Termination Orders

by Leo J. Maloney

  T had left the length of barbed wire embedded in his thigh. It stuck up like a dead tree, its roots digging into his leg. If he could only get ahold of it, he might be able to use it to pick the cuffs open. He contorted his body, trying to bring it within reach of his left hand. As he did, the tensing muscles in his thigh caused the barbs to bite deeper into him. He gritted his teeth and strained. The end of the wire grazed his fingertips. So close . . . if he could just get a grip . . .

  Footsteps were approaching. Straining to hear, he made out two sets instead of one. Who the hell was T bringing here now? He forced his attention back to the wire. He might still be able to do it, pick the cuffs, tear his legs loose, and find a way to overpower her.

  No, he decided. It was too late. He slackened his hands and waited as Natasha and her mystery guest drew closer. With a dull sound of metal against metal, the dead bolt was drawn open, and T walked in.

  “Someone is here to see you,” she said with displeasure. “Say hello to our guest. I believe you will recognize him.”

  The other person walked in. It was a man, carrying a thin briefcase. He was tall and handsome, with gray hair and a winning smile, a smile belonging to the most trusted politician in America.

  “Cobra,” said Nickerson, enunciating the word carefully, as he pulled the dirty rag from Morgan’s mouth. “What a terrific name. What a marvelous animal. Quick, deadly, ruthless. I’ve been hearing a lot about you in the past few days. I must say, even though you’ve been a pain in the ass, I’m impressed. Truly, I am. You proved even harder to deal with than your old friend, Cougar.”

  So Nickerson and, consequently, T, really didn’t know Conley was still alive. Good. Whatever happened to him, at least Cougar would be there to carry on.

  “Edgar Nickerson, you asshole,” said Morgan. “I didn’t think you’d have the stones to show your face like this.”

  “You’re right. I usually let the help deal with the vermin. But since you have turned out to be a particularly resilient specimen, I thought I would come here in person and make you a proposition.”

  Morgan scoffed. “You can’t torture me into talking, and you think a bribe will do it?”

  Nickerson looked at him with amused puzzlement. “You misunderstand me, Cobra,” he said. “That’s not the kind of proposition I’m here to make you. I would like you to come work for me.”

  “What?” he barked in unison with T, who looked as incredulous as he did. She moved toward him and stood menacingly close, her furious eyes locked on his. “Cobra is mine, Senator.”

  “Cobra has a choice to make,” said Nickerson, turning away from her and toward Morgan.

  “You think I’m going to bargain with you, Nickerson?” said Morgan.

  Nickerson walked over to Morgan and crouched in front of him, so they were eye to eye. “You’re not going to hold torture and attempted murder against me, are you?” he said, with gentle mocking. “After all, a man like you should know, it’s just business.”

  “You didn’t just mess with me. You messed with my family, my friends, my dog. And trust me, Nickerson, I’m a son of a bitch who can hold a grudge. So tell me, what in the world do you think could convince me to work for you? What do you think you can offer me that would be more valuable to me than bashing your face in?”

  “Simple. You want to do the right thing, in your own stubborn way. Don’t forget, I read your file, and the Agency knows everything there is to know about you. You can be a merciless killer, but you are a principled man, Mr. Cobra. You want to be a force for good in a dangerous world. I can offer you that power.”

  “I gave that up when I left the CIA. Turns out it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.”

  “You know as well as I do that the CIA has grown gutless and officious. The government is inept. They aren’t willing to do what it takes to protect this country. Hell, they were spineless even back when you worked for them. Remember Libya? We could have eliminated Gaddafi then and there. No bombing, no collateral damage, just one bullet from your rifle to the bastard’s head.”

  Morgan looked at him with faint surprise.

  “Oh, yes, I know about that,” he continued. “State secrets aren’t so secret when you know how to ask. Come work for me, Cobra, and you will live a life that matters again, and even more so than before. None of that congressional oversight nonsense, no weak-willed pencil pushers backing out at the last minute. With me, you can help shape the world in our image.”

  “By moving opium and using the drug money to fund the enemy? By supplying the weapons that put American soldiers into danger?”

  “Necessary evils, I’m afraid,” said Nickerson, with just a tinge of feigned remorse. “I believe it is something you are personally familiar with. It’s no simple matter to make enough money to change the world, and change the world I will. We will not allow bloodthirsty, America-hating dictators to live. We will hunt terrorists and criminals down wherever they may hide. We will be a force for good in the world again.”

  “Bullshit,” said Morgan. “You don’t give a shit about the world.”

  “Perhaps,” said Nickerson candidly, “but even so.” He picked up his briefcase, set it down on the table, and opened it. Morgan watched as he pulled out three large photographs and set them on the floor in front of him, where he could see them.

  “Do you know this man?” Nickerson asked, pointing at the first photograph. It was a video still of an Arab with a long, scraggly beard and crazy-looking eyes. “Jawhar Essa. Propagandist for Al-Qaeda. Hiding in Yemen and untouchable by our government. Killed two months ago by one of my agents.”

  Nickerson moved on to the next one, a long-range shot of a laughing Latino man wearing a Panama hat and large gold chains around his neck that hung down on his chest, visible through his open shirt. “Porfirio Aguilar. Head of the Juárez cartel—that is, until we got to him in January of this year.”

  He moved on to the third picture, a middle-aged, Eastern European–looking man with graying temples and mustache. “Janek Kovar. Czech arms dealer and human trafficker. Killed not two weeks ago by—you guessed it—us.”

  “What’s your angle, Nickerson?” said Morgan. “I know you’re not doing this shit out of the goodness of your heart.”

  “What does it matter?” said Nickerson silkily. “Good work is being done. Thanks to me. To us.” He nodded to Natasha, who was leaning against the wall in a corner, watching him with contempt. “I can offer you that opportunity again, Cobra. To change things the only way they ever get changed. To shape the world according to your own ideals.”

  “Maybe, Nickerson. But you forgot one thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “My ideal world doesn’t have you in it.”

  Nickerson laughed, as if Morgan had told a very funny joke. “Is that your answer, then? You won’t reconsider?”

  Morgan spit on the floor in front of him, spattering the pictures Nickerson had laid out.

  “Very well. He’s all yours, Natasha. Enjoy yourself.”

  “I’m going to kill you, Nickerson,” Morgan said, with a strange calm that surprised even himself. “I promise you. You will die. Soon.”

  “I’m trembling in my shoes, Cobra,” said Nickerson, deadpan. He turned to Natasha, who was looking at him with anger. “You’re wasting your time with this nonsense. So what if he doesn’t talk? If he dies, the photographs are lost forever, and that’s that. Meanwhile, you have more important things to worry about. The big day is Saturday.”

  She looked at him incredulously, motioning toward Morgan.

  “Oh, what’s he going to do?” said Nickerson. “He’s a corpse. He just doesn’t know it yet. And let me make this clear—make sure he’s goddamn certain of it soon. You have more important things to do.”

  She took a lingering look at Morgan and said, without turning away, “Cobra and I are not done yet.”

  Nickerson scoffed. “Revenge. So tacky, so small-minded!” He pulled the door open to leave. “It just better not int
erfere with the plan.”

  Natasha followed him and closed and latched the door behind her. Morgan wondered how long she would keep him alive. This could be the last time he was alone in the room. It might be his final chance for escape.

  He shifted his body, again trying to grab hold of the wire, contorting his torso, stretching his right arm around the pipe behind him. He edged closer, closer, his thigh screaming in pain until, yes! Two fingers wrapped around the wire, which he carefully bent so that he could hold it in his hand. Working it slowly, carefully, he unwound it from his thigh, each barb stinging as it came out. It made him bleed more, but it came loose. He held it firmly in his hands. Now for the handcuffs.

  The wire was thin, but it was still far thicker than ideal for the task. He tried to work an end of it into the lock, but it kept slipping out.

  Focus. You can do this, he said to himself.

  Again, he worked it in, and it slipped out. Frustrated, he tried to jam it in carelessly. A barb caught his finger unexpectedly, ripping the skin, and he released reflexively. The length of wire, which had curled into a loose spiral, bounced and rolled just out of reach. Shit.

  Morgan tried to snag it with his foot and came up a few inches short. He strained and shifted, trying to bring the chair closer to it, trying to give himself a few extra inches, but it was no use. It was out of his reach, and there was nothing he could do to get it back, nothing he could do to open the handcuffs, and nothing to do now but wait for T to come back and, if he was lucky, kill him right away.

  And then he heard a loud hissing, like radio static. He whipped his head around, looking for the source, until he realized the shushing sound was closer than he thought. The earpiece! It had gone dead with Conley out of range, and he had forgotten all about it.

  “Come in, Cob . . . ” said Conley’s voice, breaking up in static.

  “Cougar!” he said, in a loud whisper, splitting the difference between his excitement and his fear that T might hear. Given the range of the device, Conley couldn’t be farther than 500 yards away, and probably closer, considering the apparent thickness of the concrete around him.

  “. . . bra c . . . in. Are yo . . . ere?”

  “Cougar, Congar, come in, can you hear me?”

  “. . . obra? Cobra, is that you?”

  “Cougar, I’m in a small room, behind a heavy iron door. I think I’m underground somewhere.”

  “I’m coming, Cobra.”

  “Be careful. T and Nickerson are around here somewhere.”

  “Roger that.”

  There was silence for some time, and then Morgan heard hurried footsteps outside the door, coming his way. The door unlocked, and in burst Natasha, murder in her eyes.

  “Looks like you and Nickerson aren’t quite on the same page,” said Morgan calmly.

  Natasha went straight for him, put one heavy boot against his chest, and grabbed him by the hair. “I’m no longer amused by this, Cobra.” She slapped him across the face. “I’m going to go get a hammer and some pliers, and I’m going to start doing some serious damage.” She pushed off him with her foot and stormed out, banging the metal door behind her.

  Shit.

  “Cougar,” he said. “Cougar, come in. Where are you? Now would be a really great time for you to show up!”

  He heard footsteps approaching. Goddamn, he thought, bracing for what was coming. He heard the dead bolt on the door being undone, and the door swung open.

  But it wasn’t Natasha. It was Peter Conley, gun drawn. Morgan had never been happier to see him.

  “Cobra? Oh, Christ. Come on, man, let’s get you out of here.”

  “I’m handcuffed,” said Morgan, knocking the cuffs against the metal pipe. “You’re going to have to find a way to open them.”

  Conley pulled out a knife to cut Morgan’s legs free and then examined the handcuffs.

  “I don’t have anything to pick these with,” said Conley.

  “There’s some wire on the floor.”

  “You mean this barbed wire?” Conley asked, dubiously. “I don’t think I can use this. It’s too thick. I’m going to have to shoot them apart.”

  “Do you have a silencer for that thing?”

  Conley shook his head.

  “We’re going to have to hightail it out of here, then,” said Morgan. “Okay.” He spread his hands so that the chain was taut against the pipe. “Ready.”

  Conley placed his gun point-blank against the handcuff chain and fired. The gunshot rang in Morgan’s ears and reverberated in the enclosed space. Morgan held his hands apart, free, a few links of the chain dangling from each cuff. Conley helped him to his feet. He stumbled, but he didn’t fall.

  “Are you okay to walk on your own?” asked Conley.

  “Just go!” said Morgan.

  They dashed out of the room and heard T’s heavy boots pounding the concrete, around the bend of the hallway, barreling toward them.

  Conley shouted, “This way!” and sprinted in the opposite direction, deeper into the facility. Morgan battled to run as best he could, with a stinging left thigh on top of the burning in his knee. T sped toward them, her footsteps echoing closer behind them.

  “In here!” Conley led him into a room about twice as big as the one in which Morgan had been held, with the same heavy metal door, which Conley closed and bolted behind them.

  Inside the room were the rudiments of a home. There was a mattress on the floor covered with rumpled sheets, and a worktable with a lamp on it. In one corner was a ladder that led upward, out of sight, into a narrow vertical tunnel.

  “This is her safe house!” Morgan realized. T, meanwhile, had caught up to them. She kicked and banged loudly against the door, but it didn’t budge.

  “Come on, Cobra,” said Conley, making for the ladder. “This has to lead somewhere. Let’s get out of here.”

  Natasha shot three times at the door, making the room ring deafeningly. Although the slugs punched deep dents in it, the door held. Morgan scanned the room. On the table, under a pool of light, was spread a large blueprint.

  “Let’s go!” shouted Conley. Morgan heard the faint sounds of foosteps as T ran away from the door.

  “Wait!” Morgan went to the table and hastily folded the blueprint into a jumbled mess. “Okay,” he said, carrying it with him. “Let’s go.”

  They climbed the ladder through a manhole that led to the ground level, Morgan with the blueprint tucked under his arm. When they emerged, Morgan saw that they were on a construction site for what might have eventually become a processing plant of some kind, but the build-out had been long abandoned. Sunlight filtered in through high, paneless windows.

  His body screaming with agony, Morgan struggled to keep up with Conley as they ran out into broad daylight. He looked back, concerned that their pursuer was still hot on their heels, but the way around was long. She wasn’t going to be able to catch up. When they reached Conley’s car, hidden a few hundred feet away, Morgan was confident that they were safe. For now.

  CHAPTER 37

  Once they had driven far enough away that they were sure T had not followed them, Morgan flipped down the visor and looked in the mirror. He looked exactly like he felt. His face was bloody and bruised, his left eye swollen half-shut, his lips cut in several places.

  “We’ve got to get you to a doctor,” said Conley.

  “No hospitals,” he grunted.

  “You’re right,” said Conley. “That would be less than wise. But you need a doctor. Don’t worry, I know a guy. We can get you to his clinic, and he’ll take care of you, no questions asked.”

  Morgan looked down at his thigh. Blood was oozing out, staining the upholstery of the seat. He pulled up his shirt and examined his bruised torso.

  “Anything broken?” asked Conley.

  “A few cracked ribs, maybe,” said Morgan, wincing as he prodded them with his hand. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

  “Okay,” said Conley. “We’ll get you looked after and then find a
place where you can rest.”

  “Are you kidding?” asked Morgan, incredulously. “With all this going on, you’re thinking of resting?”

  “Morgan, I’ve been up all night trying to pick up your signal, and I’m exhausted. I can only imagine what state you’re in.”

  “I’m fine,” Morgan said curtly.

  “I don’t know what happened in there, but let me tell you, I wouldn’t be fine if I were alone in a room with T for a few hours. You were in there for almost a day. I’m sorry, Morgan, but there’s no way you’re fine.”

  Conley was right. He wasn’t fine. His head was fuzzy, his flesh sore and throbbing. The light was painful to his eyes, and he could barely stay awake as Conley drove on. His body ached for rest. He was aware that, now that they knew for sure that Senator Edgar Nickerson was behind all this, the right thing to do was to regroup and rethink their strategy.

  But Morgan resisted it, with the same instinct that told him to never give in, never surrender. That instinct had saved his life more times than he could count, and he had learned to trust it.

  “We see a doctor, and we keep moving,” he said. Conley looked at him disapprovingly but didn’t press the point further.

  Morgan remembered the crumpled blueprint from Natasha’s hideout, which he had placed in between his seat and Conley’s when they took off in the car. He picked it up, and, unfolding the wispy paper, he laid it out on the dashboard, part of it hanging down over the edge like a tablecloth. He examined the writing on it, blinking hard to keep himself awake and concentrated.

  “What is it?” asked Conley.

  “It’s RFK Stadium,” he said. “A detailed floor plan.”

  “That can’t be good,” said Conley. “You don’t think she could be planning a terrorist attack? A few well-placed bombs . . . if the stadium is packed . . .”

  “I don’t know,” said Morgan, looking closely at the blue lines on the paper. “Look, this isn’t old like the rest of the notes on the blueprint—an X drawn in pencil, here in the middle of the field. And there’s a number written off to the side here: 340.”