by D. L. Wood
The former SEALS remained motionless as the guards held onto their cigarettes, puffing them lackadaisically until they were used up to their last embers. Only then did they toss them into nearby flower beds, where they disappeared beneath mounds of fiery red begonias. With apparently no other excuse to keep them, Tango Two finally headed back around the west side of the house, while Tango Three returned to the patio doors, slid a keycard through the security slot and entered the house.
“Clear,” Riley muttered into his microphone.
“Not completely,” Jack cautioned and nodded towards the house. “Second floor. Seventh window to the left.”
Riley looked up, counting windows until he came to the seventh. Through his goggles, he made out the shape of a man standing behind the sheers. After a few seconds he disappeared from view.
“That’s at least four,” Riley whispered.
“At least.”
Jack’s eyes drifted up one floor and over to Chloe’s window. Still nothing.
“Time to move,” Riley nudged.
Jack nodded.
They crossed the open space between the gazebo and the first tier quickly. But because the first tier rose only a foot off the ground, providing little to obscure them, they couldn’t stay long.
“I’ll take the east side,” Riley whispered.
Jack nodded. “I’m west.”
Without another word, the two split, Riley taking one side of the mansion, Jack sprinting around the other. Within minutes, both men had returned to the rear patio.
“Tango One disabled, out cold. Got his keycard,” reported Riley. They’d agreed to disable only, if possible, as this wasn’t exactly legal and any deaths might cause a lot of problems for them down the road.
“Ditto for Two,” said Jack.
Together they moved to the patio doors. Jack slid a keycard through the groove on the access box and its glowing red light was replaced by a tiny green one. Jack depressed the door latch and pushed it open. No alarm.
They stepped into a massive sunroom and quietly pulled the door shut behind them. Soaring windows stretched fifteen feet high along the outside wall. Wicker furniture, plush chaise lounges, and potted plants filled the space. Expensive looking vases and other breakables resided between hard-covered books lined up on built-in shelves. White French doors marked the center of the wall in front of them. A single lamp cast a dim light around the room.
They flipped their night vision goggles up as droplets of water fell from their bodies onto the milky marble tile. Jack nodded, took a position to the left of the double doors, and raised his gun protectively. Riley pressed his ear expectantly against the right door. He signaled all quiet, then opened it slowly.
A wide hallway led away from the sunroom, its bisque colored walls lined with gold-framed paintings. The remaining decor consisted of one ornately-carved teak table crowned with a Waterford vase crammed to the hilt with fresh flowers. The minimal furnishings offered no cover. If this went bad, they’d be sitting ducks. Fully committed sitting ducks.
Their rubber-soled boots padded silently down the left side of the hallway. The first door they came to opened into an exercise room, occupied only by a stair machine, weights, and treadmill. Crossing to the opposite side of the hallway, they slid along until reaching an arched opening leading into the adjacent room. After signaling his intentions to Jack, Riley poked his head inside.
The cavernous kitchen easily equaled half the size of Riley’s entire house. Coffee-colored stone floors complemented striking black granite counter tops. Custom cabinets sandwiched two refrigerators, a full freezer, and a commercial stove. Polished copper pots and pans dangled above a butcher block island. And beyond that, in front of a bay window in the far corner, sat a guard drinking something from a bottle at the banquet sized oblong table.
Tango Three dead ahead, Riley signaled.
Take him? Jack signaled back.
Negative. Too far away. Might get a warning out. Keep moving.
Crouching as low as they could without crawling, the two scooted by the entrance unseen and continued down the hallway past the study. Then the music room. Each time they passed a doorway, Jack tensed for a firefight. But other than the kitchen, the rooms were unoccupied. Maybe we can pull this off, Jack thought, finally stepping into the front foyer at the end of the hall. He signaled to Riley he was proceeding, then started up a set of winding mahogany stairs to the upper floors where, hopefully, he would find Chloe.
That was when he heard the footstep on the marble. The clunky, fearless footstep of someone who belonged there. Jack whirled around, his eyes meeting those of a startled guard just entering the foyer from the front dining room. Jack dropped, preparing to fire, but Riley beat him to it, nailing the armed man twice in the shoulder. The guard flew backwards onto the hard floor, the impact loosening his gun from his grip and sending it clattering away.
“Cat’s out of the bag,” Riley commented calmly as he stepped swiftly to the guard and knocked him out with the butt of his weapon. He bent down as he whipped out cable ties and secured the man’s hands and feet. “This does not make this easier!” Riley growled as Jack bounded past him.
“Cover me,” Jack grunted, continuing up the stairs that curved towards the center of the two-story foyer and ended on a landing that overlooked Riley below. Jack swiveled left and right, but saw no one coming from either end of the hallway that extended along the second floor of the house. He grabbed the railing of the next flight of steps and, taking them two at a time, stormed to the third floor where he had seen Chloe’s silhouette from the water.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Chloe angrily rubbed the wetness from her cheek and swore that this tear was the last. Her eyes stung from crying off and on for the better part of the last two hours, and she hated herself for it. She wanted to be stronger than this. She’d promised herself that she wouldn’t let them see her cry, and they hadn’t. But the minute they’d locked her up in this room, she’d fallen apart.
Now, curled up in the corner made by the headboard of the sleigh bed and the wall, she leaned against the down pillows, hugging her knees tightly. They’d made her watch that video more than a dozen times before sticking her up here. She was exhausted. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. But she was too afraid to fall asleep, though she knew at some point she’d end up giving in, whether she wanted to or not. Her eyelids felt like fifty-pound weights. And then, there was the hunger. Two bites into the turkey sandwich they’d brought her earlier, it had occurred to her that it might be drugged. She’d spit it out and forced herself to gag up the rest. Her stomach ached. Her head hurt. And she was all out of hope.
They’d taken all her belongings from her at Inverse and made her change her clothes once she’d arrived at the mansion. She had no idea whether they’d found the GPS tracker, but without it or her cell, she had no idea how Jack would ever find her. How anybody would ever find her. She thought she remembered telling Jack about DiMeico’s house when she’d told him the story about Tate bringing her to Miami, but would he remember that? And even if he did, Jack wouldn’t be looking at DiMeico unless he first figured out that DiMeico was behind everything. And how would he figure that out? If he had gone to Inverse looking for her, either it would’ve been closed by the time he got there, or worse, maybe he managed to get inside and now DiMeico had him, too. That terrified her the most. Because, unlike her, DiMeico had no reason to keep Jack alive.
She choked back a threatening sob. No. I won’t think about that. I can’t. Because if Jack was dead, it was her fault. She clung desperately to the logic that if DiMeico had captured or eliminated Jack, he would have wasted no time telling her about it, stamping out any lingering hope she might have.
But there really wasn’t anything left to stamp out. She was alone. In what amounted to a fortress. She’d counted at least four men with weapons, and she suspected from the occasional noises outside her door that one was parked right in front of her room. In all likelihood, no one
was coming for her, and there was no way she could get out of there on her own.
Her palms had grown slick with the cold sweat of panic. Death wasn’t just a possibility anymore. Not even a probability. It was a certainty. All this time, during all the running, another way out had always shown itself right in the nick of time. There had always been another chance for them to get away. But now there were no more chances. No way out and no one to help her. And tomorrow or the next day, or the next, she was going to die.
The only thing she could do to make a difference was to find a way to stall for time. Which was why she hadn’t told them that she had finally deciphered Tate’s clues. It had happened during her fourth viewing of the video, when finally, something just clicked and it all came together. She had done her best to disguise the moment the lightning struck, trying to keep them from realizing she was on to something. Apparently it had worked because they seemed none the wiser. She had to keep it from them as long as possible, because the moment they got the answer they were looking for, they would use her to get the money, then kill her. And there was nothing she could do about it.
Cold blades of reality stabbed her insides. I’m not ready to die! she wanted to scream, and did in her head. I’m not ready to be done yet! Terrifying images of graveyards and freshly dug holes flashed in her mind. Cold stone tablets marking lives gone; one inscribed with her name. And what then? She trembled, truth radiating in feverish waves throughout her body as she clutched the pillows ever tighter. Nothingness. Eternal blackness. Like she never even was. Or . . . worse?
Jack thought differently, she knew. Jack believed there was more. So much more. He would have been praying now. He would have still held out hope. But she didn’t even know how to begin to pray. It had been so long. She selfishly wished he was here now to show her. To help her. He had tried before, but she wasn’t willing to listen.
Her own thoughts struck her as familiar, and then she remembered. Jack had said that very thing about her and God. Maybe He was trying to get her attention. Maybe He’d tried a hundred different ways, but anger and loss had left her unwilling to listen. Until now. Until there wasn’t anything else to try. When death was coming and there was nowhere to run. What if . . . what if Jack had been right?
The frantic stabbing slicing her insides slowed to a warmish buzz. Her stomach settled. Her head seemed to clear. She considered the notion again, really pondering it. What if God has been trying to get through to me? What if there is more?
But God wasn’t foolish. If she came to Him now, He would know that she’d only done it when she had nowhere else to go. Why would He listen to her pleas now? Why would He take her back when He was only her last resort?
The prodigal son. The words came to her without even trying, and she gasped. She had no idea where they had come from. She knew the cultural reference, even recognized it as the title of a story from the Bible. One she’d heard in vacation Bible school maybe, as a child when her mom had used church after church as summer daycare. Or maybe somewhere else. But wherever she’d first heard it, she hadn’t thought of it since. But she clung to it now, latching onto it like a life preserver. Because the little she could recall of the story—one that Jesus himself had told—was that a son who had turned his back on his father finally returned home as a last resort. And the father had welcomed him home with open arms. Not only that, but the father had run to him.
Oh God, forgive me, Chloe wailed inside. Please let me come home. I don’t know what to say or how to say it, but I’m sorry. So sorry. I’m ready now, God. I’m ready to believe you. To be yours. Please help me. Please, Jesus.
Her prayers echoed in her head, and she drifted to sleep that way, talking to God in her heart, laying out her fears and daring to hope.
* * * * *
Chloe had no idea how long she’d been out, but she woke in the dark to someone yelling frantically outside her door. She shot up in the bed as muffled pops sounded from somewhere down the hall, followed by more gunfire, louder but still muffled, right in front of her room. She heard someone scream, then there was a loud thump and footsteps running in her direction. Terrified and confused, Chloe sat frozen as someone pounded fiercely on the door.
“Chloe! Chloe, are you in there?”
Shock radiated through her. “Jack?” she cried incredulously. “Jack!”
“Get back right now! Clear away from the door! I have to shoot the lock!” he shouted.
“I’m clear, I’m clear!” she screamed back.
The door splintered near the knob as bullets tore through it. A bizarre figure clad in a dark wetsuit and strange, thick-lensed goggles charged through the door.
“Jack?” she asked with uncertainty.
“Yeah! Come on!”
Chloe pushed off the bed and threw her arms around his neck. She let go nearly as soon as she grabbed him. “I never thought—” she whispered, searching the dark lenses for some glint of his emerald eyes.
“We’ve got to move. Now.”
Chloe nodded and followed him to the doorway. Her guard lay face up on the hallway floor, eyes closed.
“Wounded and knocked out,” Jack explained, as he pulled a gun from his belt and handed it to her. “Try not to shoot me or the other guy dressed like me.”
She eyed his suit. “The other guy?”
“Not now. Come on.”
Jack stuck his head out of the doorway. It was still clear in both directions.
“Head for the stairs,” he ordered, pushing her along. “Snatch made,” he said into his microphone, mid-run. “Headed to your position.” There was no answer. “Do you copy? Snatch completed. Over.” Again, there was no answer.
They reached the stairs and Jack’s voice exploded as they charged downward. “R, do you copy!”
“Copy, J, copy!” Riley barked back. “Been busy. All clear now.”
Jack passed Chloe, grabbed her by the hand and practically dragged her down the remaining flight of stairs to where Riley waited in a small sitting room to the foyer’s right.
“You okay?” Jack asked him.
Riley nodded. “This ‘wounding only’ plan is really complicating things,” he said, breathing heavily. “Dude came to again. He’s gonna have one massive headache, but he’ll live.” He appraised Chloe. “She okay?”
Jack nodded. “She’s good to move. Let’s go.”
“You just stay behind me,” Riley told Chloe, who nodded.
The trio moved back through the house following the same path Jack and Riley had taken into the foyer. When they reached the kitchen doorway, Riley peered inside. No one. He started to step past it, when a flicker of movement triggered his reflexes.
“Down!” he yelled, spinning towards Chloe, who had been following him and was now standing in front of the doorway. With Riley yanking on her calf, she dropped to the floor just as Jack, behind them, jumped backwards. As Riley pulled Chloe down, a man popped up over the huge island and took a shot, nailing Riley in his left thigh. Riley howled, and the guard disappeared again just as Riley’s leg collapsed beneath him and he fell to the floor.
Jack swung into the doorway, firing at the island to cover them.
“Go, go!” Jack urged, shoving Chloe forward and getting off a few more shots. The guard behind the counter stayed put. As Jack bent down to help Riley up, Chloe fired a shot over the island.
“What are you doing?” yelled Jack.
“Helping! Get him, go!”
“I can’t believe he got a shot into me,” Riley complained, throwing an arm around Jack’s neck as Chloe shot twice more over the island when the guard started to raise his gun above the counter.
“Let’s move!” Jack ordered, sending three more shots over the island before all three ran through the sunroom and out the back door, headed for the water. Chloe turned, ready to fire if need be, but no one was following them. Either the guard had been injured, or he had decided it was too risky to run after them in the open.
“Here,” Jack said, pull
ing an emergency scuba canister from the backpack he wore and handing it to Chloe, along with a set of goggles. She took them, eyeing the canister’s rubber mouthpiece.
“Use it like regular gear,” he said. “Depress here,” he told her, pointing to the button on the top, “to clear it—just blow. Then breathe. You’ll have more than enough to get where we’re going. Just breathe slowly.”
“Got it,” she said and inserted the mouthpiece. As she secured the goggles on her face, Riley slid into the water and disappeared.
“Ready?” Jack asked, offering her his hand.
She nodded, clenching her fingers around his.
“Just whatever you do, don’t let go.”
Unable to speak, she just nodded again. He inserted his own mouthpiece and with an iron grip on her, pulled her into the deep, black water.
THIRTY-NINE
Korrigan’s expression was rigid, his eyes hard as he moved through the first level of DiMeico’s house. As he examined the evidence of the firefight, his anger intensified like the temperature in a renegade reactor. Finally, he marched out through the sunroom to the patio overlooking the pool. He wasn’t alone for long.
“I got here right before you did,” Vargas reported, stepping briskly behind Korrigan. “Four injured, no one dead. Drake got shot in the shoulder, but he’ll pull through. They shot to wound, not kill. Used cable ties to restrain most of them once they were out. The two outside said somebody snuck up on them, then used a sleeper hold to put them out. Woke up with the cable ties on. I’ve got the security video cued up for you. They look like special ops, like—”
“SEALS?” Korrigan interrupted coldly through gritted teeth, still staring at the pool water and the counterfeit lily pads floating atop it.
Vargas nodded. “Looks like they got here by water. Only they never saw a boat. Must’ve swum a good ways.”