Jet 04: Reckoning

by Russell Blake

  A hundred and fifty yards away, a man sat in a tall tree, on a small platform he’d constructed for that purpose, his focus split between the house and the hippie woman who looked to him as though she was also keeping an eye on the place. The binoculars gave her away. He’d bet a million bucks that if she was asked about them, the answer would be bird watching, and he had no doubt that the book she was reading was filled with photos of birds – he’d gotten a glimpse of the cover through his telephoto lens, his suspicions aroused by her choice of locations.

  He shifted on the wooden slats, invisible in his green camouflage outfit and the netting he’d put up under the cover of darkness. Whatever was going on with the woman, it had nothing to do with a defensive play by the men on Arthur’s grounds. They were going about their business by the book, as far as he could tell.

  But the woman.

  She bore further watching.

  Chapter 30

  Agent Ryker stretched his arms over his head and yawned, another stressful day of doing not much of anything finally over. Since the terrorist attack at the stadium, the Los Angeles office had been on full alert, which meant a lot of supervision of security details at public buildings and events – none of which had been targeted by anyone, and none of which showed any danger of being targeted. But orders were orders and it was a good paycheck, so he did what he had to do to get by.

  He checked the clock on the wall of his office, walked over to the rack, and got his sports coat. It was quitting time and things were blessedly quiet, his colleagues all busy pushing paper around until they could reasonably leave. Ryker was one of the senior members of the Los Angeles staff, so he could cut out a little early on days like this one – one of the perks of management, among others.

  “Nighty night, Camelia,” he said to the receptionist as he breezed past the front office, intent on making it to his car before rush hour really got under way. Always a failed plan, but one he never gave up on. Bad as it was at four-thirty on the L.A. freeways, five-thirty put it to shame. The seven miles from his offices in downtown to his home in Pasadena could easily take an hour to traverse, and sometimes double that in heavy traffic. It was an insane way to live, but that was his norm, and many had it far worse.

  His footsteps echoed in the underground parking lot, shared by City Hall and a host of city government offices, and when he pulled out of his stall with a squeal of tires he was relieved to be ahead of the crowd – the parking area was still packed, a good sign he’d gotten the jump on his fellow grunions. He pulled to the attendant and waved as the man pushed the button that lifted the barrier, failing to register the car behind him hurrying to pay in order to keep up with him.

  The 110 freeway was already clogged with commuters inching their way angrily north, and as he settled into the drudgery of crawling towards home he turned on the radio, favoring a talk radio station that leaned heavily towards political topics. He listened as wholly uninformed callers dialed in to be abused by the show’s abrasive and opinionated host.

  Forty-five minutes later he signaled and took an off ramp leading to the quiet streets of South Pasadena, where he had a modest three-bedroom home he’d bought as an investment back in the heady days of property doubling in value every three years. Now he lived in it, his divorce final two years prior. He valued his solitude, bought at a horrendously high price from a harpy who had sucked the life out of him during their seven-year marriage.

  Fortunately, he’d been clever about hiding his off-the-books income, so while she’d taken him to the cleaners, it could have been far worse. He was still reasonably wealthy, although he lived like a pauper, preferring to bank his secret income rather than waste it on frivolities.

  The garage door opened automatically and he pulled inside, turning the radio off as the steel panels slid shut behind him. He killed the engine and grabbed his briefcase, wrinkling his nose at the stagnant atmosphere from the windows being closed all day, then moved to the rear door that led to his small back yard and opened it. He set his briefcase on the shabby kitchen table and shrugged out of his shoulder holster, placing it next to his valise before going into the kitchen to grab an icy cold beer.

  His bedroom wasn’t much fresher, so he slid a window open before going to the bathroom and taking off his work clothes, replacing them with a pair of running shorts and a Lakers jersey – his preferred attire for pizza and beer down at the corner Italian joint, where he spent three or four nights a week watching sports and trying to pick up waitresses with Stairmaster asses. One good thing about anywhere in Los Angeles was that the women were world class, and often clueless, there from the heartland to try to make it in show business, working two shifts to pay for a shared tiny apartment in a lousy area while waiting for the big break to announce itself. His favorite was Monica, a fiery brunette from Stockton, of Hispanic extraction, and the kind of girl who knew her way around the block.

  When he walked back into the living room he was surprised by a man sitting in the shadows.

  “Agent Ryker. Nice to see you again. Have a seat. I hear you were interested in seeing me?” Alan said, his tone steady, Ryker’s Colt 1911 .45 caliber pistol held casually in his hand, the barrel trained on Ryker.

  “What the – have you gone mad? What the hell are you doing here, in my house?”

  “I’m here to have a talk. Man to man. About the bio-hazard, and why someone is trying to kill me.”

  Ryker’s eyes narrowed to slits.

  “Sit. I’m not going to tell you again.” Alan eased out of the easy chair and motioned to the sofa.

  Ryker sidled over to it and sat down. “I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about. But I can tell you that, diplomatic immunity or not, breaking in here and holding a gun on me is the worst mistake of your life,” Ryker seethed.

  “Let’s start at the beginning, shall we? Who were the two goons who showed up at the end of my interrogation?” Alan said, moving to the front window and closing the blinds.

  “Who?”

  “I’m going to start getting really annoyed if you don’t start talking. Who were they?”

  “I…FBI.”

  “Really. What were their names?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  Alan sighed, took three quick steps, and rammed the heavy pistol into Ryker’s solar plexus, causing him to double up and pass out.

  When he came to, it was completely dark, and he couldn’t move. He opened his eyes wide, and saw that he was in the dining room, tied to a chair. Alan was sitting in Ryker’s recliner, watching him, ominously silent, a peaceful expression on his face.

  “I guess we’re going to do this the hard way. A shame, but I have no real preference. I want to know everything you know about my interrogation, and who’s after me.”

  “I don’t know who’s after you.”

  Alan’s eyes shot to the side, then he stood. “You’re lying. I know. I’ve done this often enough. So now we’ll take this in an ugly direction, and find out what you’re lying about. This is your last chance. We’ll start with the two men. Who were they?”

  “You realize that you’re a dead man after this, don’t you? There’s nowhere you’ll be able to hide, especially if you torture me. I know that’s what you intend to do, and I’m telling you that you’re wasting your time,” Ryker growled.

  “I must have been unclear. Maybe it’s a language issue. I’ve interrogated countless men – far tougher cases than you, my friend. Men who believed in their causes. Men who thought God had instructed them to act as they had. Men of devout faith and firm resolve. Do you know what I discovered?”

  Ryker sat silent.

  “They all talk. All. One hundred percent. Even those who were convinced that a trailer-park full of virgins waited for them in the afterlife talked. Men who would have gladly blown themselves up to take some of their enemies with them. And do you know why, Agent Ryker? Because the flesh is weak. We’re flawed creatures, molded from imperfect clay. And every one of us will talk, if
not to live, to escape unbearable, unspeakable pain. I know this to be true. Because I don’t come from the same world you do. How many men have you killed in your life, Agent Ryker? You’re a tough guy. A badass. How many men have you looked in the eyes and sent to eternity?”

  “Enough.”

  “My guess is a few in the army. But that’s nothing. I’ve killed dozens. Maybe by now, over a hundred. I don’t even bother to keep count anymore. I learned a secret a long time ago. Everything we see around us” – he waved his hand in an arc – “is temporary, including us, and there’s none of us that’s more important in the scheme of things than the ants we step on without realizing it when we walk down the street. We all think we’re special, but we aren’t. And when our time comes, we all die the same way. Once you realize that, you become comfortable doing a job nobody should have to do. I never enjoy torturing, inflicting pain. I’m not a sadist. I actually don’t want it to go on any longer than it has to. I feel sorry for the victim. Just like I’m sure the guy in the slaughterhouse feels sorry for the cows he’s going to butcher that day. But he does his job. And today, I’ll do my job on you, to find out what you know. Look at me. Do I seem like I’m lying to you, Ryker?”

  For the first time, Ryker seemed to understand what was going to take place. “I’ll never tell you anything. I don’t know anything. I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”

  Alan shook his head, and then moved into the kitchen, where he had a pot on the stove. “This is boiling oil. It will be only the first of many horrors you’ll become acquainted with this evening. This is your last opportunity to talk. Then, I’ll go with the tried and true methods that work every time. So again. Who were those men? What were their names?”

  “You’ll never get anything out of me, you sorry prick.”

  Alan turned the flame off and grabbed a dish towel, then approached Ryker with a frown.

  In the end, Ryker told him everything. As Alan had known he would.

  The fire spread quickly in the old house, the wooden studs and siding like dry kindling, forty-something years of sun having dried them to perfection for a fast ignition and hot blaze.

  Alan watched as the flames consumed the structure, the gasoline he had drained from Ryker’s car doing a passable job as an accelerant, and then started his rental vehicle and pulled away from the curb as sirens echoed in the distance, called by a vigilant neighbor who had been up late, unable to sleep. He looked at the console digital clock and did a quick calculation – he could call Jet in another few hours. She’d be just waking up, but would want to hear from him.

  The little car rolled around the corner and towards the freeway, where Alan would drive to the airport and then call another charter company, his work in Los Angeles done.

  Chapter 31

  The next morning Jet was back at the park, this time sporting a backpack, an oversized dark green T-shirt, baggy jeans, and a flat-brimmed baseball hat on backwards, the embodiment of a slacker teen playing hooky. She cut into the park before she got to Arthur’s street and moved stealthily through the trees until she had a vantage point on the opposite side from the prior day’s.

  Jet had returned after dark the previous night and circled the perimeter, taking her time, watching the guards and noting their shifts. She’d had a scare at around one A.M., when an unseen neighbor’s dog had sensed her and begun barking, but fortunately she had been able to slink away unseen and take up a position a hundred yards away.

  The good news was that the house’s grounds were remote by American standards, with many of the surrounding properties also on huge lots, some easily commanding an acre or more. So whenever she and Alan made their move on the complex, they would have relative privacy. The negatives were far more plentiful. A crack team of professional guards. State-of-the-art technology. Super-paranoid procedures. And perhaps worst of all, an alert security detail. The men weren’t complacent. They were taking their job seriously, which told her that there wouldn’t be any mistakes or oversights she could exploit. This wasn’t a provincial warlord in the Middle East or a shoddily run team of out-to-pasture commandos in Russia. These men looked fit and ready for anything.

  Jet knew from experience that mental edge was often the difference between success and failure, and the guards looked hard and seasoned. Arthur had probably wanted the very best of the best, and he’d likely paid enough to get it.

  Still, there was always a way. She just needed to find it.

  At dawn she’d gone back to the hotel and caught two hours of sleep and then returned in her new garb, ready for another long day of tedium. She hated this part of the job, but it was unavoidable. Normally a surveillance team would have done the grunt work, and she’d have simply studied their report and then sprung into action, but she didn’t have that luxury. It would be a big relief when Alan got back – at least that way they could do split shifts, which would make things easier on her.

  He had called early that morning to tell her that he was flying back, but didn’t want to discuss anything more over the phone. Hopefully he would get there by the end of the day, allowing for the time difference.

  She found a suitable spot far enough away that she’d be unnoticed by the security team and began her stint near the ancient burial grounds, a vague sense of anxiety playing at her, which she attributed to the limited amount of sleep she had gotten. It was almost the same as the feeling she experienced when she was under surveillance, but different somehow. Besides which, nobody at the house was showing any interest in the park, which wasn’t surprising. If something came inside the walls, it was fair game, but their job wasn’t to police the park and all the surrounding land.

  The huge walnut trees provided more than adequate shade as she pretended to read her new book, a puerile tome about vampire boyfriends and werewolf suitors that she’d picked up at a drugstore, peering over the cover periodically to take readings on the guards’ positions.

  The day wore on and she found herself nodding off, the duty as tedious as any she’d done, albeit not unpleasant in the wilds of nature. She reached into her backpack and retrieved a soda from its depths, hoping that the caffeine would give her a much-needed jolt and keep her alert. Lunch was a pre-wrapped sandwich from a convenience store made from slices of chicken and cheese-like product that she had to choke down, fighting her gag reflex with every mouthful.

  When her phone vibrated at dusk she almost jumped. She brought it to her ear with a palpable sense of relief. “You’re back?”

  “Yes. You need any help?”

  “No. I’m about to take off. I want to get a few hours of sleep before tonight, unless you can take the night shift. Hint, hint.”

  “I’d love to. When will you get to the hotel?”

  She consulted her watch. “An hour?”

  “Perfect. That will give me time to do a little research.”

  “Care to share?”

  “When I see you.”

  She wasn’t accustomed to him being so cloaked, so whatever Alan had discovered was probably big. He wasn’t prone to melodrama, and if he was suddenly this cautious, it could only mean that whatever it was had him worried, if not scared.

  Jet thought about Alan, his operational history and all he’d been through, and decided that if it was big enough to frighten him, then it was probably pretty scary. Pensive, wondering what it could be, she slowly packed her bag and stowed everything she’d brought, leaving no evidence that she’d been there – nothing to track or give her away.

  From the trees in the distance, the watcher followed her passage through the park with his binoculars, taking note of her departure time before resuming his watch on Arthur’s house.

  ~ ~ ~

  Alan had gotten an early morning start, and the chartered jet had been in the air by five A.M., touching down in D.C. by lunchtime. He’d gone directly to the address he’d acquired for Peter’s work, and had been rewarded by seeing his BMW roll out of the lot a few minutes later – by far the most expensive ca
r parked there, in a spot with a sign that said ‘reserved’ in front of it. He’d followed him and watched as Peter strode purposefully to the entry of an expensive French restaurant in Georgetown. The maître d’ greeted him warmly and showed him to a table towards the rear of the restaurant, where an older man had been waiting in the secluded spot.

  They sat, obviously in a heated discussion over their lunch, which lasted barely forty minutes, and then the older man rose, agitated, and threw a few bills onto the table before stalking out. Peter had remained behind and ordered a third glass of wine, a look of frowning annoyance on his face.

  Neither noticed Alan, who was picking at his filet of sole meunière and sipping a bottle of Perrier as he pretended to study a tourist brochure. The late lunch crowd kept coming and the waiters were eager to turn the tables, but nobody approached Peter, who was taking his time with the wine. He was well known to the restaurant and wasn’t to be trifled with. If the man wanted to enjoy his drink, then they would leave him alone to do so.

  Alan had accomplished what he’d wanted to do. He’d taken photos of both Peter and the older man, which he would run through the Mossad databases and see if a hit came up. Ryker had told him about Peter, and had intimated that his father was too powerful to take on, but hadn’t elaborated, and Alan hadn’t cared about his dad. Peter was the one who had directed Ryker to question him and had arranged for the two FBI agents to be present at the coliseum interrogation, and was the one who had put pressure on Ryker to find Alan afterwards – at all costs.

  Ryker had admitted that Peter hadn’t cared whether Alan was located dead or alive, and had indicated that his preference would be if he disappeared with no trace. While not flat-out ordering Ryker to kill him, the message had been clear – Alan knew too much, and had to be found so he could be silenced.

  Alan finished his excellent fish and motioned for the check. He’d seen enough. Peter drove his own car, had no bodyguards that he could see, and seemed to enjoy his booze. The only negative was that Alan didn’t know anything about where he lived – but that would change by day’s end.