Blind Instinct: A Tess Barrett Thriller

by Michael W. Sherer

  “Which you don’t want because you might not be able to control which way the shares are voted.”

  “You’re quick, Tess. How’d you learn that?”

  She shrugged. “Guess I paid more attention to dad’s dinner table talk than I thought.”

  “Good for you. That helps. I won’t have to explain everything. There’s a board meeting coming up, which is why I’m here and why I was supposed to meet Travis.”

  “You want me to come if he doesn’t show up before then.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “But I don’t know anything about running dad’s company.”

  “I don’t think you’ll have to vote on any issues.”

  “Ironic, isn’t it? I’m old enough to vote in a presidential election, but I can’t vote on what happens to my own company?”

  He didn’t respond for a moment. “All I want to do is buy some time until we find Travis.”

  “And if we don’t?” Tess swallowed hard. She didn’t want to consider the possibility.

  Chapter 9

  Travis shivered. Glad he’d thought to take a coat that morning, he hugged his arms and reassessed his situation for the hundredth time. From all outward appearances, his prospects wouldn’t excite a Vegas bookie. He’d been grabbed by pros. They’d snatched him with military precision, and had spared little expense. Whoever was behind it had money and resources. Probably the same people who had tried to get to Tess a couple weeks before. He didn’t know who they were or what they wanted. He had no idea where he was or how long they would keep him here. They’d taken all his personal possessions—wallet, cell phone, keys—except his watch. He wondered if they’d overlooked it, or let him keep it as part of some psychological game they wanted to play.

  He could handle the games. Part of his training for SICC had been special interrogation techniques, psychological torture and even Psy Ops. Psychology had been as potent a weapon in Afghanistan as an M16 or an IED. He’d dangled rewards and wielded punishment depending on what he and his team wanted to accomplish. Make friends, do favors, provide cash and resources when you wanted to build trust and create allies. Bully, threaten, harass and intimidate those you wanted to keep in line. Six years of navigating his way through the intricate ethnic, tribal, religious, and political intricacies of the relationships in tribal Afghanistan had given him plenty of experience. But perhaps nothing had prepared him for psychological games than growing up as the little brother of one of the all-time genius game theorists in the world.

  He’d worshipped James, wanted to be James. He’d devoured James’s comic book collection during the hour after school before James got home, and later James’s graphic novels. He’d begged James for a mini-version of James’s skateboard so Travis could come to the skate park with him on weekends, even knowing that he’d spend most of his time running errands for James and his friends instead of boarding and learning new tricks. They’d teased him mercilessly, sent him on fool’s errands, made him the object of their jokes and pranks. He never gave up, and knew that James had secretly respected him for it. It had never been about skateboarding, or mimicking his brother. It had been about getting close to James. He’d never been as good as James on a board anyway. When James had taken up laser tag, though, Travis found a game at which he excelled, something he did better than his smarter, bigger, stronger, older brother.

  Barstow, California, had felt like the last outpost on Earth, a small piece of civilization before the desert consumed everything that wasn’t scaly, spiny, poisonous or all three. Hotter than Hades in the summer and colder than a witch’s tit in the winter, at least after dark, the environs around the town were among the most inhospitable on the planet. And the town itself didn’t have much going for it—a handful of mom-and-pop and fast food restaurants, a movie theater and not much else in the way of what you’d call culture. But it did have one of the biggest train yards west of the Mississippi. A perfect place to stage battles.

  Travis’s small size, stealth and speed served as advantages in the day-long games, and his unerring aim had made him an effective combatant that James and his friends had soon fought over when selecting teams. When he’d become a man, he’d taken those same skills into the army and used them to root out Al Qaeda members in the northwest provinces of Afghanistan.

  Travis shook the memories out of his head and made another tour of his prison cell. The watch they’d let him keep had an illuminated dial. He’d tried to use it as sparingly as possible since he couldn’t remember the last time he’d changed the watch’s battery. He pushed the button and held his wrist out in front of him. The blue-green glow barely permeated the murk. He moved quickly around the space’s perimeter, eyes scanning everything at the edges of the glow.

  Rough rock walls about ten or twelve feet apart rose and arched to meet each other about nine feet off a packed dirt floor littered with gravel and small stones, some as large as his fist. At one end, a rusted steel grate stretched the width of the tunnel, the bars at the edges embedded in the rock wall. A hinged section the size of a French door was latched and locked. Fifty feet in the opposite direction, a rockslide or cave-in had blocked the tunnel save for a small black space near the roof about two feet in diameter. The craggy walls, though irregular, revealed nothing on his first two passes.

  On the dirt and gravel floor, two parallel iron rails ran the length of the tunnel, continuing on past the steel grate at one end and disappearing under the pile of rock and rubble on the other. Oxidation had dusted them with a russet patina, an indication of how long it had been since an ore cart had rolled through. A few of the wood ties under the rails had dried and split in places, but having no weather to contend with, most had survived the years with almost no sign of aging.

  The glowing dial blinked off, plunging the tunnel into total darkness. Travis shivered again, blew on his cupped hands and swung his arms a few times before hugging them around his chest. He guessed the ambient temperature at around fifty degrees, maybe a little lower. He faced the real danger of hypothermia if he didn’t keep moving. He shoved his hand in his coat pockets, stuck an elbow out until it brushed the jagged wall and walked toward the mouth of the tunnel reviewing what he knew.

  They’d dumped him in an old, abandoned mine. Here in the western half of the country odds were this tunnel had been mined for gold, silver or some other less precious metal, maybe copper. Without an actual map to check, he figured a silver, gold or copper mine within a few hours radius by jet could put him in any of about ten states and a couple of Canadian provinces. Even if he found a way to pinpoint his location more accurately, he had no way to communicate it to would-be rescuers in the outside world.

  Waiting was the worst part. He could handle whatever games they threw at him, could even handle physical torture if it came to that. But the waiting would eat at him unless he kept his mind active, working the angles, coming up with a plan. First he had to be patient and see if they kept any sort of routine schedule. Images of the Barstow train yard flashed through his mind again. James and his friends had ganged up on him mercilessly in their war games at first, sidelining him early so they could focus on each other. Until Travis had learned not to let them play him or lure him out of hiding places. Until Travis had learned patience. Rather than stalking his prey, Travis had learned to find the vantage points and wait for the others to come within range. When they eventually did, he’d taken them out silently, never giving away his position. The thrill of winning had been addictive.

  His stomach growled now, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten breakfast that morning. He had reserves of strength, and if he conserved his energy to stay as warm as possible, he could last several days at least. But if they didn’t feed him soon, without fuel his body would succumb to the cold more quickly. Dwelling on it wouldn’t do any good. He forced himself to think of something else.

  Time to take another look around his prison to see if he could find a way to break out.

  Chapter 10

&nbs
p; Senator Jeremy Latham brushed a hand through the mane of silver hair, sweeping it off his high forehead like the crest of a wave. The phone rang as he strode into his expansive office in the Russell Senate Office Building in Washington. Those of his aides who hadn’t gone home yet were tied up in meetings with aides of other senators, wrangling over wording of legislation that had his fingerprints on it. He snatched up the receiver without pausing as he rounded the corner of his desk.

  “Latham,” he snapped.

  “The package is secure,” said a muffled voice.

  Latham automatically glanced around the office, taking in the plush Oriental rug, the polished antique mahogany furniture, the heavy damask curtains framing windows darkened by a night sky, looking for anything out of place.

  “I told you never to call me on this line,” Latham said gruffly.

  “You weren’t answering your cell phone,” the voice said.

  Latham fingered the phone cord and rolled his eyes as if he might spot some patience hiding on the high ceiling. “I just came from a subcommittee meeting over in the Capitol building. There’s no cell service in the subway tunnel.”

  “You don’t have to be patronizing, sir. I’m just doing my job.”

  Offending people was just fine with Latham. The rank stupidity he encountered on a daily basis staggered the mind. Reminding people of their place in the world—in the food chain, more like—should serve as a warning and keep them on their toes. Too many ignored the hint, or missed it completely, and the unsuspecting usually were summarily eaten or simply shoved aside by those more powerful.

  “Your job,” Latham said between barely clenched teeth, “is to follow instructions. If I tell you not to call me on this line, don’t dial this number. If I tell you to report in at a specific time and you can’t reach me on a secure phone, then you wait and try again in a few minutes. Is that clear? I don’t know where your superior finds people like you.”

  “Excuse me, sir, but I was with Cy—”

  “No names!” Latham barked. “For god’s sake, use your head! What did I just tell you?”

  “I’ll call you back, sir,” the voice said quietly.

  Latham slammed the receiver down, breathing heavily. He closed his eyes and rubbed the back of his neck. Easing into his desk chair, he slowed his breathing and consciously relaxed his muscles starting with his toes and working his way up. He’d gotten as far as his torso when the disposable cell phone in his suit coat pocket chirped. He pulled it out and pressed the talk button.

  “Report,” he said.

  “We intercepted the subject at oh-seven-forty and seized him without incident. No witnesses. We transported him to the prearranged location, where he’s now secured.”

  “He’s had no contact with anyone?”

  “Other than the apprehension team, no. No one spoke to him during transport, and he didn’t seem interested in starting up a conversation.”

  Latham glanced at the gold Patek Philippe watch on his wrist, a $50,000 gift from an ardent supporter and campaign contributor.

  “He’s been confined for, what, about six or seven hours?” He went on without waiting for an answer. “Let him stew overnight.”

  “What about food and water?”

  “Do what you want. As long as you keep him out of action until after the board meeting.”

  “Why not just kill him?”

  “Because we need him,” Latham snapped.

  “Fine. I’ll take care of it.”

  “See that you do.”

  Latham ended the call and slipped the phone in his pocket. Leaning back, he stared at the ceiling for a moment, envisioning a global chessboard, the pieces representing governments, world leaders, tribal warlords, weapons programs, intelligence agencies, and more. Some of them he controlled directly and some indirectly. Outcomes were what mattered, outcomes beneficial not to America or some foolish notion like patriotism, but to Jeremy Latham and the men he represented. What mattered was the balance of power, and only he and a handful of others could control that.

  No one, not the president of the United States or the leaders of the European Union or the president of China, to name a few, knew how little they had to do with how events played out on the world stage. The most powerful countries in the world were mere game pieces for Latham and his group to move about at whim to suit their own goals—money and power. That’s what it came down to, wasn’t it? The world belonged to those with money and power. Without them, a person had nothing.

  A faint smile came to his lips as he stood up and walked to the ornate liquor cart in the corner. He chose a cut crystal decanter of Scotch single malt whisky, poured some into a matching tumbler and raised the glass to his nose. Scents of sherry, oak, raisins, almonds and peat smoke wafted up from the glass. He raised the glass higher still in a toast—to money and power.

  Chapter 11

  The distant drone of a small airplane engine floated into the silent classroom. A scarlet flush crept up Tess’s neck into her face, ticking off the rising degrees of her discomfort.

  Madame Villeneuve grimaced and gave a little nod, her gaze shifting from Tess to the rest of the class. “D’accord. C’est ça. Quelqu’un d’autre?”

  A couple of students chimed in with answers simultaneously, and the classroom’s normal volume resumed.

  I leaned toward Tess. “What is wrong with you?” I whispered. “We covered this material before I left yesterday.”

  Spine rigid, face forward, Tess refused to answer. I sat back and picked up the conversation, trying to catch up on my notes. I’d barely started when the bell rang. I gathered up the papers, textbook and pen, stuffed them into Tess’s backpack and slung it over my shoulder. She stood, still stiff with embarrassment, and jerked away when I took her arm.

  “Just get us out of here,” she mumbled. “I’ll manage.”

  “Fine.” I turned to go. A slight tug on the backpack strap told me she’d grabbed on and I heard her shuffling out behind me.

  In the hall, Tess’s hand on my shoulder, I slalomed through the throngs of constantly moving students, intent on getting to Johnson’s music class on time.

  Tess tugged me into a lower gear. “Oliver, slow down!”

  Grudgingly, I shortened my stride. She slid her hand down my arm until it rested on my forearm and came up next to me.

  “You’re mad at me,” she said.

  “No, just disappointed.”

  She went on the defensive. “You’re not the one who has to know everything. No one’s calling on you in class.”

  “You’re wrong, Tess. I do have to know everything. I have to know all the stuff they teach you, and all the stuff your teachers leave out just in case it comes up on a quiz or a test. That’s my job. If I don’t make sure you understand all the material—all of it—then it’s my fault, not yours if you don’t do well.”

  She gave me the silent treatment.

  “What’s the problem? You’ve been acting weird all morning.”

  “I have a lot going on, that’s all.”

  I put my hand on hers and pulled her aside to avoid a group of freshman boys dashing by.

  “You always have a lot going on.” I paused. “Look, I know you’re worried about Travis.”

  “What I’m worried about,” she blurted, “is that he won’t let me go to tolo.”

  I frowned and shifted to edge sideways through the music room door ahead of her. Inside, the decibel level dropped about seventy-five percent.

  I lowered my voice. “That’s, like, a Sadie Hawkins-type dance?”

  She nodded and shuffled her feet as I led her slowly to a chair at an empty table. I eased into the chair beside hers.

  “That’s what you argued with Travis about yesterday wasn’t it?”

  She bit her lower lip and nodded. “There’s a guy I want to ask.”

  “And your uncle doesn’t approve.”

  “He doesn’t even want me to go.”

  I was probably shooting myself in t
he foot, but my mouth started moving before my brain had a chance to work it out. “I’ll talk to him.”

  “What good will that do?”

  “He’s worried. Where’s the dance? In the commons?”

  “Yes, but we don’t stay there. I mean, we have pictures at someone’s house first, then we go out to dinner somewhere. We might spend some time at the dance, and then there’s usually a party at someone’s house after.”

  “Let me think about it. I’ll figure something out.”

  “Really? You really think you can convince him?”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  At the front of the room, Mr. Johnson rapped a conductor’s baton on the edge of his desk. “All right, class, let’s get started.”

  I didn’t bother with notes. Johnson’s course was mostly an exercise in listening, and Tess could handle that. Historical context I could pick up from the textbook later. I spent most of the class wondering how I was going to convince Travis to let Tess go to this tolo thing. More interesting was why I’d want to help her go out with some high school dork in the first place. Then again, it shouldn’t have mattered to me one way or the other. I had no designs on Tess. I mean, I was a grad student—at least I had been before my grandparents spent the trust money that was supposed to be for my education—and she was only a senior, in high school no less. So that meant my concern was fraternal, platonic. Crap, I was turning into a boring, conservative adult like Travis.

  Assisting Tess was supposed to be a simple job, something that would help me pay the rent without resorting to wearing a funny hat, a button that said, “Hi! My name is Oliver!” and asking people if they wanted ketchup with their fries. When had life become so complicated?

  Since I’d already dipped a toe in these waters, on the way to the commons at lunch I demonstrated my good sportsmanship and irreplaceable value by sticking my whole foot in.