Fallen Angel

by Jeff Struecker

  She paused in her thinking and fear filled the void. No matter how much she tried to act like an adult, to follow the firm, even attitude exhibited by her father, she couldn't. She wasn't her father, hadn't been Army trained. She was fourteen, just starting her teen years. Some days she was more little girl than young woman.

  Although Gina willed herself not to, she began to cry, and crying turned to weeping and weeping to sobbing. She could only whisper one word:

  "Mommy."

  DESPITE THE COOL AIR outside, it was stuffy in the FedEx truck. The men returned to their seats. Lev listened from the driver's seat. He kept wiping at his mouth, a clear sign he was jonesing for a drink. Moyer couldn't bring himself to feel sorry for the man.

  "Okay, ladies, listen up." Moyer's eyes felt full of sand, his ribs had turned to concrete, and the skin around his chest constricted like a straitjacket. "I'm only going to say this once. I doubt I could say it twice." He dropped his gaze, waiting for the words to line up in formation. "You know about Gina . . . the situation with Gina. Naturally, I'm having trouble thinking about anything else. But we still have a mission. Other lives depend on us. We have brave men to rescue."

  He leaned back on the small, anchored chair. "Shaq is under orders to take over the mission if I falter, if for any reason I become more detriment than help. If that moment comes, you will obey him as you obey me. There will be no argument; there will be no discussion; there will be no hesitancy. Is that understood?"

  "Boss—"

  "I asked a question. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, Boss." They spoke in unison.

  "Good. Now let's get down to it. We have to assume the Chinese air circus that just landed is after the same thing we are. It can't be anything else. We also know a group of Russian dissidents have taken the surviving original Spec Ops team captive. We have to assume they've tortured the men and that one of them cracked. If so, then we may be facing a bunch of armed Russians too. There isn't anything I like about this mission."

  Moyer continued. "If we get in trouble, then we are on our own. We're too deep in country. We can't call in air support, can't call for artillery, and can't call for an extraction team. It's been a tough trip getting here; it's about to get a whole lot worse. Are we clear on that?"

  Another chorus. "Clear, Boss."

  "Junior, get me a map on Connie."

  "On it, Boss." A moment later Pete handed the device to Moyer.

  "Lev, I see several small towns along the road beyond Nov Arman. Are you familiar with them?"

  "No, but they are probably farm settlements like this one."

  "Would our truck stand out?"

  "People would notice it, but I know deliveries are made this way. I checked that out before I arranged for the truck."

  "Really, FedEx delivers all the way out here." J. J. sounded skeptical.

  "Yes, young man, they do. So does UPS. Not often, but at least once every couple of weeks."

  "All right then." Moyer made eye contact with his men. "Are we good to go?"

  "Hooah!"

  "Lev, kick it in gear. The Chinese are making ground on us."

  "Through the backwoods. We'll use the roads."

  "Fine by me. We have a package to pick up."

  GINA WAS UNCERTAIN HOW long she had been crying, but the tears ceased coming, even though the scorching fear still raged and the black despair still blanketed her. Her body ached from the physical exertion of sobbing. She could feel mucus hanging from her upper lip.

  Desperate, she pulled against the nylon straps binding her wrists to the chair. The sharp edges dug into her skin. Blood began to ooze.

  Despite the pain, she tried again, hoping that if the strap wouldn't give, the arm of the dining room chair would. Then she noticed the threaded rod that ran from the chair's arm to the solid oak seat. She pushed her right arm out as much as she could and saw the round, smooth top of the long bolt. It had been countersunk deep enough in the arm that Gina's arm didn't rest directly on it. They thought of everything. That realization frightened her all the more. Intelligent, calculating bad guys were more dangerous than simpleminded hoods. At least they were in the movies.

  Panic welled up in her. She pulled at the bindings, shook her arms and legs, moved in any way she could on the impossible hope something would give way.

  "You will only hurt yourself."

  She froze. A voice. From overhead. She looked up. A small, round, perforated metal cover painted the same color as the ceiling was situated just a short distance from the dangling incandescent bulb.

  The voice infuriated her. She pulled at the straps again trying to free herself. More blood.

  "If you want to feel pain, I can arrange it."

  "Who are you?" The question erupted as a scream.

  The soiled shade on the other side of the window snapped up. Even through the door Gina could hear it smack the top of the door.

  She gasped.

  Through the glass she could see a figure. His face was covered by a black knit mask. Not even his eyes could be seen. It was like looking at a three-dimensional shadow, solid, thick, animated.

  The man—she assumed it was a man because of the voice she heard a few moments before and because of the observer's size.

  "Let me go."

  He opened the door and stepped inside as casual as a man entering his own home. "No."

  "Why are you doing this?"

  "Because I can."

  The voice was deep and smooth, FM radio smooth.

  "I want to go home." Gina jerked at the restraints, which dug deeper into her flesh.

  "Of course you do. That's the idea."

  The observer moved closer, walking around Gina, circling her. The motion made her think of a shark. He stopped behind her. She turned her head but he remained out of view.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Look up, Gina. Look into the camera."

  "How do you know my name?"

  "I know everything about you, Gina. You'd be surprised what I know about you, and your brother, Rob, and your pretty, pretty mother. I know a great deal about your father as well."

  "This is a mistake. You have the wrong person."

  He chuckled. "They all say that. No mistake, young lady. Too bad your father is so far away taking care of others when he should be home taking care of you."

  "My father is just on a business trip. That's all."

  "Really. I think you're old enough now to know what your father does for a living. I'm sure he's told you."

  "He's a businessman. I told you that."

  "Yes, you did, and you're right, if your father's business is killing people. That's what he does, you know. He goes places he's not wanted and when he leaves, people are dead."

  "That's not true." Tears returned.

  "Look at the camera, sweetheart. I want everyone to see how pretty you are. Your father is Sergeant Major Eric Moyer, United States Army, leader of a Spec Ops team."

  The man ran a gloved hand down Gina's hair, then caressed her jawline. He kissed the top of her head.

  "Stop the mission."

  It took a moment before she realized he was speaking to the camera.

  Then the gloved hand took hold of her jaw and another hand gripped the back of her head. She erupted in sobs and waited for the sharp twist that would snap her neck.

  CHAPTER 25

  CHIEF WARRANT OFFICER TERRY Wallace clicked off his cell phone, glanced at Jerry Zinsser, and turned to Rob Moyer. "You guys have a computer?"

  "We all have computers. Well, Mom and Dad share a computer."

  "I need something with fast download."

  "My room." Rob rose from the sofa where he had been sitting with his mother. "The whole neighborhood has fiber optics, but my computer is a gamer. It's the fastest one in the house."

  "Why do you need a computer?" Stacy inched forward on the sofa.

  "I just got word someone sent a video to our office. My people are putting it up on the server so we can see it
from here."

  "What kind of video?" Stacy rose.

  "I don't know yet, but you should let Agent Zinsser and me take a look first."

  "Not if it concerns Gina, I won't."

  "Ma'am, please. Let us do our jobs."

  "I'm her mother; I have a job too."

  Zinsser stepped close. "Let us have first look, Stacy. Okay?"

  Stacy said nothing.

  Rob led Zinsser and Wallace into his room. The place was a shambles, and Zinsser couldn't help comparing it to Gina's neat-everything-in-its-place bedroom. On the bed lay a dirty shirt from the burger joint where Rob worked, four pairs of sport shoes lay near the bed, two pairs of jeans hung on the back of a chair by his small desk, just three feet from the closet. On the wall were posters of grunge rock bands whose careers ended before Rob was born. An electric bass guitar sat on a stand in the corner, dust indicating that it hadn't been used in some time. On the desk, next to a keyboard so used the letters were worn from the keys, sat several college catalogs.

  Good for you, buddy.

  "How long will it take to boot up?" Wallace seemed oblivious to the untidiness, but then he had a teenage son living at home. For all Zinsser knew, this might appear good and clean to what he faced each day. Zinsser could make no judgment. While he cleaned up his act, he was still working on his apartment.

  "I leave it on all the time." Rob pulled the jeans from the chair and tossed them on his unmade bed. Zinsser slipped into the seat before Rob could turn around and tapped a key, waking the computer from its digital sleep.

  "It wants a password."

  "Oh, yeah." Rob hesitated. "Beatles. Capital B."

  Zinsser typed: B-e-e-t-l-e-s.

  "No, the band, not the bug."

  "Really? You like the Beatles?" Zinsser tried again.

  "Hate 'em. That's why I use it as a password. No one who knows me would ever think of that."

  "Okay, kid, let Agent Zinsser and me take it from here."

  "No."

  "Look, kid, I don't want to argue—"

  "Good, neither do I. So it's settled, I'm staying."

  "We don't know what's on that video, Rob." Zinsser turned in his seat. He admired the boy's courage.

  "You will after you play it." He motioned to the computer.

  Zinsser accessed the CID's private server and found the video file. He clicked on it. A moment later the player on Rob's computer loaded and the video began to play.

  They watched Gina struggle; they watched her weep; they watched her cry for her mother. They watched her turn brave and challenge the man who entered the room. Then they watched him put his hands into position to snap her neck.

  "Oh God, oh God, my baby. No."

  Zinsser keyed the pause button and turned to the door. Stacy stood there; Chaplain Bartley had to hold her up.

  "I told you—"

  "Let it go, Boss." Zinsser spoke softly but firmly. "If it was your kid, you'd be in here too."

  "You know what's about to happen don't you, Zinsser?"

  "I know what it looks like, but I got a feeling he's playing with us." Zinsser hit play and watched as the captor lifted Gina's head slightly, forced her chin to the left, then sharply pulled his arm to the right.

  "NO!" Stacy's scream shook the windows.

  "Hang on." Zinsser raised a hand. "She's okay. He didn't do it."

  "She's alive?"

  "Yes."

  The captor looked into the camera. "End Moyer's mission now, or next time won't be pretend."

  The video ended.

  Zinsser heard a retching sound. Rob had just vomited on the floor; the stench of it filled the air. Zinsser ignored it and returned his gaze to the flat-screen monitor. "I'm coming for you, Gina. Hang in there, baby." His eyes shifted to the man in black. "I'll find you. I don't care if I have to look in every dark corner of hell, I will hunt you down, and then you will learn what real pain is."

  SPECIAL AGENT WALLACE MARCHED to the bedroom door and helped Bartley escort Stacy back to the sofa. He could feel her tremble in his arms and it made him furious. Once Stacy was seated, he pointed at the chaplain. "You, come with me." He turned to Gina's three friends. "Keep an eye on her."

  "I should stay with—"

  Wallace shot out a hand and seized Bartley's uniform shirt and pulled him out the front door. The part of his brain not awash in anger told him he just assaulted an officer. This would be hard to explain, but at the moment Wallace didn't care. He shoved Bartley off the porch, slammed the door behind him, and took hold of Bartley's arm—another bit of assault and battery. When they reached the middle of the yard, Wallace spun him.

  "I didn't want Moyer's wife to see the video. I've seen stupid in my day, Chaplain, but you take the prize. How could you bring her into the room? For all we knew she might have had to watch the murder of her own daughter."

  "Agent Wallace—"

  "I should arrest you for interfering with an investigation. You may have scarred her for life."

  "I was in the latrine when you guys went into the room. I didn't know what was going on."

  Wallace could feel heat emanating from his face. "You should of checked with me."

  "And where were you when I came out? You were in Rob's bedroom using his computer. What did you want me to do? Call you on the cell phone?"

  For a chaplain, Bartley had a good set of lungs. "You were wrong to do that."

  "What? Hit the head?"

  "No, let her see the video."

  "I know God made us all a little different, but why He filled your head with concrete I'll never know. I didn't let her do anything. She was gone when I came back to the living room. The girls said she went down the hall. I went to check on her. I got there at the last moment. What would you have done? Dragged her away by the hair?"

  Wallace raised a finger and stabbed at Bartley. "I would have . . . You should have . . ." He sighed.

  "Got nothing?"

  "Not a thing." Wallace looked down. "Sorry. I have a daughter and that, well, it just got to me. Sorry about roughing you up."

  "I don't consider that rough, but apology taken."

  A woman in a dark business pantsuit approached. "Are you guys done spraying the area with testosterone?" She was five-five, with blond hair pulled back into a ponytail. Suspicious blue eyes peered at the two.

  "Who are you?" Wallace snapped.

  She produced a badge case. "Special Agent Brianne Lazzaro, FBI."

  "We have jurisdiction," Wallace said.

  "You CID guys amaze me. Every time we show up to render aid, you guys go paranoid. I'm not here to take your case away from you."

  Wallace eyed her. "Then why are you here?"

  "When the POTUS calls the director of the FBI in Washington who calls the assistant director for my region who calls the director of my office who tells me to get my fanny over here, then I cart my fanny over here. So, are we going to have a problem?"

  "Probably not." Wallace's anger subsided.

  "Good. I was given the basics. What can the FBI do to make the CID look good?"

  "Come with me. There's something I want you to see."

  "Such as?"

  "A video. Maybe your white-coat guys can give it a good look."

  Brianne nodded. "You have the original here?"

  They reached the porch. "No. It was sent to my office electronically. Your people can retrieve it off the server. Hang on."

  Wallace stopped and looked back at Bartley. "Hey, Chap. We good?"

  "When all this is over, you can buy me some lunch. Then we'll be good." Bartley smiled.

  Wallace could only muster a nod.

  SCOTT MASTERS WAS SURE the dirty sheet beneath him would catch fire any moment, ignited by the fever boiling through his body. Every joint hurt. His head ached and he couldn't shake the idea that ants were crawling in the crevices of his brain. He began to wish for death.

  The door to his room opened and the doctor entered. He closed the door behind him. In his hand he carried a
small but deep metal tray. He set the tray at the side of Masters's bed.

  "Sorry, Igor. I'm still alive."

  "My name is not Igor. We've been through this." He spoke softly as if exchanging secrets. "Being alive is good."

  "Is it? Doesn't seem so good from where I sit—lay—lie. Sorry, my grammar seems to have escaped me."

  "It's the fever."

  "How do you know I have a fever? I don't think you've done as much as a casual exam, other than to describe my wounds to Egonov."

  "I can see it from here." He stepped close and touched Masters's uninjured cheek, then his forehead. "I was right."

  "Doctoring at a distance. You'd be a hit in the States. What can I do for you, Doc? A drink. A light lunch. Oh, wait, I can't get up. I'm strapped down. What was I thinking? Come to think of it, don't have anything to drink or eat. I guess you're on your own."

  The doctor looked sad and his already thin frame seemed smaller than the last time Masters saw him. He also looked like a man who doubled in age in just a few hours.

  "You know, most doctors ask how their patients are feeling."

  "Useless small talk. I know how you feel." He walked to the ever-beeping IV pump and pulled it close to the bed.

  "So what's it going to be this time? A little more torture? Have some dirt or manure to rub in my wounds to speed up the arrival of gangrene?"

  The thin man removed a sealed needle from the tray and peeled away the protective plastic. He attached it to the flexible line that ran from the fluid-filled bag to the business end of the IV line. He stepped to the side of the bed and examined Masters's restrained arm. Holding the IV line between the fingers of one hand, the man removed a small packet from the tray, opened it, and removed a cotton ball. Master could smell the pungent alcohol.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Just lie still."

  The sharp prick set off an electric pain that ran up Masters's arm. The doctor taped the IV needle in place. "I told you to give the antibiotics to my man."

  "Won't do him any good."

  Masters didn't like the sound of that. "Why?"