Unquiet Ghosts

by Glenn Meade

  More silence.

  Chad cocked his Sig, aimed it at Kevin. “Have it your way. Three . . . two . . .”

  “There’s an old coal mine that tunnels out from under the barn,” Jack blurted. “A trapdoor toward the back leads down to some steps. Just kick away some hay, and you’ll see it. The tunnel eventually leads to a secure storage room.”

  Chad gave a triumphant grin. “That’s my boy. Anything else we need to know?”

  “You’ll find the light switch on the upright beam nearest the trapdoor. It’ll illuminate the tunnel for two hundred yards. You’ll come to the storage room’s oak-and-metal door just before the tunnel ends and comes out onto a narrow plateau. The mask and the artifacts are hidden in the storage room.”

  “All of them?”

  “Yeah, all of them. The door’s rock-solid and heavily padlocked.”

  “Where does the tunnel exit?”

  “Onto a small plateau.”

  “You planned on escaping that way, Jack?”

  Jack did not reply.

  “Tell me. Were you planning on escaping that way?”

  “There are a couple of four-wheelers hidden behind some bushes at the tunnel mouth,” Jack added.

  “Once the soldier, always the soldier. Ready to bug out at a second’s notice, right?”

  Jack played dumb.

  “You’d better not be lying, old buddy.”

  “I ain’t,” Jack said.

  “Good boy.” Chad held out his hand, snapped his fingers. “Keys. Hand them over. Do it easy.”

  “Give them to him, Kevin,” Tanner said.

  Kevin went to reach into his trouser pocket, and Tanner said, “Go real slow, buddy. Use two fingers, fish the keys out.”

  Kevin eased out a big set of chunky keys tied with steel wire onto a worn piece of old hardwood. Tanner held out his hand. Kevin tossed the keys, and Tanner caught them with a grin.

  “Who the heck are you?” Jack asked.

  “A party to this deal, just like you.”

  Jack looked at Chad as if for an explanation, but none was forthcoming as Tanner tossed the keys to Chad. “We’re definitely aboveboard here, Jack? No double crosses, no pulling my chain?”

  “I told you where the stuff is. Now, what about your end of the bargain?”

  Chad looked pleased.

  Tarik did, too, and he said, “The mask and the artifacts first. Then we finish our deal and go our separate ways.”

  That’s when I noticed a disturbed look on my father’s face. His mouth was clamped tight as steel.

  “No, they won’t,” he said.

  “What are you talking about, Frank?” Chad asked.

  “You won’t finish the deal,” said my father. His face looked troubled, a forlorn look in his eyes, his voice flat, emotionless, as he stared at me. “I don’t believe either of them. Chad’s a lying crook. As for Tarik, he’s a scumbag who’d kill his own grandmother if there was a nickel in it.”

  Tarik let out a cackling laugh that frightened me. “You were never good with compliments, were you, Colonel?”

  “That’s what they called you in Iraq, the Undertaker. You had a reputation for death even then, Tarik. Nothing’s changed.”

  My father stared at Tarik as if he was a piece of dog dirt.

  Chad tried to ease the tension. “We’ll keep our word, so long as you keep yours.”

  My father’s eyes shifted to me. “Kath, if I could rewind this, if I could change things, I would. I’m so sorry . . .”

  I knew he meant it. But I still hated him.

  “Let’s wrap this up.” Chad jerked his head at Tarik. “Go get the stuff. Take Tanner with you and one of the guys from outside. I’ll stay here.”

  My father’s head went down, as if in shame. That’s when I saw him bend his left leg. I noticed the material of his cargo pants rise an inch or two. My father was the kind of man who always kept a weapon on hand—a gun, a knife.

  Tarik had taken his gun, but I thought I glimpsed something metallic and about as long as a pencil attached in some way to my father’s prosthesis. It could have been part of the foot mechanism, but I knew my father, and my instinct told me it might be a weapon of last resort. Maybe some kind of tactical blade or dagger he’d fashioned in his workshop.

  Whatever it was, Jack had missed it when he searched him. I sensed trouble coming. Cold fear rose in me. My father had always been a man of action. Despite the telltale cues of Parkinson’s, despite slowing with the years, he was still physically strong, still a fighter who wouldn’t go down without a battle. And knowing my father, he’d wait for the right moment.

  I tried to see if it really was a weapon embedded in the prosthesis, but in an instant, my father’s face collapsed, as if it was melting wax, and he moaned, “Dear God . . . no!”

  His cry was no distraction. It sounded real, a wail of shock and alarm, and I followed his gaze—everyone did. My heart felt ruptured as I saw Sean standing a few steps down from the top of the stairs. He looked so young and innocent. The image reminded me of when he was a little boy and sometimes came to the top of the stairs asking for a glass of water. His shirt collar was askew, and he wore an old pair of someone else’s pajamas that looked a few sizes too big for him.

  But he wasn’t looking for water.

  He was clutching a pump-action shotgun in both hands.

  I saw an instant spark of recognition on my father’s face, as if he’d seen the dead walk. Tears welled in his eyes, tears of joy, and fear, too, as if he recognized the extreme danger of the situation. “Sean . . . Sean, son, please, don’t do a thing, son. Don’t move . . . please . . .”

  A horrible, frightening moment of silence. Everyone froze. It was as if all the air was sucked out of the room. Like one of those still shots in movies when the camera freezes in 3-D.

  But my father’s plea was wasted, because Sean was startled, and the shotgun in his hand started to rise.

  “Sean, no!” I cried.

  Tanner raised his gun, aimed toward Sean.

  Courtney shouted, “No!” and brought up her Sig.

  Tarik beat them both to it, the .45 in his hands aimed in an instant, but before he could fire, there was a burst of gunfire from outside, two rapid shots followed by two more. Not from Chad’s men but from somewhere farther away. I saw the guys on the patio react, aiming their weapons out into the darkness beyond the farm.

  After that, everything seemed to happen like a nightmare unfolding in horrific slow motion.

  At the sound of gunfire, Sean pulled the trigger in a nervous reaction, and the shotgun exploded. The force hit Tanner in the chest, punching him backward. Courtney was caught by the blast, and she staggered back and collapsed. There was blood everywhere.

  It was enough distraction for my father. His hand went down to his foot. He slid out what looked like a polished steel bolt the size of a pen. The point was sharpened.

  I watched in horror as Tarik fired at Sean. The round missed him, gouging a hole in the wall to his left.

  “Put it down! Put the gun down!” Tarik screamed.

  Sean jumped in shock. Tarik aimed again, but this time, my father’s arm swung in an arc, and he dug the metal blade into Tarik’s back. Tarik went down, grunting, eyes wide, his gun going off, blasting a hole in the floor. My father yanked out the blade and stabbed Tarik again, this time in the chest.

  “See you in hell, Tarik.”

  Chad’s gun came up, and he shot my father in the face and twice again in the chest. My father reeled back, slamming into the couch.

  Everything was happening so fast, all at the same time. More gunfire erupted outside, as if the men on the patio were engaged in a gun battle. Chad used the distraction to grab the bunch of keys from the floor next to Tanner’s dead hand.

  Jack lunged at him.

 
But Chad was faster. He fired two quick shots, one hitting Jack in the shoulder, spinning him around, and sending the rest of us in the room ducking for cover.

  Then Chad rushed out through the kitchen door toward the back patio, the door slapping after him, and he was gone.

  104

  * * *

  Stone shouted the order to cease fire, and the hollow thudding of silenced gunshots stopped. A stench of cordite filled the air. Stone and the others inched forward toward the van. A hand rose and twitched—Abu’s—and four more rounds were fired, two into Abu’s head, another two into Mehmet.

  Two of Stone’s men moved cautiously into the van, one of them carrying a Kevlar shield in front. Stone waited until the all-clear was shouted, and then he dragged Babek by the shirt toward the blood-spattered bodies. Abu and Mehmet were sprawled half in and half out of the van, their corpses bullet-riddled.

  Babek was amazed. All the gunfire seemed accurately directed into a single space no more than three by four feet.

  “These the two?”

  “Yes.” Babek was ready to faint at the sight of all the blood, still seeping from Abu’s and Mehmet’s wounds. His head spun.

  Stone moved to join the other men inside the van, his AR-15 at the ready, the powerful tactical flashlight attached to it like a searchlight.

  They all came out moments later with the young man who had duct tape around his mouth. One of the men removed it. The young man started to cry, convulsions racking his body.

  Stone patted him. “It’s OK, Kyle, it’s OK. You’re safe, buddy.”

  Two medics dressed in tactical black appeared and helped the young man away.

  Babek felt lucky to be alive.

  Stone waved his hand, beckoning his men to join him, and ordered two of them to remain with Babek. Stone looked worried that he might already be too late, for the sound of the gunfire volleys was still a dying echo in the woods. It gave the game away, alerting anyone in the farmhouse.

  Stone snarled at Babek. “You’d better be telling me the truth about who’s in the house.”

  “I swear.”

  Stone huddled his men together and snapped orders. He seemed galvanized as he punched the air with a fist. “Move out. To the farm. Prepare to engage.”

  He snapped at the two men remaining, “Bag him and go.”

  Babek thought the look on Stone’s face spoke volumes—as if he knew, already knew, that they were too late. That the rattle of gunfire had given away any hope they had of surprise.

  Babek watched in silent awe as Stone moved off, a trail of men in dark tactical clothes jogging behind him, like some deadly black snake slinking off into the darkness, about to seek out and strike its prey.

  The next thing Babek knew, some kind of bag was thrust over his head, and everything went pitch-black.

  * * *

  The room looked like a butcher’s shop, awash with blood.

  I saw my father’s body, sprawled on the floor.

  My heart stopped.

  I moved toward him.

  His eyes were open in death and stared up blindly at the ceiling. The wound where Chad had shot him was like a drill hole between his eyes, above his nose.

  That was when I noticed Kevin. He’d been hit in the side of the head, from a ricochet or deliberately, from Chad’s or someone else’s gun. I wanted to pass out, my head spinning with the grim unreality. What kept me conscious I’ll never know, but I saw Courtney try to raise herself, a dead Tanner lying next to her, one of his legs crooked across her thighs.

  She looked in agony. Blood spattered her blouse and her face; buckshot had peppered her skin.

  Jack was slumped with his back against the wall, clutching his shoulder, writhing in pain.

  Sean looked on, stunned, his lips quivering like a frightened child’s. He went to move down the stairs toward Jack.

  I shouted, stopping him in his tracks. “Sean, get back upstairs. Stay there until I tell you. Be careful with the shotgun. Just leave it down. Leave it down, now. Go back to your room, and stay there until I call you.”

  “But Daddy . . .”

  I saw tears in his eyes.

  Jack grimaced and looked stricken, unable to move. “Go, son. Do as you’re told.”

  Courtney tried to prop herself up on an elbow as she shouted, “Stone! Cease fire, Stone!”

  But whether anyone heard her I had no idea. More gunfire erupted outside. It didn’t sound as if it was from the men on the patio, or maybe they had chased after Chad.

  I felt confused, bewildered. As if I’d been sucked up by a tornado and was being hurled about in a violent storm.

  And I felt a powerful anger. Had Chad really done what Jack said? Caused the crash? The question raged inside me, swirled inside my head, seeking an answer. Maybe seeking revenge.

  Lights flashed outside in the darkness, like silver sabers. A brief, powerful exchange of gunfire, and then it died.

  A distant voice shouted, “Captain Adams, you in there?”

  “Yes!” Courtney shouted back.

  I went to check on Jack. He grunted as I examined his wounds.

  Sweat glistened on his forehead, and he looked almost in a coma from the pain. Our eyes met. All he said was “Hang in there.”

  “I intend to.”

  Courtney flinched, tried to move, but couldn’t. “Stone and the others will be here soon.”

  * * *

  “Why side with Chad?”

  “I had to stall them, to buy time, Kath. Sergeant Stone was following me with reinforcements, but he was a distance away. We didn’t trust Tanner. When I couldn’t keep in contact by phone, I had to play along with Chad and Tarik, hoping Stone would figure out I was in trouble and come to get me.”

  “Did Chad cause the crash? Tell me the truth.”

  “I don’t know, Kath, I really don’t know.” She looked at me. “But he caused enough trouble.”

  Courtney tried to pick up her Sig, but she didn’t have the strength. I picked it up for her. But I didn’t give it to her. Instead, I cocked the slide, loading a round into the chamber.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Let’s just say I have a date with Chad.”

  I picked up a tactical flashlight that lay fallen by Kevin’s side.

  Courtney grabbed at my arm weakly, looked me in the eyes. “Don’t be crazy. There’s help outside. They’ll be in here any minute.”

  “Have them look after Jack and Sean. Will you be OK?”

  “Kath, wait. Chad’s dangerous. Wait for Stone . . .”

  But I wasn’t listening. Remembering Jack’s accusation, I felt my searing fury burn lava-hot.

  Something made me look at my father’s corpse.

  A trickle of blood came from the wound. I felt a rush of tears. I leaned over, and with my thumb and middle finger, I closed my father’s eyelids.

  I felt myself choking with pain.

  And then I stood, readying the Sig and the flashlight, and raced out the back door after Chad.

  105

  * * *

  Pitch-darkness.

  Gunfire.

  Flashes of torchlight splitting the blackness.

  It sounded as if flash-bang grenades were going off somewhere in the night, out in the surrounding woods, but I hurried out to the barn.

  I approached the open doors carefully and moved inside, keeping the Sig at the ready. The trapdoor was open, and the string of bare light bulbs in the cavern below were ablaze.

  I aimed the flashlight into the tunnel and flicked it around the glistening, damp walls.

  Nothing moved except the shadows made by the flashlight beam.

  I listened.

  I heard nothing, not even footsteps. What if Chad was waiting in the darkness to spring a trap on anyone who followed him?

 
I reckoned it was more likely that he was racing for the storage room before he made his escape. Get rid of the goods, get rid of the evidence. Or maybe it was just greed? Either way, with the kind of money and connections Chad had, he could disappear anytime he wanted and never be found.

  I descended the steps into the cavern, jumped the last two, and my feet hit the ground.

  I sucked in a couple lungfuls of chilled air, so cold it almost hurt.

  That was when I heard the noise.

  Running footsteps.

  Chad’s, I bet.

  I hurried down the tunnel as fast as my legs would move.

  My lungs felt frozen, as if every breath were solid ice.

  Every minute or so, I halted and listened.

  I heard a scraping noise, then banging.

  I moved on as quietly as I could, keeping the flashlight off in case the bulbs went out and I needed it.

  A few minutes later, I knew I was nearing the tunnel’s end.

  The noises stopped.

  My heart shuddered.

  I felt terrified but forced myself to go on, to cautiously negotiate the tunnel’s every curve and twist.

  I heard a yawning, like a door creaking open.

  Then came the sound of moving feet.

  Muffled noises came to me after that, so indistinct I couldn’t tell what they were, but I finally came to the solid oak-and-metal door. It was wide open.

  I saw no sign of Chad.

  I felt scared.

  My chest thudded.

  And then I heard a noise, distinct and sharp.

  There was a sound like a stone falling away, and Chad stepped out from a recess in the tunnel. He clutched the Sig in one hand. In the other he gripped a heavy burlap bag. I could guess what was in there.

  The color was gone from Chad’s face. His perfectly groomed hair was spiky, all over the place. He had the look of a hunted animal but still cocky, still confident, knowing that a few yards away was an exit onto the plateau and his escape to freedom.

  “You couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you, Kath?”

  I brought up Courtney’s pistol.