Wrong Town: A Mark Landry Novel

by Miller, Randall H

“Go to hell!”

  “Were you acting on your own? Or do you belong to a larger organization? At least tell me what your beef is. That wouldn’t be betraying any secrets. Hell, you should be proud, right? So why did you do it? Did you have a reason or do you just get off on hurting people?”

  “You might as well take the other ear because I’m not telling you anything.”

  Mark leaned to the glance at the ear. “One’s enough for now, but let’s see if we can slow down the bleeding. I don’t want you passing out on me.” He retrieved a stack of napkins from the kitchen and pressed them hard onto the side of Amir’s head from behind with his gloved hand. Amir screamed.

  “Let me bleed! Let me bleed!”

  The glow from an electronic device lit up a corner of the room behind Mark and caught his attention. He released his grip and walked out of Amir’s sight to the corner to retrieve the phone. The control screen indicated dozens of missed calls and almost fifty unread text messages. Mark scrolled to the most recent one, from someone named Linda.

  MESSAGE: JOHN! WHERE ARE YOU! ARE YOU OK? I’M AT THE HOSPITAL! THE BABY IS COMING! PLEASE CALL ME! I DON’T WANT TO DO THIS ALONE!

  He scrolled down. All the messages were similar. All the missed calls were from the same person. He pocketed the phone and returned to his chair in front of Amir.

  “What’s your name? Where are you from? Is your name John?” Mark asked.

  “John?” Amir chuckled. “No, I am definitely not John. Did you just find his phone? I threw it at the wall when that stupid woman wouldn’t stop calling and texting. Call her back and tell her that her baby will be fatherless, just as many babies across the Muslim world are fatherless thanks to men like her husband.”

  “Where is he? What did you do to him?”

  “I’m not telling you anything, so you might as well keep cutting and save us both the time,” Amir said, looking directly into Mark’s eyes.

  If a prisoner makes a violence-provoking statement at the beginning of an interrogation, he is often bluffing and may still be motivated through violence to share information. However, if he has already been subjected to substantial violence when he makes the statement, it is possible that the interrogator is dealing with an extremist who is unlikely to crack. In those cases, any further escalation of the violence runs the risk of becoming a distracting battle of egos rather than a deliberate attempt to extract valuable information. Do not take the bait. Instead, change to a nonviolent approach and keep control of the interrogation.

  “I guess I could do that, but what’s the use? If you’re not going to talk, you’re not going to talk and there’s no need to get myself any dirtier. I’ll just turn you over to the authorities and they can deal with you.” Mark kept eye contact with his prisoner for a few moments. Then he removed Kenny’s encrypted phone from his pocket and slung his rifle onto his back. He walked to the far end of the kitchen to escape the glow of the candle and texted Kenny.

  MESSAGE: CHATTING WITH #4

  The response came within seconds.

  MESSAGE: AND?

  Mark looked up to check on Amir before tapping his reply. His head hung low. The shock of being taken prisoner coupled with restricted blood flow was taking its toll.

  MESSAGE: WORKING ON IT. HEAR FROM FRANK?

  Again, Kenny’s response came almost instantly.

  MESSAGE: NOTHING. LIGHTS OUT.

  Landry put the phone away and quietly returned to his seat opposite the prisoner.

  “Just kill me now. Or don’t you have the courage?” Amir goaded him.

  Mark rubbed his face through the mask. “Courage? It doesn’t take much courage to kill a man who’s tied to a chair. And it didn’t take any courage at all to do what you did on that field two days ago. You blew up, then shot up a bunch of unarmed people, including women and children. Then I watched you run like a pussy when the other three guys stood and fought like men. So don’t lecture me about courage.”

  “Burn in hell!” Amir screamed, causing a stream of blood to shoot from the side of his head. “You are the cowards who drop bombs on innocent Muslim families from thirty thousand feet! You fly drones from soft leather chairs thousands of miles from the battlefield because you lack the courage to fight God’s true warriors face to face.”

  Mark exhaled and leaned forward in his chair. “Listen, I don’t want to get into a pissing contest with you. But I’ve fought plenty of so-called jihadists up close and—no offense—I wasn’t very impressed with what you guys can do. Seriously, unless you’re slaying unarmed women and children, you’re pretty much fish out of water. That’s just a fact.”

  “You’re lying. If you had ever faced the fury of God’s holy warriors, you wouldn’t have lived to tell about it,” Amir declared.

  “Okay. Whatever. You don’t have to believe me. But unless you’ve actually been in battle—like, real battle—your opinion doesn’t mean shit, ok? And from what I saw of you, I’m guessing this attack was your first rodeo.”

  Amir smirked at the insult and responded slowly. “Fallujah, Tikrit, Mosul.”

  Mark nodded his head. “Okay. So you’ve seen some shit. But listen. I hate to burst your bubble, but the spiritual leaders in the Islamic State fill the heads of the common, low-level nobodies like you with a lot of bullshit.”

  Amir bowed his head. “I am not a low-level nobody. You’re the one who doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Common soldiers are not sent on important holy missions.”

  “What? Shooting up civilians at a picnic? Yeah, I’m sure only the pick of the litter get to go on those missions. Tell yourself whatever you want, buddy. But you’re not worth my time, so I’m done with you. I’m going to hand you off to the feds. You’re going to jail for the rest of your life, and the security on you will be so tight you won’t be able to take a dump or jerk off without somebody watching. And all because you were so awesome that the Islamic State sent you to shoot up a picnic.”

  Amir started to speak, but Mark laughed out loud and walked into the kitchen.

  “What’s your claim to fame? You’re just an ass in a mask. Why do you hide behind that mask anyway? What have you got to hide? If you were really there on the field, you saw all of our faces because that is how real men fight. You weren’t even there, were you?”

  “Whatever you say, Top Gun!” Mark yelled from the darkness. “You could have at least martyred yourself but you didn’t have the balls. Or let me guess—Allah had a different plan for you, right?”

  Amir wrestled with his restraints and screamed. “I am not a coward! I am not afraid to die! My martyrdom awaits me in Washington and I promise you I will make it there. Do you hear me? I will fulfill my destiny and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.”

  Landry walked slowly back into the candlelight. “Odds of you making it to Washington are looking pretty slim right now, wouldn’t you say? But just for shits and giggles, what were you planning on doing once you got there?”

  “I’m done talking to you. Kill me. Hand me over to the authorities. I don’t care. But I won’t entertain your stupidity anymore.”

  “Suit yourself,” answered Mark.

  Both men averted each other’s gazes and sat in silence for several minutes. As Landry started to speak, a long, agonizing moan drifted up the basement stairs and eerily pierced the silence. He leapt to his feet with his carbine at the ready and pressed his ear to the basement door in time to hear a second faint groaning sound.

  “Go ahead,” said Amir. “Look downstairs so you can see what a low-level foot soldier was able to do to one of your finest.”

  Landry closed the distance between him and his prisoner in three determined strides and delivered an uppercut to the chin with the butt of his rifle, knocking Amir unconscious.

  One hundred twenty-five

  Officer John McDonough was in grave condition. Mark had found him in a puddle of blood behind the boxes in the basement and cursed himself for having missed the wounded officer when he had hastily cl
eared the cabin. Either the shooter had left him for dead or was letting him suffer and keeping him around for more torture. He was shirtless, shoeless, and bound at the hands and feet. Several of his fingers and toes had been cut off, his face and torso were beaten to a pulp, and the USMC tattoo on his left bicep was covered with burn marks. Landry put an ear to his mouth. The officer’s breathing was shallow and barely audible.

  “Can you hear me? Can you hear me? Are you John? Is your name John?” Mark yelled.

  McDonough grunted and opened his mouth. “Yeah,” he answered in a low whisper that took every ounce of his remaining strength.

  Mark looked closer at the officer and former Marine’s wounds and considered his options.

  This guy isn’t going to make it unless he gets help right now. He may have only minutes. The nearest hospital is fifteen miles away. If I call for EMTs, I lose control of the site and he could die waiting for them. His best chances are for me to stop the bleeding and get him to the ER, and I may not even be able to get him there in time. Shit!

  Landry retrieved the tourniquet and pressure dressing from one of his cargo pockets and put them on his patient where he thought they would stop the most blood. They weren’t nearly enough. He quickly scanned the basement and grabbed several bags of napkins from the restaurant supplies.

  “Listen, John. I’m going to get you out of here, okay? But I need to stop your bleeding as best I can before I move you. You’ve been through a lot, my friend. And it’s going to hurt some more if we’re going to make it to a hospital. Okay? Can you hear me, buddy?”

  McDonough grunted. Mark started packing piles of napkins onto his wounds and securing them in place with a roll of duct tape he had found at the bottom of one of the boxes. “All you have to do is stay with me, John. I’ll get you there, but you gotta fight, brother. And judging from that tattoo I think you know what I mean. Who’s Linda?”

  Mark struggled to plug the holes in McDonough’s body, glanced down at his left hand, and saw a wedding band wrapped around what was left of his ring finger. “Is she your wife, John? Is Linda your wife?”

  McDonough grunted and tried to speak. “Yes …”

  “Okay, save your energy, brother. I’m going to move you now and it’s going to hurt. But you have to push through the pain for me, Marine! You have a lot to live for, John. Linda says your baby is on the way. Keep thinking about her and that baby and don’t give up. I’ll do my part but you have to do yours and stay in the fight. We’re out of here right now.”

  Mark took one last deep breath and strained every muscle in his body to pull McDonough up from the basement floor. He carefully stepped over Yasir’s body and slowly ascended the basement stairs with the wounded officer hoisted on his shoulder.

  One hundred twenty-six

  Kenny nervously paced back and forth in his office, his fingers laced behind his neck.

  This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening. He’s probably wrong. We covered our tracks.

  He stopped and looked down at the message on his screen to make sure he hadn’t misread it.

  MESSAGE: DRONE JACK COMPROMISED. WIPING MY DRIVES AND BUGGING OUT. SUGGEST YOU DO SAME.

  No. No. No. This isn’t happening. What the hell should I do? Should I bail? Should I stick it out and see what happens? Call Mark.

  “I was just about to call you, Kenny,” Mark said when he answered.

  “I’m freaking out over here, Mark. My guy is telling me the drone jack was compromised. But he doesn’t know whether it was compromised from the very beginning or not. He’s bugging out and I don’t know what the hell I should do. My connection to him was encrypted and rerouted through at least half a dozen different jurisdictions, but nothing is impossible to trace.”

  “You’re the only one who can make that call, Kenny. So do what you have to do. But for what it’s worth, I can tell you from experience that nobody gets away forever.”

  “I know that. Are you finished with the shooter? I can see you’re nowhere near the cabin. What did he tell you?” Kenny asked.

  “I was just starting to get some information out of him when I had to alter the plan. I found a wounded cop in the basement. He’s alive but won’t be for long if he doesn’t get to a hospital. The nearest ER is about fifteen miles away and I’m en route.”

  “Where’s the shooter, Mark? Did you just leave him there?”

  “Yeah, I didn’t have much of a choice. This guy is bleeding out quickly.”

  “I understand and I’m not questioning you, but if he gets away a lot of people could die.”

  “The cop’s wife is giving birth as we speak. I never had a father. You lost yours. Think I could live with myself if I let some kid’s dad die? The shooter is tied up tight and I’ll get back as fast as I can.”

  “Okay. Let me know if you need anything from me,” said Kenny.

  “I need you to remember what I told you before I left. If they come for you, try not to say anything. I won’t leave you, Kenny. I promise I’ll help, but it could take time.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that, Mark.”

  “One more thing. If they do come for you, depending on whose drone you jacked, they may not show up flashing their badges with the sirens blaring. Be careful, Kenny.”

  One hundred twenty-seven

  “I’m going outside to have a cigarette,” the young uniformed security guard said to the emergency room receptionist through his walkie-talkie.

  “You’re off duty in like ten minutes. You can’t wait?” she replied.

  “I suppose I could. But then it would be on my time and I only smoke when I’m on the clock. Besides, I like to see the sunrise.”

  “You’re unbelievable!”

  The security guard stepped through the automatic doors, clenched a cigarette between his teeth, and removed the lighter from his front pocket. He bowed his head, lit the cigarette, and took two deep drags. When he looked up, a Toyota sedan was speeding across the parking lot toward the emergency room entrance. “Slow down, man!” he said out loud.

  The Toyota screeched to a halt in front of the automatic doors and a masked Mark Landry jumped out of the driver’s seat, holding his credentials high. “Federal agent! I have a wounded police officer who needs urgent care. You clear the way. I’ll carry him in.”

  The security guard stood stunned.

  “Put out your friggin’ cigarette and clear the way for me. He’s going to die if he doesn’t get help right now!”

  Seconds later, Mark passed through the doors with the bloody John McDonough over his shoulder. “Stay with me, John. We made it, brother! We made it to the hospital. They’re going to take good care of you now. Keep fighting, John! Remember, you have a wife and kid to live for.”

  Landry lowered McDonough onto an open bed in the ER, the medical crew sprang into action, and he bolted for the door. On the way out, he grabbed a nurse by the arm and pulled her close. Her eyes were wide with horror. Mark pulled down and stretched the mask’s opening under his chin to expose his face. “Calm down. Look at me. It’s okay—we’re both good guys, okay?”

  She nodded nervously.

  “Listen, his name is John McDonough. He’s a cop and a veteran. His wife Linda is somewhere in this hospital and about to have a baby. You guys can take it from here. I have to go.”

  One hundred twenty-eight

  Kenny downed a glass of cognac, placed it on the kitchen counter, and continued nervously pacing the house.

  I could wipe my drives right now just to be safe. But if they don’t come, I did it for nothing. If they do come, I just destroyed evidence and I’m even more screwed. I could wipe it all and bug out, but they’d eventually find me. What the hell do I do? Another drink.

  He returned to the kitchen, refilled his glass, and stared out the front window.

  What the hell is Mark going to do? Like nobody is going to see him drop off a wounded cop at the ER? Like he can just sail in and out? And what if the shooter isn’t there when
he returns? What then? We are screwed. We are both screwed.

  Kenny’s worst nightmare soon came true as several dark sedans and State Police cruisers appeared at the top of the street. His heart sank as they silently descended the hill toward the cul-de-sac.

  Mark was right. No lights, no sirens.

  He drained the rest of the cognac from the glass and set it down on an end table.

  Here I am. Come and get me. I’m not going to run.

  When the cars reached the bottom of the hill, they turned right into Frank Tagala’s driveway. Uniformed officers and agents exited their vehicles and rushed to surround the agent’s home. After several unanswered knocks, the three men at the front door entered Frank’s house.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” said Kenny out loud. “Maybe it’s my lucky day.”

  As he reached up to close the blinds, a gloved hand covered his mouth from behind and pulled him violently away from the window.

  One hundred twenty-nine

  Ghassan Massoud had driven the entire way from New York City with the radio off, preferring instead to review in his mind the litany of reasons why he would never visit his sister and her family again.

  It wasn’t the hints that she needed money that pushed him over the edge—she’d been cashing a yearly check from him since they were teens. And it wasn’t the nagging comments about his weight or how much wine he consumed. Those things he could get over. What caused Ghassan to blow his stack was her husband, a Somali engineer, and their three unbearable children.

  On previous occasions, when Ghassan had reached his boiling point he would simply slip out the door. Later he would call with an excuse, and his sister would eventually get over it. But this year things had unfolded differently, and he could not resist the urge to share a piece of his mind on the way out.

  With a full belly of Lebanese food and wine from his beloved Bekaa Valley, he stood at the table with his glass raised. “I’m afraid I must leave this evening, but before I go I wanted to say a few words. First, thank you to my wonderful sister Sara for your hospitality. But I would also like to say a few words to the three of you,” he said, turning to Sara’s children.