Trap the Devil

by Ben Coes

“Hi, guys,” said Donato, shaking each man’s hand.

  “Mr. Vice President.”

  “Thanks for the lift,” said Donato. “I hope you guys remembered to fill up the tank.”

  77

  FRANCE

  Romy tumbled through the air, instinctively wrapping both arms around her head and clutching tight, trying to curl up into a ball. She landed in a pile of soft snow, which seemed to cascade inward, like a house of cards, falling and falling, tumbling, rolling over and over. Finally, she came to a stop, buried deep beneath the snow. It was as dark as anything she’d ever seen, and then the cold hit her. She was disoriented and surrounded by blackness.

  Yet she waited. She knew that if she dug in the wrong direction she would accidentally dig her own grave. She had to find the direction of where she’d dropped from. After almost a minute, she could see a slight variation in light in one direction, a dark, dark gray next to complete slate.

  She reached toward the variation in light. She clawed through the snow. Soon, the light grew grayer. Finally, her hands reached out and there was no more snow. She could see everything in the ambient light from the sky. Above, she saw the train tracks cutting across the side of the mountain. There were pine trees along the side of the mountain, but there were also slopes of white in between, which looked dark blue in the light, and they seemed to grow brighter with each passing second as her eyes adjusted.

  Romy started moving down the mountain, away from the tracks. The snow grew harder as the sharp incline smoothed into a steep hill. Soon, she was running through deep snow. It was an exhilarating feeling, despite the fact that she knew she was being hunted. She knew Kyrie was behind her and moving just as quickly—no, more quickly—than she was. To kill her.

  After almost an hour of running, Romy saw a light through a window in a distant field.

  Her hands were frozen, as were her feet and legs, numb as ice. She was, however, sweating. When she saw the light, she broke from a jog into a run, sprinting through the snow. Was someone in the barn? Could they help her? Was it warm?

  She came to the open door of the barn and looked in. The barn was empty, abandoned, and yet a lone lightbulb dangled from a high rafter. It smelled of hay and wood.

  Suddenly, Romy heard a sound coming from outside. She looked for a weapon, something sharp, anything, as the drumlike echo of footsteps through the snow came from behind her.

  * * *

  Kyrie was not as lucky as he left the train, plummeting into the dark for a second or two before colliding with a tree. The pine punched through his extended arms, his face smashing hard, a small branch stub stabbing into his cheek just below his right eye, puncturing skin, and then his head hit the immovable wood, followed by his collarbone, which snapped. He absorbed the pain, groaning in a low, animal voice, as the spiny branch tore a piece of skin from him and he tumbled to the snow at the base of the tree.

  He pressed a handful of snow against his face. He left it there for several seconds and lifted it off, examining it in the dim light. It was soaked in blood.

  Kyrie started moving, every step feeling like he was being stabbed between his neck and shoulder. He moved with the train tracks to his right and above him, searching for evidence of where Romy had landed, traveling quickly, before the blizzard covered up her tracks … or her body.

  After several minutes of struggling through the snow, he saw the ruffed scars of her tracks. He fell into the line of her movements. Groaning with each step, Kyrie started running downhill, following Romy’s footprints through thick stands of trees, down sharp crevices of ice, until, in the distance, he saw unnatural light. He still clutched the handgun.

  A sloping field lay empty, covered in snow, and her tracks led to a barn. Kyrie walked across the field and approached the corner of the barn. He paused a few moments and stepped around the corner, where a sliding wooden door was partially open. Light spilled out. He glanced down in the light, watching the blood drip from his face like a leaky faucet. Then Kyrie moved to the open door.

  He stood still, his eyes scanning the inside of the barn. He saw Romy. She was trying to climb up into the hayloft. As he entered, she heard him, looked back, and fell. She landed on the ground, near the corner opposite Kyrie. She struggled to stand, then started backing up as Kyrie stepped toward her, gun in hand.

  * * *

  As Dewey leapt from the train platform, he flew out on his skis, trying to use the light from the train to guide him. For several moments, he felt air beneath his skis. He kept his legs limber and bouncy, readying himself for the landing. It would be like skiing at Sugarloaf, in Maine, the mountain where he learned to ski.

  When Dewey felt the first brush of snow, he let his legs almost completely collapse, absorbing the impact, trying to control the landing. It was steep, and trees dotted the landscape, though there was space enough to maneuver. He landed and crushed through several feet of virgin snow, skidding down the side of the mountain until he could finally gain control. He leaned back, cutting a sharp stop. He looked up at the train as it passed by, then along the illuminated tracks, trying to memorize a path in the darkness. It was a perilously steep descent, dotted with firs, a mountainside in the middle of nowhere, three-quarters of the way up the crest.

  The feeling of skis was familiar to Dewey. It had been so long, but when the skis caught the first fast slip of fury, it was like riding a bike.

  Dewey cut right, testing his skill against a perilous incline. He stared down at the tops of pine trees a hundred years old, holding a sharp line beneath the artificial mountain that had been built for the train. He dipped down into a sharp slope, then bounced in the skis—catching a moment of air. He could’ve gone straight, but Dewey wanted to test himself. He slashed beneath the dark overhang of the tracks to his right. After several minutes, he saw the tracks in the snow.

  He removed his cell and shone the light at the tracks. They were fresh, someone trudging through the deep snowpack. Mixed into the path was blood.

  The tracks ran down the mountain, into a dense stand of trees. Dewey pocketed the cell and lurched left, cutting down the mountain as the fierce blizzard continued to mantle the sky, guided by the tracks and by the ambient blue-black light of the snow.

  * * *

  Romy backed up into the corner, angry at herself for not taking the few seconds available to her to find a weapon. Not that it would have mattered. His face was badly disfigured. The right side was an open wound, skin sideways, purple, with blood trickling down. He favored his right arm and hand. His left dangled awkwardly to the side. He’d broken something. But he held the gun high, aimed at her.

  “Stop running from me!” he yelled.

  Romy pressed her hands behind her, looking for something, for anything, to save her, as if a magical key were hidden in the corner. She said nothing, her terror obvious.

  Kyrie took a step closer.

  “I love you, Romy,” he said. “I would never harm you.”

  “You let them put me in a sanitarium,” she cried.

  “It was the only way to save you, don’t you see?”

  “Save me? From what? You’re a murderer! I know what you’re doing. I read about the Speaker of the House.”

  “You don’t know what I’ve seen,” cried Kyrie, a tormented look on his face. “I’ve been within a foot of someone blown up by a suicide vest, Romy! My scars! Where do you think they came from? The Muslims are evil! They’re evil and they’re coming! What Charles is doing—what we’re doing—is the only way to save humanity!”

  “You’re a monster!”

  “I want to run away from it all,” he said, pleading. “I know I’m a bad man, but I love you. Please. We’ll go into town. We’ll buy two tickets to wherever you want to go. Tahiti. Buenos Aires. Tokyo. We have enough money to live like royalty. Let’s run away, Romy?”

  “How can you run away? You’re a murderer. A traitor to your own country.”

  “We’re trying to save the country.”

  “B
y killing me?”

  “That’s why I’m saying I want to run away. You and me.”

  “A sanitarium? I’m not your prisoner. Is that what you call love?”

  “It was just until we—”

  “Until you kill the president! I could never love you! You’re a monster!”

  Romy felt a large crack in the wood behind her. She inserted her fingertips in it and ripped a long, sharp piece of wood from the board. She held her makeshift dagger behind her back as Kyrie came closer and closer. Romy lunged, slashing her arm from behind her back. The tip of the wood struck Kyrie in the center of his chest, but he turned and ducked, avoiding the impact. He slashed a vicious right fist through the air, hitting Romy below the ear. Her head jerked sharply to the side, then slammed into the wall. Romy fell in a contorted heap, blood surging from her nose.

  * * *

  Dewey stepped into the light of the barn, clutching the ski poles. He felt for his pistol, but then the man turned, his gun trained on Dewey’s head. The right side of his face was bloodied. It looked as if it had been clawed by an animal.

  Dewey glanced at the woman, facedown in the corner, surrounded by a reservoir of blood, dark and spreading quickly.

  Standing above her was the gunman. He stared at Dewey, baring his teeth. Dewey could see he had at least one broken limb.

  Dewey looked again at the woman. She was on her stomach, limp against the wall, unconscious and bleeding out. Streaks of blood stained the wood above her head.

  Dewey reached to his left calf and pulled out his knife, even though the man took a step forward, pistol in hand, aimed at him. It was a Colt M1911A1, a short, snub-nosed suppressor jutting from the muzzle.

  Special Forces.

  “Delta?” said Dewey, squaring around calmly, now holding the knife in his right hand, its blade aimed behind him, his trusted SEAL Pup, his best friend, the knife that had gotten him through many hard times.

  “Yeah, I was Delta,” the man said. “Kyrie Banker, Hamilton, Michigan, 1st SFOD, Tier One.”

  “I was Delta,” said Dewey. “The way to settle this isn’t with guns. It’s fighting. Shooting isn’t fair.”

  Kyrie grinned for a brief second.

  “Funny guy, huh? Fair? What’s the first thing they teach you? Nothing is fair. Take competitive advantage. When you can hurt, maim. When you can maim, kill.”

  Kyrie triggered the pistol in the moment Dewey lurched left and down. A split-second spit from the gun was followed by a thud as the bullet hit the wall behind Dewey.

  But Kyrie still held Dewey, and now Dewey was exposed. Next time, Kyrie wouldn’t make the same mistake.

  Hit him in the legs, then deliver the kill shot.

  Dewey stared at Kyrie. Kyrie took two steps closer and trained the gun on Dewey’s torso. Suddenly, Dewey stepped toward Kyrie, thrashing his arm forward just as Kyrie triggered the .45. He fired as Dewey’s arm was at it zenith, high over head, like a fastball pitcher. The sound from the pistol was different this time, a dull click as the mag went empty. Dewey’s arm continued forward as Kyrie heard the click. He tried to lurch backward as the razor-sharp blade plunged into his chest, just left of center. Kill shot. Kyrie fell to the ground, his arm fumbling weakly for the blade.

  Dewey stepped toward him. He pulled a cell phone from his pocket and hit 7, holding it down.

  A moment later, there was a brief ring, then a voice.

  “This is Calibrisi.”

  “It’s me,” said Dewey, his voice hoarse. “I have the woman. I need extraction and a doctor.”

  “I’m patching in tertiary recon,” said Calibrisi.

  There were several clicks, and then a female voice came on.

  “Two-two-four.”

  “DCIA,” said Calibrisi. “Connect and lock. This is a priority level emergency.”

  “I’m locking on to you both right now. I have you ninety miles southwest of Frankfurt.”

  “I need a Trauma Hawk,” said Dewey. “Medical suite with immediate access.”

  Dewey held the phone against his ear as he leaned closer to Kyrie. He pushed Kyrie’s weakened hand off the hilt of the knife. He grabbed it and yanked up, then wiped both sides on Kyrie’s shirt. He tucked it back into the sheath on his leg. He kept his eyes on Kyrie. Blood seeped over his lips. His eyes looked foggy and listless, though he was still alive.

  “Access affirmative,” said the woman from CIA logistics. “I’m scrambling DDS one-oh-one right now. We’ll be there in less than ten minutes.”

  “What’s the nearest airport?” asked Dewey.

  “Frankfurt.”

  “We’ll need one of the flying hospitals, Hector,” said Dewey. “Full surgical capabilities.”

  “I’m one step ahead of you,” said Calibrisi. “I thought we were gonna need it for you.”

  Dewey pocketed the phone. He looked at Kyrie.

  “The first thing they teach you,” he said, “is know where your weapon is.”

  Kyrie nodded his head, coughing. “I should’ve known there was only one bullet left.”

  “Do you want a soldier’s death?” Dewey asked, finding his gun.

  Kyrie’s chin was drenched in blood. His eyes had tears in them. He turned his head to look at Romy.

  “I didn’t mean to hurt her,” he said.

  “Why did you kill Lindsay?”

  Kyrie looked up at Dewey, ignoring the question.

  “I know you,” whispered Kyrie, through words clotted with blood. “I need to tell you something.”

  Dewey inspected the gun, then chambered a round.

  “You need to know something,” Kyrie whispered as blood trickled from his nose and ears. “You were on the list. Bruner identified you. You were to be the fourth member of the team.”

  Dewey was silent. A confused look was on his face.

  “I killed your wife,” said Kyrie, struggling to complete his words as death approached. “I put the gun in her mouth and I pulled the trigger. She did not commit suicide. It was me. I did it. I thought you would want to know. I’m sorry.”

  Dewey pointed the gun at Kyrie and fired, sending a bullet into Kyrie’s chest. He moved the gun slightly and fired again, at nearly point-blank range, dropping lead into his forehead.

  Dewey stared down numbly at Kyrie. Any sounds became silent and a momentary darkness shrouded his vision. A strange feeling came over him, as if night had become day and day night. He suddenly collapsed to his knees as his vision was taken over by Holly, seeing nothing but the photos they made him look at, the pictures of her destroyed face.

  What did I do, Holly? Can you ever forgive me?

  Dewey clutched the gun in his hand, looking at it as memories and guilt hit him. Was he lying? Did they kill her because of me?

  Did they murder you because of me?

  And then Dewey’s attention was awakened by the movement of the dark pool of crimson, spreading out from the corner of the barn, and the woman.

  He stood up and walked to the far corner of the barn and knelt next to her. Her neck was bent backward and blood oozed down from her nose and eye. He felt her neck for a pulse. She was alive.

  78

  THE KENNEDY-WARREN BUILDING

  CONNECTICUT AVENUE

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  June stayed at NSA until three in the morning, waiting for the results of the Consular Operations scan. It would take several hours, he knew. He decided to drive home and take a shower, feed his turtle, Jeremy, and get some clean clothing.

  As he got dressed, June went to his computer and logged on. A square, silver-colored icon was flashing. It was LayerX, one of the NSA software programs designed to correlate and match photographs of individuals against archived electronic databases and media. Facial recognition.

  June double-clicked the icon. A tile of eight photos spread across the top of the screen. All were file photos of Consular Operations employees. June clicked a button that said MATCH. Another row of photos appeared below, each one with a line to the file
photo above. In every case, the photos on the bottom looked archival, dated, a few in black and white. These were, according to LayerX, matches to the file photos above. An uneasy feeling spread over him as he studied them. The men in the photos on the bottom looked younger, of course, but they were all startlingly similar to the head shots above. He studied the first match, a Consular Operations employee named David Dannaher. When he clicked the photo below Dannaher, a different name appeared.

  Kent Zinski

  LT., U.S. Navy SEALs

  Killed in Action: FEB 6 2004

  Zinski had been killed in Afghanistan in 2004. Yet according to LayerX, he was still alive, reincarnated as an agent inside Consular Operations.

  June went down the line of photos. In every case, the story was the same: an American soldier, killed in action, still alive.

  June logged off and ran for the door.

  A man was already in the elevator when June got on. The man nodded politely. June’s mind quickly calculated. He was short, with long, greasy brown hair and glasses. He was overweight. Then June realized why he had never become a CIA agent. He realized too late that the man had come to kill him. It was in his eyes.

  June reached for the elevator door just as Kopitar thrust a knife into his side, grinding it deep, then ripping it out. June fell. He looked up at Kopitar as blood oozed over the floor.

  “Trappe,” coughed June as blood seeped over his lips and his eyes fluttered. He looked helplessly up at Kopitar. “Largent. It’s a conspiracy…”

  When the elevator doors opened. Kopitar stepped over June, whose eyes stared glassily, seeing nothing.

  79

  FRANCE

  Dewey remained on his knees next to the woman and again felt for a pulse at her neck. Despite the large quantity of blood on the ground, her pulse remained strong. He leaned down, as if hugging her, and wrapped his arms around her body, beneath her. She was small, no more than five-four or -five. Gently, Dewey lifted her up and carried her closer to the center of the barn, where the light was brighter. He set her down again.

  Now Dewey was able to see the blood on the side of her head. She had a massive contusion that bulged like an egg.