by J K Ellem
There was a long pause while the man on the end of the line digested Richardson’s blunt but succinct assessment.
“And what does your modeling tell us if we accelerate, add fuel to the fire?” The caller on the line had Stage 2 in mind. It was essential that the interim results support an escalation. Feed the mob, send the Christians into the arena to greet the lions, so to speak.
“We have already fed these results into our simulation,” Richardson replied. He ran his finger down the stack of paper to the only yellow tag that jutted out in the entire report. It marked a page even Richardson feared, the conclusion of the analysis, the anarchy that could result if this course of social disruption were to continue. Already the social platforms were being carefully seeded with thousands of snippets of fake news, radical conclusions, and hate comments. An army of hidden contractors Brockton Halliwell used were busily whipping the public sentiment in the required direction.
Richardson split the stack, setting aside the top section so the tagged page was now on top and in plain view.
“And?” The man on the end of the line could hear the movement of paper. He was anxious for the answer he wanted.
Richardson couldn’t believe that in his lifetime he would utter the words he did. “Civil war,” he said. “Mass civil unrest, militarization of the civilian population, and the transfer of power.
39
By the time Beth and Ryder got back to the police station, the plate check on the silver SUV at the truck stop had come back. Ryder scrolled through the initial report on her cell phone while Beth sat brooding in her office. With the discovery of Taylor’s body, a mix of disbelief then growing anger descended over the office, followed by a resurgence of activity.
Beth had the unenviable task of calling Taylor’s parents to let them know their son had been killed in the line of duty. What was once a missing-persons incident had escalated into a murder investigation. Like Abasi Rasul, their son’s life was about to be turned upside down, laid open for all to prod and poke.
Beth was determined his parents would not suffer the indignation of knowing the true line of inquiry until Ryder and her team were absolutely certain there was a connection. Until then, the public would know only that Officer Taylor was killed during a normal traffic stop and local police were following up all leads and would not stop until his killer was brought to justice.
Taylor’s police cruiser was towed to the same holding location where Beth’s rammed vehicle was undergoing forensic testing. As of yet, nothing had been found on Beth’s SUV that could identify the truck that had rammed her.
Ryder sat down and read an update report from Miller. The silver SUV had Utah plates that were only just visible from enhanced images they took off CCTV footage. It was registered under a company in Delaware called Newport Holdings. The listed street address of the company was that of a mailing service located in a service office where numerous other corporations were registered for the sake of anonymity. Ryder thought nothing of it. A lot of private companies were registered in such a manner, if they wanted to remain anonymous. It just meant it would take a little longer and they would need to dig a little deeper to get to who was actually behind the company.
Ryder spent the rest of the afternoon going through update reports from the motel and the truck stop, but in the back of her mind she kept coming back to the silver SUV. Did it play a role or was it just coincidence, a false lead?
Miller found Ryder in the meeting room where she was scrutinizing the map. Red crosses on the map denoted the Pink Poodle motel, the truck stop, and the spot south of Cedar City where the body of Taylor had been found this morning.
Miller had a computer printout in his hand. “Carolyn, you know that silver SUV you wanted chased down?”
Ryder looked up. “Owned by some front company in Delaware. I know. You emailed me the plate check earlier.”
Miller smiled. “Just got an update on it.” He placed the single sheet of paper on the map in front of her. “But it looks like a dead end from our side,” Miller continued. “Turns out the company in Delaware, Newport Holdings, is a subsidiary of some offshore company registered in the Cayman Islands.”
Ryder frowned as she scanned the page. “Where the rich hide their money.”
Miller nodded. “We tried to pull some details from the authorities over there but no luck. It’s a closed shop. For privacy reasons they won’t tell us squat.”
“Playground of the rich and famous, and the tax dodgers,” Ryder muttered as she continued reading.
“Looks like someone doesn’t want their business to be known,” Miller replied. “Don’t even think a court order can get us the information. May need to do it via Homeland Security.” Miller poured himself a coffee and came back to the table.
Ryder’s eyes scanned down the page then stopped at the name of the offshore company. “Prometheus Investments,” she uttered.
“That’s the one,” Miller said.
It was an unusual name that Ryder had only seen once before, but she couldn’t place where. She tried to remember.
“Records show an address on Grand Cayman. But it’s the address of some law office with no other details.” Miller continued, “I took a look at their website and it’s some fancy firm that specializes in corporate services, structuring, and offshore trusts and companies.”
Ryder looked up from the page. “So, why would an SUV registered in Utah be linked to an offshore company that is registered to a law firm in the Cayman Islands?” This new piece of information certainly had Ryder’s interest.
“Exactly,” Miller replied. “What do you want me to do? Contact the Department of Justice or Homeland?”
Ryder stared at the page a moment longer, old memories still clouded, the name of the company still in the shadows of her mind. Where had she seen that name before? But it made no sense. It would just be a wild goose chase. She glanced at the map again. They had very little to go on and she had to follow-up on every lead. It may be nothing.
“Look into it, Pete, but do it quietly.” She folded the piece of paper.
Miller nodded and made for the door, but turned back at the last moment. “Got a call from the hospital too, about the other cop who was shot at the truck stop… Davis.”
Ryder felt a cold dread in her gut as she looked up at Miller.
“No, No!” Miller smiled, reading the look of fear on Ryder’s face. “It’s all good. He’s awake; all the signs are good.”
Ryder gave a sigh of relief. She already felt terrible about having to tell Beth about Taylor. She didn’t want to be the bearer of more bad news.
“The doctor said he’s slightly lucid, but dosed-up with painkillers though,” Miller said. “But apparently he keeps muttering something, in and out of consciousness. Like he’s having a dream.”
Ryder cocked her head at Miller questioningly.
“Something about the civil war,” Miller said frowning. “He keeps muttering about the Yankees.”
40
The horizon was rimmed in burnt orange, the sun slowly dying for the day, as Ryder and Beth made their way across the hospital parking lot.
Even though Beth was a police officer and had visited the hospital numerous times, she wasn’t prepared for the complete reverence of the nursing staff when Ryder showed her badge at the nurses’ station. There was a sudden commotion, bodies in motion, looks of concern. Ryder had a proficient, no-nonsense, confident manner. She acted as though she owned the place. She gave Beth a wink before they were whisked to a private room, a young nurse giving them an update on Davis’s condition as they walked.
The room was dimly lit. Davis lay motionless under the covers like a corpse. Tubes pumped fluids into his frail body from a cluster of intravenous bags on a stand. Air lines hissed softly, a bank of monitors glowed and tweaked, colored lines scrolling across screens charting the only sign of life.
The nurse told them he was still heavily sedated, swinging back and forth between deep sleep an
d moments of mumbling. He had been muttering something for a while about the “Yankees” but it made no sense to the staff. Ryder looked at Beth. It made no sense to them either.
The nurse told them the doctor would be in shortly before withdrawing from the room, closing the door behind her.
Beth leaned over Davis, a ball of emotion in her throat. She saw a ghostly face, hollow and gaunt, sunken eye sockets, dark and hollow.
“Kyle,” she whispered, her voice loud in the room.
Davis remained motionless.
Beth touch his arm, “Kyle, it’s Beth. Kyle, I’m right here.”
Slowly, heavy eyelids parted, thin slits, unfocused pupils shifting behind them. Davis turned his drowsy head toward her voice—dry, peeling lips moved but no words came out.
Ryder went to the wash basin, scrubbed her hands, used antibacterial gel, then returned to the bed. She stepped closer and picked up a tube of lubricant next to a cup and straw on the side table. She bent forward and gently rubbed a small squirt of gel onto his lips with the tip of finger. Beth looked at her and smiled, tears welling up in her eyes. It tore her up to see any of her team like this, but he was strong, he would pull through, the nurse had said so. “Kyle, can you tell me what happened, what do you remember?” Beth persisted.
“Yankee,” Davis said slowly, the word slurred and drawn out.
Beth frowned. Yankee? She bent closer, her face just inches from his lips. “Kyle, what do you mean? What is Yankee? Who shot you? Did you see them?”
Davis slowly stirred, his head lolled against the pillow, his eyes opened a fraction more, then a faint smile. He uttered another word. “Mike.”
Beth’s heart skipped a beat. He knows the person, he knows his name. “Mike who?” Beth asked, excitement creeping into her voice, coaxing Davis to tell her more.
“Yankee Mike,” Davis slurred, two words now.
Ryder looked at Beth. “Do you know a Yankee Mike?”
Beth tried to think. Maybe it was someone Davis knew, some criminal he had arrested before. Beth couldn’t place the name. She was about to pull her cell phone out, ignoring the warning sign posted on the wall above the bed, then Davis mumbled another word.
“Lima.”
“Shit!” Ryder said as she quickly pulled out her notebook and pen. “Keep him talking, Beth,” she urged.
Then it dawned on Beth what it meant, what Davis was trying to tell her. “Kyle, what else? I need more,” she said with more urgency. “Tell me the numbers.”
Davis drifted, his mind warm and doughy. The sedatives were pulling him back under again. Beth sensed she was losing him. His eyelids started to close again.
Beth dropped into character, something Davis might respond to better. “Officer Davis!” she snapped. “Tell me the rest or you’ll find yourself on parking duty for the next three months.”
Ryder, pen poised, gave a slight smile. But it worked.
“Five…Zee…O…four.”
Davis was using the NATO phonetic alphabet, spelling it out so there was no confusion: Yankee, Mike, Lima, Five, Zero, Four. It translated to YML 504.
Ryder tore off the page from her notebook and held it up for Beth to see, a wide grin on her face. “Damn truck registration.”
They left the SUV in the parking lot and bolted up the stairwell, not bothering with the elevator that was four floors below. It was another three floors up to the helipad on the roof. Ryder was yelling into her cell phone, taking the steps three at a time, relaying the truck registration back to Miller, telling him to get HRT camped at the airport hanger in the air now, and to pick her and Beth up from the helipad at the hospital.
Beth struggled to keep up, Ryder powering up the stairs like zombies were chasing them from below.
Davis had seen the truck registration before he’d been shot. But the secret nearly died with him. It was the first and only thing Davis wanted to say to Beth, to anyone, even after being shot, enduring surgery, and then lying sedated in recovery. The truck registration was etched in his memory.
The rooftop door burst open and Ryder and Beth spilled out onto the landing pad. Strobe lights flickered in the darkness and the wind whipped at their clothing.
Ryder ended the call then spun around to Beth, her chest heaving, adrenaline surging through both of them. “Hostage Rescue are inbound, ETA ten minutes.”
Beth nodded as she stood bent over, hands on her knees, trying to catch her breath, making a silent resolution to get fitter.
“If what you said is true,” Ryder continued, “we’re going to get him. The guy in the truck, the one who rammed you.”
Beth stood up. “It’s him,” she said between ragged breaths. “I know it is.”
“I sure hope so.” Ryder walked to the edge of the rooftop, her eyes focused to the south. “Miller will have a name and address by the time we’re airborne.” While she agreed to help Beth, Ryder was more interested in whether or not there was a connection with Abasi Rasul.
“He’s got the girl, I’m sure he took her.”
Ryder drew her handgun and checked the action then slid it back into the holster. “Well, whoever drove that truck into you is going to get a nasty surprise when we come knocking.”
A cluster of flashing lights appeared on the horizon, steadily growing by the second. “Time to saddle up,” Ryder said.
HRT was granted airspace clearance to land on the helipad. Beth watched as two dark shapes outlined with green and red navigation lights materialized out of the darkness.
The air began vibrating around them as they stood watching, a deep steady thumping as the two Black Hawk tactical transport helicopters came in low and fast. They tilted back to a hover. One peeled off and touched down in a roar of spinning blades and a torrent of rotor wash. The second helicopter hovered just off the edge of the building.
Crouching, Ryder and Beth scuttled under spinning blades and climbed in. Before they had settled in their seats the chopper lifted off, nose down, climbing fast, pulling away, thumping across the sky. The second chopper pivoted then tucked in behind the first.
Beth found herself sandwiched between heavily armed men. Three sat in harnessed seats opposite her, with Ryder on the end of the row.
Ryder slipped on a headset and indicated Beth do the same.
The wind howled inside the cabin as they powered through the night; the doors had been removed for ease of entry and exit. There were six tactical agents in total in the cabin, all wearing helmets with night vision goggles, and holding compact assault rifles in their gloved hands.
Miller was in the second chopper with another six HRT agents. He spoke on the radio headset to Ryder.
Ryder nodded. They had a name and an address.
“Sam Pritchard,” Ryder yelled into the helmet mic. All eyes were on her now. “Sixty-five, white male. Works as an independent truck driver. No fixed address but leases a piece of land ten miles west of Cedar City.” Ryder looked around the group as she spoke. “I want him taken alive if possible.”
Grim faces nodded, but if the target had a death wish, the HRT would oblige.
As they flew on, Ryder briefed the team about a possible female hostage on the property. Saving the woman was their primary objective. HRT didn’t need reminding of their primary role; it was stated in the black arm patch each of them wore: Servare Vitas, To save lives.
The wind ruffled Beth’s hair as she struggled to pull it away from her face. The helicopter banked and Beth’s stomach heaved sideways. For a moment she thought she would topple through the black opening, but the harness held her tight, like she was part of the flying machine. She could see the interstate below through the tilted opening, a luminous ribbon of orange snaking its way through a sea of black.
Over the radio the pilot announced three minutes to their target.
“Beth,” Ryder called to her on the mic.
Beth glanced back, wind tears in her eyes.
“Let these guys do their stuff. They’re trained for this, okay?”
Beth nodded. She had been in a helicopter before, but certainly not like this. And she had never seen the FBI’s elite tactical unit up close, let alone sit beside them in an open Black Hawk tearing through the night sky.
“We go in behind them. It’s your gig but let them clear and secure.”
Beth nodded again. Fine by her.
Someone handed Beth a body armor jacket and she wriggled into it, unclipping and re-clipping her harness one side at a time, her head and her heart thumping as loud and as fast as the rotors above her. After all these years, she was finally going to meet the highway killer face to face. She wanted to look deep into his eyes, the evil malevolent eyes that had stared at her through the windscreen of her SUV. Beth prayed the woman was alive, that they weren’t too late.
The chopper slid downward and Beth’s stomach slid with it.
All around her the team readied themselves. Rifles were given a final check, straps and harnesses tightened, goggles and helmets adjusted, heavy boots stomped the steel plate flooring.
Beth looked out the mouth of the opening at an expanse of black that yawed wide. The ground rushed up, endless darkness everywhere below. She placed her hand on the grip of her handgun and took a deep breath to steady her nerves.
She wanted so badly to put a bullet in Pritchard’s brain, one bullet for each of the faces she had pinned to the wall back in her house.