The Essential Sam Jameson / Peter Kittredge Box Set: SEVEN bestsellers from international sensation Lars Emmerich

by Lars Emmerich

  He moved out of the shadows and into the light thrown from far above, and Sam shuddered as she saw his face for the first time.

  What she saw in his visage was as frightening as anything she’d seen in her life.

  She didn’t see a menacing scowl, a lascivious leer, or anger of any kind.

  Sam saw the placid, joyful visage of pure evil. She saw his two black eyes, and his bandaged nose.

  And she saw a horrific scar on the man’s throat. It was a scar she recognized.

  The switchblade on the bus.

  He approached slowly, inexorably, stalking her until his face was within an inch of hers, his eyes brimming with barely-contained excitement.

  She thrashed in vain against her restraints, trying desperately to smash her head into his already-broken nose, the nose she had smashed just two days earlier during his attack on the bus, but it was of no use. She couldn’t reach him.

  He leaned in, inhaling her scent, and placed his lips softly on her neck. She felt his hand travel lightly up her bare thigh.

  Sam cried, helpless.

  The man violated her with his hand, his eyes closing in pleasure, his hand squeezing, clamping down on her, crushing her, the pain more stark and frightening than she ever imagined possible.

  Sam vomited against her gag. She convulsed in torment and terror.

  He smiled at her, a terrible, depraved smile of pure malign, then retreated to the shadows.

  They would surely die here. She knew it for a fact.

  She cried for Brock, for what he had just endured, for the way that she loved him, for the sadness of him having to watch what was going to happen to her, for the sadness of both of them losing their lives, for their shared horror, for the agony of what she knew would be their last moments together.

  34

  Dan heard the chopper overhead. It was either Homeland’s emergency response chopper, or the Metro DC police department’s ride. Dan couldn’t tell for sure, but he hoped it was the former. To the best of his knowledge, Metro IA hadn’t yet rounded up all of the crooked cops working for the Venezuelans, and Dan didn’t need any more drama.

  He dialed the number of Sam’s latest burner. It didn’t even ring. The call went straight to an automated notice telling him that the user wasn’t available.

  Helluva time to take a powder, Dan thought. He could certainly use the help.

  Dan’s next call was back to the local Homeland office’s emergency desk. He needed the park-and-ride manager to give him immediate access to the security footage, which meant he needed some top cover. He returned to David Phinney’s FBI vehicle and repeated the request with their radio dispatcher. More firepower rarely hurt.

  He paced, thinking and cursing. He had no idea how long ago Jarvis had arrived at the commuter parking lot. It was an important thing to know, because it would tell Dan how many trains and buses had stopped since then, which would tell him how many trains and buses the search team would have to stop in order to look for Jarvis.

  It was tempting to ask the impromptu task force to stop all public transportation traffic that had passed through the station in the last half hour, but Dan quickly dismissed the thought. It would demand far more manpower than was on the entire duty shift at the moment.

  But he knew that with each passing minute, the odds of finding Jarvis still riding on any one of those buses or trains diminished exponentially. Every stop was another opportunity for Jarvis to step off, change his transportation medium, and gain yet another step on the investigators.

  Still no sign of the park-and-ride manager. Dan looked at his watch, shaking his head.

  He tried Sam’s number again, hoping she might have an idea. Same result: not available. He gripped the phone tightly in his fist and clenched his jaw, the only two outlets for his frustration at the moment. Where the hell is the station manager?

  Where the hell is Sam?

  Evidence rules be damned, Dan finally decided. He couldn’t wait any longer.

  He went back to Phinney’s FBI cruiser, opened the rear driver’s side door, and pulled the deceased agent’s black jacket from the rear seat.

  Then he walked to Jarvis’ Ferrari, draped the FBI jacket over the driver’s window, and positioned his feet in an athletic stance. He put every ounce of his considerable strength into the blow to the window, which he delivered with his right forearm. His martial arts training had taught him to swing through the target, and he felt almost no resistance as the window yielded.

  He heard the muffled but satisfying sound of shattering glass, then reached into the Ferrari to retrieve the parking stub Jarvis had pulled from the automated dispenser at the parking lot’s entrance.

  6:17 p.m., the stub announced. Twenty-two minutes ago.

  It was a start.

  He radioed the information back to FBI headquarters.

  The duty dispatcher thanked Dan for his effort, then said that the supervisory agent in charge wished to relay to him that the Federal Bureau of Investigation still had the reins for the Jarvis investigation. Dan was to stand down immediately.

  “Roger,” Dan said, exasperation evident in his voice. It certainly wasn’t an unexpected move on the Bureau’s part – they had three dead agents, after all. But it was an unwelcome command.

  And one that Dan had no intention of obeying.

  35

  Kittredge planted himself in his customary seat at the bar around the corner from his apartment. He’d stopped at home for a shower and a double belt of ice-cold vodka before venturing out for the evening, and was enjoying the onset of the pleasant distance that came with inebriation.

  Without a word, the bartender brought him his usual: a vodka and vodka, with a splash of vodka. A drinker’s drink if ever there was one.

  Kittredge glanced at the television. The news loop was all about Hugo Chavez’s sudden outbreak of cancer. The talking heads speculated about the number of days that might be remaining in Chavez’s life, based on the frequent comings and goings of one Dr. Javier Mendoza, one of Venezuela’s foremost liver pathology specialists. If Dr. Mendoza was involved, the on-scene reporter speculated, the situation must be grave.

  Official reports denied that Chavez was experiencing anything other than a minor and temporary health glitch, which did nothing but fuel further speculation about El Presidente’s impending demise.

  There were vague reports regarding some of El Presidente’s family members and close associates also undergoing hospital treatment, though details were sketchy.

  We’ve unleashed a plague, Kittredge thought, tossing back his drink and tapping the bar for another.

  We are a plague, he thought, with alcohol-enhanced melodrama.

  A sharp, painful clap on his shoulder interrupted his thoughts, and a familiar voice in his ear induced instant bile: “Hiya, Petey, partner of mine!”

  Kittredge shook his head and sighed. “I like you less each time we talk, Quinn.”

  “No need to be antisocial!” Quinn said with over-the-top cheer. “I’m here to express my gratitude for all of your help over the past few days. Banner week for the good guys.”

  Kittredge felt the familiar darkness descend over his mood as he was brought face-to-face with what he’d become: an agent of chaos, corruption, and, now, death.

  “What makes you think we’re the good guys?”

  “I don’t. But doesn’t it make you feel better to say it?”

  Kittredge snorted. “What did you infect Chavez with?”

  Quinn laughed. “Me? Why, I was just there to listen to a bright and distinguished economist. I don’t know about anything else that might have gone on.”

  Kittredge shook his head. “Please. I’m not an idiot.”

  “Then don’t act like one. Questions kill.”

  “So do contagious diseases.”

  “So I’m told.”

  “His family is getting sick now, too.”

  “Whose family?”

  “El Cucaracha.”

  “Don�
��t you mean, ‘la cucaracha?’” Quinn corrected. “That noun requires the feminine definitive article.”

  “Thanks for the grammar lesson, but I didn’t come up with the codename for Hugo Chavez.”

  “Now you’re just being silly,” Quinn chided. “No more spy novels for you, partner.”

  “Don’t play games.”

  Anger flashed in Quinn’s eyes. He turned to face Kittredge. “Okay, Kittredge. No more games.” There was a malignant hardness in his voice.

  “Here’s our new deal,” Quinn continued. “Listen closely. You shut your hole. If you keep running your mouth about this subject or any other subject you know you shouldn’t be talking about, I will stuff you into your shoe.”

  Kittredge fell silent. Quinn’s menace had penetrated his buzz and struck fear into him.

  But Quinn wasn’t finished. He reached into his pocket and retrieved a digital camera, which he turned on and switched into the “view photos” mode. He flipped through a few photos, then handed the phone to Kittredge. “Arturo Dibiaso sends his thanks. This is what you helped him do today.”

  Kittredge didn’t want to take the camera, and he certainly didn’t want to view whatever Quinn wanted to show him.

  Quinn leaned in close. “Look at what you have done,” he hissed. Kittredge saw feral hatred in Quinn’s mismatched, wolf-like eyes.

  Kittredge steeled himself, then looked at the camera as Quinn held it in front of him. He saw a man lying prone in a pool of blood. Kittredge’s stomach turned.

  Quinn advanced to the next photo, a close-up of the corpse’s face.

  Kittredge recognized the genteel handsomeness instantly. It was Rojo.

  His heart sank, and he suddenly felt faint.

  Quinn advanced again. El Grande lay slumped, arms tangled awkwardly beneath his torso, face distorted by the exit wound.

  “One of the cleanest mop-ups we’ve ever had,” Quinn said. “They were obviously expecting us. But they definitely weren’t ready.”

  Kittredge shook. He was overcome with fear, rage, loathing, and utter disgust.

  The camera beeped again. Alejandro this time, but barely recognizable, so gruesome were the injuries to his face and head. Kittredge closed his eyes, and the tears came.

  “There’s one more,” Quinn said. “You won’t want to see it, but I’m going to make you look.”

  The camera beeped one last time, and Kittredge shook his head from side to side, eyes still closed. “No,” he said. “Please tell me you didn’t. Please.”

  Quinn waited patiently.

  Something within Kittredge compelled him to look. He had to know for sure. He opened his eyes.

  His tears distorted the image, but they didn’t hide the long, flowing dark hair, mottled by blood, or the exquisite, familiar neckline leading to a beautiful, angelic face, somehow beatific and peaceful after a violent and painful death.

  Maria.

  Kittredge’s world spun. He was only vaguely aware of his own sobs, barely cognizant of Quinn’s large frame moving away from him, a hard but understanding look in his wolf eyes, leaving him alone to wrestle hell’s worst demon: his own unrelenting guilt.

  36

  Consciousness returned mercilessly. The pain had caused her to pass out, but it was the pain that had awakened her again, sharp and jagged in places, but also dull and deep inside of her. Her body convulsed involuntarily as her mind became aware again of the hideous nightmare.

  The metal clamps cut into her skin, but there was a new discomfort, too: something dangled from the oversized gag that was shoved in her mouth and strapped into place. She could feel its tug as she moved her head. It was a cord of some sort.

  She surveyed her body, naked and bruised, strapped with metal clamps to a cement wall.

  Sam looked more closely at the clamps, and saw that a wire ran between each of them, sealed between the restraints and the metal screws that held them in place.

  A sense of foreboding took over her mind, and fear returned with a vengeance.

  She looked around quickly for something, anything, that might be able to help her out of the situation, but there was nothing but the pile of clothes, the shattered cell phone, and a duffel bag on the floor filled with God knew what manner of depraved things.

  Motion caught her eye again across the room, and she saw Brock struggle against his own restraints, still hanging parallel with the floor, his ruined ankle still dangling at a grotesque angle, sweat glistening on his forehead as he battled the excruciating pain.

  Unsupported by restraints around his midsection, Brock’s torso sagged toward the floor, and Sam realized that there was another tormentor working its unseen evil against Brock’s body: suffocation. His breathing was shallow and labored, the awkward twist of his body forcing his diaphragm to fight against gravity’s pull with each breath he took.

  Tears of rage and sorrow welled again. Sam yelled to him, hoping the sound would carry past her gag to Brock’s ears, and he would know that he wasn’t alone in his suffering, that she would be with him to the end.

  Their eyes met, and she hoped that the contents of her heart were visible in her eyes from across the room. Tears streamed down her face, and she saw moisture glint across the bridge of Brock’s nose as his own tears streaked their way to the damp cement floor beneath him.

  She heard a sound coming from deep within the shadows of the large room, and her breathing quickened involuntarily. Her heart pounded, and she felt the sickening crash of adrenaline land in her stomach.

  He appeared, walking first to Brock, grabbing his broken foot, twisting with a sadistic hatred that Sam couldn’t fathom. Brock howled in agony. Veins bulged in his neck and his face turned red, and she could hear his tortured voice despite the distance and the large metal ball stuffed in his mouth.

  This man was the devil incarnate.

  He twisted Brock’s foot yet again, and Brock’s thrashing intensified, until, mercifully, nature took over and Brock lost consciousness, succumbing again to an agony beyond the brain’s capacity to endure.

  Satan turned toward her, his face flushed with exhilaration, a vicious smile on his lips. He stalked toward her, and Sam felt her bladder vacate with fear and terror as her body shook uncontrollably.

  At least Brock won’t have to see this, she thought.

  The man stopped at the duffel bag on the floor, rummaged, then pulled out a strange-looking box with a dial on top and a cord protruding from one side.

  He disappeared into the shadow beyond the reach of the bright bulbs shining on her naked body, returning moments later with a bright orange power cord.

  With dramatic deliberateness, the man made a show of plugging the strange box into the extension cord. He walked slowly toward Sam, and reached his hand out to touch her leg. She shivered in revulsion as he ran his hand up the length of her body, pausing in places that caused her to shake and cry, then abruptly grabbed and yanked on the cord attached to the gag in her mouth.

  Her head jerked forward, and she watched the vile little devil of a man plug the cord into the metal box.

  With a salacious grin, he flipped the switch.

  A pain like Sam had never known coursed through her body. Every muscle contracted, and the force of her thrashing tore her skin against the metal restraints.

  It seemed to last forever, and just when it felt that her life was about to end, the current stopped just as abruptly as it had started.

  Breathless, she slumped against the clamps that held her body fast, gasping to inhale through her nose.

  The man held the device in front of her face, and Sam watched him turn the voltage dial just a little bit higher.

  He flipped the switch, and the excruciating pain began again.

  37

  “Mind if I get a closer look?” Dan Gable leaned in and zoomed the park-and-ride security camera monitor to focus on the 1984 Ferrari.

  “Gorgeous car,” the security guy said. “What does that guy do, rob banks?”

  “W
orse. Can you print me a screen capture with the time stamp on the bottom?”

  “Sure thing. Cost you extra, though.”

  Dan didn’t laugh. “I’ll need you to fax it, too.” He wrote down two numbers and gave them to the security guard as the printer spit out a near-photo quality picture of Tom Jarvis stepping out of his ostentatious sports car. He had a package of some sort in his hand, and a small backpack over one shoulder.

  Dan let the video play, and watched Jarvis walk outside of the camera’s field of view, heading east toward the train and bus pavilion. “How do I follow this guy through different camera views?”

  Having two things to do at roughly the same time seemed to addle the security guard. “You want me to fax this, or babysit you on that thing?”

  “Fax first.”

  Dan heard the numbers dial and the paper feeder pull the page into the whirring fax machine. “Nice work,” he said. “They should promote you. Now show me how to use the video system.”

  With a couple of pointers, Dan quickly mastered the overly complicated video monitor system. He watched Jarvis walk from his car, drop the package into a nearby trash can, and take the pedestrian walkway across the highway to arrive at the platform for the northbound train.

  Jarvis inserted cash into the automated ticket dispenser, retrieved his ticket and change, and nonchalantly took his place among the other passengers awaiting the train. Six minutes later, he stepped onto the fourth car from the front. He reappeared briefly in the camera’s view as he took a window seat, then disappeared as the train roared off, heading back toward downtown DC.

  “Phone,” Dan commanded.

  “Are you gonna bust that guy?” The security guard handed the receiver to Dan and slid the phone’s keypad toward him on the cluttered desk.

  “No, I want to find out who cuts his hair.”

  Dan dialed, then cursed. The phone was on a closed switch.

  “Dial nine to get out,” the guard said helpfully.