“Hey, bud, get down—”
The man’s arm flung out, something silver at the end. With a burst of air, two darts shot out and pierced the front of Jake’s jacket, startling him. Two sharp stabs of pain, like daggers puncturing his abdomen, caused Jake to cry out. He heard a crackling sound, smelled sizzling flesh—as a jolt of white-hot electric current arced through his body.
The pain shot through him. Paralyzed every muscle. Mercifully, everything went black.
****
Meg accompanied her grandmother and Madeleine, both of whom claimed an urgency to use the women’s room. She suspected something was amiss.
After using the toilet, she stood outside the elderly woman’s stall while Madeleine went into hers. Impatient to rejoin their group, she called out to make sure her grandmother was okay and able to fend for herself. When she didn’t answer, Meg called out a second time. Madeleine reappeared and looked under the stall door.
“She needs help, Meg, but the door’s locked. Go, dear, to the gift shop and get some help. One of the women, quick.”
Without thinking, in confusion, Meg stepped outside the restroom. Two men, waiting outside the men’s room across the alcove, seized her arms. One wrenched them back while the other held a cloth over her nose and mouth.
A chemical smell pervaded her nostrils, made her gag. The man’s strength was overwhelming but she fought them and tried to cough out the toxic chemical until exhaustion overcame her. Her strength drained out of her. Their arms were like vises constricting her torso, making her terrified that she’d suffocate. Before she could wrest her face free, a dense fog swamped her mind. Seconds later, she went limp. Then blacked out completely.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Pain. Like someone had punched his abdomen with an ice pick. Throbbing head. Weightless body.
When Jake came to, his mind was dazed and disoriented. His body felt numb. Paralyzed. Alarm didn’t set in until his mind cleared. Slowly, the memory of what had just happened pieced itself together, like windblown fragments of a leaf coming back together.
The whole puzzle began to crystallize. The chain of events fell into place in his memory. The dark breezeway. Two men chasing him. One guy on the tractor. Lying in wait.
A clever setup. Masterminded by the Le Blancs? Carried out by their Blood and Honour minions?
He swore silently. One limb at a time, Jake took inventory. Broken bones? No, thank God. But his entire body now was trembling, shivering from the shock. His abdomen was on fire. A taser. He’d used it himself at the FBI Academy in Quantico. Depending on the volts, the size and physical health of the victim, and how many times the perp zapped the taser, it could incapacitate you temporarily or kill you.
He tried to move but couldn’t. Pain shot through him, the aftereffects of the electrical current. Fortunately, he was a big enough man and in good physical shape—
Then he heard a familiar sound. A snuffling, wheezing sound. And the smell! A hot, fetid odor fanned his face.
God, no! Not the damned horses!
Jake squinted open his eyes.
Shit!
El Cid’s flaring nostrils and open mouth, baring two rows of large, yellow teeth, appeared inches from his face. The stallion didn’t appear to like the intrusion into his paddock. One hoof kept pawing the ground by Jake’s left side. He raised his head a little and realized the horse, all two-thousand pounds of him, was standing directly over him.
If he sat all the way up, his head would hit the horse’s chest. El Cid wouldn’t like that.
How the hell did he get here?
Oh sure, those damned thugs.
What better way to get rid of a meddlesome Jew? They must’ve seen the humor in their method. Let the horse stomp him to death! The authorities would call it an accidental death.
The weight of his S&W Sigma pistol—the thugs hadn’t bothered to take it!—reminded him of another alternative. For a moment, he was tempted just to shoot the goddamn horse, but something stopped him.
Several somethings. If he shot the stallion, the animal could collapse on top of him, crushing him to death. The Irish government would have his hide, would probably sue the FBI for damages, and that would be the end of his career in law enforcement. Of course, none of that would matter if he were dead.
Hell, what was more important? His life or a ten-million-dollar horse?
The considerations gave him pause for a second or two. Finally, Jake found his voice. It came out rough and gravelly. “Okay, El Cid. Move back so I can get out of here.”
The stallion didn’t like his voice, either; in fact, it reacted with a startle. He reared up on his hind legs. All Jake could see was a massive belly and large, angry male genitalia. The forelegs and hooves hovered overhead. If those came down, Jake would be smashed like a watermelon.
Hooves hit the ground, kicking up dirt clods. Just above his head. Jake choked on the dirt. His hands automatically went up to his face.
The stallion lowered his head again. Turning his long head from side to side, he stared at the strange human with one eye, then the other. Dark brown eyes glowered in rage. His lips curled back from his upper teeth. Then he reared up again, this time backing up a little on thick, hind legs. El Cid opened his mouth and let out a loud, rumbling neigh.
Shit!
A frantic, sidelong look revealed the fence to Jake’s left. He wasn’t in the middle of the paddock. The thugs had thrown him over the fence, so he’d landed not far from the corner. They hadn’t expected him to wake up in time.
Thank God the bastards had miscalculated something!
Now or never, Bernstein!
In desperation, Jake heaved himself to his side, his arms braced against his torso, and rolled. He kept rolling toward the nearest fence. The stallion’s hooves came down on the earth with a terrible thud, pounding the ground and sending up vibrations. Dirt and rocks flew like rocketing missiles.
No point in trying to stand up. He’d never make it.
Jake kept rolling. Two more feet to go to reach the first fence. If he could get to the lane of grass between the two stretches of fencing—
El Cid stomped over, whinnied his fury and reared up again. Thud! One hoof missed Jake’s head by inches. The cloud of dirt and debris made him choke and spit. One more time he rolled, this time faster.
He skimmed the underside of the lowest fence board and rolled over to his back. El Cid’s deadly hooves chewed the ground beside the fence, and he bellowed, enraged that this intruder should have escaped him. As Jake lay there on his back in the safe, four-foot wide lane between the two paddock fences, El Cid’s neighbor trotted over. Both stallions pranced around angrily, then slowly settled down. Their massive heads and long necks loomed over the fence, staring down at the pitifully weak human. Jake prayed the two stallions couldn’t break through those boards.
The bay stallion pushed his massive chest against the first barrier. The boards held. El Cid, eyeing the competition, did the same. Jake thought he heard a crack! The top rail on El Cid’s side bent but didn’t break.
Jeez, the fence railing was as strong as the walls of Troy. Jake made a silent prayer of thanksgiving. He’d narrowly escaped being stomped to death by a horse that cost more than he’d ever make in a lifetime. An ignominious way to go!
His body ached all over. His lower chest, where the taser darts had pierced his skin. His shoulders and arms—must have been how they’d dragged him. His leg wound had opened up again and the pain was fierce.
How much time has passed? There were no crowds in sight.
Where the hell’s Pierce? And the others?
Meg!
Adrenaline pumped through his veins as fear swamped him.
He could hear a man’s voice, shouting! Then other voices!
Pierce called out. “Bernstein, what the fuck—”
Jake rolled onto his stomach, inched his way on his elbows up the middle lane to the fence bordering the road. He felt the two holes in his jacket, then the
ones in his sweatshirt. Like shallow ice-pick holes, the wounds hurt like hell where the darts’ needle-prongs had hit their mark. A little higher up and one of the darts might’ve hit close to his heart. Another bit of luck.
He groaned. Every muscle in his body ached. He stopped for a moment to catch his breath. Then clenching his teeth, grateful his head and body were still in one piece, he lumbered up shakily to his feet and patted his holster. The gun was still there, his roll to safety hadn’t dislodged it.
Well, sonuvabitch! The bastards were so confident he’d be killed by the stallion, they hadn’t disarmed him. Or maybe they just didn’t have the time.
One more fence to slip through. He crouched and threaded his way through the fence boards facing the roadway.
Pierce ground to a stop before him, bending over and panting. Badgely and the two new MI5 agents fell in behind him. They were all exclaiming at once. In their rush to speak, their words jumbled together, making no sense. Three of the four bore bruises on their faces. Two had split, bloody lips.
Jake swayed, feeling dizzy. His hands balled into fists as Pierce helped him lean back against the front of the double fence line.
“Guys, for Pete’s sake. One at a time!”
The blond MI5 agent stood there, shaking his head in wonder and rage.
“Those fuckin’ Irish!”
“Give me the bad news,” Jake said. “What happened?”
Pierce let go of his arm and stepped back. He ran a hand through his dark-blond hair.
“Not sure, actually. Someone conked me on the head as I turned the corner of the first barn I passed. Just came out of nowhere—Bollocks! Didn’t even see the asshole. When I came to, I ran to the gift shop. The ladies were gone, Badgely, here, was out cold and handcuffed in the men’s room.”
“You new guys? What happened?” Jake looked at them both, standing behind Pierce and Badgely. Their dapper country clothes were looking rumpled and torn now. They sputtered out their stories in a noisy cacophony, so Pierce held up a hand.
“One of them—Williams here who stayed in the car—got off a few shots but was pinned down behind the Land Rover. The bloke by the motor coach, Penton”—Pierce clapped a hand on Penton’s meaty shoulder—“got jumped by two thugs. Two others grabbed Robert Morse and the driver. Penton ended up trussed with the two men inside the coach. The keys are missing and the ladies’ bags are gone. The guide’s going bonkers. When I left, Morse was on the phone with Global Adventures. They’re threatening a lawsuit. And when we get to Dublin, Temple’s going to beat our asses to a bloody pulp.”
“Meg, her grandmother—gone?”
“Snatched right from under our noses,” groused the older Badgely, “though not for lack of our trying. We were bloody well outnumbered, I say, three to one. Williams, who got off a few rounds, counted at least twelve. Maybe more.”
A chorus of agreement ensued.
“They were with that other tourist group,” said Williams, casting Jake an appraising stare. “Came in separate cars—I counted four. Wore hats, jackets and cameras to blend in with that coach group. We know they weren’t the same two we saw in that red car on the Ring of Kerry. Not the skinheads. A whole different bunch. So what the bloody hell happened to you?”
“I was blindsided by a taser as I was running between the two big barns. Shocked me out cold. They must’ve placed me in the stallion’s paddock after that last group passed by. Couldn’t have been more than five minutes later.” Jake brushed the dirt out of his hair, swiped down his jacket and trousers. Felt the wounds on his abdomen. They hurt like hell.
He remembered something.
“The girl and her grandmother? Did they go willingly?” Jake asked Williams, already knowing the answer to one but not the other.
“The grandmother, yeah. The girl, no. One guy carried the girl into one of the cars that took off. Looked unconscious. I had to be careful not to hit her or the old lady, so I stopped firing. The old lady was helped by the Canadian woman but was walking on her own, from what I could see. Four black SUVs in all took off. Looked like rentals. That Canadian couple, too, left willingly.”
Jake leaned over, deflated. Bracing his hands on his thighs, he took a deep breath. Fought to gain control. It was worse than he thought. He’d expected them to take the old lady but had hoped they’d leave Meg. She didn’t know anything nor was she a follower of their fascist, extremist crap. She’d had to be forced, probably drugged.
Why? The reason was clear. They needed her to keep Mary Snider—Clare Eberhard—calm and functioning. The old woman depended on her granddaughter for nearly everything.
Damn! Outnumbered and outmaneuvered. He’d underestimated that bunch. Blood and Honour activists. Or a paramilitary arm of the group.
And he’d underestimated the Le Blancs.
Meg called them crazy. Not crazy. The set-up was perfectly planned and executed. Their assailants weren’t just local yahoos; they were well-trained. It was amazing that no one was killed!
The GPS beacon he’d given Meg to conceal would be found and then he’d never be able to track their location. With certainty, he knew the Le Blancs were taking them to Germany. For propaganda photo shoots. Maybe even meetings with members of their neo-Nazi organization.
To dispose of when they were no longer useful?
A thought occurred to Jake suddenly. “How many airports between here and Dublin? The nearest one is how many kilometers away?”
“I’ve worked this area before,” Pierce said, following Jake’s train of thought. “There are at least three, all private with charter jet service. The nearest one is within a ten-minute drive. They have at least forty minutes on us, so they could be anywhere by now. Probably are already in the air.”
Williams looked over at the others. The three men nodded. Apparently, they’d already discussed their next move.
“Look, Agent Bernstein, we could run down all these airports but we have no authority to halt or cancel any flights, private or public. The Irish staff at these airports would thumb their noses at us. Temple won’t have the warrants until tomorrow morning. Until then, he told us strictly surveillance. And keep you alive.”
“Yeah, and we fucked that up,” Jake sighed. “One of you guys, get Temple on the phone.”
Pierce looked miserable. “I already did. He’s just left London.”
Jake hung his head in angry resignation. “God, this is so jacked!”
The American slang confused Pierce and the others.
“Sorry?”
“Jacked?”
“Never mind,” muttered Jake.
Tasered, nearly trampled by a multi-million-dollar horse and he hadn’t even unholstered his gun. Five men on surveillance, and they’d lost their two targets.
What a major fuck-up!
And Meg. What was going to happen to her and her grandmother after they were no longer useful to that fascist organization? He was supposed to protect the two women as well as investigate them.
Jake breathed in deeply. Cleared his head. Think!
Five words. Meg’s message. To him only.
Berlin. Reichstag. Hannover. Engesohde Friedhof.
He’d keep his promise to Meg. If he could discover her and her grandmother’s whereabouts, he wouldn’t betray his promise to her. After all, what was a man if a woman couldn’t trust him? He’d promised her. All his lies wouldn’t matter if he kept this one promise to her.
He’d take his lumps from MI5 and then disappear. With Temple’s permission or not, he was flying to Germany. He’d see this one through to the end.
Though what the end was, he didn’t know.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Meg inhaled deeply and shaded her eyes. It was a sunny, warm day in Berlin. Something to enjoy. Or so Madeleine Le Blanc had reminded her just a few minutes ago.
But not with a tall, young weightlifter standing stiffly beside her, guarding her. He called himself Wolfgang, wanted her to call him Wolf. And he wasn’t letting her out
of his sight. He’d slept near their locked bedroom door last night, stationed himself outside the bathroom when she’d used the facilities in that Berlin flat. He spoke a rough kind of German that Meg couldn’t understand, but the Le Blancs could. They spoke another kind of German—hocht Deutsch—to Meg’s grandmother.
The other young weightlifter stood outside their rented limo, standing at attention, his hands at his waist. The limo driver—another Blood and Honour member, Meg suspected—stayed behind the wheel. All three men had alert eyes and military postures. They didn’t say much and what little they did was murmured to each other in the same German dialect that was beyond Meg’s comprehension.
Pierre and his wife weren’t taking any chances she’d escape or call for help. They’d taken her cell phone and passport while she was unconscious, and so for the time being she was at their mercy. From the state of her clothes, they’d searched her, also, but just her outerwear.
Fortunately, she’d had the foresight in the rest stop bathroom, before they’d arrived at the Stud Farm, to hide Jake’s electronic GPS beacon in a place the Le Blancs and their neo-Nazi musclemen hadn’t thought to look. To be on the safe side, Meg had declared to her grandmother that she’d begun her menstrual period and had resorted to sanitary napkins when she couldn’t find any tampons in the rest stop store.
She figured the Le Blancs hadn’t dared to search beyond a cursory examination of her clothes. Not with her grandmother present. Not if they wanted her grandmother’s cooperation. Mary Snider, or Clare Eberhard—as Meg had finally come to accept as her grandmother’s true identity—was held in high esteem by the Le Blancs and their followers. Whatever this organization was—Blood and Honour or something else—the Canadian couple controlled its minions, Irish and German. And they were determined to hail Clare Eberhard as their heroine. A heroine come home sixty years later to bask in glory.
A Bodyguard of Lies Page 31