by Bradley West
Bert felt awkward given that he had duct tape, rope, gags and blindfolds in his day pack, and a 9mm automatic lodged in his waistband. The gun was obscured by one of his Walgreens acquisitions, a two-season out-of-date Oakland Raiders jersey.
“I thought I might be getting visitors this weekend, but I was imagining they’d be wearing different uniforms."
At a loss for words, Bert stammered a question: “Uh, why . . . why did you think that, ma’am?”
“Well, my husband is a criminal, so I was thinking he could either be arrested, or else he might be dead. But you two here makes me think there’s something else going on.”
“Well, um, I, um, well, this is my friend Michael McGirty, and I’m Bert Nolan. We go to college at U-Dub, uh, that’s the University of Washington. We’re wanted by the FBI. There’s probably a reward out for us, but we didn’t do anything wrong. All we did was defend ourselves from an illegal arrest in Washington State. The FBI is trying to shut up my father before he can find out the truth about MH370. We’re trying to help him.”
“Wait a sec. Did you say your last name was Nolan?”
“Yes, ma’am. My dad’s Bob Nolan. He’s in the CIA, based in Singapore. Yesterday in Sri Lanka, the NSA man Mark Watermen was shot and killed in front of my father.”
“I know about this. I’ve been watching it on CNN. Your father is the most wanted man in the world. Apparently he’s hijacked a private jet and flown it somewhere no one can find him. And the US has just fought a short war with China. I’m wondering if he had something to do with that, too.”
“I don’t know anything about that China-US war, Mrs. Coulter. What I do know is that there’s no way my father would have hijacked a plane, and even if he did, the US government could track it anywhere it went. So if that’s what’s on TV, then it’s bullshit.”
“So why did you come here?”
McGirty couldn’t help himself. “Bob Nolan thinks your husband is behind the MH370 hijacking. He’s flown to Australia to confront Frank. If he’s right, Frank will likely take him hostage. We thought that if we kidnapped you, it would force your husband to let Bert’s father go.” Bert gave McGirty a fatal look.
Joanna Coulter laughed in a voice that reminded McGirty of Anne Bancroft’s Mrs. Robinson in The Graduate. She lit a cigarette without taking her eyes off her prey. “Well, I can tell you my husband is involved in something illegal, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it was MH370. But if you kidnap me, he’s likely to light a big cigar in celebration. We’re divorcing. I’m taking this house and what’s left of his bank account, and he can keep his crappy wellness center. I may even say some things that put him in jail for the rest of his life.
“There are only two ways to exert leverage over Frank: either through his mother or his son, Frank four-sticks. Frank IV is at boarding school in Texas, so that leaves his mother.”
“His mother? How old is she?” Bert asked.
“Ninety-six and still spry. Curses me like I’m a common call girl.”
“And where might we find her?”
“Why, she’s right in Weaverville off Main Street. I’ll write out the directions. Oh, and you’ll need Frank’s satphone number for the ransom call.” She sauntered off to look.
Nolan watched her backside swish away, putting on a show in stretch denims. “After this is over, I want to come back up the mountain.”
“You gotta get Jen out of that cabin first, Brother Bert,” McGirty said, staring in the same direction. “I’ll handle things from this end.”
* * * * *
It was hot inside the G550 and warming up by the minute. Toby sat next to the open door, F88C Austeyr automatic rifle across his lap. The guard paid his captives no heed as he combatted the urge to doze.
In the back of the cabin, Nishimoto and Jenkins deliberated in whispers. “Jack, I say we shoot him. We get on the radio and call in a mayday. If there’s anyone in the area standing off from last night’s hijacking call, that will bring them in.”
“Yes, and if anyone’s monitoring our radio, that alerts whoever has Nolan and Kaili and likely triggers their deaths. Besides, it seems he checks in every hour. That doesn’t give us a lot of breathing room.”
The guard’s head snapped upright. “Shut yer gobs! I told you two, no talking back there. You, go across the aisle and stay put.” His radio crackled before the pilots moved. Their captor reported all was well to home base, then clicked off and fumbled with the radio handset.
Jenkins sidled over to where he’d secreted the Walther. He looked at Nishimoto, who gave him the go-ahead. Jenkins drew the pistol and fired three times, their guard falling to the floor. The noise was deafening, followed by silence as smoke and the smell of cordite filled the plane. They hustled up front to disarm the guard who now lay facedown. Jenkins knelt by him and felt for a pulse while Nishimoto removed his radio and patted him for other weapons.
“Captain, grab a pair of latex gloves out of the first-aid kit and I'll try to stabilize him.” Nishimoto hadn’t even finished turning around when Toby made a guttural noise and died, blood gushing out of his nose and mouth.
“He’s gone. What do you want to do now?” asked Jenkins.
“I don’t care, just as long as he doesn’t bleed any more on the carpet. Let’s get him down the steps and outside. Tie a white flag to a stick.”
“I’m not convinced there’s anyone within three hundred miles of here, other than those fellows in the Bell helicopter and at the Eco-Camp.”
“We’ll see soon enough.”
* * * * *
“It doesn’t have to be like this,” Coulter said to the hunched form in the cage. Elvis was close now, his gaping mouth showing off a perfect set of conical teeth and breath that could knock a buzzard off an outhouse seat.
Nolan didn’t bother turning around. Elvis held all of his attention; he’d noticed Nolan’s presence and slowly reversed polarity. Now his head was barely five feet away, jaws still wide open to help him cool off. The flies might have been worse than the stench.
“I’m open to offers. If you unlock the cage, let me out and surrender, that would be acceptable.”
“Be serious. Only a fool thinks he can solve the world’s problems. You’re not leaving here alive; we both know that. There are a couple of hard ways, and this isn’t even the worst. If you don’t tell me everything you’ve shared about MH370, I am gonna slow walk you up the beach to the interrogation shed. There’s someone inside who will make you beg for death before he’s done.
“Tell ya what. Cooperate and we’ll leave your body somewhere it can be found so your family can collect on the life insurance payout. Otherwise you’ll be just another missing person with a seven-year wait before you’re declared legally dead. So what do you say, pardner?”
“Get stuffed, Frank.”
Let’s get this over with, Nolan thought, plastic knife gripped in his right hand. He clenched his teeth, let out a strangulated war cry, and charged Elvis from his doubled-over position.
* * * * *
“Shots heard! Confirmed shots fired on board the jet!” Chonga relayed the message back to HQ. The reply was instantaneous. “It’s a go, Macca!”
McCullough’s men had already split up and encircled the parked aircraft. On the signal two pairs went running, weapons up as they rushed the far side of the Gulfstream, one toward the cockpit and the other the tail. Grappling hooks in hand, they were ready to climb onto the wings and up onto the fuselage before using shaped charges to punch holes for flash bangs and gas grenades. Chonga and Macca covered the team’s flank. The sniper and his spotter would have the door covered.
The door of the G550 swung down and revealed the steps of the gangway. A white flag on the end of an umbrella poked out. Someone unseen tossed a handgun and an assault rifle onto the runway.
“Stand down, stand down! This is Mad Max to Thunderdome. Stand down. We have a white flag.” Switching channels to speak just to the TAG sniper team, he said, “Stay tight on th
at door, Paddy. If you don’t like what you see, put a round innit.”
“Macca, the choppers are ready. They can be on target in seventy seconds.” Captain Willard had the three backup Black Hawks prepped, and Chonga monitored their comms.
“Tell them to stay where they are. We will advise. Repeat, will advise.”
A tall blond Caucasian in a white shirt backed down the gangway holding a limp body under the armpits. His similarly dressed companion, an older Asian, held the legs. Together they pulled and pushed the blue-uniformed deadweight down the stairs, and then the lead man dragged the body under the plane, into the shade.
The TAG team cuffed the two pilots and had them kneeling on the ground by the time Macca chugged up, trailed by Chonga and the Bowman VHF radio set. One of the TAG squaddies confirmed the man on the ground was dead.
He addressed the older of the two pilots. “So what’s your story, mate?” Macca asked.
“Captain Jack Nishimoto, USAF retired, Harcourt Aviation. Our plane was hijacked yesterday in Sri Lanka. This is my first officer, John Jenkins. He’s also ex-USAF and Special Forces. We called in the hijacking last night when we landed and triggered the EPIRB late last night.
“So is that the hijacker over there?”
“No, sir. Another group took our hijackers prisoner this morning at first light. They flew to the east in a Bell Ranger heli—”
“Yes, yes. My men and I were on-site for that small drama. So who is this?” He pointed toward the body.
“We don’t know. He was on guard with instructions to kill us if we left the plane. His boss called him Toby. We had a weapon hidden, and First Officer Jenkins accessed it.”
“Alright, fair enough. Corporal Chong will take down all your details, and we’ll make a few inquiries. Anyone else on the plane? And any idea when the lot in the helicopter are coming back or what they’re doing?”
“No one’s on board, sir. The man who hijacked our jet is Bob Nolan, a CIA officer who—”
“Yes, we bloody well know all about Bob Nolan.”
“Well, Nolan’s traveling with an intelligence officer from China named Yu. They came here seeking to explain the MH370 disappearance. That’s why they were keen to get there.”
“MH370? You don’t say.” Suddenly, Macca’s career prospects might extend beyond running the military archives warehouse in Kununurra. “So what did Nolan find out? What’s his plan?”
“The MH370 hijackers are the same people who flew them out on the helicopter to some place called the Eco-Camp, maybe five or ten miles away. Nolan’s counting on the Australia military to rescue them before they’re killed by their captors.”
“Bloody hell! Chonga, let’s bring up the Black Hawks on the QT. I need to have an in-person with Willbo and figure out what happens next.”
“Right, Macca.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
SELF-HELP
FRIDAY MARCH 14, WEAVERVILLE, CALIFORNIA; SATURDAY MARCH 15, ADMIRALTY GULF, WESTERN AUSTRALIA; TRUSCOTT FIELD, WESTERN AUSTRALIA
Just as Joanna had written down, Odd Fellows Avenue was off Main Street. The two-story high-gabled home on the corner of Mormon Lane had seen better days, with the spring grass still uncut and riddled with tufts and clumps. There was a light on downstairs at the back.
They parked fifty yards down the street and walked back. “We aren’t really hurting a ninety-six-year-old woman, are we?” McGirty asked his bald, menacing partner.
“No, but we need her to believe we will harm her to have any leverage over her son. So keep quiet and stop looking like you’re about to wet your pants.”
* * * * *
Elvis was in the prime of life, forty-four years old, and until his recent incarceration, lord of the Admiralty Gulf. Now he was confined to a cage, fed yesterday for the first time in a week, and it was not enough. Hunger wasn’t the worst of his complaints, however. Imprisonment left him bereft of opportunities to court females and punish any male who dared swim through his territory. Even Elvis’s tiny brain realized something wasn’t right when that pink, faint-smelling mammal suddenly charged him with a loud shout. Elvis backed up as quickly as he could, letting out a hiss and smacking his jaws shut before that stupid animal flung himself onto his snout. The fifteen-foot croc tossed his head and threw the interloper back in a heap. The creature lay on the floor of the cage making low noises.
Another pink mammal opened the cage and dragged out the first mammal. Elvis opened his mouth and hissed at them both. Damned intruders.
* * * * *
Kaili had wondered how Zhao would rape her without putting down his gun. What he lacked in four-poster beds he made up for in duct tape, having her bind together her own ankles before he had her lie facedown on the bed where he taped her wrists behind her. He next used nylon cord to hogtie her taped ankles to her wrists. For good measure, he gagged her as well. He used his hands to tear her clothes off, his domination adding to his arousal. Given the ease with which he thwarted her writhing, this was not his first rape. He climaxed quickly, his twisted foreplay having brought him to the edge even before his briefs had come off. She knew he would keep her alive only until he was sated.
* * * * *
Grandma Coulter proved too tough a nut for Bert. Bent by age to barely five feet tall, her clear green eyes sparkled. The old lady exuded hospitality, not even questioning why two young strangers would be knocking on her back door at eight on a Friday night. In short order, she had them seated at the kitchen table with glasses of cold milk and a plate of homemade chocolate chip cookies. The cookies weren’t bad, Big Duck decided. So much for the Primal Diet this week.
She noticed Bert’s swollen nose and two mildly blackened eyes and wondered how he had injured himself. The police would be here soon, so she might as well be polite. “What may I do for you young gentlemen?”
“Mrs. Coulter, your son is responsible for my injuries. And unless you tell him to stop, he will keep hurting people. Right now Frank has taken my father prisoner in Australia. If you don’t call and tell your son to let him go, my father will be murdered.”
“Young man, do you know that my son is on a secret mission? If he’s doing these things, I’m certain it’s all part of a bigger plan. Your father might also be a bad person, have you considered that?”
“Mrs. Coulter, do you watch the TV news?”
“Only Fox. You can keep the Communist News Network, or whatever CNN is supposed to stand for. Bill O’Reilly is the only anchor I trust since Dan Rather retired.”
“Well, I just saw Fox News this afternoon, and Bill O’Reilly said the innocent passengers on Malaysia flight 370 were probably the victims of a hijacking and already dead.”
“Yes, I saw that, too. That’s an awful shame.”
“Your son was responsible for the hijacking and murder of everyone on that plane.”
“I’m certain you’re mistaken, young man.” Mrs. Coulter’s civility was slipping.
“I have his satellite phone number. Let’s call Australia and you ask him.”
* * * * *
“Your reputation precedes you,” said Coulter with a note of satisfaction.
Sandy and a second guard entered the interrogation hut, each with two arms under the armpit of a writhing captive. Nolan’s face was twisted in pain as his damaged left forearm was now behind his back, the gash reopened. He dragged his cable-tied feet, ineffectually trying to slow his progress into the hut of horrors. Coulter shut the door behind them, noting the hundreds of hermit crabs feasting on the perfect circle of upchuck he’d deposited before sunrise.
Tony Johnson was on break, using a bloody rag to wipe gore off the acrylic dentist’s shield. He was standing on a green PVC drop cloth next to two waist-high worktables piled with everything from garden tools to surgical implements.
All was covered in blood, starting with Johnson’s butcher’s apron and the veterinary gloves that shielded his arms up almost to his armpits. A video camcorder on a tripod was off to the side, poi
nted at a man’s bloody body slumped in a chair under a halogen floor lamp. The air conditioning was so cold Coulter had goose bumps.
“Put him down over there,” Johnson said, gesturing to to the cot in the corner of the room next to a handsaw and sledgehammer leaning against the wall. “You can take the mad scientist away. I’m done with him, and in any event he won’t last long. When you transcribe the recordings, I think you’ll find his cross-references tally.” The two sentries tilted the chair back and picked up the unconscious man. Coulter opened the door for them, and then shut it as they carried their gruesome cargo into the heat.
“How do you know he’s dying?” asked Coulter.
“I skewered the second kidney about an hour ago when he wasn’t cooperating. Even with a transfusion, he’ll die without dialysis. Over there’s part of his first kidney, in that pan next to the eyeball.”
Nolan could hear their conversation, but couldn’t bear to open his eyes. Why hadn’t that crocodile killed him? The damned thing backed up like a French poodle facing a grizzly. And now he was tied up with a bona fide sadist preparing to torture him.
Outside came a scream truncated mid-breath. Johnson looked at Coulter with raised eyebrows. Coulter shrugged. “Wilbur wanted to see if there was somethun’ a matter with Elvis. This one over here”—he nodded toward Nolan—“tried to commit suicide in Elvis’s cage a few minutes back. Elvis wouldn’t eat him, so I pulled him out and had the guards bring him up. Wilbur wanted to give Elvis a kebab to see if he was really off his feed. I guess that ole croc jess didn’t like Big Bob for some reason, but didn’t have any problems with a Persian mutton chop.”