King's Ransom

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King's Ransom Page 16

by E H Jennings


  Wendell was lying flat on his stomach. He had cut out a small square from the netting, through which he could see the valley. His cabin was directly in front of him, and beyond it, the opposing ridge, Spindletop, rose against the sky.

  He had thirty-seven motion-activated cameras mounted at different positions on his property. The three men in black combat uniforms had tripped one on the southern edge of Spindletop. When Wendell saw the images on the surveillance screens in his office, he retrieved his Savage 10FP and ascended Dragonback in a sprint.

  Now his breathing was calm and his hands were steady as he glassed the valley. His rifle was propped beside him, chambered in .300 Winchester mag. His tactical spotting scope was standing on a mini-tripod in front of him. The instrument allowed him to survey well over a thousand yards with impeccable clarity.

  He didn’t like leaving the ladies alone, but at his age, he figured it best to avoid hand-to-hand combat if possible. The three men were large and he assumed they were well trained. But size, strength, and training are rendered useless when a .300 mag round splits your skull and severs your brainstem.

  He would assure the three men never made it to the cabin.

  That’s what he was thinking when he saw the explosion.

  He shifted his spotting scope to the area where it happened. A few yards into the field from Spindletop the dust was settling from the blast. One of his land mines had fulfilled its purpose; at least one of the three men had just been disintegrated.

  Movement.

  He saw it off to the right, barely twenty yards from the explosion.

  A man was running toward the cabin. He was weaving in and out, which told Wendell he was smart enough to avoid the remaining labyrinth of incendiary devices.

  Moving fast but not hurrying, Wendell slid his spotting scope out of the way and shouldered the Savage sniper rifle. The Swarovski scope mounted on the gun was state-of-the-art and he had no trouble locating the sprinter, especially once he flicked on the night vision feature. The assailant glowed bright green.

  He made careful accommodations for the drop in elevation, the wind, and the man’s running speed, and was just about to end the man’s life when he heard a faint popping sound. A fraction of a second later, a 7.62mm round exploded through the scope and struck Wendell in the face.

  His body limp, Wendell fell from the platform and landed on the ground twenty-five feet below. He was unconscious and bleeding.

  • • •

  Zlotkov had expected resistance, but he sure as hell hadn’t expected land mines.

  He hated to lose a man but things had actually worked out quite well. The explosion had distracted King and possibly prompted him to move, giving Pak the narrow window he needed to locate the target and execute the kill shot.

  Pak used a flashlight to give a rapid succession of flashes, telling Zlotkov the shot was a hit. Wendell King was dead.

  Pak was a traitorous bastard and Zlotkov hated him. But the man could shoot.

  Confident he was past the perimeter of IEDs, and thankful he no longer had a sniper to deal with, Zlotkov resumed his ingress. As he covered the last twenty yards and approached the cabin, he drew his pistol. He was confident he wouldn’t need it and had no intention of using it, but he never entered an enemy facility without one hand on a loaded weapon.

  Climbing onto the porch, he raised the weapon and stepped through the door into the living room. A fire cast an orange light, but the rest of the cabin was dark.

  Zlotkov moved silently into the adjoining kitchen, then into the office space King used as his security hub. There were screens on the walls and computer monitors spread across three different desks. On one of the TV screens, he could actually see live footage of Pak, leaning against a tree smoking a cigarette.

  Sloppy. Zlotkov would make sure the Chinaman paid for such carelessness.

  Refocusing, he moved into the hallway and began clearing bedrooms. There were two guest rooms, both empty and untouched. He was beginning to lose faith when he finally came to the master.

  There, sprawled on the bed and still sleeping, were all three targets.

  Zlotkov holstered his weapon and took out a syringe full of a potent sedative. He was about to inject the youngest daughter when the mother suddenly erupted from her prone position, wielding a handgun.

  She sprayed shots wildly and Zlotkov slammed himself flat on the floor.

  He rolled beneath the bed and came out on the other side, his pistol redrawn. Rising from his knees, Amy King fired another round just over his head. Both daughters were in hysterics as he stood over them.

  He had been counting the shots. Amy King had acted out of fear and forgotten to conserve ammunition, aimlessly embedding rounds into the walls and ceiling.

  “Drop the pistol,” said Zlotkov.

  Amy King clenched her jaw and spit at him. “Go to hell!” she shouted. “My husband will find you. You’re a dead man.”

  Zlotkov smiled and pistol-whipped the woman across the side of the head. When she fell over unconscious, he injected her with the sedative, then finally silenced the screaming girls by injecting them next.

  With the targets subdued, Zlotkov took out his burn phone and called his boss. Div had some extremely unfortunate news to report: Amy King had evidently heard the mine explosion and dialed 911.

  There was an EMS helicopter approaching from the north. There was no way the Sikorsky could pick them up; they would have to find another way out.

  Fortunately, Zlotkov had done his homework. His Special Forces background had taught him to plan for every contingency, and he assured his boss he had the situation under control. They agreed on a rendezvous point and clicked off.

  The next person Zlotkov called was Pak.

  “Put out the cigarette and get your gook ass down here. Meet me in King’s barn behind the cabin. Be here in six minutes or I’m leaving you.”

  Pak hesitated, obviously confused as to how his leader knew he was smoking. “Uh…yes sir,” he said.

  When the Air Evac chopper arrived half an hour later, there was nothing left to find. Zlotkov had policed all of Amy King’s brass and taken the gun with them. He had also made up the bed, put out the fire, and tidied up the kitchen. To the paramedics, it was as though no one had been in the house any time recently.

  It wouldn’t be the first time they had received a prank call, nor would it be the first time they had been given the wrong coordinates. Eastern Kentucky was rugged country, and the harried caller could have easily directed them to the wrong valley.

  The head EMT re-dialed the number that had reported the emergency and was relieved when the same woman’s voice answered.

  “I’m so sorry!” she said, her voice far more jovial than it had been before. “I panicked and gave you the wrong address! Everything’s fine. I’m a new mother and I overreacted. I apologize for the inconvenience.”

  A damn expensive inconvenience, thought the paramedic, referring to the $10,000 minimum fee typical of Air Evac services.

  Fortunately, they had just received another call; there was a hiker stranded a few miles further east into the mountains. The woman seemed genuinely apologetic, and considering the stop wasn’t terribly out of the way, he agreed to let it pass.

  “Next time just try to be sure, ma’am. Air Evac services aren’t cheap and there’s only one team to cover this whole area. Our time is very valuable.”

  “I understand,” the woman said. “Again, I’m so sorry.”

  Three minutes after the conversation, the Air Evac chopper lifted out of the valley and headed east, leaving Wendell King to die in the forest.

  • • •

  Forced to improvise, Zlotkov had given Amy King an EpiPen.

  He wasn’t certain it would work, but within a few seconds she resurfaced from the effects of the sedative and the percussive blow he had dealt to her head.

  The rest had been simple leverage.

  Pak held a gun to one of her daughter’s heads and Zlotko
v told her if she didn’t convince the paramedic to leave without alerting the authorities, he would order Pak to pull the trigger. She had done an excellent job and saved her daughter’s life.

  After the call, Zlotkov had Pak sedate her again. It was crucial she didn’t see where they were taking her.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Paris

  52 hours remaining

  The plane taxied to the private gate at Charles de Gaulle International Airport, they passed through customs, and then a group of men helped them load their bags into a car Damien Fitzgerald had arranged for them.

  The car dropped them off at an Enterprise Rent-A-Car branch a few miles from the airport. They selected two vehicles—a white Nissan Altima and a burgundy Mercury Mountaineer. They were vanilla; the objective was to look like tourists exploring the city, not a CIA spook and a trio of former assassins.

  Carson paid for the rentals in cash, giving the attendant fifty dollars extra to waive the customary practice of keeping a credit card on file. Considering they had used personal passports at customs, there wasn’t much he could do to cover their tracks, but cash was always better.

  Fifteen minutes later they were on the A3 headed west, Carson and Sampson leading in the Mountaineer, Mendez and Connor following in the Altima.

  As they merged right onto D370, Carson handed Sampson his phone. “Do you recognize that number?”

  He had received two messages during the flight. One was from McManus, confirming the address and contact protocol for the asset in Sarcelles. The other was from Larry at Mountain Valley, letting him know it was business as usual at the assisted living facility. But after they landed, a missed call had shown up.

  Sampson skimmed the missed call list. “No, but it looks like a satellite phone.”

  “A sat phone?”

  “You know anyone that would need to use one?”

  He looked over at her. “That’s a bit of a loaded question, don’t you think? It could literally be just about anyone at this point.”

  She handed him the phone back. “I don’t know.”

  The address was on Rue Carnot, and as they turned left off Rue Pierre Brossolette, Carson told Sampson to start looking for Edmond’s Body Shop.

  It didn’t take long to find it. It was an old brick building set right on the edge of the street. The brick had once been bright red but was now mostly black and gray.

  The structure had two large retractable doors, beyond which was the garage. Several cars were in a line out front, and there were others, in various stages of repair, parked in the tiny square lot.

  There was an office to the right of the garage and that’s where Carson, Connor, and Mendez went. Sampson stayed in the car. McManus had told the contact to expect three men; if they came in with a woman the whole meet could be compromised.

  “Let me do the talking,” said Carson, as he reached for the door.

  “Sure thing,” Mendez quipped. “I’ll be your bitch.”

  There was a desk in one corner and a service counter in the other. Behind the counter was a ragged bookshelf stuffed with a combination of manuals, binders, and car parts still in the box. There was also a set of shag-carpeted steps to the right of the bookshelf, leading to an upper floor.

  When the door closed behind them, a little bell sounded and they saw movement coming from the garage. One of the mechanics came into the office and smiled at them. He was a burly man with a strawberry blonde mustache curling over his upper lip. The patch on his grease-stained shirt identified him as Lonnie.

  Lonnie leaned against the counter. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”

  Carson answered in French. “A friend referred me and told me to ask for Mouse. Busted my damn intake manifold. Aftermarket’s fine if you’ve got it.”

  Mouse.

  Lonnie stopped smiling and shifted his eyes to Mendez and Connor.

  “They’re friends of the friend,” Carson added.

  The man was obviously suspicious but nodded. He pressed a red button on the counter then smiled at Carson. “We’ll get to work on that intake,” he said. “Thanks for choosing Edmond’s.”

  Lonnie disappeared back into the garage.

  The three men looked at each other as they heard footsteps descending the stairs. The man came into view and held eye contact with Carson for less than a second before turning and walking back up the steps. That was apparently their cue to follow, so Carson led the way.

  At the top of the staircase was a short hallway with two rooms on either side. The man led them to the last room on the right and opened the door, then closed it behind them and locked it.

  The place looked something like a studio apartment. There was a nook the man clearly used as a bedroom, and a kitchen space with a microwave and a fridge.

  The man himself was smallish with thick, dark features. His eyebrows and beard were the same shade of dark brown patched with gray, and his jawline was slight, giving him a gaunt appearance. His nose was noticeably pointed, and Carson recognized it as the source of his codename.

  Mouse was a Sephardic Jew named Benjamin Caruso. How he had come to work for the National Clandestine Service Carson didn’t know, but Caruso was in no mood to chat. Without saying a word, he opened a closet behind his cot and rolled out a large Craftsman tool chest.

  The tool chest did not house tools. The first drawer Carson opened held at least a dozen Sig Sauer handguns, all with threaded barrels. The next drawer was filled with several hundred rounds of ammunition and suppressors that fit the Sigs.

  “We don’t need weapons,” Carson told Mouse. “We brought our own.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Connor, looking closely at one of the pistols. “These don’t have serial numbers. They’ve been scratched off.”

  “Incorrect.” This was Caruso’s first word to them. His voice was high-pitched. “The serial numbers weren’t scratched off. They were never there.”

  Carson looked at Connor who looked at Mendez.

  Caruso looked at the floor. “So yes, you do need weapons.”

  Carson hated to part with his guns but eventually settled on a Sig P320. Connor and Mendez each made a selection and then Caruso directed them to the closet, where he kept holsters of every size and style.

  After loading boxes of ammunition into their duffles, they all turned to look at Caruso, who had set a cardboard box on the counter in the kitchen.

  Inside were three French passports, all with recent photographs.

  “Leave your real ones,” Caruso said quietly. “I’ll shred them.”

  Also in the box were four Motorola XTS digital radios with accompanying earpieces, similar to those used by the United States Secret Service. They each took one and Connor grabbed the extra for Sampson.

  Carson shook Caruso’s hand and thanked him, which clearly made Caruso very uncomfortable. He was not a man that had frequent contact with other human beings. It made Carson wonder how long he had been cooped up in this tiny apartment—years, possibly even decades; McManus hadn’t given many details, just enough to confirm Caruso was competent and trustworthy.

  He held the door for them as they filed out. “Hey King…”

  Carson turned back.

  There was no emotion in Caruso’s dark eyes. In fact, there was nothing in them. They were black holes.

  It seemed he didn’t blink for nearly a minute before whispering, “You were never here.”

  • • •

  When they got back into Paris, they parked both vehicles on Avenue Montaigne and rallied on the sidewalk. After a brief conversation, it was decided that Connor and Mendez would scour the street looking for any CCTV cameras that may have captured footage of Colton or his captors. Meanwhile, Carson and Sampson would go to the café where Colton had dined the day he went missing.

  They agreed to update one another using the radios and went their separate ways.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Unknown Location

  Colton King knew three things
with absolute certainty: it was cold, it was dark, and it was wet.

  His captors had placed him in a cell made entirely of stone. The walls, floor, and ceiling were all composed of what he figured to be some kind of metamorphic rock, and every square inch was damp with moisture.

  They had stripped him of his clothes and given him a pair of cloth pants and a sweatshirt, both of which had long since soaked through. If it weren’t for the man that came to visit him every eight hours, he would have succumbed to hypothermia by now.

  Pushing himself onto his knees, Colton attempted to stand. It was a clumsy process but he eventually found his feet and started to stretch. His back and shoulders were painfully tight, as were his hamstrings. His right ankle was shackled to an eyebolt drilled directly into the rock wall; attempting to get free was futile, so he hadn’t even tried. He stood and stretched every thirty minutes, but that was it.

  His mind, on the other hand, hadn’t stopped moving in three days.

  The men who had attacked him in Paris had made a series of small mistakes.

  First, they screwed up the dosage. The metal he had felt pressed against his neck in the alleyway was a gun barrel of sorts, but not the kind he had suspected. It was an injection device. When the would-be assassin depressed the trigger, Colton had felt the slight prick of a needle entering his skin.

  The injection material had been a sedative cocktail of some kind. Due to the dissociative nature of his dreams while unconscious, Colton was confident one of the components was a stout dose of ketamine. His captors’ mistake had come with the benzodiazepine element—they had underdosed it.

  Colton woke up in a van, his wrists and ankles bound. He was in the very back, lodged between the backseat and the hatch.

  He instantly began taking in every detail. The van was travelling along a rough road, which eventually transitioned from pavement to gravel. It was also travelling up. The longer they drove, the steeper the incline became.

 

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