Name Not Given (Jack Widow Book 6)

by Scott Blade

They were all empty, which was not surprising.

  Coresca grabbed my handcuffs again and pulled them back—tight.

  He said, “Stop!”

  I stopped.

  The other guard took out a set of keys and opened the door to one of the small cells and stepped back. To make room for me, I supposed.

  Coresca said, “Get in.”

  I stepped in, turned, and watched the barred door slam shut.

  “Come here and turn around,” Coresca said.

  I didn’t move. I never like turning my back on a potential threat.

  “I’m just gonna take the cuffs off,” he said.

  Reluctantly I moved back to the cell door and he removed the cuffs and walked away. I twisted my wrists, happy for at least that part of my body to be free, and got ready to wait.

  I was good at waiting. Almost as much as I was used to getting thrown in jail.

  The dog tags were key to whatever the hell was going on. That much I knew for sure. Beyond that, I knew nothing.

  There was no sense in kicking up dust or complaining or making a big fuss over something that they weren’t going to tell me about in the first place.

  I did the only thing that I could. I decided to sleep.

  The jail cell didn’t have a cot or anything that would pass for a bed. But there was a long bench that was good enough. I took off the windbreaker and balled it up and used it as a pillow.

  I closed my eyes and slept.

  CHAPTER 11

  THE WAIT WAS SHORT.

  However, I wouldn’t have known that at first because I had fallen asleep.

  I was woken up by the sound of Coresca’s voice. He shouted at me like a boot camp drill instructor. Which, I figured, was a bullshit attempt to intimidate me, like a gorilla beating his chest. I was in his house, his domain and he was going to make sure that I knew it.

  It didn’t work.

  He said, “Wake up, Widow! Your ride’s here!”

  I opened my eyes. Bright light rushed my face and my eyes squinted and clenched.

  The light came from the overhead lamps that lit the hall between the cells. They had been on the entire time, but I had tuned them out and forgotten about them.

  Before I dozed off, I had instinctively flung my arm across my face, blocking out the light.

  I sat up, groggy and, honestly, disoriented. I felt like I had been drugged. I must’ve been extremely tired and not realized it.

  “Come on! Get up, Widow! Sleep time’s over!”

  I yawned and stretched and stood up. Then I stretched some more. I must admit I did a little of it on purpose. Nothing pisses off guys like Coresca more than making them feel insignificant. Having a prisoner who doesn’t listen to commands, who isn’t fazed by his tactics of intimidation, only makes guys like Coresca feel inadequate.

  I smiled.

  He said, “Widow! Step to the door, already! Time to go!”

  Lethargically and sluggishly, I followed his instructions and stepped to the door.

  Coresca was alone this time. No one came with him. No backup. No one to help him in case I decided that I wanted out. I guess he thought he could handle me alone.

  I noticed that his safety button on his holster was unsnapped, again.

  I said, “You real should snap that button closed. I’m sure Army regulation requires armed soldiers to have it snapped at all times.”

  I paused a second and then I said, “Especially Army MPs. Unless you are faced with a clear and present danger.”

  Coresca didn’t respond. He didn’t look down at his gun holster, like he had forgotten about it being unsnapped. Which was what a normal person, who had forgotten would’ve done.

  A normal person would’ve glanced at it, realized the mistake, and felt embarrassed that a prisoner had noticed that he made a grave violation of military regulation. But Coresca didn’t do that.

  He didn’t do that because he knew it was unsnapped. He had it unsnapped on purpose.

  “Why is it unsnapped? Do you see me as a clear and present danger?”

  He said nothing.

  I asked, “You planning to shoot me with that gun?”

  “Don’t give me a reason, Widow!”

  I stayed quiet.

  “Step out!”

  Coresca opened the barred door with the keys in one hand and the other hand near his gun, but not touching it.

  I smiled and stepped forward, keeping my palms out and obvious. I didn’t want to get shot because he had a superficial problem with me. I didn’t want him to have a shred of probable cause for drawing his gun.

  The guy had itchy trigger finger written on his forehead.

  Coresca said, “Face the bars.”

  I turned and faced the bars. I put my hands behind my back. I knew he was going to cuff me again. I didn’t need to wait for him to tell me.

  He slapped the cuffs on me and tightened them, just like before.

  The hand that was not near his gun gripped under my bicep and pulled me away from the bars and then pushed me out in front of him.

  “Walk,” he said.

  I smiled and complied.

  We walked out of the building and back down the service ramp and onto the sidewalk. We passed the same two buildings as before, but this time we passed the building that I had been sitting in with Hamilton.

  We walked back to the gate.

  I saw the same female MP from before and a new MP, who was stopping incoming cars, taking their licenses and letting them pass.

  Hamilton stood inside the gate, waiting for me.

  Beyond him, outside the gate, I saw the back of a black SUV, unmarked. It looked like it had pulled into the gate and made a U-turn so that it could face the other direction.

  The brake lights gleamed and car exhaust pooled underneath the tailpipe. Someone was seated in it with the engine running.

  My escort, I presumed.

  Hamilton said, “Follow me.”

  I followed behind him. Coresca wasn’t far behind me. He was so close that I could feel the vibrations from his boots on the blacktop. They were heavy and mocking in that way that videos of Nazis marching sounded.

  Hamilton led me over to the guard hut and beyond.

  Maxine glanced back at me for a second and then back to her duty.

  We cleared the exit barricades and walked out onto civilian territory.

  In a way, I felt like I was stepping out of prison for the first time in twenty years.

  The black SUV was our destination. That was obvious.

  As we neared the rear bumper, both front doors popped open. The driver’s side door was pushed straight out and open by a man’s arm.

  The passenger side door was pushed open with a foot in a black heel and a short, but attractive leg. It was female, which was also obvious. The driver stepped out first.

  He was a tall guy, but shorter than me. He had a lean look under a black suit and blue tie.

  As he straightened up, he adjusted his coat. I saw the inside, left side. He had a shoulder holster rig. Probably with a service weapon in it. The service being the FBI, I presumed because Hamilton had said Feds. Although, I suppose that was common slang for the FBI, but nothing said that it had to mean FBI. It could also mean DEA or ATF or several other alphabet agencies.

  The guy didn’t wait for his partner. He shut his door and started to walk back to meet us.

  The woman slid out the other side and closed her door.

  She was a petite woman, also dressed in a black suit. No tie. And she wore a skirt. She had a white blouse, one button opened at the top. She wore a pair of gold rim sunglasses, slightly reflective, somewhere between a shiny surface and a mirror.

  I watched her more than him because she was quite something. I like a woman in uniform.

  She walked with a strut that was practiced by the time she was twenty, but it was perfected by the time she hit her thirties. And I presumed that it was enhanced by a certain kind of confidence that she had learned from being in law
enforcement.

  She had light brown hair. It was highlighted in a way that looked more like constant exposure to natural sunlight, rather than done out of a bottle in an overpriced salon somewhere.

  Even though she was petite, fit, and on the right side of slim, she was no bean stalk. She walked with curves. The kind of natural curves that came from the right amount of nutrition, occasional sugar, and a whole hell of a lot of blessed genes.

  I could see that she didn’t have a shoulder holster rig, like her partner. I presumed that she had a pancake holster at the small of her back.

  Both stopped behind the SUV’s rear bumper and stood there.

  Hamilton walked closer and I followed.

  He stopped five feet from them, reached his hand out and offered a handshake, first to the man and then to the woman.

  He said, “Second Lieutenant Hamilton.”

  The man took his hand and shook it and said, “Agent Kelvin. This is Susanne Talbern.”

  They all shook hands.

  No one introduced me, but Talbern looked me up and down and back up. Which was fine by me because I was doing the same to her, but I had been doing it for alternative, carnal reasons.

  She asked with a half-upward nod, “This him?”

  Hamilton said, “This is the guy.”

  He reached into his front trouser pocket and pulled out a rolled-up, clear plastic bag. One downward flick of his wrist and it cracked and unrolled itself.

  The bag was ziplocked and marked as evidence on one side in big bold, black letters, handwritten in black Sharpie, and not printed by the manufacturer.

  There were no Army logos on it. No clear indications that it was an official forensic bag. Nothing like that.

  My guess was that they had simply taken a ziplock bag out of the mess and repurposed its intended use, a simple makeshift evidence bag, just for me.

  Hamilton said, “This is the tag.”

  Talbern continued to look at me. She said nothing.

  Kelvin said, “Thank you. Lieutenant. You’ve done a good job here. The FBI appreciates it.”

  They shook hands and Kelvin stepped over to me. He didn’t touch me. Didn’t reach out and take my arm like Coresca. He was more respectful and a hell of a lot more professional. Even so, he pulled out zip ties and asked me to put my arms behind my back to lock them on.

  He said, “Sir, step this way. Walk toward the truck.”

  He pointed with an open palm at the back of the SUV.

  I nodded and did as I was told.

  I walked to the back of the SUV and then stepped past the back tire, driver’s side and stopped in front of the rear door.

  I saw Talbern walk alongside me, on the other side of the vehicle. Her hair was thick, even in the ponytail. It looked like it would jam up a woodchipper.

  I winked at her, which I instantly regretted. Not sure why I did it. I realized to her it must’ve seemed menacing. I wasn’t in handcuffs because of my charming personality. I was in handcuffs because they suspected me of something. And that something was bad, if I was being handed over to the FBI.

  Talbern didn’t respond to the wink. She let it go, which I was grateful for, but the damage was done. I was sure.

  Kelvin stopped behind me and opened the rear door.

  “Get in.”

  I hopped in and sat on my hands and the cuffs. An uncomfortable feeling that I had had before.

  Before Kelvin shut the door, I stopped him.

  I said, “Wait!”

  He looked at me.

  “They have my passport and bankcard.”

  “We already got your belongings,” he said and gestured toward a closed center console in the front cabin.

  I nodded.

  Kelvin shut the door and then hopped back into the driver’s seat. He waited for Talbern to get in next. They shut their doors and buckled their seatbelts.

  Guess I wasn’t getting one. Which wasn’t a surprise. I never did before. But every time I had been thrown into the back of a police vehicle before, I often had the same thought.

  If Americans are always innocent until proven guilty, then why no seatbelt? Always made me think that was some subliminal indicator that we really are guilty until proven innocent.

  At the time, I had no idea how this thought would be put to the test.

  CHAPTER 12

  WE DROVE FOR LESS THAN AN HOUR, back south. The way that I had come.

  Finally, I asked, “Is someone going to tell me what the hell is going on?”

  Kelvin looked at me in the rearview and said, “I’d like to.”

  He stopped there and thought for a moment. He stared at the road ahead and said nothing else.

  I asked, “But what?”

  He looked at Talbern, just a quick glance.

  She turned in her seat, stared at me and said, “We’re not in the loop on what’s going on. We’re just escorting you.”

  “Escorting me? To where?”

  Talbern said, “Orlando. The airport.”

  Orlando, I knew, because I had seen the signs.

  I asked, “Airport? Where the hell am I going?”

  They didn’t answer that. Not with a destination anyway.

  Kelvin looked in his left-side mirror and flipped on his turn signal. He took us over to the left, and to an off ramp that led to the terminals.

  He glanced back at me in the rearview and said, “You’re going on a plane.”

  CHAPTER 13

  KELVIN AND TALBERN TOOK me through a separate gate—separate from the rest of the airport traffic. It was for loading and unloading shipments.

  I supposed that I was the shipment.

  The FBI skipped the departures and arrivals lines. No checking bags. No printing tickets. No conveyor belts for us. None of the usual hassles of traveling by plane.

  I was going somewhere, whether I liked it or not. The only perk was that it was on the FBI’s dime. But I didn’t know where they were sending me. I was positive it was nowhere that I wanted to go. Otherwise, having the FBI fly me to a new destination for free wasn’t a bad thing.

  Except that it meant that they would know where I was. And the federal government knowing where I was; wasn’t something that I was interested in. The sooner I could get them off my back the better. The sooner I found out what the hell was going on, the faster I could go free.

  The SUV slowed and Kelvin showed his badge to a gate guard, who looked more former military than current airport security. He had that private military look.

  Only one guard stood at the entrance to the loading section. Which made me think that if the guy was former military then he was being over utilized. But if he was washed up, then he was being used appropriately.

  The gate itself was a chain-link gate on big rollers.

  After the guard took a look at Kelvin’s badge and then a quick glance at Talbern and then me, he walked over to the gate and rolled it back, letting us pass through.

  Kelvin thanked him and drove on.

  The service drive led onto the tarmac and the shift in asphalt was noticeable under the heavy tires of the SUV.

  We bumped and split up and down for another five minutes, while Kelvin drove us beyond the tower and the nearest terminal.

  We passed parked jets and baggage carriers snailing along on luggage towing vehicles that looked like converted golf carts. I wasn’t sure what they were called. I had never been in the baggage handling business.

  One guy towed a train of passenger luggage that looked like it was being taken off an Airbus. There were hundreds of checked bags. Mostly they were black. Occasionally, there was color sprinkled in.

  My eyes immediately went to a pair of rucksacks. Military. There were probably for vets coming home from deployment. That was an experience that I had had many, many times.

  It wasn’t an experience that I wanted to ever have again. Not that I didn’t enjoy the Navy.

  Navy life was what it was. Some good. Some bad. Like all military life.

 
; But I had worked for sixteen years for them. Now I didn’t work. Now, I lived on my own terms.

  We drove beyond the parked jets and passed one large runway. No planes were on it now, but the landing strip lights started to flash and flutter to life as we passed it.

  Kelvin ignored the lights and continued to circle around to the end of a large field beyond the runway.

  At the end of the blacktop was a single white hangar. It was all lit up and the doors were wide open.

  The inside was empty of planes because the jet that was supposed to be parked inside was actually parked out front, nose facing the direction of the nearest runway.

  It was a Gulfstream jet. It looked more like a business private jet rather than an FBI plane. I didn’t care enough to attempt to identify the model type. It was a good-sized private jet, twin engines nestled out in front of the tail, stacked just above and behind the wings.

  The turbines were spinning and humming.

  The exit door was wide open and the landing stairs were fully extended to the ground.

  Two of the flight crew members stood out front. Both men. Both looked like pilots, but one might’ve been a flight attendant. I didn’t see why the plane would need two pilots. But then again, why would it need a flight attendant for a passenger list of three people?

  Kelvin parked the SUV in the mouth of the hangar and killed the engine, left the keys in the ignition.

  He and Talbern got out in the same manner that they had when I first saw them—Kelvin first and Talbern second. Like it had been rehearsed many, many times.

  Kelvin opened my door and gestured for me to step out. He didn’t grab my arm or give me attitude about it like Coresca would have.

  Kelvin was much more professional.

  I did as he asked and stayed quiet. No questions because there was no point.

  They had said that they didn’t know anything and I believed them.

  Kelvin led me over to the flight crew and shook hands with both men.

  He said, “We’re ready.”

  One of the men, the pilot, I assumed, said, “Let’s board and take off.”

  We all got on the plane.

  The chairs were all big tan, leather things that swiveled and rocked and reclined. Between them were small consoles with brown tabletops.

  There was plenty of leg room.

  Kelvin guided me over to a chair that was on the window, behind the wing, halfway to the tail.