Rounding the corner, they heard faint sounds from beyond the dining area, through the kitchen entry. They took up positions either side of the arched entry, but before they could breach, a tall, leggy blonde wearing earbuds and a translucent red negligee sauntered past them humming some kind of techno music. It took a second to register what she’d caught in her periphery before she spun around to see the two assailants. Her mouth opened as if for a scream, but Priest’s hand shot out, thudding into her right vagus nerve where the carotid artery emerges from the base of the neck. The sudden shock overwhelmed her baroreceptors and nervous system. She was unconscious before the pain of the blow could register with her brain.
Jake caught the girl as she crumpled and carried her back into the kitchen. Priest opened the walk-in pantry door to let Jake slide her onto the floor. They duct-taped her mouth and hands then headed back to the front entrance. Satisfied the ground floor was clear, they started upstairs, carefully keeping their feet to the outside edges of the steps to minimize the creaking of timber. Dozer followed close behind Jake, his Spiderco drawn and open. Priest followed Dozer, and Tik brought up the rear. As they reached the top, Tik turned to see the two Thai policemen just starting up.
From the top of the stairs, Jake could see two closed doors and one ajar. Light spilled from the open door, sporadically broken by shadows of movement within. No light shone from beneath the closed doors. Jake signaled the Aussie brothers each to take one of the Thai cops and stand by to clear the closed rooms. Tik moved up to flank Jake as he approached the open door. Baton in hand, the former Delta Force operative readied for breach. He pointed two fingers, first at his eyes, then at his chest, telling the others to watch him for a synchronized offensive. He breathed in, tensed his legs, and barged forward, slamming the door wide open in his wake.
A bespectacled man in his mid-thirties dropped his coffee cup in shock as Jake covered the distance between them with startling speed. Tik followed into the room, dagger at the ready, but the man with glasses was the sole occupant. The Russian tried to back away, but Jake grabbed his right wrist with his right hand, pulling it up and over his own head, concurrently snaking his left arm under the right armpit, over the shoulder, and past his target’s throat. Jake hooked his short baton around the man’s neck, and pulled hard on his right wrist while forcing the man’s head backward, exposing the ribcage. The highly skilled martial artist released his grip on the wrist in order to plunge his stiffened fingers almost three inches into the Russian’s belly until he gripped under the leading edge of his ribcage. The extreme torque created by the twisting upward pressure on the neck and torturous pulling on the ribcage must have caused the most frightening pain and dread Jake’s captive had ever experienced.
Mike Lee had shown him a picture of his quarry, so Jake knew this had to be Grigori, the local crew boss. “Okay, Grigori,” Jake growled, “tell me where Sergey Ugolev is, and the pain will stop.”
The man gasped for breath but didn’t answer.
“This is not going to stop until I know where he is.”
Despite what Jake knew to be agony beyond description, Sergey Ugolev’s Pattaya underboss held his tongue. He was by no means small or incapable, but Jake’s skill, power, and determination were indomitable. He ratcheted up the pressure. Grigori thought he would soon pass out from the searing pain and lack of breath, but Jake knew exactly how to maintain his torment. The reduction in blood flow to his retinas brought stars fluttering before his eyes, while the piercing burn from his solar plexus, and ache from his ribs felt as though hell itself welled in his abdomen. Still, the gangster’s resolve would not allow him to give up his boss. He knew full well that if he told Jake what he wanted to know, his life would be forfeit. Russian crime syndicates demand absolute loyalty – if he weakened, a gruesome death would always be waiting for him around the next corner.
“He would kill me.”
“What the hell do you think I’m going to do if you don’t tell me?” Jake relaxed his hold just enough to allow Grigori to speak.
“If you kill me, you won’t find him.”
“He’s right, mate.” Dozer’s voice cut across the room. “I reckon it’s time for Priest to do his thing. It’s time for confessional.”
“Confessional – what the hell are you talking about? I’m not letting this piece of shit go until he tells me what I need to know.”
Priest stepped forward. “Dozer’s right Jakey. This bloke’s got nothing to lose. He’ll never rat on his boss, and if you keep going like that, he’ll pass out or die soon enough. Best you let me have a go, mate.”
Jake was incredulous. “So now the SAS knows more about interrogation and torture techniques than Delta and the CIA?”
“No, mate – very little actually. All the same, I reckon you need to let me take a run at him.”
Dozer looked Jake squarely in the eye. “I know what this means to you, mate. But trust me, this is Priest’s wheelhouse.”
The big man pushed a chair toward Jake. “Sit him down here, mate.”
Jake maintained his hold.
“Go on, Jakey – you can trust me.” Priest added.
Reluctantly the Surgeon began to release his right hand. Changing grips, he dug his left hand under the gangster’s collarbone to control his movement into the chair. Dozer took a pair of handcuffs from one of the Thai cops and shackled the Russian’s hands behind his back, then reached up to give him a light smack on the cheek. “Don’t try anything stupid, little Ivan. Me brother knows exactly what to do with silly buggers.”
“He’s not going anywhere. Are you, Ivan?” Priest said, before gesturing toward the door.
“Come on folks, Priest is a solo act.” Dozer ushered them toward the door.
Jake’s hackles went up. “Seriously? You want me to leave the room? No offense, but I need this information - and I intend to get it.”
“Relax - I’ve got this. Just give me ten minutes.”
Jake finally acquiesced, and Dozer pulled the door closed behind them. To Jake, standing in the hall, seconds seemed like hours. He was angry and frustrated and powerless, all feelings he wasn’t used to. This went counter to all his years of disciplined training and operational experience. Desperately fighting what he considered weakness, he looked anxiously at Dozer. “What the hell makes you so sure he can pull this off?”
Dozer smiled knowingly. “Let me tell you a little story. In the SAS, one of the tests they put you through is survival skills. Pretty much like you Yank blokes, I guess – except on one test, they used to drop you in the middle of the Simpson Desert with nothing but the clothes on your back, a knife, a stinking half-rotten raw chicken, part of a plastic rubbish bag, and three swallows of water in a canteen. You’ve got three days to make it to the nearest town before they come looking for you – or your corpse. It hits over 120 degrees in the daytime and bloody cold at night. There’s not a cloud in the sky, and nothing but fine red bull-dust and a bit of dried-up scrub as far as you can see. And you’ve got no bloody idea where you’re going.
“It starts out okay – you know, all the guts and glory SAS shit they taught you in training, but after a while, walking alone in that heat with no water, and a rotten chook teasing your empty stomach, things start to go a bit screwy upstairs. You remember some of the techniques from the classroom and manage to find a few tidbits here and there. You know – grubs, crickets, scorpions, stuff like that. You even find enough green leaves to make a few drops of water in a makeshift still, but nothing can slake that thirst – there’s no feeling quite like that. The gnawing hunger is nothing compared to that brain-fogging, nightmare-inducing thirst.”
Jake piped up. “I’ve done survival training in all terrains and conditions. What’s your point?”
“All right, all right, the point is, most blokes crash out of the course during survival training – either voluntarily or otherwise, but my brother Harry is a different story. The bloke loves that shit. He likes it that much, he goes and does it
on his own time whenever he gets the chance. I reckon he’s barking mad, but he likes it – and he’s bloody good at it too!
“One trip, Harry was making his way through the desert when he came across an Aboriginal tribal elder sitting on the ground half-dead. The old bugger had busted his ankle and couldn’t walk, so he just sat himself down and waited. Harry reckons he wasn’t the least bit surprised to see him walk up. It may sound crazy, but Harry says it was like he was waiting for him to arrive and carry him out of there. The middle of the bloody Simpson Desert, and the bloke’s just sitting there like he’s waiting for me brother to breeze through and pick him up on his way to church or something – bloody weird!
“Anyway, the upshot is, Harry carried the old bloke for miles to the nearest cattle station, and they radioed the Royal Flying Doctor Service to go pick him up. While they waited, the Aboriginal started telling Harry some stories. They talked for hours on the patio of this big cattle station, and when the plane got there, he told Harry to go out to his settlement and visit him after he got fixed up.
“Well, when he got back to base, our unit got shipped out on a mission for a couple of months, but as soon as we returned, Harry headed straight out to see the old bugger in the desert. I told him he was barking mad, but he wouldn’t have a bar of it. Anyway, he was gone almost two weeks, and when he came back to Townsville, he was different. Don’t ask me how – he was just bloody different. Something inside him had changed.
“Next mission we went on, we captured a mid-level terrorist cell member and had to ask him a few questions. I busted a few of his fingers, and had him squealing pretty good, but he wouldn’t give us what we needed. Priest stepped up and told us to leave him alone with the bloke for ten minutes. We didn’t want to break protocol, but he insisted, so we left him to it. We could hear this quiet mumbling through the door, but no screams, no yelling, nothing. Sure enough, he walked out ten minutes later with everything we wanted to know – and the terrorist just sat there crying like a baby. I shit you not!”
Jake screwed his face up in disbelief. “You expect me to believe he learned some kind of Aboriginal voodoo magic in the desert?”
“I don’t expect you to believe anything, mate, but he’s been doing it for years now. Just wait another minute and you’ll see for yourself.”
A few seconds later, the door opened and Harry Phillips smiled at Jake. “How do you feel about a trip to Cambo, mate?”
“Cambodia - are you sure?” Jake asked skeptically.
“He would have given me the street address, if he knew it.” Harry grinned broadly.
Over Harry’s shoulder they could see Grigori sobbing uncontrollably in his chair. Jake turned to Dozer, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Now you know why he’s called Priest, mate. I guess we’re off to Cambo.”
Chapter 7
While Foxx headed for the tech lab, Beach took the DNA samples upstairs to the analysis unit. A friendly but frazzled-looking technician took the bags. “I got the rush order from your supervisor – should be done in about seventy-two hours. Once the machines have finished the profiles, which database do you want me to run them against?”
“Which ones can you access?”
“I can do local, state, and federal criminal databases, no problem. CIA and Interpol are off-limits without authorization and special access codes – even then, there are some black holes. I can get into standard military systems, but definitely not Spec Ops – you need a federal warrant for that.”
“Okay, hit everything you can while I try to get authorization for the others.”
Beach went next to ask SAC Talbot to obtain the necessary permissions for the CIA and Interpol databases. His supervisor sat alone in his office, perusing documents. Beach knocked on the open door before entering. After a bumpy start, their last encounter had ended on a good note, but he wanted to show his boss due deference.
“Come in, Beach. The DNA lab got the paperwork for priority testing?”
“Yes, sir, a very helpful young guy is on the case.”
“Dion Hogg – good kid and smart as a whip. They’re all good, but he’s got a real spark that others don’t.”
“I noticed he looked pretty worn out. Have you got him working double shifts?”
“He’s doing his Ph.D. part-time – the study probably has him working overtime. Don’t worry – he’ll get the job done right. I assume you need clearance for special databases?”
“That’s what I’m here for, sir.”
“I think we can drop the sir – except in formal circumstances. It seems kind of odd, given our ages, so call me Judd.”
Alan, relieved his boss was making an effort to break down barriers, nodded his acknowledgement.
Talbot continued: “I’ve already sent the paperwork for the CIA and Interpol systems. I think it would be prudent to wait and see if anything pops before we try to tangle with the military over their special forces databases. Those guys are pretty damned prickly about that sort of thing, so there’s no point poking the bear if we don’t have to.”
“Agreed. I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything from Dion.”
“Can you update me on the case yet?”
“There’s really not much else to say at this point. I’m heading down to see Foxx in the tech lab. Maybe he’s found something we can run with.”
“How is your partnership working out, Beach? You two have been teamed up since the academy – everything going smoothly?”
“Everything’s great – why, is there something I should know about?”
“Not really, but former Marines can be a bit headstrong.”
“That’s definitely not a problem with us. He seems to value my years as a homicide detective, and he’s got a healthy dose of the Marine Corps’ ethos of respect for elders. I think my experience and his youthful vigor create an effective synergy. Besides, it’s good to have a big, tough guy like him around when you need him. Thanks for your concern, but I couldn’t have asked for a better partner.”
“Good to hear – you’ll need all the help you can get on this case.”
“It’d certainly be a great deal simpler if Bryan Adler was still alive. If it weren’t for the mystifying presence of the two John Does, it would be a textbook Orphan-maker crime scene – down to the minutest detail.”
“Any thoughts on the additional bodies?”
“They’ve thrown us a serious curveball. I think they must have disturbed the perpetrator during the original crime, so we’re going to treat them almost as a separate case, for the sake of investigative clarity. Hopefully, the tracker from the van will give us a lead on that part of the investigation. On the Orphan-maker side, in the absence of any new information or evidence, I can only assume it had to be someone with unfettered access to the Adler case files. I hate to say it, but it may be someone in law enforcement.”
“Be careful there – we don’t want to trigger public paranoia. Don’t mention any of this around the media. Besides, there are plenty of civilians who’ve had access to the files.”
“I realize that, but Adler’s M.O. takes a great deal of discipline and physical strength, and judging by the size and powerful builds of the two extra bodies in Poughkeepsie, even more strength than Bryan Adler had. It seems to me the most likely candidates for suspicion are going to be particularly fit and strong law enforcement types, but we won’t let any details of our investigation get out.”
“Hard to believe a peace officer could go that far off the rails.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened.”
“So, where are you going to start?”
“After we talk to the tech lab guys, we’ll do background checks on the local Poughkeepsie police and forensic staff. After all, it was they who missed the John Does in the first place. It seems unlikely, but that fumble could have been a poorly attempted cover-up.”
“Sounds like you’re grasping at straws there.”
“I know, but we have
to start somewhere.”
“All right – keep me up to date when you can. And let me know if you need anything else.”
“Will do, thanks.”
Stopping briefly at his desk, Alan grabbed a hand taser from his drawer. He didn’t know how effective it might be against an individual powerful enough to take out two large mercenaries and carry one of them up the attic stairs at the crime scene, but it gave him a small sense of psychological security.
At the tech lab, Foxx was deep in conversation with a man in his late twenties wearing a white lab coat. They stood at a workbench crowded with electronic equipment. From the animated nature of the conversation, it seemed Foxx and the technician knew each other quite well. Alan approached, but the two men continued their exchange as though they hadn’t noticed him, so he cleared his throat.
“Sorry, partner – this is Mark Guthrie. We know each other from comms training in the Marines.”
Beach shook Guthrie’s hand. “That’s a coincidence – I knew a Professor Guthrie in Columbus.”
The technician looked incredulous. “Are you serious? He was my uncle!”
Beach had to suppress his excitement. “That’s unbelievable. I’m so sorry for your loss – your uncle was a real gentleman.”
“And one seriously smart dude, too,” Guthrie added. “I wanted to go into his field, but I don’t seem to have an aptitude for medicine. Besides, I prefer machines to patients – they don’t talk back.”
Beach smiled knowingly. “I can relate to that.” Turning his attention to the tracker they’d found in the van, he asked, “Speaking of machines, any idea what this thing does?”
“It’s definitely a tracking system, but the technology is significantly more advanced than we have. I’ve heard rumors about this kind of thing, but I’m pretty sure we’re talking NSA or one of the military intelligence branches. I know a guy in the civilian sector who can probably help us get it up and running, if you can authorize clearance. He normally charges five hundred bucks an hour, but I’m pretty sure this would get him excited enough to waive his fee.”
The Killing Chase (Beach & Riley Book 2) Page 6