Trust Me

by Jeff Abbott

  ‘When do I get my money?’

  ‘Follow instructions.’ He hung up.

  The neo-Nazi bit his lip. Not even a word of congratulations? His contact sounded like he’d lost the stomach for this battle. The neo-Nazi did not like that answer but what could he do? Complain? The mission first, that had been driven into his brain ever since he met the man with glasses and the rumpled gray suit at a coffee shop. He’d spent so much time complaining about the damned Jews (and various other groups) and their plots to eviscerate America on websites, it felt good to meet with someone who recognized his unique potential. And with the first wave of attacks nearly done, now they could truly hurt this hated world. He drove for a while – he felt the need to put distance between him and the school – and stopped ten miles later at a suburban coffee shop that offered free internet access. He opened his laptop, checked the account.

  The email account’s one message simply said: CHICAGO.

  He checked the news websites. The bombing was, of course, the lead news story. A smile, a bubble of laughter, rose from his chest and heat traveled along his skin. It felt good to make a fist for justice and throw a hard, savage punch. And Hellfire was going to be so much more than a little punch. He trembled with excitement. With his promised cut of the money, he could recruit new adherents. Buy automatic weapons. Buy better material for bombs, higher-quality explosives, and much more of it. He could set up operations throughout the Midwest.

  He could be somebody who shaped the world.

  He was tempted to go onto the Night Road site, but no. Not now. Not here. There were a few patrons lingering over their lattes. And the barista, she looked Jewish to him, and she kept trying to see what the sharp-edged tattoo on his neck was. He suddenly didn’t want her looking at him.

  He got back in his car and drove north toward Chicago, the screams playing in his head like a symphony he’d written himself, a masterpiece.

  The second attack took place in Los Angeles, California, outside a small restaurant off Sunset Boulevard. It had, unusually, been a stormy day in Southern California. Rain fell in broken wind-blown curtains and the wind hissed like steam, and the young man in the car waited on a side street. He had never killed before and his hands shook with fright at the thought of what he was about to do. He opened the file folder next to him, although he had studied it for hours in the past several days, when he wasn’t praying at the mosque or trying to hide his activities from his mother and his father, who would disapprove.

  The target’s picture was drawn from his books, which outlined how the war against Islam must be waged, and sold in the hundreds of thousands to the unbelievers. His advice was being cited in Washington; he had the ear of powerful people who might act contrary to Allah’s will. He was a history professor at UCLA, a specialist in terrorism and the Middle East, an educated man who apparently knew nothing. His words could not be allowed to continue, and he had been talking and writing more and more about the possibility of American Muslims being seduced into violence, as had happened in France, Germany and Britain, becoming home-grown carriers of terror.

  Then the young man saw the professor. Walking with his wife and his teenage daughter, hurrying, huddled under an umbrella. The rain had eased in the past fifteen minutes, Allah smiling on his mission.

  The young man lowered his window. Fifteen feet away.

  The gun was ready in his hand. Ten feet away. He had to do this, he had to keep his nerve so he could qualify himself for a much greater battle.

  He raised his firearm, asked Allah to guide his aim and fired the modified semi-automatic at the family, hoping the drizzling rain would not badly deflect his bullets.

  The wife and the daughter, strolling in the front, fell screaming. He could see that the girl was dead in an instant, a bright cloud of blood settling on her skull; the wife shrieked, badly wounded. The professor – He Who Must Die – stumbled, trying to catch his family, a dawning horror on his face.

  The gunman fired again, another spurt of fire, bullets drumming through tender flesh and mortal bone. The three of them lay sprawled in the blood and the cleansing rain.

  He had just killed an entire family and for a moment the realization cut to his heart. Then he thought: Good. Well done.

  They had dropped in front of a wine bar and a man ran out, a woman stumbling behind him, trying to help the family.

  Stupid or brave? The gunman thought. It did not matter. The gunman shot them both, biting his lip again, not caring now. He didn’t want to be seen, didn’t want his license plate noticed. He revved onto Sunset Boulevard, drove fast, blasted through two red lights, turned onto side streets. He had stolen it earlier that morning, changed the plates with a car at the airport. Now he drove the car to Orange County, parking in the shadow of a mosque, his breathing returning in even tides. He had committed a most brazen mass killing, in full daylight, and escaped. Now. He could be part of Hellfire, his worth proven.

  He made the phone call. He was told there was a change in plans, that he would not go to Houston, that he must check an email account that he had never seen before. He went to a computer at a public library and opened the account.

  The message read: CHICAGO.

  He had been chosen, not just by Allah, but by his brothers in arms, his fellow warriors, whoever they were. He lowered the window as he drove east, letting the damp air refresh his skin and nourish him for the battle and the glory that lay ahead.

  31

  Bridger lay bound and tied in the car trunk; Henry looked at him with a gaze free of pity. Snow’s ex had been turned in by a Night Road member he knew, one that Bridger had run to in Alabama, begging for money and a place to hide. Per Henry’s orders, the man drove Bridger in the trunk up to a rural field in northern Virginia.

  Standing under the gleam of the stars, Henry wanted a cigarette for the first time in several years. The conversation with Luke had unnerved him badly. He had thought before that Luke would at least be willing to hear him out. If he could simply get a word in, he was sure he could make Luke understand. Barbara kept crowding into his thoughts, her final words to him much like Luke’s: I know what you are . She had said them right before the crash, when he’d only grabbed the steering wheel to get her to pull over, so he could work his magic, convince her that she was wrong. If she’d only listened, the car wouldn’t have plowed through the guardrail, somersaulted down the hill. He had kept his eyes open during the whole crash, screaming Barbara’s name, watching her die.

  If only Luke would listen, a certain tragedy would be avoided.

  Barbara had only found a phone in his desk. A cell phone he kept for contacts in the Middle East. The balance sheet for the think-tank had grown thin, and he spent long hours re-reading his 9/11 papers, wondering when I saw 9/11 coming, why did no one believe me? He would ignore that he had failed to include so many vital details that actually happened in the attack. His anger at being overlooked would heat like a fever and he would think, like a bullied child, I’ll show them all. He would sip his whiskey, grow morose. He knew many people in the Middle East, some of them with loose connections to the terrorists he’d interviewed and psychologically dissected. He had sent out feelers, calling them, asking for meetings, trying to find a solution to his problem: how he could predict terrorist attacks with greater accuracy, how he could win wider acclaim, grow his business, be seen as a power player.

  He’d finally realized he’d needed someone that could help him make his vision work.

  She’d found the phone and she’d listened to a voicemail he’d forgotten to erase, from an associate of the Arab billionaire. Stupid of him. But he had been listening to it when she interrupted him and he’d just switched off the phone. But she knew it wasn’t the phone he normally used. What had possessed her to pry, to listen to the voicemail? Had she been afraid he was unfaithful, that the phone was used for contact with a mistress? He worshipped Barbara. He knew how lucky he was. And she had waited until they were in the car, a day later, to confront
him. He should have denied it all while they were driving but he was too rattled.

  He would not make such a mistake again. It had cost him Barbara; it would not cost him his son.

  He had driven to the deserted field from his Alexandria home, careful that Drummond or someone else was not following him. There was no sign of a shadow; then he reminded himself that if Drummond was still part of the government, then they could simply train a satellite on him and follow him.

  You’re not that important, he told himself. And that is your strength. If they’d realized you were important maybe you’d still be with State. Maybe you’d be where you started, on the side of the angels.

  Then the little stinger of his conscience: if you had been treated as important, then none of this would have happened.

  ‘I need to speak with him alone.’

  ‘I’ll take a walk,’ said the young Alabama man who’d delivered Bridger. He strolled off into the darkness. Henry dragged Bridger out of the trunk, propped him against the car’s bumper. He still wore the leather jacket with its emblazoned eagle.

  ‘I’ve had a very bad day,’ Henry said. ‘You know, in my business, I have to email out position papers on policy and theory to some of the most powerful people in the world.’

  Bridger stared.

  ‘I’ve warned my clients about all sorts of impending attacks today: a follow-up on the chlorine bombing, an assault on our fuel supplies, a rise in neo-Nazi hatred. Everything I’ve predicted is coming true.’

  Bridger moaned behind the gag.

  ‘I’ve had violence on my mind, Bridger. And you know, thinking about violence can make one more violent. That’s unlucky for you.’

  Bridger’s eyes widened with terror.

  Henry unwrapped the gag, let the fabric fall from Bridger’s mouth and he screamed for help.

  ‘No one can hear you,’ Henry said. ‘God, that feels good to say that. You’re the best part of my day, Bridger.’

  Bridger, to Henry’s disgust, started to cry.

  ‘Your mouth is what’s gotten you in trouble.’

  ‘I didn’t do nothing, honest.’

  ‘You didn’t do anything because your Quicksilver contact got killed before you could sell us out.’

  ‘No. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘You’re on the Houston traffic intersection tape we accessed, son.’

  ‘It ain’t me, it ain’t me.’ He was not a brave man, in any sense of the word, and his stark fear shuddered off him in waves, as though it had its own energy his skin could not contain.

  ‘It’s you. Even if we hadn’t pulled your face off the tape your extremely bad-ass leather jacket with the embroidered eagle on the back is too tasteful and refined to belong to anyone but you, Bridger.’

  Bridger hung his head.

  ‘You’ve broken Snow’s heart.’

  ‘She… you don’t need to hurt her.’

  ‘I don’t blame her for your betrayal. Plus, she’s useful. She’s already found a guy to fill your shoes and to warm her bed.’ Henry’s smile shifted. ‘When you don’t amount to much, it’s easy to replace you.’ He smiled to himself. He knew this truth. Warren Dantry hadn’t been much of a father or husband, in Henry’s eyes, and he’d slipped into Warren’s life with an astonishing ease.

  ‘Now. We can be friends again, and the Night Road can forgive you.’ Henry squatted on the cool grass next to him. ‘If you tell me who Quicksilver is.’

  ‘I don’t know that name.’

  ‘The man you were meeting works for a company called Quicksilver. Who are they?’

  ‘I don’t know. They said…’ and Bridger stopped as though searching for words.

  Henry reached over to him, found a finger. And broke it, with a clean snap. Drummond had taught him the technique, years ago, for self-defense.

  Bridger howled, kicked a muddy trench in the grass, knocked his shoulders and head hard against the bumper. When he could speak coherent words again he begged, ‘Don’t, don’t, no!’

  ‘You have nine more. One minute to change your mind, and I crack another.’ He let the pain sink in, let the horror rise in Bridger.

  Bridger clenched his teeth.

  ‘I mean, do you think Quicksilver’s going to charge through the woods and rescue you? I think not. I’m your only hope for mercy and kindness, Bridger. We can forgive you. We can hide you. But not if you don’t help us.’

  The minute passed, the only sound Bridger’s clenched moans. He was nothing more than a loser, a guy who’d drifted from one racist extremist group to another across the South, usually doing no more than building their websites and waving a placard during poorly attended demonstrations. He’d met Snow five months ago and they’d moved in together; he had an interest in learning how to build bombs, but no skill, and he’d been demoted to solely being the guy in charge of fetching her supplies.

  Gently, Henry reached for the next finger, caressed it from nail to joint, and before he could break it, a desperate spill of words came from Bridger’s throat:

  ‘I got a call on my cell phone. From this man.’

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘He didn’t give it. He said, real blunt, that he knew I had acquired bomb gear for Snow. That if I didn’t want to go to prison for the rest of my life, I needed to cooperate.’ Bridger swallowed.

  But how had Allen Clifford known about Snow in the first place? Henry wondered. And the answer was clear: we have a spy inside the Night Road.

  ‘The guy said they’d pay me, they’d hide me, make sure I didn’t go to prison. If I just gave everything I knew to him, he’d come meet me in Houston.’

  ‘How did you know about what Snow was working on?’

  ‘I heard Snow talking to you.’ He shook his head in shame.

  ‘You were spying on her.’

  ‘I knew she made a few simple bombs, for people to pick up and use. A guy from Minnesota, a guy from Missouri, a bunch of hippies from Seattle. But then she was working on a huge number of bombs, for days and days.’ Bridger bit his lip. ‘So I thought, I’ll go meet this dude, then I was gonna capture him and bring him back to you. So we could know who the enemy was, you know. I’m on your side.’

  ‘We? You’re not part of us. You’re not smart enough to be one of us.’ Henry broke another finger and Bridger vomited onto his own lap. ‘That’s for lying and not even being good at it.’

  Bridger howled and cried and spat a green rope of spit onto the floor. ‘I thought I’d… prove I was useful to you.’ His voice sank into a quicksand of pathetic whining. ‘I ain’t a traitor.’

  ‘Then prove it. Tell me everything and I’ll let you call Snow and you can apologize to her.’

  ‘So I agreed. The guy said he’d meet me in downtown Houston. I wanted it on the streets in case it was a trap. So I could run.’ As though a trap couldn’t be sprung on Bridger in the streets of Houston, as it clearly had been, and one of Jane’s own design. ‘Told him he had to dress like a homeless man, throw me a hand signal that all was clear.’

  ‘And the point of this meeting?’

  ‘I’d tell him everything I knew about Snow and the bombs. I knew about the website she goes on, to talk to folks around the world, you know, people like us. How to access the website, what Snow was planning. Give ’em any names. I only knew yours and Snow’s.’

  ‘And Clifford – that’s the man’s name, by the way – would give you what?’

  ‘Protection. A fresh start overseas. I thought I’d go to Sweden or Iceland or one of those countries that’s nearly all white folks. That’s just what I told him. Of course my plan was to capture him, bring him back to Snow so y’all could question him.’

  ‘Of course. Did he know about Hellfire? About the members of the Night Road?’

  For a second it looked like Bridger was giving the matter serious thought, as much as his lax brain could summon. Then he shook his head. ‘He knew something big might be coming. He didn’t know what specifically, I d
on’t think.’

  ‘Thank you, Bridger. I’d like to know if Clifford mentioned my name.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did he mention Luke Dantry?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did he ever suggest that he was part of a police or government agency?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did he use the word Quicksilver?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How did Clifford assure you he could protect you?’

  ‘He said they could hide me better than the feds or the police could because there would be no record, no paperwork, no trail for me to be found.’

  No paperwork? Then Quicksilver didn’t play by government rules. Henry rubbed his temples, a throbbing headache blossomed in his brain. Bridger’s claims only deepened the mystery.

  But he had to act before either Jane or Quicksilver could derail Hellfire. Apparently Quicksilver didn’t know about the first wave of attacks; nothing had interfered with the execution of those operations. But they suspected the first wave were just a prelude to something bigger.

  He patted Bridger’s cheek. ‘Okay. Let me get your fingers fixed up and we’ll get you on your way.’

  ‘Really? Really?’

  Henry nodded at the pathetic desire to believe. ‘Really.’

  He went to his own car, pulled out a video recorder and a tripod, mounted a night-vision lens to capture the images, and turned it on.

  ‘What’s that for?’

  ‘Discouragement.’

  His back was to the camera, but he still lowered a black balaclava, drawn from his jacket, over his face to hide it. Bridger started to whimper. ‘But you promised… you promised.’

  Henry could edit the words out later. He broke the remaining eight fingers. By the fourth one Bridger was unconscious from the pain. He kicked Bridger in the testicles, to waken him. Bridger’s eyes jerked open with numbed fear, long enough to be open while Henry cut his throat with a straight razor, one swift move.

  He put his hand on Bridger’s shoulder, felt the life and the pain seeping out of him, and said, ‘This is what happens when you attempt to betray the Night Road.’ The video clip would be put up on the group’s website in short order, and that should take care of any loyalty issues.