Cooch

by Robert Cook

  “All yours, genius,” Elliot said as he sat down beside him.

  Alex stood and moved casually but quickly to the boat and went inside. Below, he moved along the spars that supported the boat, which normally were hidden by the deck that had been removed at the perimeter by Elliot. He taped packets of C-6 plastic explosive along the hull. They were connected with white detonation cord taped among them, and through fresh holes drilled through the spars and connecting each set of packets. At the bow, a metal device shaped like the breastbone of a chicken pointed outward. Each arm was about three feet long and recently screwed into place by Elliot from the plans they had drawn. Large, shaped, lumps of explosive were arranged in metal pockets along the arms Alex moved quickly among the packets, removing his custom fuses from the satchel and setting them into the explosive and along the white cord, cutting it here and there. He stood for a second, checking his work, then walked quickly off the boat and back to Elliot.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here, Brooks. We’re pushing our luck,” Alex said as he sat down.

  Elliot moved back to the boat. In a few seconds, the sound of the electric drill came again as Elliot replaced the deck, covering their handiwork. Fifteen minutes later, he was relocking the door to the cabin. He stepped from the boat, carrying both satchels. They drove from the marina, looking for a place to have lunch.

  At six o’clock Brooks knocked lightly on Alex’s door. Alex, in a pair of slacks and a sport shirt, opened the door, then turned and walked into the bathroom. He splashed some water on his face. “Let’s call Mac,” he said. They walked together to a pay phone.

  “Mac.”

  “We’re all set with the fairy tale. What’s going on with you?”

  “It’s coming together,” Mac said. “It’s working out as you thought. We found the boat that they’re probably going to meet. It’s a hundred-and-eighty-foot mega yacht, owned by a Saudi businessman who’s been sponsoring terrorists for a while. It’s been hanging around offshore for a couple of days, doing nothing. No one has seen the top bunch of China’s defense scientists in the period since the yacht left Cabo San Lucas, but we do know that they got to Cabo. Your boys are getting the goods from the brother this evening at six, and it sounds like they will take it out to the ship tomorrow morning, leaving the marina around nine. They’re pretty cryptic, so it’s tough to be sure.”

  “We’ll just do the best we can,” Alex said. “I’ll put the instant go and the arm and trigger radio codes for our little present in your computer tonight, plus the DEA guy’s cell contact. I’m going to go in and get my money from Alberto tomorrow sometime, hopefully in the morning if he’s not going along on the cruise. Brooks and Jerome are going to cover me.”

  “I don’t think Alberto will go,” Mac said. “It will be the boss and four or five bodyguards, plus the boat driver they use for at-sea pickups, as far as we can tell. And you watch your ass in there with Alberto. Jerome can’t find a good angle into that office. If you get a chance to put the window shades up, do it.”

  Alex and Brooks got into the panel truck and drove by the office building in Menlo Park, then discussed the best way to have Elliot cover Alex when he visited Alberto in the morning. Elliot dropped Alex at the Stanford Court, where he went to his room and downloaded the latest voice files on Mac’s computer. He reviewed the computer files, and then set the erase program. Cuchulain lay down on the bed and tried to relax, thinking. The morning meeting with Alberto could be a problem, but there was no way to avoid it.

  As it got dark, Alex drove his Lincoln back to the interrogation room, after stopping at a McDonald’s. He speed-dialed a number on his cell phone and a man answered, “One, one.”

  “Nine, nine,” Alex responded. “Coming in.”

  “I’m out of here,” the voice responded. “All routine.” The phone disconnected.

  The parking lot was still deserted when Alex pulled up to the block shed. He took the balaclava from the Lincoln’s glove box and pulled it over his head, then unlocked the door. He walked to Kelly, carrying a bag he’d picked up from McDonald’s. The girl looked up hopefully, then her eyes widened with fear. He took a boning knife from the block and cut the duct tape binding Kelly’s arms. She rubbed her arms where she had been bound.

  “Eat.” Alex threw the bag into her lap. She tore it open with hands trembling, and tore the paper from a sandwich, stuffing half of it into her mouth. Cuchulain sat a large Coke in a paper cup beside her on the arm of the chair, and stuck a straw into it. She grabbed and drained most of it while still chewing.

  As Cuchulain sat and watched her devour the food, he finished three Big Macs, an order of large fries, and two large Cokes.

  She looked at him. “I have to go to the bathroom. I’ve had to go for a long time, but I really have to go now. That person that was here never said a word—never answered me.”

  He picked the chamber pot from the table, together with a pack of Kleenex. After handing them to her, he cut the tape around her legs and pointed to the corner.

  Kelly tried to stand, but fell to the floor. She lay for a moment, weeping softly, then struggled to her feet and limped to the corner with the chamber pot and the paper. Alex turned his head.

  “Now what? Did Brian do what you wanted?” she asked after a few moments.

  Still not looking at her, he said, “I do not know, but I think so. He says that he has. Put your clothes on, and I will release you tonight.”

  He could hear her begin to weep again, and it sickened him. She walked to her clothes and dressed. Then he could hear her rooting in her purse and he looked around. She had found a small packet of cocaine and had her nose down in it. She snorted and sneezed.

  “Sit down,” he said, and pointed to the chair. She sat, a look of health and confidence flooding her face. He walked to Kelly and put a blindfold on her, then quickly put a wrap of the tape around her ankles. He walked from the room, pulled the balaclava from his face, and stuffed it into his pocket, then walked to the Lincoln and drove to the door. Alex put Kelly in the trunk again, tossed her purse and a knife beside her and drove off, stopping at a pay phone at the side of a darkened bank office a few minutes later. He reached into the trunk, pulled her out and stood her beside the phone, her purse and the knife beside her, wiped clean.

  “Your purse and a knife to cut the tape are beside you. You may call for someone to pick you up. Do not go to the police or try to see my car as I leave, or I will come for you.”

  Menlo

  Park

  WHEN Alex walked into Alberto’s office the next morning, he immediately knew he was in trouble. Four bodyguards were spread across the room, with two Uzis and two Berettas between them. All weapons were pointed at Alex.

  He stopped, and said, “I have done as you wished. I am here for my twenty-five thousand dollars.”

  Alberto smiled coldly. “You have done as I wished, but you have treated me with much disrespect.”

  He turned to the guards. “Search him, then tie him. Search him well.”

  They took the knife from his neck and the silenced Beretta from his waistband, then tied his hands behind him and his feet together.

  Alberto walked to Alex and hit him in the face with his fist, breaking his nose, then stepped back and kicked him in the balls. As Alex doubled over in pain, Alberto picked up his knee into his nose, crushing it even further. Alex fell to the floor, trying to cover up as he felt a number of shoes kicking him and the painful snick of ribs breaking. Finally they picked him up and threw him into Alberto’s office. Alex lay on the floor in his vomit, as blood streamed from his nose to paint bright scarlet ribbons on his jaw.

  “We will be back for you to play with you for a long time, and then we will leave your tortured carcass for others to see, so that they know our power,” Alberto said. “Right now we have to wait for my jefe, who wishes to meet you, but I assure you, amigo, you will wish you had not met him. He is not a nice person like I am. With your disrespect, you have made him unhap
py. Much more unhappy than you have made me.”

  With another vicious kick to Alex’s groin, Alberto walked from the room and closed the door.

  The pain came in waves, confusing him. Alex tried to focus. Finally giving himself up to the pain, he began to work through it. He worked his hands down from his back and over his buttocks, feeling the broken ribs grinding and accepting the pain. He rolled onto his back and the pain came again, stronger, almost intolerable. He waited, then slowly moved his hands down across his thighs to his knees, waiting for the pain, and when it came, accepting it, waiting for it to again become tolerable.

  After he adjusted to a new threshold of pain, he moved on, finally bringing his hands to his ankles. With a sigh and renewed vigor, he pulled up the pant leg on his jeans and worked the throwing knife from his boot, then began to saw through the ropes binding his hands. As they released, the pressure on his ribs subsided and he felt an urge to lie back and rest, just for a minute. The absence of severe pain was serene.

  Alex cut the ropes on his feet and struggled slowly to his feet, then stood, woozy, waiting for his head to clear. Alex’s nostrils were swollen shut, and blood was pushing down his throat. For some reason that infuriated him; he nurtured that fury. He spat thick wads of blood, then bent and pulled the knife from his other boot and prepared himself, thinking about the layout of the outer room and where the bodyguards would be positioned, knowing he didn’t throw left-handed very well. Killing two or three of them and getting killed himself would be far better than letting them slaughter him slowly. Where the hell was Elliot?

  He swayed on his feet, gathering himself, trying to decide how long to wait, but prepared to attack if the door opened. Suddenly he heard the distinctive clatter of a silenced automatic rifle ejecting spent casings in the outer room, firing in the distinctive three-tap pattern of a Navy Seal in a hurry. Alex threw open the door and pulled his arm back to throw. He saw Elliot in his preppie outfit, dropping to one knee and swinging to cover him, his face and hair aged with makeup as Alex’s had been earlier.

  “Whoa! It’s your old buddy, Paco, a little the worse for wear,” Alex croaked thickly as he dropped his hand.

  Elliot swung back to cover the only man remaining standing, who had his hands held above his head. “Jesus Christ! Looks like they fucked you up pretty good.”

  “It turns out they didn’t like old Paco after all, Brooks. They were just warming me up for the boss. Just don’t shoot the last guy over there. We need to talk to him, a lot. That’s the number two man.”

  Alberto was in the corner with his hands up, unharmed. He was gaining confidence quickly as he said, “You have not shown me a warrant. You gave us no warning. You broke into our property illegally. I wish to talk to my lawyers, immediately! I will have your jobs for this!”

  “Shut up, pal. I got some bad news for you,” Elliot said as he moved toward him. “We’re your worst fucking nightmare. We have all the technology of the United States working for us, and none of the rules. If you want to live to see morning, you’re going to talk to us. You see, you have pissed off Uncle Sam. Worse yet, I think you have royally pissed off old Paco.”

  Alex moved carefully among the bodyguards, looking for anyone who might live. All four were on their way out.

  He looked at Brooks, and asked, “What about upstairs?”

  “I took them out first, like we said. There were only three. Jerome got one of them and Lev another. Looks like that was a painful call down here; I guess we should have taken these guys out first.”

  Alex nodded slowly, carefully. “I’m not going to be worth a shit for a while. I got four or five broken ribs, and maybe some kidney damage. I think someone might have hit me once or twice on the sniffer too, one more time. You need to shoot him up and we’ll get out of here. I’m supposed to see Caitlin tonight, so you might want to give her a call.”

  “Turn around,” Elliot said to Alberto. Alberto, getting scared now, complied. Handing his Ingram to Alex, Elliot dug an auto-syringe from his pocket, pulled the cap from it, and slapped it against Alberto’s thigh.

  “I’ll watch him, you look around,” Alex said. “There should be some pocket change in the top drawer of the desk in the other office. I don’t know where the big money is.”

  Elliot pulled a garbage bag and a pair of rubber gloves from his jacket pocket and walked into the other office. Cuchulain could hear drawers being dumped as he watched Alberto slowly fade into a groggy semi-consciousness.

  “I took the pocket money from the top drawer, maybe seventy-five grand,” Elliot said. “There’s another big wad of cash in bundles in the file drawer. We’ll leave that for the feds. There’s some other stuff and a pound or two of coke—but nothing big—and a bunch of paperwork, bank receipts, and stuff that should make the narcs happy. There’s a small wall safe, but it’s locked. Is that your puke in there on the floor?”

  Alex nodded and said, “Yeah, it is.”

  Brooks shrugged. “I poked around a little. The good news is that there’s no dark blood in it, so there’s no big rush to get help for you. Sure couldn’t tell it by looking at you.”

  “Sure couldn’t tell it by the way I feel either. When the adrenaline wears off, I’m going to be a hurtin’ puppy.” Alex groaned. “I’ll call the feds.”

  He rang the number Izzy had given him. A secretary answered, and Alex said, “Lemme talk to Izzy. This here’s Cameron.”

  After a few seconds, Izzy came on the line. “This is Izzy.”

  “I assume you have caller ID. If you don’t, I’ll read it off to you. You should get a warrant for the place at this number, and for the boss’s place upstairs. We’ll lock up. You can go in as soon as you want, and you might want one man around quickly to watch that no one else goes in. Keep this phone around so I can reach you as I get more. It’s pretty messy here. You may want to bring a couple of locals with you and some of those cute rubber body bags—and some air freshener.”

  “Oh, great! My good friend Cameron leaves me a mess. We have the number. You sound weird. Are you hit?” Izzy sounded more curious than concerned.

  “I’ll be okay,” Alex said. “Stay by the phone.”

  It was late morning when they took Alberto to the elevator, sagging between their arms and mumbling from the drug, as they held him upright. The elevator was empty as they entered and dropped to the garage. Elliot bent and threw Alberto over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, and handed the car keys to Alex.

  “Stand still,” he said. “I gotta do a check.” He reached up to Alex’s face and pulled both eyelids open, and looked in his eyes. He pressed his index finger against his carotid artery and looked at the seconds clicking by on his digital watch. “Have you pissed yet?” he asked Alex, who shook his head negatively.

  “Can you drive?” Elliott said.

  Alex nodded and moved slowly behind him toward the rented car.

  With Alberto in the trunk, Alex drove once more to the small room beneath the apartments and stopped in front of it, handing Elliot the key from where he had stashed it in the ashtray. Elliot opened the glove box and popped the trunk release, then moved quickly from the car and got Alberto from the trunk. As Brooks carried him through the door, Alex drove the car to the other side and parked it. He picked up Elliot’s small bag from the seat, then worked himself out of the car and moved slowly toward the room.

  The secondary effects of the beating were appearing, now that the adrenaline rush had faded. His face throbbed steadily, with occasional sharp pains radiating out from his nose. His ribs hurt when he walked, and were excruciating if he moved suddenly. His kidneys and his groin were on fire, and his eyes were starting to swell shut. He knew he would be pissing blood at best, and hoped he didn’t need surgery.

  Cuchulain walked into the room and closed the door behind him, then dropped the small bag beside him. Elliot had stripped Alberto and was taping his legs to the chair. Alex walked to the other wicker chair and sat down painfully.

  Elli
ot pulled a small kit from his bag and laid it on the table to open it. In it were several syringes and five or six small vials. He pulled some fluid into one syringe, then walked to the chair and injected it into Alberto’s thigh. After a few seconds, Alberto began to become more alert. As he waited, Elliot took a small digital recorder from the bag, pushed the Play and Record buttons simultaneously and laid it on the table. He sat on the floor with a legal pad on his lap.

  “Alberto! Alberto!” Elliot said, trying to get his attention. He reached out and took a little of the skin on Alberto’s thigh and pinched, then twisted it.

  Alberto reacted to the simple pain and opened his eyes, now becoming alert. He looked around the room, first at Elliot, then at Alex, and finally at the assortment of items on the table.

  His eyes widened, and he said, “If you release me, I will pay you more money than you have ever seen. If you don’t, my people will pursue you to the ends of the earth.”

  Alex stirred, and said in a phlegmy, constricted, almost-hoarse voice, “He’s a liar. You can’t trust him. If you let him go, he’ll kill us both. Cut his nuts off before we go any further. Feed them to him.”

  Elliot sighed. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll do it, but the boss wants him to talk to us. We gotta let him go if he does, with or without his nuts.” He stood, walked to the table, pulled on a pair of rubber gloves, sat a small blowtorch on the floor near Alberto’s legs, then pulled a butcher knife from the block. “I hope this fucker doesn’t have AIDS or something.”

  He walked back to Alberto’s chair and sat on the floor. He reached with his gloved left hand and grabbed the penis and testicles and stretched them down, then looked at Alex. “Pecker too?”

  Alex nodded. “Pecker too. It will give things he eats a little extra spice.”

  Elliot leaned forward, looking under the chair, still pulling on the penis and testicles. He reached under the chair with the knife in his right hand, a look of resolute disgust on his face.