sister we discussed earlier.”

  Sarah wanted to allow her mouth to fall open, but managed just barely to keep it closed as she watched Jack. He made no move other than to keep tossing the torn napkin in its small pieces onto the tabletop.

  Collins smiled as he looked from Niles and then fixed Sarah with his deep, blue eyes. For her part, McIntire just tilted her head, waiting.

  “Lynn.”

  “Excuse me?” Sarah said.

  “My sister’s name is Lynn,” Jack repeated.

  “Jack’s sister works for a sister agency,” Compton said to Sarah. He was hoping the colonel would open up a little more with Sarah present. He felt bad for doing things this way, but with what he had to say to Jack, he had nothing to lose.

  Collins, for his part, said nothing. Instead, he reached out and swallowed what remained of his beer. Then, instead of looking directly at Niles or Sarah, he remained silent as he stared at the table.

  “Jack, I just spoke to the president, and I don’t know how to say this, I’ve never been good at delivering bad news.” Niles watched as Jack balled what was left of the napkin up into his hand, closing his fingers slowly until they formed a fist. “The CIA has reported her missing.”

  Collins remained silent as he closed his eyes.

  “I really don’t know what’s happening here, Colonel. The president doesn’t really have a firm grasp of it, either. That is why he ordered me to keep silent about this. He owes you, and that’s why I was informed, but he wants you kept out of the loop for now, so the CIA and the other agencies can get a handle on her abduction. Now, does this have anything to do with what it was you stopped by to see your sister about in Langley?”

  Jack held the director’s eyes firmly with his own as he leaned forward in his chair.

  “Give me everything, Niles,” he said, ignoring Niles question.

  Compton swallowed, not liking the cold, hard look that came over Jack’s features.

  “There was an ambush in Montreal; a team of CSIS agents, along with some U.S. personnel were shot up, and your sister Lynn was taken. It seems the perpetrators are using her as leverage of some kind for getting information. The only reason I know that much is because, before coming to you, I had Pete correlate with Europa on any recent shooting incident involving Canada.”

  Jack held Niles in his vision for a moment longer, then slowly stood, sliding his chair away from the table. “Thank you for not obeying your orders, Niles. I won’t forget it. Now, I need some time to think.”

  Niles just nodded his head once as Jack quickly turned to leave. He looked at Sarah and nodded his head for her to follow. Then Compton held his hand up and the bartender, a retired navy motorman, came forward and poured him another drink. He was about to say something to the director, when Niles held his hand up, palm facing outward, indicating the man should leave. Compton stared at the glass before lifting it and staring at the liquid inside. He drained the glass, without a grimace this time. He placed it on the table and then slowly stood and walked toward the bar. He went to the waitress station and then reached over and then under the bar and brought out the secure phone. He punched a number into the handset and then waited.

  “Captain Everett,” came the voice.

  “Captain, Colonel Collins will soon be breaking into the Europa clean room for some illegal activity.”

  “Sir?” Everett said on the other end of the phone.

  “I need you to assist Colonel Collins in any capacity he chooses. He will undoubtedly explain the situation to you. Now listen closely, Captain. He is to be allowed access to anything he wants inside the comp
lex, but if he attempts to leave the reservation without my express authorization, you are to detain him and then notify me, is that clear?”

  “Not at all,” Carl said, more than just a little confused.

  “Good, just do I as I say. It may be better to stay in the dark as long as you can on this one.”

  Niles hung up the phone and took a deep breath, then settled onto a bar stool.

  He had decided to break precedent and stay at The Ark for a while; after all it wasn’t every day you could take a presidential order and toss it right out the window. He smiled a grim little smile and waved the bartender over, pointing at his empty glass.

  “Another?” the bartender asked.

  “Yes, and leave the bottle.”

  3

  ELYSIAN PARK

  LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

  Special Agent Thomas Banks watched from an FBI van parked across the street. The house, obviously built pre–World War II, was one of those large four-bedroom monstrosities with a waist-high wraparound porch that was supported by wooden columns placed on a stone foundation. The ancient screens covering the windows were darkened from too many summers and not enough cleaning. The houses around the suspect house were lighted and visibly occupied by families who still clung to the illusion that Elysian Park was a safe neighborhood; an illusion that should have vanished in the area’s heyday just after the Korean War.

  Banks and his three-man observation team had been called in to observe and assist the Los Angeles police department with the arrest of Juan Caesar Chavez, a man currently under suspicion for a little-known crime he may or may not have committed at the Denver Museum of Natural History six months before. A partial fingerprint was found on a door frame leading out of the area where the display for The Gold Rush, was being exhibited—old maps, letters and implements used in the early days of the Alaskan rush for riches. Although a small theft in stature, the works taken were valuable to collectors around the world for their historical significance. The police agencies of Denver and Los Angeles knew Juan Caesar Chavez to be adept at theft, and in the past had targeted well-respected collections far outside of his stature, and that meant the FBI and other authorities suspected he was well financed by another party. Chavez had a small group of burglars and second-story men on his payroll, and as a leading suspect in the case, was about to receive a big surprise.

  Special Agent Banks watched as the SWAT team made their way around the house, covering every exit. He adjusted his binoculars and saw that the upper-floor team was already in position. He raised the cell phone to his ear.

  “Who do I have on the line?” he asked.

  “Agent Banks, you have the FBI director and assistant director of Intelligence, CIA—Nancy Grogan. Go ahead,” said his dispatch located in the federal building in downtown Los Angeles.

  Jesus, Banks thought, why was Chavez important enough to have some of the top echelons of intelligence and law enforcement as audio witnesses?

  “Director, Banks here, the SWAT team is just about to move, any last instructions?”

  “Special Agent Banks, as soon as the arrest is complete, you are to take charge of the suspect and escort him to the federal building. Once there, a team of our colleagues from Langley will handle the interrogation. An American intelligence officer’s life is at stake in all of this, and time is the important factor here. The suspect may have to be handed over to another party outside of law enforcement. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir, my men are standing by to take charge of the suspect as soon as the arrest is made.” Banks held the binoculars to his eyes once more as he saw movement. “The assault element is moving in now, sir . . . hold on.”

  Outside the small windowed van, several flash-bang grenades broke through windows and then exploded, as simultaneously, using ropes, the upper-story unit swung into the upstairs rooms. At the same time, two six-man teams entered through the front and back doors. Lights shone throughout the interior of the house as the SWAT team made their sweep. Banks gripped the binoculars tighter as he waited, satisfied at not hearing any shots. He never liked using local police agencies, but the FBI HRT team was not available for another two hours, and someone in Washington wanted this bad guy very badly; enough so that the directors of two agencies called in favors from the LAPD.

  Suddenly it was over. The lights inside the house started coming on and Banks could see the silhouettes of several of the black-clad SWAT members mulling about. Then, as he watched closely, a small man in Levis and a white T-shirt was led out in cuffs. The FBI agent could see that the SWAT team was taking no chances with this man as he was cuffed both at his wrists, behind his back, and his ankles. He was being carried out of the house with a black hood over his head. Banks smiled, This poor bastard didn’t know what had hit him.

  He laid his glasses down and then raised a small microphone. “Okay, B-team, move in and take custody of the suspect, make sure you Miranda the poor bastard, don’t leave it to the LAPD.” There were two clicks in answer to Banks’s call.

  Again, Agent Banks raised the cell phone. “Sir, the suspect is in custody and we are now in the process of concluding the arrest.”

  “Good. Now, Assistant Director Grogan, CIA, has requested that you have the LAPD SWAT unit accompany you to the federal building. We will not take any chances with the suspect; they need answers from him and time is a factor. Is that clear, Banks?”

  “Crystal, Director.”

  Ten minutes later, the chain of custody was transferred to the FBI from the LAPD. Chavez, although shaken, was defiant and angry at what he was being put through, and was totally confused as to why he was under FBI arrest.

  As the SWAT unit stood down, they climbed into two large black vans. One would be placed in front of, and the other in the rear of, the white FBI van. As the teams loaded, Agent Banks looked over the suspect being held between two of his agents. He nodded for a third agent to do as he was instructed earlier. Chavez looked relieved when the ankle restraints were removed.

  “That, Mr. Chavez, is a courtesy. I expect cooperation from you. If you behave, my agents will reciprocate. Is that clear?”

  “Hey look, man, I don’t deserve any treatment at all. You have the wrong guy. I buy and sell needed goods on the open market.”

  “Mr. Chavez, please, save it for your defense attorney. We have some questions that need to be answered, so I suggest you cooperate, and maybe these small charges might disappear.”

  With that small announcement, Chavez allowed the two agents holding him to escort him to the van. He had seen the light as the ambiguous offer had been extended; he wasn’t dumb, and as a career criminal, he knew when it was time to be a model citizen. The rear doors of the van opened and he stepped inside with his special agent bodyguard beside him.

  Agent Banks radioed that they were ready to move as he climbed into the passenger seat of the van, the small convoy moved out of Elysian Park heading for downtown L.A.

  As the three vans pulled out and the smaller units of the LAPD started wrapping up the area, no one really noticed the small helicopter as it buzzed past the scene. They assumed it was an LAPD air unit.

  That opinion would soon change.

  The plan of egress from the arrest site was for the convoy of SWAT vans and the lone FBI unit to make their way down Solano Avenue, and from there make the connection to Highway 110, and then finally to Interstate 5.

  As they pulled to a stop at the light, the crowd noise from Dodger Stadium erupted above them in Chavez Ravine. The lights of the beautiful stadium lit the roadway ahead of them.

  “Any relation?” the larger of the two FBI field agents asked the handcuffed man beside him.

  “Huh?” Chavez asked.

  “You know, Chavez Ravine, where the Dodgers play, any relation to you?”

  “Man, what are you talking about?”

  “Alright, knock it off,” Agent Banks said from the front of the van.

  The agent smirked as he turned away from the pris
oner.

  At that moment, several things happened at once. The leading SWAT van to the front started moving forward from the now green light on Solano Avenue; at the same time as the white FBI vehicle started to follow, a streak of blazing white light shot through the air just past the large windshield of following agents. The rocket-propelled grenade struck the rear doors of the leading black van, exploding its sides outward. Banks flinched in shock as SWAT team members were blown through the front windshield of their transport.

  Before anyone could react, another RPG flew straight and true into the now exposed interior of the lead vehicle, exploding and bulging the sides even further outward and crumpling the disabled unit until it no longer looked like a van at all. Flames then exploded out and up as the horrible sound finally penetrated Banks’s eardrums. He tried to lift his handheld radio but stopped when another explosion from the rear threw him forward in his seat. He would have been thrown through the windshield if it hadn’t been for his seatbelt. Although he was saved, he had the breath knocked out of him. So he started slapping at the driver to throw the van into reverse. The flames billowing from the SWAT van behind them were framed in the driver’s side mirrors. Men could be seen jumping out, and as they did, they were being struck by small arms fire from the yards around them. All around them, families who’d been out in their front yards enjoying a warm summer evening started to run in a panic—a very small and deadly war had just erupted right in front of them.

  “Move, move, move!” one of the agents said from the back as he reached out and threw the prisoner Chavez to the floor of the van.

  Just before the driver threw the van in reverse, a SWAT sergeant from the trailing van pounded on the rear window, pleading to be let in; just as the other agent reached out to open the door it was rattled by several bullets. As he recoiled, he saw the SWAT sergeant’s head fly forward until it struck the window with a loud thump, breaking the safety glass. As the shocked FBI agents watched, the LAPD officer slowly slid away from the window.