by Arno Joubert
Laiveaux jumped up, grabbing an elbow, trying to usher her out of the tent. “You need to lay down, my girl. We will deal with things from here on in,” Laiveaux said in French.
“He’s right, you know,” Bruce said.
Alexa stood firm, and pulled her arms loose from Laiveuax’s grip. “I cannot lay in bed while there is work to be done.” She limped toward the screen. “As I said, that is Doctor Lucy Beck, and Fitch will kill her if we sit around here doing nothing.” Her eyes looked desperate. “We need to help her.”
“Hello Captain,” Sal Frydman said, bowing his head to Alexa.
Alexa looked up at the screen and smiled tiredly. “Major.”
“I’ve managed to get into the security feed, and I’m almost into the data repository. Another half an hour, tops.”
Alexa nodded. “Please keep me posted.” She turned to face Doctor Ryan. “Is David Beck still alive?”
The older man pursed his lips and shook his head. “I don’t know, I heard that he committed suicide in jail.”
Alexa nodded. She glanced at Laiveaux. “We must go now, General. She has information that could blow this case wide open.”
Laiveaux pursed his lips and looked at Bruce, who simply shrugged.
“All right, let’s go then,” she said and hobbled out of the tent.
The Hummers sped down the blacktop, their wheels humming noisily across the tarmac. Bruce stared straight ahead, trying to figure out a way to approach the subject tactfully. Screw this, she needed to talk. He glanced sidelong at Alexa. “About Neil…” he blurted out, then immediately regretted his words.
She looked at him, the corner of her mouth turned up slightly in a stiff smile. “He’s dead.” She looked straight back at the road, sitting in silence.
“I’m sorry, Alexa.”
She glanced at him, the humorless smile etched on her face like a mask. Now he knew what had changed. Her eyes. They were somehow…lifeless. She looked back at the road with her stiff smile.
They approached the refinery. “Okay, get ready, here we go,” she said over the two-way radio, and slapped a magazine into her MP7.
Her tone worried Bruce; cold as tempered steel, emotion all but gone.
She pointed at the booms in front of the guard house as Bruce slowed down. “Drive through them,” she said.
He shrugged and stepped on the gas. A guard ran toward the guard house and dove toward the door as the Humvees smashed through the boom. Alexa leaned out of the window and sprayed bullets his way, stitching large holes through the bulletproof glass. He fell backward, clutching his chest.
“Go straight,” she said.
“Over the golf course?” Bruce asked.
Alexa nodded. He ripped the steering wheel to the right and spun onto the fairway, then accelerated, leaving deep ruts in the green grass as they slid and slipped their way toward the refinery. Alexa looked back and smiled with satisfaction.
Bruce ducked as a bullet ricocheted from the hood of the Hummer and ripped holes into the ground in front of the vehicle. He peered from below the window arch to see where the gunfire was coming from. He swerved as another burst of bullets slammed into the side of the car. Shit, they were an open target. “The guards in the tower, you need to take them out, now, Alexa,” he shouted, zigzagging across the fairway.
Alexa unclipped a box and pulled a rocket launcher from its protective foam, opened a hatch at the top of the Hummer and took aim. She fired and a second later, the tower exploded in a massive ball of flames. She dropped the rocket launcher on the seat next to Colonel Max Porter.
“Reload,” she said calmly.
Porter slapped another missile into the launcher and handed it back to Alexa. She aimed and fired again, sending another tower crashing to the ground as the guards leapt for cover.
She slipped into the seat next to Bruce and pointed to a gap between the trees. “Head to the eastern side of the refinery. Go straight through the fence.”
Bruce pointed the Hummer toward the gap and the car clattered through the first fence, sparks exploding off the hood as they crashed their way through. Bruce slowed down, then accelerated through the second fence as well. They screeched to a halt in front of the refinery complex, soldiers leaping out of the Hummers and taking defensive positions, using the vehicles as shields.
“Secure the perimeter,” Alexa ordered. “Nothing comes in or goes out.”
The men positioned themselves around the building. Alexa pointed to the two men closest to her. “Lipner, Simkin, with me.” She signaled to Bruce. “Be ready.”
Bruce nodded. ”And you be careful.” That crazy, half-smile again, her eyes deadly calm.
She waved the men forward, slammed a magazine into the MP7 and jerked her head toward the door. “Follow me.”
Alexa followed the route to Fitch’s office that she had memorized from the blueprints. She raised her wrist to her mouth. “She still in there?”
Her earpiece crackled. “Yes, she’s alone,” Frydman answered, then more urgently, “Watch out Captain, bogy heading your way, northwest at six o’ clock.”
Alexa spun around and motioned to the two soldiers in front of her. “Duck.” They dropped to the ground as Alexa fired. The small rifle spat two high velocity 4.6 mm rounds that exploded into the guard’s bulletproof jacket and helmet, and continued straight through him. He fell down to his knees and slumped forwards, large exit wounds visible through his head and back.
“Okay, one more, fifteen yards, left entrance, seven yards further right corner, both armed,” Frydman hissed in her ear. Alexa pointed backwards and held her fist in the air. The men stood still, waiting for their orders. Alexa patted her head. Cover this area.
She counted out fifteen long steps and stopped in front of the door to her left. She slid the shoulder stock back in and held the rifle in front of her, gripping it like a pistol. Although the recoil from the gas propelled cartridge would be minimal, she didn’t want to test her painful shoulder unnecessarily.
She fired a single shot at the lock, shattering it and probably alerting the guard. She kicked the door open, wincing as the shock from the blow jolted through her body. She still felt the effect from her injuries, although the Ketamine had mercifully dulled her protesting nervous system.
Alexa entered the room, swiveling the rifle from side to side. A guard to her left aimed a roundhouse kick at her head. She ducked and ripped a knife from the sheath on her back, stabbing him just below his left rib, pulled it out and drove the blade in an upward arc, sinking it in deep beneath his chin. She held him up by the knife shaft, his eyes bulging as blood burbled from between his lips.
“That’s for the dog you made Neil kill.”
She dropped him to the ground, ripped the knife free and wiped the blade on his back, then slid it back into the sheath and slipped around the doorway. She crouched and slunk another seven steps to the end of the passageway.
She smelt stale tobacco smoke and heard someone whispering. The man was praying softly, sounding frightened. And he had every right to be.
She walked around the corner, pointed her rifle at him. He stood kneeling, his hands in the air. His pistol was placed on the floor in front of him.
“Please, miss, I beg of you.”
She trotted up to him and smacked the butt of the MP7 down on the side of his temple. He slumped to the ground, out for the count. Alexa ran back to her men and signaled for them to follow her. She lifted her wrist to her mouth. “All clear?”
“Affirmative, Captain,” came the tinny response.
She stopped in front of Fitch’s office and wiggled the doorknob. Locked. “Kick it down,” she said, pointing at Lipner. She was in enough pain already.
Lipner nodded. He stepped back and connected the door with his boot below the lock. It burst open and settled against the doorframe, hanging on its hinges. He entered the room and swept his rifle left and right, then signaled that the room was clear.
Lucy Beck was gagged and bou
nd to the chair, her eyes puffy and swollen. Alexa removed the gag and cut the ropes around her wrist. Lucy rubbed them and smiled gratefully.
“Where is Fitch?” Alexa asked.
Lucy bit her lip. “He left a couple of minutes ago, in a hurry.”
Alexa pursed her lips. “Okay, let’s get her out of here.”
She grabbed Lucy’s hand and backtracked their way to the exit of the building. Simkin opened the door an inch and cursed. “Shit, its worse than Baghdad out there,” he shouted and ducked back as a bullet exploded through the glass door.
Alexa marched forward and pushed him aside, then peered outside. Her men were crouching for cover behind the vehicles, firing at guards on the roof of the refinery. Bullets slammed into the wall next to her.
What the hell?
“Use the fucking launcher,” she shouted at Forrester.
“Wouldn’t that be excessive force?” he shouted back at her, squinting his eyes, ducking for cover.
Alexa shook her head. “They set the precedent,” she whispered. She signaled to Simkin and Lipner to cover her, then bolted to the back door of the Hummer as the covering fire barked behind her.
She grabbed the rocket launcher from the backseat of the Hummer, stood on the tire and pulled herself up by the roof rail. She took aim and fired in the general direction of the refinery’s roof. A guard yelled and jumped from the building as the gas-propelled missile sped toward him, trailing smoke and vapor. A second man jumped up and started running, much too late, the roof exploding around him and engulfing him in flames and debris.
“Problem solved,” Alexa said and climbed into the Hummer. “Let’s go,” she shouted at Bruce.
He nodded and reversed the Humvee through the fence, swung the wheel and spun a large circle on a putting green. They barreled down the fairway and headed to the non-existent exit booms.
Alexa looked back. The refinery was on fire. Doctor Lucy Beck sat in the backseat, her palm to her chest, her face panicked as he breathed deeply.
Alexa ground her teeth and blinked. Neil was still dead. And someone had to pay.
Andy Fitch lit a cigar, inhaled deeply and blew the smoke through his nose. According to the latest report, Lucy Beck had been rescued and the refinery had been damaged in a fire. He made up his mind. He would need some outside help even though he hated involving outsiders. He pursed his lips, and punched a number into his phone. A man with a strong Russian accent answered.
“Toporov. Andy Fitch here. I’m in need of some of your specialized services.”
“Fitch, my friend. Covert or Operational?” the man asked.
“Operational. I have Interpol and Mossad breathing down my neck. ”
“How many?” Toporov asked in a raspy voice.
“They have fifteen men.”
Toporov whistled. “You have stuck your hand in a hornet’s nest, my friend. What is this all about?”
Fitch shrugged. “Money.”
“Yes, always about the money. I won’t be able to hold them off for ever.”
“I only need time to discard of some incriminating evidence and clean my tracks,” Fitch said and took another puff. “About a week.”
Toporov went silent. “Okay, twenty-five bar. Cash. I’ll send twenty of my best men and I’ll supply the weapons and ammunition.”
“Deal.” Fitch disconnected the call. He had made use of Toporov’s services before. After Perestroika, Nicolay Toporov started working for the highest bidder. His Spetsnaz troops became mercenaries, taking on suicide missions and always coming out on top.
Fitch felt more comfortable now. This would buy him the time needed to dot the i’s. He wasn’t planning on sticking around for much longer.
Bella sauntered into the study. “Oh baby, have you been playing in the mud again?” he asked as the large cat jumped onto his lap. “What happened to you?” he asked, examining her ear. She purred blissfully.
Bella’s mother had been his ticket to his enormous fortune.
Like the refinery, she had served her purpose. A man needed to let go, even if you loved something dearly.
He would still be a multi-billionaire. His riches were stashed away in a Chilean bank account. He would wipe the tracks and go live abroad, sipping Pino Coladas and living the good life. Maybe somewhere in Mexico or South America.
His phone rang. He looked at the screen and sighed. “Fitch,” he answered.
“Andy, this is Senator Williamson,” a deep female voice said. “Do we have any problems that you cannot deal with down there?”
“Nope, everything is under control. I’m cleaning things up as we speak.”
“Good, as long as no evidence leads back to me, I don’t want to get bit in the ass by this.”
“You won’t, by the way, your check is in the mail.”
“Good,” she said. “I wouldn’t want to jeopardize our business relationship.”
“Good bye, Senator,” Fitch said and disconnected the call.
Bitch.
Doctor Joseph Ryan crunched into a piece of toast. Two soldiers were cleaning up the remnants of a late lunch and he sat now, contemplating what to do while sipping on his mug of coffee. He couldn’t go back to Fitch or Refatex for that matter, those bridges were razed to the ground with no hope of ever being rebuilt. He had given up on his fortunes. Come to think of it, he didn’t even have a 401k to fall back onto. He was penniless and without a home.
He looked up as General Alain Laiveaux entered the mess tent with Alexa Guerra, and headed his way. Ryan watched as Alexa and Laiveaux talked to each other. The old General was fond of her, nodding and smiling as they spoke. She listened attentively whenever he said something.
The General dragged a chair out for Alexa, she smiled and nodded, then sat down at Ryan’s table.
“Lucy told me that your men put up quite a show of force,” Ryan said to both of them.
Laiveaux shrugged. “It’s the only way to extract.” He put his white Kepi, upside-down, in front of him on the table.
Captain Alexa Guerra studied Ryan intently with emotionless green eyes. She was beautiful, but had a steely grit to her. She made him think of Joan of Arc, how she probably looked before going into a battle. He shifted around in his seat as she looked at him.
“What’s wrong, Doctor?” she asked.
Ryan sighed deeply. “I guess I’ll probably have to come clean. You will guarantee my safety?”
Alexa waved her hand around the tent. “It won’t get much safer than this.”
Ryan pursed his lips and cast a furtive glance around. “Fitch has many resources. Do not underestimate him.”
“Tell us,” she said impatiently.
Doctor Ryan glanced at Laiveaux. The General nodded encouragingly.
“All right then.” Ryan said. He removed his glasses, and started cleaning them with a napkin. He looked up at Alexa. “Refatex is as a state of the art refinery. As I mentioned, we process two hundred thousand barrels of Brent crude a day.” He glanced at Laiveaux. “Only recently, we’ve scaled down, processing scarcely a fifth of that.”
Alexa frowned. “Why?”
“We’ve discovered a major oil shale deposit in Dabbort Creek. Enough to supply the United States with eighty percent of the country’s oil demands for the next twenty years.”
Alexa's eyes widened. “So Fitch has struck it rich?”
Doctor Ryan pinched his brow, then shook his head. “Technically it doesn’t belong to Fitch. The U.S. Government passed a congressional act in 1910 called the Pickett Act.” He slipped his glasses back on, and pushed them up the bridge of his nose. “All oil shale deposits below Dabbort Creek belong to the US Government.” He looked up at Alexa, then snorted. “Andy Fitch is mining a product that doesn’t belong to him.”
The Captain nodded slowly, chewing the side of her lip. “Okay, he’s due for some jail time,” she said and leaned back in her chair. “A hotshot lawyer will get his sentence rescinded to a year, two maximum.”
Ryan sighed, massaging his temples. “That’s not all.”
The Captain’s eyes locked on his. Was it his imagination or had they changed color? ”What else?”
“He’s stockpiling the oil beneath the ground.”
“Why?” she asked.
“We’re waiting for peak oil.”
“Peak oil?”
Ryan nodded. “When no new oil is discovered, we estimate crude prices to go up from one hundred dollars per barrel to two thousand, maybe more. When that day comes, Fitch would be the richest man on earth, ever.” He sighed. “So would I.”
“How many barrels have you stockpiled?” Alexa asked.
“Rough estimate,” Ryan said, leaning back in his chair. “Close to two billion.”
Laiveaux whistled softly. “Merde, that is énorme.”
Fitch smiled and shook his head. “Not really, it could keep America going for a hundred days or so.” He leaned forward in his chair. “But we would have made two-hundred billion dollars in profit.”
Alexa bit her lower lip. “So what went wrong?”
“Beck. We needed him to find us some additional storage cachets beneath the ground. But he flipped out, threatening to go to the cops.”
“Why do you need more cachets?” Laiveaux asked.
Ryan shrugged. “Look, we melt the shale rock with gas-heated metal rods, and then it gathers in a cathcment area that we drill below the shale deposits.” He explained by holding his fingers downwards and holding his other hand in a cupping gesture below his fingers. “We drilled more than five thousand of these wells around the refinery and in the countryside.”
Laiveaux stood up and started pacing the room, and incredulous look on his face. “We haven’t seen any of these drill sites.”
“Once the oil gathers in the cathcment, we seal the hole, and mark it with a GPS positional marker.”
“So why not just refine the shale oil and ship it out?” Alexa asked.
Ryan let out a frustrated sigh. “Look, our refinery was built for Brent Crude. We would have had to modify the refinery to refine shale oils, someone would have noticed.”