“Like I said, only if you’re faster than me.”
Red looked at Carter, then nodded.
Jim rubbed his hands like a boy scout trying to use a fire stick. “Good!” He jerked open the double doors and stepped halfway into the foyer. Glancing back with narrow eyes, he yelled, “Do I need Ms. Grace to write an invitation? Follow me, damn it!”
Chapter 8
Recall
Red glanced at Carter, then hopped up. Dr. Genova moved slowly, deliberately. They followed Jim through a cubicle maze, making their way toward the back of the building. What was everyone staring at?
Jim dropped his head and snorted. “Yes, folks. Red’s back from the dead. Now get to work.”
They walked past a glass-walled conference room, one side covered with large flat screens. Each displayed satellite images of different regions of the globe. The pictures were splashed with small multicolored shapes: a triangle, square, or stars. Some seemed to move. Maybe an air traffic system? But why for Moscow and Riyadh? Red turned to ask, but Jim was almost at the end of a hallway.
Red hustled after him. The gray hall was like the one at the sheriff’s office, except this had a polished marble floor. The tap of Jim’s shoes echoed a cadence that resonated inside Red. Jim ducked into a doorway near the end. Through a small window Red glimpsed the tail of a helo. He paused to study it, but Jim pulled him into another room, office-sized, furnished with only a couple of brown folding chairs. Photos were pinned on the walls from floor to ceiling, as if it was one huge bulletin board.
“Wall of fame,” Red whispered.
“You remember this?” asked Genova, strolling through the door, hand in pocket. Carter rolled his eyes.
“Saw something like it in a dream,” Red muttered. “Actually, several.”
“Nightmares?”
“No. Not really.”
Red stood before the montage, noting the tail numbers of a C-17 in one of the photos, but his mind was unable to grasp . . . what? Something about the picture, or the wall itself? He ran a finger across it. He could see the plane clearly, but the memory was blurry, beyond reach. Tapped another photo, he said, “I know this one.”
Jim stepped next to him and leaned close to the wall, squinting. “You’re in it. So am I.”
The photo was dark. Jim’s jawline was unmistakable, though his face was smeared with black out. He wore dark fatigues and a helmet like a skateboarder’s. The flash on the camera glistened off sweat, or maybe he’d been for a swim. In one hand he gripped a bearded man by the hair. Blood smeared across the lid of the prisoner’s eye, swollen shut and purple. In the other hand, Jim gripped a black knife. Red was the only other person in the picture, tipping up a canteen. The caption under it read, “Major Mayard reading Miranda rights.” Red laughed out loud, surprised he found humor in the brutal image.
“You remember?” Jim asked.
“Just the photo. That’s all. From my dream, I think.” He pinched the thumbtack and yanked it out, holding the image beneath an overhead light. “It’s frustrating. Like I want to remember, but can’t. All I’ve got are memories of being bored out of my mind, filling purchase orders.” He glanced at Genova and lifted his chin. “Doc, let’s get going. We’re wasting time.”
Jim grasped his shoulder. “There’s a lot of things I’d love to forget. After this, so will you.”
Genova led them through a purple side door into an examination room. Over the jamb hung a rough-hewn wooden plaque: THOUGH I WALK THROUGH THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH, I WILL FEAR NO EVIL, FOR I AM THE MEANEST SON OF A BITCH IN THE VALLEY. Genova pointed to a blue vinyl exam table like the ones in a family practitioner’s office.
Red hesitated, but took a seat when Carter stood in the threshold. Jim pulled up a folding chair, scraping the legs across the floor, sending a chill up Red’s spine. Dr. Genova offered a glass of water, but he waved it off.
“Drink it. You need to be hydrated before recall.”
The doctor’s hands shook slightly, creating small ripples on the surface of the water. Red took a deep breath and drank. It didn’t taste like plain water. What was in it?
“You’ll start to feel relaxed,” Genova said. “Questions?”
“What the hell is recall? Do I just sit here?”
The doctor wrapped a latex tube around Red’s arm above the elbow and assumed a professorial tone. “It’s mental and medical. Before you entered the Det, we established a restore point in your subconscious through in-processing—using light sedatives and something like hypnosis. In the Det you were assigned a job in Base Supply to work once in a while, as a reservist. We bookmarked those memories through verbal cues, assigned during in-processing. When we decommission someone, out-processing brings the bookmarked memories forward, and pushes the others back. Your brain fills in the rest.”
“I don’t remember any of that.”
Genova’s lip curled. “Huh. Must’ve worked. However, you were never out-processed.”
Red propped himself on his elbows. Blinking hard at a sudden head rush. “What?”
“Remember your discharge?” Jim asked.
“Yeah. Some damn airman backed a forklift into a shelving system. It toppled on me.”
“You remember the accident?”
Red closed one eye. “No. Just waking in the hospital with a feeding tube.”
Jim smiled. “See, it never happened. Actually, we never figured out what did. An op went bad, you were caught. We got you out, but it took a couple days. You woke up like you’d been out-processed. Life’s a bitch.”
Genova held up a hand. “It will be clear if the recall works.”
Red gaped at him. “If it works?”
Genova smiled. “Restoring your memory isn’t like working on a car.”
There were two of Carter now. “Buddy, stay here. Make sure these yahoos don’t screw me up.” The detective’s mouth moved, but no sound came to Red’s ears. The throbbing in his head subsided. Were the kids okay at his parents’? Of course, they were. What about Lori? Had Jim known this would happen? Had he allowed it? Red was putting his life in Jim’s hands. What if he screwed that up, too? I shouldn’t have agreed to this.
Red gripped the side rails and sat up. The IV bag seemed to bob around, as if he’d been drinking. Jim leaned over him with a scowl, jaw tensed and moving. But there was only the sound of a conch shell in Red’s ear. He managed to grab Jim’s collar. Then Carter stepped close. A flash of stainless-steel watchband as his arm came across Red’s chest. Damn, I never knew Carter could swing like that. Red scowled as a nylon strap tightened across his chest.
“Trust us,” Jim’s voice broke through the fog. “You’re a special case.”
* * *
The faint metallic twang of feet descending metal steps pierced the coffin walls. It pulled Lori’s mind from its haze and reminded her of what she was supposed to be doing. She held her breath, listening, sending her senses out beyond the casket. A muffled voice, then another, too faint to make out. The pitch of the plane’s engines dropped lower and she was pulled to one side. They’d started a descent.
She listened, though her mind was still foggy. Maybe she would hear something that might tell where she was landing. Steps sounded near the horse again. This time two sets, one behind the other. The first had the same pace and weight of the man who’d threatened her earlier. The intruders stopped and spoke in low whispers. Then there were several slaps, pats on the animal’s neck. The second set of footsteps was heavier, but came with the same number of strides as the first.
Probably male.
The two walked to the side of the coffin, opposite the hinge. Were they going to let her out?
The German accent again, speaking low. “Ready?”
“I don’t like this,” said a British voice, male. “This is your cargo. We just move it. Take care of your own bloody problems.”
A snicker. “You picked up the king’s shilling and expect to keep your hands clean? If she makes any noise when we
unload, you’re as guilty as I. Now get ready.”
Fingers wedged beneath the coffin lid and it was flung open. Two men leaned over her, one above her head. That one was neatly shaved, with short black hair, fair complexion, expensive aviator Ray-Bans—probably the copilot or navigator. She sat up but he grabbed her by the shoulders and pinned her down. Light grip. Apprehensive. He wasn’t a killer. She could take him if she wasn’t cuffed. She tried to scream and turned to the other. She froze at his smile. His well-tanned skin creased like seams in a saddle as the corners of his mouth turned up. His teeth were bright white, but crooked. He flung his head sideways to get a few strands of black, oily hair out of his eyes. Probably gay. He reached into the coffin and squeezed a pressure point near the collarbone.
“Quiet, bitch!” he said, raising a hypodermic with his free hand. He held it upright and gave a final squirt. “This won’t hurt, unless I snap the needle in your arm. No noise when we refuel. Sweet dreams.”
He stuck her shoulder and discharged its burning contents. He stared at her chest. Maybe he wasn’t gay. Then down her arms and wrists. “You’ve got a long way to go. No chance of getting out and no one can hear you. They’re all dead,” he said smiling, pointing the needle to a silver coffin next to her, “so quit hurting yourself or I’ll put you under the entire trip.” He licked sweat from his lip. “They dock my pay if you’re cut up, but don’t think I won’t do it.” At least five more coffins were in her periphery. Some wood, others stainless steel.
She closed her eyes and strained against the gag. What did he mean, they’re all dead? Who’s in the other coffins? Where’s my family? I will hunt you down. His bloodshot eyes, dimpled chin–she seared every detail into her waning mind. Only a few more seconds till she would be out.
The two released her in unison. The lid slammed in her face as she sat up. One last scream, but nothing made it through the gag. Her wrists ached, though she wasn’t straining against the cuffs. He was right. No hope of getting out, not now. The best she could do was listen and remember, just like field training had taught her.
Heavy steps pounded away, pausing again near the horse. A total of eight twangs on metal stairs, then only the faint hum of engines and her breathing remained, slowing. The drug started to take her down. Not such a bad thing right now, she thought.
* * *
Red opened an eye. A bright white light blinded it. His other was slow to respond. He closed them both and lay motionless a few more minutes. He tried again and was able to focus. Dr. Genova sat in a corner. But this wasn’t the same place. More machines surrounded the bed. Maybe a hospital room. The vital signs monitor read 58 beats per minute. The last blood pressure reading was 110 over 68. An IV bag hung overhead. The bed was inclined. He tried to sit but flopped back, fatigued.
Genova turned and his white goatee crinkled as he spoke. “Relax. The sedative takes a while to wear off.” He picked up a phone on the wall. “Tell the colonel that Mr. Harmon is coming around.”
Red blinked, then Jim was standing over him. “You’re still ugly. Doc says we can’t do a damn thing about it.”
Red smiled. “Great to see you, too.” Jim tugged at the blouse of his desert fatigues. “Changed your uniform?”
“It’s been a while. The protocol took longer than Genova said. Had someone stitch up your head while you were under.”
“How long?”
“It’s noon on Tuesday.”
A day and a half? Thirty-six more hours for Lori to be missing? To be raped, tortured, killed? Why had they taken so long? “Found her?”
Jim stroked his head, as if pushing hair out of his eyes. Little to move; his short gray stubble held fast. “Think so.”
“Why so long? You said mild sedatives.”
Genova snapped a pen on a low wooden counter. “Maybe an understatement. It holds you at the edge where both your conscious and subconscious are available. Your system will work it out over the next couple hours. You may start recall as the effects wear off.”
Red’s arms were heavy, like after a set of pull-ups. He sat motionless and thought back to his job at Base Supply. “Waste of time. I don’t have any new memories.”
“A necessary step,” Genova said, lifting a skinny, crooked finger. “Plus, memories are only one of the things you need back.”
Break that damn finger off and shove it up your . . . Red closed his eyes. Next time he opened them, Jim was sitting in the opposite corner. Red’s scalp tingled. A presence—a heaviness, as if spiritual—moved over him, asking for possession, to be let in. “Jim!”
Jim shot up. Dr. Genova grasped Red’s ankle. “It’s normal. Recall only works if you let your defenses down. Don’t fight it.”
Red scowled. “Like hell if I’m gonna believe the same idiot who put me under for a day and a half.”
Jim leaned over, shadowing Red from the dazzling brightness of the overheads. “It’s true. Just go with it.” One of his eyes was dark, white tape below it.
“Where’s Carter? What happened to your eye?”
“You’ve come this far. Don’t mess it up now.”
“Let it come,” Genova pleaded.
Red leaned back. Fear was an enemy. It always stood between him and everything good. He had to get past that wall. The presence had disappeared earlier when he’d resisted. He tried to let go of his defenses, to let his mind drift, but couldn’t. It was as if he was hanging from a rope over a canyon and Jim was telling him to let go.
Red leaned his chin to his chest and drew a slow breath. The scent of Dune made him open his eyes. Lori’s perfume. Probably still on his clothes. No. Not for Jim. But for Lori, for the kids. He had to go through with it, to face whatever was knocking at the door of his mind. He let go of the rope.
The presence returned and entered him. The room—the same one where he had stitches in his forearm after a knife fight. A raid on one of PCC’s drug compounds in Brazil. The Cartier on Jim’s wrist—a gift from a grateful Italian model turned spy.
Warmth grew at the base of Red’s neck, spreading up from the rear of his skull to the top of his head. Then it flowed down past his ears and jaw. Down his spine, along his arms and legs, all the way to fingers and toes. It shot inward, as if filling his entire being. His body tensed and straightened in the bed. The warmth subsided.
Jim was pinning his shoulders to the bed. “You in there, buddy?”
The handle of Jim’s KA-BAR stuck over the side of the bed. He’d always carried one on his hip. Too damn predictable. Red grasped a wrist and twisted hard, pinning the arm behind. He dropped a knee over Jim’s bicep, locking it in place. Jim swung with his other, but Red dodged the blows. A couple fell on his ribs, but from the awkward position they were mere taps. The IV bag hit the far wall. Blood sprayed in quick bursts from the puncture in his arm. The vital signs monitor landed on the bed. Dr. Genova cowered in the corner, elbow over his head.
Jim grasped at Red’s hair, but he pinned that arm as well and slipped the knife from its scabbard. Red was piggybacked across Jim’s shoulders now, one hand gripping his forehead and a knife across his throat. Jim turned toward Genova, who glanced at the panic button on the phone, but Red tightened his grip on Jim’s skull.
Jim smiled wide. “We got him back!”
Red dropped off his shoulders, then tossed the knife and caught the blade, handle toward Jim. “Like your mother, slow and sloppy.”
Jim was busy working his arms loose. “Damn. Arms went numb. You almost dislocated a shoulder.”
“And still a bleeding whiner.” He flipped the blade again, grabbed the handle, and slid it into its sheath.
Genova stuttered as he pushed off the floor, black leather loafers slipping beneath him.
Red put his thumb over the puncture in his arm, stemming the oozing flow. “Just playing, doc. Never seen a couple guys wrestle?”
Genova pushed on a shaking knee and straightened, sweeping flat his white lab coat. “I had two brothers in Chennai. We wrestled. Not with knive
s.” He stooped and brushed his calves. “‘You won’t see any combat. We’ll pay off your med school bills,’ they told me. Wish I never signed that paper. I could be making just as much in a legitimate practice.” A brightness returned to his eyes as his goatee turned up again. “What do you feel?”
“Hungry.” Red grabbed a white square and tore it open with his teeth, then pressed the cloth to his forearm. “Anxious to get going. The op planned?”
“No,” Genova said. “What I mean is do you remember anything?”
“Yeah. Jim owes me a hundred fifty bucks in winnings.”
Genova scowled. “We have a lot to go through before I clear you.” He made a note on a pad, then snapped on a glove and wiped a drop of blood from the page.
“That’ll wait.” Jim reached to his belt and snapped a leather strap around the handle of his KA-BAR. “We don’t have time. He’s on the op.”
Genova scoffed. “Colonel, you don’t even know if—”
“The first two went fine. Red’ll be just like ’em.”
“I had two months before I cleared them.”
Jim rolled his shoulders forward, wincing, then slapped Red’s chest, hard enough to be a right cross. “A lot’s happened since you went under. Intel has some solid info. Wheels up at 0830 tomorrow. Got to get you briefed.”
On the op? Could he do that? “I kinda agree with the shrink,” Red said. “Sure, I feel good, but you can’t yank me out of retirement and expect me to be operational.”
Jim stomped to the door. “You’re coming. Always been a quick study.” He turned back with a smile wide enough to reveal a gold molar. “What you did at Walmart, that was gorgeous. You’re ready.”
“Not till I see the kids. I’ve played by your rules, but I’ve been gone two nights. They’re scared. I’m seeing them before wheels up.”
Jim dropped his head, as if looking at his boot strings. “I’ll allow it. Be back by 2200,” then he stepped out the door.
Chapter 9
Home Base
Red pushed through a heavy, blue-painted door with ARMORY bolted overhead, the letters protruding from a thick steel plate in shiny welded beads. He stepped through a bathroom-size entry with a checkout log splayed open on a metal machinist’s table, into a tight room with tall blue and green equipment lining a wall. He stood behind a wrinkled, white-haired man twisting a clamp below a drill press. He tapped the mechanic on the shoulder. “Gunny, I need to check out a sidearm.”
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