Chasing the Captain

by Terry Shepherd

  Two more units had the intersection clear at Woodmont and a road Ali saw by the street sign was called Hillsboro Pike. They were guiding her into the northbound lane.

  She could see a sign ahead announcing that Interstate 44 was a mile away. It felt to Ali like the good guys would try to put an end to this soon.

  She was right. To her left, a young sheriff’s deputy stood at the side of the road as Ali rocketed by him and the green Golf Club Lane intersection sign. With a bowler’s body English, he tossed the thorny tool that cops call “stop sticks” onto the road just as the chase vehicle appeared.

  She watched the result in her mirrors. The nails did their work, and the driver lost control of the Malibu. Rubber disintegrated. The tire rims bit into the asphalt, flipping the vehicle into a sideways roll.

  Ali would never know what ignited the gas tank, but on about the fifth revolution, the entire bucket of bolts burst into a beautiful orange fireball, consuming the two cop killers in a taste of what awaited them on the other side of judgment.

  “Dispatch to Officer Clark. Pull over at Stokes Lane. Turn off your vehicle and put your hands on the steering wheel.”

  Well. That didn’t sound friendly.

  I deliver the two guys who might well have killed Mr. and Mrs. Yates in cinders, and this is the thanks I get?

  Michael Wright’s advice was now screaming in her ears. “Disappear.”

  Ali decided, for once, to follow orders from someone other than her supervisor.

  Pressing the gas pedal to the floor, she passed the gendarmes at the Stokes Lane intersection and hung a right toward a group of townhouses on Lombardi Avenue.

  Ali abandoned the vehicle and watched from cover as the cavalry came screaming into the parking lot. An empty vehicle was waiting in the center of the complex driveway. Ali’d left the lights and siren on so it would be easier for them to find.

  She was tired of being followed, so Ali also left her brand-spanking-new nine-hundred-dollar cell phone on the front seat.

  39

  St. Pancras Station—London

  The 2200 train to Paris pulled out of the station right on time. The treasure trove under seat B15 included two Kevlar bulletproof vests and a pair of Glock 21s with enough extra clips and ammo to take down an elephant.

  With new orders, the reassuring feeling of protection wrapped around Liyanna Evans’s chest and blue steel in her right hand, she and Jessica started forward.

  “Now we know why we’re not in handcuffs,” Jessica said. “The whole idea was for us to get here and take the lead.”

  Lee zipped her fleece up to the neck to hide the last vestige of the bullet-proof vest from view. “Nobody at the Met knows more about the case than we do. Whoever is running this thing decided we should be the ones to make the identification.”

  Jessica frowned. “If we don’t get killed in the process.”

  Lee was certain that Marie Culpado was on that train. But she did not know what the woman might look like nearly a decade later, or if any other interested parties were aboard.

  Jessica’s cell phone vibrated. She handed it to Lee when she recognized a British Telecom caller ID, engaging the external speaker.

  “Liyanna Evans.”

  “Lee, it’s Reggie from BT. We’ve got a GPS fix on that phone number you gave me.”

  “I owe you, Reggie. Talk to me.”

  “It’s here in London. In fact, it was in St. Pancras Station until a moment ago. We show it northbound at the moment.”

  “He’s on the fucking train?” Jessica said, unable to hide her incredulity.

  Lee nodded.

  “How granular can you get, Reggie? You’ve obviously talked with Maddox and are tracking me, too.”

  “He’s 175 feet ahead of you, Lee. Watch yourself.”

  “I have to call the boss,” Lee told Jessica as Reggie rang off. “I need to confirm our orders.”

  Maddox must have recognized the number because he answered without pleasantries. “Are you on the train, DI Evans?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you have your equipment.”

  “Yes, sir. What are my orders?”

  “No additional changes. Approach with caution and apprehend the subject. I authorize you to use whatever force is necessary to neutralize any threats. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Lee felt like she should have said something about the Wellington and her failure to follow the spirit of Maddox’s orders to keep Jessica out of the game. But she was a little angry that her boss had sent an officer to spy on them without telling her. And Maddox didn’t give her the opportunity.

  “Officers are working their way back toward you from the front of the train. Powell and Byrnes. You’ll know them, and they will know you. We’ll be stopping it after you make the turn south for the Chunnel. There will be substantial backup there. Find your subject and hold until relieved.”

  Lee felt the slightest softening of her boss’s voice.

  “Be careful, DI Evans. These are very bad people.”

  “One last question, sir. I found weapons and vests for two persons. Is Detective Ramirez still considered in my custody?”

  “No. As of now, she is your partner.”

  40

  Nashville International Airport

  Officer Alexandra Clark got to BNA an hour ahead of departure.

  Apologizing for her lack of technology, Ali pressed a hundred-dollar bill into the fist of one thrilled Uber driver.

  “If someone asks you about all of this, tell them the truth.”

  The East Indian student behind the wheel smiled. “I am glad I had a fare near your residence, ma’am. Thank you for your generosity. And yes, I always tell the truth.”

  “Do yourself a favor. Find a place to change that bill and tell anyone who asks that I only gave you a twenty.”

  Ali had no trouble with the tickets and only a slight delay at the TSA. That the locals had not blocked what seemed to be an easy exit was disconcerting.

  She didn’t like ditching her gun under the Uber guy’s driver’s seat. But Ali bet that when she got where she was going, a kind soul would take pity on her and provide some additional protection.

  Anyway, she knew when they tagged the Uber, they would find the Glock. There would be some uncomfortable moments for the poor driver. But ultimately, the news would get back to Michael Wright.

  He would deduce Ali’s destination and know what to do.

  There was just enough time to buy an overpriced disposable cell phone and a briefcase for her MacBook before she boarded for O’Hare.

  Ali upgraded her ticket with the gate agent. She was tired and angry. She wanted plenty of room to stretch her legs and all the free drinks she could swallow. A bulkhead seat in first-class felt appropriate for the occasion.

  Ali got down two vodkas before liftoff. They failed to take the edge off.

  She tried, without success, to get some sleep. Whenever her eyes closed, a kaleidoscope of death appeared. Images of brain matter on an office wall and a pair of black body bags with two bloody FBI corpses inside were welding themselves into Ali’s long-term memory.

  There was another troubling picture that kept shifting in and out of focus. It looked like Jessica. She was lying on the ground, her limbs contorted in the grotesque pose Ali often found when the medics peeled a suicidal jumper off the pavement. Jess wasn’t breathing. Her gaze was vacant, pupils focused on eternity. Red tributaries of blood trickled away from her skull.

  Ali pushed the vision back down into her subconscious and thought of her next moves.

  With any luck, she would be in London in the morning.

  41

  On Board Chunnel Train 2200

  Jess and Lee were four cars up when Jess saw her.

  The years had left their marks on Marie Culpado’s features. But there was no doubt that they had found the woman they were looking for.

  She wore nondescript travel clothing. Her hair was longer a
nd a light brown, with hints of gray at the roots. The balcony that Harry so admired was evident, even under the cover of a brown suede jacket.

  Her companion was no longer the bald cue ball in the passport photo. His hair was shoulder length. A thick 1960s hippie mustache framed his angular face.

  The stiffness in the way he sat told Jess he was military. His hands rested on top of one another on his lap, covering what she assumed was his own handgun, likely stuffed behind his belt buckle.

  What troubled Jess were the two men who sat across from them.

  She could only see them from the back. But the pair had the bearing of the professionals who had tried to take the two cops out at the pub. Their attire wasn’t identical but shared a common style Jess didn’t yet recognize.

  Lee put a hand on Jess’s arm as they saw the quartet from the rear of the car. It was nearly empty. Perhaps the lateness of the hour and the day of the week made these last departures lightly traveled. Jess followed Lee’s lead and slid into forward-facing seats a few rows ahead of the door.

  “Let’s wait for the reinforcements,” Lee said.

  They didn’t have to wait long.

  In what felt like moments, another pair of hard bodies entered the carriage from the front of the train.

  They wore Metropolitan police badges on chains around their necks to confirm their status. Jess could see the recognition in their eyes when they identified the targets. The two moved to each side of the four seats, guns drawn. The weapons had silencers.

  Jess took her lead from her partner. Lee’s eyes narrowed. She didn’t move.

  “Marie Yates Culpado?” one said.

  The woman shook her head. “My name is Blair, and this is my husband. You should know that the two men sitting across from us are carrying weapons and intend to kidnap us when we reach Paris.”

  The cop who asked the question turned his firearm toward Marie’s companion.

  “Arthur G. Aldrich, American Central Intelligence?”

  “My name is Jonathan Blair. This woman is my wife.”

  Whoever he was, those ten words were the last he would ever speak. Jess could see the cop’s weapon kick three times and recognized the cough of the silencer. Two of the slugs entered Jonathan Blair’s chest, a grouping that she knew would tear apart the ventricles of his heart. The third drilled a hole into his forehead, right above his nose. The force of the impact jerked his neck back over the edge of the seat. His arms splayed, and his body convulsed as the confused impulses from his brain sent broken messages to his extremities.

  The few other passengers in the car responded with screams and ran toward the rear of the car. Only Jess and Lee remained. Jess knew it was only seconds until they were recognized.

  Marie Culpado’s eyes widened in horror. The two who sat across from her were still. But Jess could hear an exchange between them and the cops. It was in Russian.

  Every instinct was driving Jess to stand and engage, but Lee had a firm hand on her thigh, holding Jess down in her window seat.

  “The two with the badges,” she whispered. “They aren’t Powell and Byrnes.”

  “The guys Maddox mentioned?”

  “Correct. And I’m guessing they met the same fate as Mr. Blair.”

  Jess couldn’t understand why they weren’t putting all four bastards out of action. “I don’t know any Russian. I wish I knew what they were saying.”

  Apparently, her new partner did. She spat the words, slowly drawing her weapon from behind her belt.

  “Two women will enter the carriage shortly. Kill the black one and bring us the Latina.”

  42

  The Coiled Snake

  All the bad guys had to do was look at Lee and Jessica and they would know exactly who they were. And how had Jessica made the cultural switch from Spaniard to Latina?

  These guys weren’t cops, so Lee wondered if they would focus on the door and not on the two women, sitting just a few rows in front of it, who exactly matched the description.

  The perfection of their murder of Jonathan Blair told Lee they would pay attention to detail. She was grateful that she hid the Kevlar beneath her outer garments. That might buy something.

  Lee processed all of this in less time than it took to tell it. Jessica had her weapon in hand beneath the table that separated the cops from a pair of empty, rear-facing seats. Jessica looked to Lee to be as cool as an ice cube; a coiled snake, ready to strike.

  “I’ve truly enjoyed working with you, Jessica,” Lee said, sensing that perhaps this might be the culmination of her career.

  “Let’s make them pay for this,” she answered.

  And then the two women were on their feet.

  There were twelve bullets in Lee’s clip, plus one in the chamber. She spent six instantly as she moved ahead of Jess and directed fire at the bloody bastards Lee knew had killed her colleagues.

  The thump of the first two rounds against the chest told her they were packing Kevlar, too, so she unloaded the other four at their bobbing heads.

  Luck was with Lee, and one round took the man who killed Jonathan Blair out of the fight.

  A series of explosions quickly overpowered the screams as Jess entered the fray, firing every round at the other man’s face. Jessica’s aim was perfect. Lee watched her follow the second man’s body trajectory to the floor of the carriage, filling his melon with hot lead. Exit wounds shattered the back of his skull, spraying both Marie and her two kidnappers with his blood.

  One of the Russians stood and faced them. He held an RSH-12 revolver, the most powerful production handgun in the world. Lee saw him point it at her chest.

  The women fired what they had left but couldn’t hit a thing. Their adversary’s eyes focused on the barrels of their guns, and he seemed to drift casually away from the lines of fire. The moves were beautiful, almost ballet-like in their simplicity. When Lee’s and Jessica’s clips were empty, he pulled the trigger.

  The vest might have saved her life for the moment, but the sledgehammer blow from the huge projectile knocked Lee onto her back, winded and nearly unconscious. She thought about what the next shot might do to her skull.

  Out of the corner of an upward-facing eye, Lee could see the second man drag Marie Culpado into the aisle, a 6P35 Yarygin semi-auto pressed against her temple.

  She imagined that Jessica must have practiced the reload procedure so many times that her execution was all muscle memory. As Lee heard the familiar clatter of Jessica chambering a round, the man holding Marie spoke.

  “Drop the weapon, Detective Ramirez, or the woman dies.”

  Lee could sense the train slowing, just as Maddox had said it would. Jessica dropped her gun, raised her arms and stepped forward to shield Lee from the enemy.

  “What do you want, boys? And how do you know my name?”

  Lee was still playing dead and couldn’t see their movements. But she could hear the swoosh of the carriage door as the four exited toward the front of the still decelerating train.

  43

  The Russians’ Mistake

  Marie Culpado and Jessica Ramirez were cuffed and under their captor’s complete control. The handgun pressed against Marie’s spine kept Jess quiet as the boys moved them toward the front of the next carriage.

  There was an interchange in Russian that Jess couldn’t understand as they stood next to an exit door.

  It turned out to be a countdown.

  “Raz, dva, tri.”

  One man pressed a red button. An alarm sounded for fifteen seconds before the door opened and the kidnappers shoved Marie and Jess into the darkness.

  Their captors’ planning must have been meticulous. No sooner had the women rolled clear of the tracks and onto what felt like wet grass than fresh pairs of hands gripped them.

  Blindfolds obscured their vision as strong arms shoved Jess and Marie into a delivery van.

  “Idti!” someone yelled through an open driver’s side window, and the vehicle picked up speed.

  I
t took a few minutes for Jess to realize that they were alone, with the driver as their only other companion.

  She wrestled her body into a sitting position and slid, blindly, toward the sound of Marie’s heavy breathing.

  The other woman was already upright, leaning against the thin aluminum side panel.

  “Marie?” Jess whispered.

  “My name is Blair,” she barked back.

  “It’s all right. I’m Jessica Ramirez. I know most of the story. They sent my partner and me to protect you. We’ve done a piss-poor job so far.”

  “Are you CIA?”

  “Nope. I’m just a local cop from Illinois who is in way over her head.”

  “No shit, Ms. Ramirez. I won’t be sending a love letter to your boss.”

  “Where do you think they are taking us?”

  Marie sounded wary. “I don’t know if I should even say anything to you. They put plants into situations like these to get people to talk.”

  “Oh, I promise you. I don’t know a word of Russian, and less than a week ago, I was handing out speeding tickets. Here, press your forehead against mine, and perhaps we can get these blindfolds off.”

  It was an interesting dance, but the tightly applied fabric eventually weakened enough where Jess and Marie could slide the coverings up and over the top of their heads.

  Her eyes adjusted to the darkness, and she assessed her fellow captive. Jess reckoned there were only a few minutes to strategize.

  Marie broke the silence. “Giovanni. They are probably taking us to see Giovanni.”

  “Who is Giovanni?”

  “My first husband. Giovanni de Triste. Does the name mean anything to you?”