by Dusty Miller
Lindsey turned her head, not quite understanding the question. Beryl’s right hand came up and grabbed her by the back of her head, shoving a frilly handkerchief, heavily laced with something sickly sweet and strong right in her face. Lindsey kicked and her arms came up as Anton fended her off and held her down with a strong right arm.
After a moment, she was gone. They gave each other a quick high-five.
Anton backed out, dropped it in gear and got the hell out of there before anyone came out of the store. There were three people coming down the road from the camp. The windows were heavily smoked, the music was loud and they didn’t see a damned thing, in his humble opinion.
***
Lindsey woke up in the trunk of a car.
It had to be.
It came again, the red flare and the sudden lurch as someone braked hard and turned the wheel. Her head was rubbing against a rib by the wheel-well. She was jammed up in the fetal position.
She was bound hand and foot, the darkness a terrifying thing.
Her heart raced. There was tape over her eyes and mouth.
The sound of air whistling out of her nostrils was what ultimately settled her down. Cry and twist and try to scream as she might, she was caught like a rat.
This was no dream.
The stuff over her eyes was thoroughly stuck to her eyebrows, but there was a gap at the bottom, bigger on the right eye than the left. The tears were just blinding her. That was no good.
The growling of tires on gravel, the swaying, the fact that she was on her left side, the red glare of the brake lights, these were the only clues to her fate.
A mental image of the Bernsteins, and their offer of a friendly ride came flooding back. The truck wouldn’t start.
Fuck. Their car, their grey-green car, had been sitting right out in front of their cabin. Right across the road from Liam’s…this was a different grey-green car.
She must be going mad…but it was all too clear now. How had she missed it—
Fuck!
It must have been them.
It was them.
That bitch.
Beryl. Anton.
But why?
Lindsey was hyperventilating.
Something rammed into her left hip, the pain enough to make her gasp. Snot filled her left nostril. In a moment of panic, she took in a big breath through the one remaining orifice and then tried to clear her nose. For the most part it was successful, judging by the sticky wetness on her cheek. If she wasn’t careful, she’d suffocate herself. A hard object was poking into her lower back with every pothole. They were on a gravel road. It had to be. They were everywhere. At intersections and in the lower spots where braking, accelerating or water on the road were heaviest, there was a washboard effect that was unmistakeable. The car stopped, held for a moment and then went on again.
The car lumbered along at slow speed for a straight and steady run. Her heart was pounding as she fought the panic. The car turned left, the amber flashing coming from the area of her knees rather than by her face. It had to be a left turn. The road from camp was eleven kilometres to the paved highway…how long had she been out? She needed to get a grip on herself. Her left hip hurt like hell. She thought it might be the wheel-jack or something. She squirmed, bringing her fingers to the carpet. Lindsey felt around behind her. There was a jumble of items, hurriedly pushed out of the way when they dumped her. Something shifted away from her fingertips.
Something small.
It had to be a tire iron, perhaps a screwdriver. Her heart leapt when she realized it was a putty knife. The cues were so subtle, but that was what it was. There was a small toolbox and the lid must have unlatched on the twisty, bumpy roads. There were all kinds of small tools in behind her. She mustn’t tighten the bonds on her wrist even more, so she shifted and tried again. Her hands were numb, buzzing and tingling with the lack of circulation and pressure on the nerve. Her neck was close to going into a spasm. The urge to straighten out for a moment was overpowering.
Do not scream with frustration.
It is a waste of time.
A putty knife.
Something about the shape of the handle, flat, rounded off on the end and with a flared hole to hang it on a nail.
If only…
Try again, and she had it. The first time she had it, it was pointing the wrong way to use it with any effectiveness. She had to take it on faith that she could do it again. She put it down and reversed the lie, end for end. She managed to pick it up with the fingertips. It sat right in her palm, the end of the handle against the butt of her right hand. She clasped her fingers, put the wide, sharp scraper blade against the edge of the tape on her wrists and began to push up against it.
The blade was well set in the strong, rubber-backed fabric of the tape. There were a few layers of it. She didn’t have the strength in her wrists or hands or fingers to saw back and forth, and the pain and the fear were enough to bring fresh tears.
The car slowed. The brake lights came on. In a frenzy, Lindsey pulled and yanked and twisted her arms, aching in their sockets. Her fingers and especially her thumbs were crying out for relief. Her neck and upper back were in agony.
Something gave and her wrists felt looser, the wide tape having let go halfway. Her hands worked feverishly, twisting back and forth as the desperate girl tried to free herself before they stopped and opened the trunk.
There came an audible sound from the wrist area in behind her and then the ring of sweaty, bloody tape was loose. She quickly worked it off.
If only she could scream, shout, let out the rage that consumed her.
You bastards.
When she got home she was going to get Uncle Dale’s shotgun and blow them away.
Twelve-gauge, double barrel.
Point and pull.
Fuck you, no questions asked.
She was making herself a few promises. The thoughts kept her going.
Her arms were heavy, limp and shrieking in pain. Somehow she lifted the weight of her body, unable to straighten out. It was so small in there, toes mashed into the far corner, struggling to get her left arm out from under. There was so little room. She had to balance up on her left shoulder, and pull the left arm out with her right.
She was still blind, but the ankle tape was easy.
She gave a good hack at it and kicked hard. It was almost off. Frantically she scrabbled at it with slippery fingers, unable to be sure it was completely off. The car was still going. The worst was the tape over her eyes. She put the blade carefully along the bottom edge and then with as much caution as she could muster, cut some of it. Lindsey managed to push the remainder up on her forehead. Her fingertips, slippery with what must be blood, could not find the edge of the tape over her mouth and she needed oxygen badly.
Using a corner of the putty knife’s flat blade, she opened a slit, cutting the corner of her mouth painfully when the reinforcing fibres let go in a run.
“Argh.” She hacked it off quickly, knowing they were a bare three or four feet away on the other side of the seat bolster.
Fuck.
Shit.
Cunt.
Those expensive speakers were still going, not so loud now. It was a marvel they hadn’t felt her struggling around back there. It was a pretty small car. Or maybe they had, as the sound of their voices and a quick laugh were clearly audible for a moment.
Her pulse and her heart were racing. Her mind was clear enough.
“Oh, you stupid bitch…”
The vehicle was still moving. Lindsey clung to the blade. She tried to determine with one hand whether her feet were clear. The knee joints ached, just ached. The insides of the taillights were in front of her eyes. Now that she had eyes, she realized she was looking at the inside of the trunk latch assembly. The key was to get up and out of there the second someone opened the lid.
In order to do that, she had to get control of herself. That tire iron wasn’t such a bad idea.
She had to prepare, to look around.
To think.
There was a cable going along inside the inner layer, clipped to the metalwork, and then it connected to the latch. The dim light was just enough to reveal the end of it, or she might never have thought of it.
She was just reaching for it when the sound and sensation from the wheel-well beneath her head changed. They were on a paved road. They were in a parking lot, or worse, going up somebody’s private drive.
If this was where she thought they were, there were some really nice houses along this section.
Chapter Twenty
Rick Blyth was assistant to the deputy director for the North American section.
EMERALD wasn’t much of priority with the agency, but then it was somebody else’s brainchild. The operation promised to pay important dividends if the Brits and the Canadians could pull it off. He appreciated being kept in the loop, and the opportunity to meet Ron Marinaro couldn’t have come at a better time.
It was the International Summit on Crime and Terrorism, held in Bonn every spring.
A trade show in every sense of the word, it was a chance to check out the latest technology, and to learn about the newest developments in the trade. Anybody who was anybody in the world of espionage and spy-craft was there. It was a chance to see and be seen, to recruit, to observe, to refresh those surreptitious head-and-shoulders shots taken from a camera disguised as a lapel pin. Here were the buyers and the sellers and those who liked to keep an eye on them.
Blyth grinned at his companion.
“Penny for your thoughts.”
Marinaro snorted.
“A can of worms as usual.”
They stood in the lobby of the convention centre, just one small eddy in a larger flood of humanity. The weather was warm and fine. A good number of patrons were wearing shorts and sandals, looking a bit incongruous as they strolled along eating cotton candy, their wide-eyed children taking in the flame-thrower display from R-Tech Distributors. This was one of Jackson’s little endeavours, respectable enough on the face of it. Just inside the door, it was a prime bit of space for which they had paid dearly. There was such a thing as the military and security junkie. They were tourists who bought tickets and programs, gaped at the displays, listened to the panels and lectures and dreamed of the day when they would become a proper mercenary. Someone was always recruiting, and here was as good a place as anywhere. Some of them had a real youthfulness to them.
R-Tech’s eye-popping display consisted of a line of mannequins, fully camouflaged. They were wearing helmets and dramatically posed with various models, from the heavy military attack version to the lighter sport and weed-control models. Short, noisy spurts of fire from the tips of the little household versions drew the eye and would be remembered for a long time.
Two other men stood a metre and half away from Blyth and Marinaro. One faced inwards, watching foot traffic, and one faced outwards. He was also watching the foot traffic. One fellow leaned to his left and spoke quietly to Blyth.
“Our car’s outside, sir.”
Blyth put his hand on Marinaro’s arm and the pair exited through the green tinted doors, a revolving glass drum. Pairs of relatively unobtrusive operatives were visible all over the place, if one knew what to look for. Move and mingle as they might, they were a little too still in the face, a little too intent. Ron had a couple of his own people in the crowd, just as anyone of importance presumably did. Familiar faces were getting into the sedan behind them. They would have an unobtrusive escort.
A man stepped forward and opened the door for them. Blyth waited for Marinaro to climb in. Blyth’s assistant was next, and on a nod from Marinaro, his own man Freed took a jump seat.
The vehicle moved off and the men could now speak with relative freedom. Marinaro had clearance for what he had to say, and so would Blyth. The conversation would be recorded by both sides, which was to both of their benefits. It avoided misunderstandings, and put responsibility squarely where it belonged, if one cared to look at it that way.
“So.”
Marinaro opened his briefcase. He pulled out a thin computer tablet and activated it.
“Pictures.” He showed Blyth the icon to forward the slide show. “From EMERALD.”
As the assistant deputy director held the machine in his own hands, Marinaro, turned slightly sideways on the back seat, looked over his shoulder and explained exactly what he was seeing.
***
“I’d like to borrow a half a dozen surveillance drones.” Marinaro closed out the file.
Blyth heaved a breath.
The satellite pictures were as good as any he’d ever seen, but they still had their limitations. The pictures, taken at all times of day, were for the most part flat. Taken from great height, they relied on contrast and enhancement, exacting interpretation to be of any use. The opposition’s cars and vehicles were there in one frame, and then gone in the next. This was partly due to the heavily forested terrain in the operating environment. He was familiar with the phenomena—sooner or later it happened in the best of terrains. Flying much lower, the Predators and their newest acquisition the Pelican, could look into bedroom windows and zoom in on individuals in stores or vehicles on something more like their own level.
The real problem was letting them out from under direct C.I.A. control. There were ways around that.
“Do you want Hellfires?”
“No.”
“Okay. We’ll set up some sort of cooperative training exercise. Strictly uniformed military. Possibly reservists.” He knew exactly where he could borrow some.
Marinaro nodded.
“That would be very welcome.” More resources, more men and boots on the ground.
More action, more confusion. More convincing.
The fellow beside him, impeccably dressed in the Washington power elite fashion but otherwise physically undistinguished, was said to be one hell of a quick and creative thinker. Ron himself had been rather uninspired as to justifications.
Blyth was just thinking out loud in an informative way at this stage.
“We have a small number of military units in the northern tier. We’ll bring in some low-level air defence measures. It’ll be a joint exercise, simulating a rapid, ah, a rapid joint-forces response.” This would consist of everything from portable radar units, shoulder-fired missiles, trailered missile packs, and light anti-aircraft cannon systems. “Anything up to forty or fifty-seven millimetre.”
Marinaro typed rapidly into his keyboard as the older man went on.
“We can jointly put it about that our forces are cooperating. We’ll call it Operation Boreal Owl or something. The ostensible mission is to learn how to detect and destroy enemy surveillance drones. How’s that for an idea?”
Blyth, knuckles cracking as he gave his hands a good wringing, looked pleased with himself. Marinaro would have to put it through the Ministry of Defense, where he had many friends. The request would be fairly sudden, perhaps even unexpected. Blyth had an explanation. It was a structured test of their allied responsiveness, and the speed with which the units in question could be re-tasked and re-deployed. The units would receive no notification or warning of the exercise in advance. Canadian Forces were being asked to cooperate with the U.S., rather than the other way around. With the friendly relations between the two, this would not be too unusual. It would be good to tell the press something. The story would be picked up in a number of glossy magazines, newspapers, journals, and of course many of the enthusiast websites, both pro and anti.
The fact that Predators and other craft would now be patrolling in racetrack and more random patterns over their area of concern, was the real reason for their being there. This aspect could be downplayed with the press, or even denied. This applied to all subordinates, all agencies, on a need-to-know basis. The Canadians would be supplied with the feed in real-time.
He turned and his pebbly glasses flashed with reflections from the street outside Marinaro’s window.
“You
’re at the Marriott, right?” Blyth’s memory wasn’t exactly photographic but he had a way with names, faces and details.
His assistants helped keep him on track.
“Yep.”
Blyth turned to talk to the driver as Freed, inscrutable behind those tinted lenses, put his finger on the talk button of his ear-piece to call up to the room.
The big car was just turning into the plaza to drop them off. The whole business hadn’t taken ten minutes.
Now it was just a matter of ironing out the fine details. That could be left to staff members. Ron and his party were flying out at eleven-thirty-five anyways.
They agreed to get moving on the details.
All in all, it had been a productive day. It had also been a tiring, jam-packed two-day trip. The irony was that Ron loved fishing. Liam and some of the others had been having all the fun. By the time he slept a few hours and then spent the afternoon and evening at the office, his weekend would be well on the way to being shot. Over the course of the summer he’d be lucky to get out with the boys for a couple of hours one afternoon. Jeff was nine and Tyrell twelve.
There were times when he envied his field agents. At least they got to do something once in a while.
Blyth grinned when he heard that one. They shook hands like the good guys they were and then he and his companion were clambering out into the evening air. The ride up in the elevator seemed to take forever.
Dinner, drink, shower, pack, limo ride, airplane, in that particular order.
***
“Emil said to have a little fun with it.”
Beryl just growled. Her partner rearranged the girl’s legs and adjusted the lens for a wider, more panoramic shot. They were using the car headlights on high beam. The fog lamps were turned on too.
After her near-escape, Lindsey was tied with rope mostly. Emil had garnished this with a couple of loops of soft iron baling wire, the sharply-cut ends twisted in such a way as to gouge the flesh and making struggle a painful and bloody proposition.