The Stronger Chase

by Cap Daniels

  I followed him from the back seat and relieved him of the pistol he had belted to his waist. I used the muzzle of his pistol to press into his abdomen. “How do those guts feel, Victor?”

  He glared at me as we frog-marched him into the house. Clark found a piece of rope in the garage, and we tied the colonel’s hands and forced him onto the ancient sofa, still missing one cushion.

  “Where is Captain Norikova?” Tornovich demanded.

  Clark delivered a sharp jab to his face. “You’re not asking questions, Colonel. You’re answering them.”

  He shook off the sting of the punch and licked his lips.

  I ran through the mental list of questions I wanted answers for and began my interrogation. “Who’s your mole at Langley?”

  Tornovich smiled but didn’t say a word.

  I drew my pistol and put a round through the top of his foot. He cursed and bit at his lower lip. His calm demeanor was gone.

  “Ooh, man, that looks like it hurts,” I said. “Now let’s try this again. Who is your mole at the CIA?”

  Tornovich fixed his icy gaze on mine. “It would appear that I have underestimated your resolve, Chase Fulton.”

  I pressed my muzzle to his knee. “The next words out of your mouth had better be a direct answer, Colonel . . . or is it former colonel now that you gave us a cute little submarine?”

  His face showed no fear, only hatred and anger.

  “We’ll come back to the mole and the submarine if you live long enough,” I said. “For now, let’s talk about Richter.”

  His eyes lit up. I’d touched a nerve.

  “What about Colonel Richter?” he asked.

  “Why him? Why did you target him with Captain Norikova? What did you expect to gain?”

  He sneered. “I gained what I had hoped. Now give me a cigarette.”

  I lunged toward him, but Clark caught my shoulder. “Relax, Chase. The man needs a cigarette.”

  He unbuttoned the flap on Tornovich’s shirt pocket and removed a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He shook a cigarette from the pack, placed it between the man’s lips, then flicked the lighter.

  “Oh, I almost forgot. I’ll be right back.” With the lighter in hand, Clark left the room. Tornovich and I stared at each other with contempt and disgust.

  Clark soon returned with the fuel can from the garage. He placed the can on the floor a few feet away from Tornovich and leaned in to light the cigarette. The man eyed the fuel can and watched the flame from the lighter touch the tip of his cigarette.

  Clark pocketed the lighter and tossed the pack of cigarettes onto the floor. He held the can a foot above Tornovich’s head. “Go ahead and ask him another question.”

  “What did you gain from involving Richter in your game?”

  He looked up at Clark and then at the fuel can. With the cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, he said, “I knew you could not resist Captain Norikova, but I had to make certain you would trust her. What more could I have done than to make her the daughter of your beloved mentor? Crushing Colonel Richter was a delight, but it was, in the end, another means of sinking my claws deeper into your flesh, Chase Fulton. And it worked better than I dreamed it would.”

  I tried to keep my rage from boiling over.

  He exhaled a plume of putrid smoke. “Now, where is my agent?”

  Patiently, I asked, “Who is your mole at Langley?”

  He blinked as if he were trying to decide how much to tell me. “A mole is a low-level peon who occasionally produces a useful morsel. A mole is someone like Grace Abbot, the agent you killed, most likely on your boat.”

  He was trying to get under my skin, but I had him where I wanted him. I knew something he clearly did not. “I didn’t kill Grace Abbot,” I said. “Your agent, Captain Norikova, killed her, and I watched her do it. Your own agent killed your mole. Now that must sting a little. But she wasn’t your only mole. Someone is still feeding you information. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here.”

  “As I told you,” he continued, “a mole is a low-level operative, but when a mole is promoted to deputy director of operations, he becomes a high-value asset.”

  “Are you telling me Michael Pennant is a mole for the Kremlin?”

  “I’m telling you that you are in way over your head. You may kill me, but you’ll have to live the rest of your short life trying to decide if anyone can ever be trusted—if everyone has a secret agenda. You may have captured Captain Norikova, but I’ve crawled inside your head and shit all over everything you thought you knew.”

  Clark tipped the can and allowed a few ounces of gasoline to pour from the spout and land on Tornovich’s lap. The colonel glared up at Clark and then back to the expanding pool of gas in his lap. He turned his head and spat the cigarette across the room. I watched the sparks escape the tip as it flew through the air and landed harmlessly on the floor.

  Tornovich’s distraction worked equally well on Clark. He’d instinctually watched the cigarette just as I had. What neither of us had seen was the colonel’s boot rising to kick the gas can. The can flew from Clark’s hand toward the cigarette on the floor, and time stood still. There was nothing either of us could do.

  I leapt away from the impending fireball and shoved Clark toward the wall, trying to put some distance between us and the cigarette.

  With his hands still bound, Tornovich threw himself forward from the couch in an attempt to escape. The instant the Russian colonel made it to his feet, the fuel can exploded, sending wave upon wave of liquid fire in all directions. The temperature in the room skyrocketed, and the three of us started toward the door. What Tornovich hadn’t considered was the 9mm hole in the top of his right foot, and the 30mm exit wound leaving his right foot incapable of supporting his weight. He collapsed to the flaming floor.

  I paused in the doorway to take in the scene. Tornovich was writhing in the flaming hell he had created, and he was moments away from writhing in the eternal inferno of the Hell he deserved. Determined not to repeat the mistakes I’d made when Tornovich’s men kidnapped me in St. Augustine, I drew my pistol and put a round through the disgraced Russian colonel’s forehead, ending the pain his body was experiencing, and hastening his soul toward its ultimate judgment.

  27

  Who Was It?

  We carried the three unconscious Russians from the house and tied them together in the back of Tornovich’s Jeep. We let it roll to the tree line away from the house before putting 9mm rounds in each of its tires. We then shot out the Suburban’s tires and drove away. It wouldn’t take long for the fire to get plenty of attention, so we wasted no time getting on Interstate 64.

  Clark called Brian on speakerphone and filled him in. “Well, Captain, it wasn’t the O.K. Corral, but it turned ugly. Your friend, the police chief, is going to be scratching his head over this one for a while. He’ll find three Russian thugs in a Jeep down by the tree line near the entrance gate, and a whole collection of bodies in the ashes.”

  “Why don’t you boys keep those guns of mine? I don’t think I’ll be needing those back.”

  “I thought you might say that,” said Clark. “I think Chase and I can find a particularly deep hole somewhere in the Atlantic that would make a nice home for them.”

  “Are you two okay?”

  “Yeah, we’re fine. Chase finally won a fight. I might make a Ranger out of him yet.”

  Clark hung up, and we drove in silence for a half hour. I assumed he was doing the same as me, playing the events of the day over in his mind, analyzing and dissecting every decision we’d made.

  “You made it personal with the guy out by the pool,” he finally said.

  “Yeah,” I admitted, “but I didn’t get my ass kicked.”

  He smiled that crooked smile, propped his feet up on the dash, and closed his eyes.

  We bought gas outside Richmond and found a mom-and-pop barbecue restaurant next door to the station. We watched the news on the TV above the cash register. There was n
o mention of any fire or Russian nationals tied up in a Jeep Cherokee. They also didn’t mention a collection of CIA agents stabbed to death in an attic, or a missing helicopter, or one particularly beautiful blonde Russian.

  Back on the interstate, I said, “If it was Anya, do you think she took the helicopter?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, squinting as if he were deep in thought. “We don’t have any way to know if it was her, but whoever it was left three dead agents in the attic.”

  “It certainly looked like Anya’s work.”

  He put his hand on my shoulder. “Take the wins as they come, Chase. Tornovich is dead, and we’re alive to fight another day.”

  “I know, but this is far from over. Whoever was in that safe house is on the loose and probably has a helicopter. And Michael Anderson, the bastard who killed my father . . . he’s still alive.”

  “Yeah, but he’s locked up somewhere, and we’ll probably never see him or Sara again.”

  “I want my shot at him,” I said.

  “There you go, making it personal again.”

  “He killed my family, Clark. There’s nothing more personal than that.”

  “Isn’t there an old saying about digging two graves before you set out on a mission for revenge?”

  “I’ll have my shot. One way or another.”

  * * *

  I watched the sunset in the rearview mirror as we drove across the James River into Norfolk. My cell phone chirped.

  I barely got the word hello out before Penny unloaded on me. “I’ve been so worried. Are you and Clark okay? Your friend Irwin is weird, and he’s really pissed at you and he says he’ll make you pay. And if you’re not coming back, I’m taking your boat back to Charleston. And I paid your slip rent here because you took off and they were going to kick me out of the marina. Oh yeah, Teri’s getting out of the hospital tomorrow. Where are you, Chase?”

  When she finally took a breath, I asked, “Who is Irwin?”

  “Irwin,” she said. “The guy I knocked out with the winch handle.”

  I turned to Clark. “Did you know Gunny’s name is Irwin?”

  I told Penny we’d be back at the marina in half an hour.

  “Irwin? Really?” Clark said.

  I shrugged. “That’s what Penny said.”

  He laughed. “I’ll bet that was an interesting conversation.”

  “Every conversation with Penny is interesting,” I said.

  We pulled into the marina, stepped out, and locked the truck. We still had some cleanup to take care of, but it was nice to know we’d be back aboard Aegis in a few more steps.

  Penny met us on the dock beside the boat and leapt into my arms. She kissed and hugged me as if I’d been gone for months.

  “Welcome home. I really missed you.” She hopped back to the dock. “I missed you, too, Clark, but you know, I’m kind of sweet on him, so he gets first billing.”

  “Yeah, I know, Penny. But when you get tired of him—and it’s coming—you know where I’ll be.”

  She laughed. “You boys get cleaned up. You smell like . . . something that smells terrible. I’ll have supper ready soon.”

  We showered and changed into clean clothes, and I noticed a little soreness. I supposed it was some combination of driving, sleeping in a strange bed, and yeah, fighting Russians.

  I climbed out of my hull into the main salon to find Clark propped up on the settee with a beer between his legs, and Penny stirring what looked a lot like an old-fashioned into a tumbler.

  She placed the drink in my hand. “I don’t know where you’ve been or what you’ve been doing, but if it had anything to do with Teri’s boat blowing up, I hope you kicked their asses.”

  “I’m just a writer, Penny. That’s all. Thank you for the drink.”

  She kissed me on the cheeks. “You’re so cute when you lie to me.”

  Penny had made sautéed sea bass over angel hair pasta with a white wine sauce that tasted and looked like it belonged in a Michelin Star restaurant.

  “Penny, this is astonishing. How did you learn to cook like this?”

  “Aw, shucks, boys. It’s just a little something I threw together to welcome you home.”

  My cell phone chirped from somewhere in the boat, but the sea bass was too good to abandon. I was beginning to calm down from the excitement of the previous few days, and I was on the verge of feeling almost human again.

  Penny hadn’t stopped at sea bass and pasta. She’d baked a beautiful pineapple upside-down cake. Having her aboard was going to be tough on my waistline.

  Clark and I started cleaning up the galley since Penny had cooked, but she wouldn’t hear of it.

  “Absolutely not,” she demanded. “You two go rest. You’ve had quite an adventure, apparently. I’ll take care of this . . . and then I’ll take care of you,” she said, tugging playfully at my shorts.

  Clark and I settled into the deck chairs on the upper deck.

  “You’ve got your hands full with Penny. Is she here to stay?”

  I glanced down the ladder. “I don’t know. I really like her, but this isn’t the life for a girl like her.”

  “Do you really think that’s a decision you should make?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe it’s not fair to send her packing when she doesn’t get a say in the matter. How would you feel if somebody made those decisions for you?”

  I thought about what he’d said, but how could I tell her the truth?

  We watched the stars and listened to the constant hum of Norfolk and the waterfront. It wasn’t as peaceful as the marinas and anchorages we’d visited, but it was home for Clark.

  “I guess we should check in with Dominic,” I said.

  “Yeah, I guess we should. I’ll run down and get my phone. Do you want anything while I’m up?”

  “That reminds me. I think my phone chirped during dinner. If you don’t mind, see if you can find it for me.”

  “Sure,” he said, and disappeared down the ladder.

  He came back a few minutes later with both phones and Penny in tow.

  I pressed the button to listen to my voice mail, and Skipper’s voice filled my ear. “Chase, I need you. Call me the second you get this.”

  Clark was also listening to his messages. The look on his face told me his was equally ominous.

  “Skipper needs you to call her. There’s something wrong.” He had a twinge of dread in his voice.

  I dialed her number and waited for her to pick up. It rang until finally going to voice mail. I hung up and immediately dialed her number again, but got the same response.

  “Skipper, it’s Chase. Call me.”

  Clark dialed his phone and stuck it to his ear. “I’m calling Tony.”

  I prayed his brother was with Skipper and everything was all right, but the sick feeling in my gut was growing by the second. Penny seemed to sense something was wrong, but instead of launching into one of her rambling, multi-question events, she sat silently, looking truly concerned. I caught her eye.

  She mouthed, “Is everything okay?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “It’s my sister.”

  “I didn’t know you had a sister.”

  “She’s not really my sister. She’s my—” My phone chirped. It was Skipper. Relieved, I pressed the button. “Skipper. Is everything all right?”

  “Chase, how good of you to answer. Michael Anderson, here. Of course, that’s not really my name, but it’s the name you know me by.”

  “If you hurt her, I’ll hunt you down and drive you into the ground, you son of a bitch.”

  “Easy, easy, Chase. There’s no need for violence. Your beloved Elizabeth is alive and well, but if you don’t do exactly what I say, don’t expect her to stay that way much longer.”

  “So help me God. If you hurt her. . . .”

  “Chase, empty threats will only make this worse. Just do as I say, and maybe this pretty girl will get to li
ve.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “Oh, that’s quite simple,” he laughed. “All I want is to kill you. What else could I possibly want?”

  “Let the girl go, and I’ll give you that chance, but if you hurt her, there is no end to what I will do to find you and split you in two,” I growled.

  “Again with the threats, Chase. Enough, enough. Come join us, and we’ll settle this like gentlemen. Well, perhaps not like gentlemen, but definitely like men.”

  “Where?”

  Do you remember that beautiful little island you took my lovely wife Sara and me to? Cumberland Island, I think it was. Well, you’ll see our campfire a stone’s throw from where we had that delightful lunch. Don’t keep me waiting.”

  I hurriedly briefed Clark, and he went to work dialing numbers and making arrangements. Penny had heard the whole story. She and I locked eyes.

  “Go,” she said. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

  Clark hung up his phone. “I’ve got us a plane and a boat. Let’s go!”

  One hour forty-four minutes later, the wheels of the Citation jet touched down on Jekyll Island, and the pilots struggled to get the plane stopped. Dominic Fontana, who was Clark’s father and my handler, had arranged the flight and boat for us.

  We found our boat tied to the Jekyll Island Club dock. It was a twenty-eight-foot tactical rigid-hulled inflatable boat with twin two-hundred-fifty-horsepower engines. The RHIB’s engines roared to life at the touch of the ignition, and we were soon making fifty knots down the Cumberland River, racing for the back side of island.

  The area was lowland marsh, sand, and alligators. The only campfire on the island came into sight, and I pulled the throttles back slightly as Clark rolled over the portside and into the murky water. I continued downriver another five hundred feet, where I ran the RHIB up onto a sandy spit and leapt over the bow in a run with my pistol drawn and my heart pounding through my chest. Clark would swim or wade ashore upstream of the camp and flank Michael Anderson if he tried to escape to the north. I’d make sure Michael never saw another sunrise.