He swallowed.
“You’re right, this is stupid.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you were thinking it.”
“What, you’re a mind reader now?”
“Hey, don’t think I don’t notice that when you think I’ve said or done something stupid, you reach for a protein bar. You’re trying to occupy your mouth so it doesn’t spout off what your mind is thinking.”
“Am I that transparent?”
“To me at least.”
“I’ll have you know, sometimes I’m just hungry.”
“So other times, I’m right?”
He saw her shrug her shoulders, and take another bite. He sighed.
“Okay, fine, I’ll turn us around after these cars pass.”
Two pairs of headlights were heading toward them, fast. Percy took his foot off the gas, his rearview mirror clear, as the two vehicles whipped past them. He felt his heart slam into his chest.
“Did I just see what I think I just saw?”
“If you’re thinking you saw two black SUV’s breaking the speed limit, drafting each other as if on a NASCAR track, then yes, you did see what you think you saw.”
Percy slammed the brakes on, cranked the wheel and reached for the switch to turn on the integrated cherries on their unmarked car when he felt Jamie’s hand on his.
“How ’bout we follow them?”
He nodded, hitting the gas, the car rushing forward.
“That’s assuming they didn’t spot us turning around.”
They raced after the two vehicles, their speed approaching eighty miles per hour, when suddenly there was a blaze of red in the distance.
“Shit! Brake lights!”
“Guess they spotted us.”
“Not hard to at this time of night,” said Percy, easing off the gas. “But what do you think they mean to do?” The vehicles appeared to now be beside each other, each set of taillights clearly visible as they approached. He reached forward and flipped the switch, their blue and red lights now flashing across the road and the embankments extending toward the evaporation ponds. In the distance the glow of home, the glow of Ogden radiated across the horizon.
A home too far away to help them if they were about to get in trouble.
Flashing from between the vehicles caused him to slam on the brakes, the muzzle flashes unmistakable. He ducked down, as did Jamie, as bullets slammed into the front of the car. Putting the car in reverse, he hit the gas as the bullets continued to pound the engine compartment and windshield.
Jamie was on the two-way, trying to call in for backup, as he slumped down, driving blind, his only view an occasional glimpse from Jamie’s mirror. There was a pop and a hissing sound, and a quick glance up showed the engine was fried, steam pouring out from under the hood, the windshield quickly blackening with oil and water. The car coasted to a rest and Percy pushed open his door, then stepped out at a crouch, scrambling behind the car.
The gunfire continued, and he could smell gas, the fuel line probably having been cut at some point. Jamie yelped as he heard her door open, it met with a hail of gunfire that tore through the feeble protection. “Backup’s on the way, ETA twenty minutes!”
We’re not going to last that long.
“Can you pop the trunk?” he yelled.
There was no reply, and he began to worry she had been hit, when the lid popped a fraction. He peered around his side of the vehicle, and could see several silhouettes approaching, still about fifty feet out. He dropped to his belly, and took aim at the feet he could see. It would be a difficult shot, but a safe one. Breathing in, he slowly exhaled as he squeezed the trigger. The bullet was low, the ricochet spraying their attackers with shards of pavement and shrapnel, causing them to at least turn away.
He fired again, raising his weapon slightly, and was rewarded with one of the men dropping. He fired several more rounds, emptying his mag, then reloaded. As he did so, Jamie joined him, the break in enemy fire finally permitting her escape.
“Get the shotgun from the trunk and load it with as many rounds as you can.”
She nodded and threw up the trunk lid as he took aim again and fired. Another cry and another empty magazine. He didn’t know how many he had hit, he was guessing two, but how many they were facing he had no clue. There could be as little as four from what he could see, but there could be more in the SUVs.
He rolled on his back and reloaded. He only had one more mag after this one.
“How’s it coming with that shotgun?”
“Almost there—”
She was cut off by a hail of bullets, their attackers finally regrouping, but this time they had taken a page out of his book, and were firing low. Jamie cried out and dropped beside him, the glow of the taillights revealing the agony.
“Where are you hit?”
“Leg!”
She reached for the wound then jerked several times, her body spasming as bullet after bullet ripped under the car and tore through her body. Percy gagged, reaching out for her, pulling her from behind the car toward him and the protection the tires were providing, but it was too late. The moment he touched her he could feel it was a dead weight he was pulling. He tugged, and her body rolled over, her lifeless face staring up at him as tears filled his eyes, and rage filled his heart.
He grabbed the shotgun from her hands, chambered a round, and with a roar, rose from behind the car, raising the shotgun to his shoulder, pressing his cheek against the butt, and when the first silhouette was in his sights, fired. The gun kicked back against his shoulder as he pumped the grip, ejecting the spent round and chambering the next. He took aim again, and fired, repeating the process until all six rounds had been fired.
Tossing the spent weapon aside, he retrieved his handgun from his belt, and continued to fire, arcing out from the car, the only clue as to where he was in the pitch black, his muzzle flash. In the confusion of his counterattack, their attackers were in retreat, dragging the bodies of two of their comrades, firing blindly at the car. He took aim and dropped one of them, the only man remaining standing letting go of his fallen comrade and rushing toward the safety of the SUVs.
Percy aimed carefully, and squeezed.
The crack of the weapon was followed by the man hitting the ground. The brake lights on the SUVs dimmed and he heard the engines roar as they both peeled away, leaving their fallen comrades behind. Percy cautiously continued toward the downed attackers, several feet below the embankment, his weapon still pointing at the motionless bodies. When he had reached their position, he climbed the embankment, and quickly rushed forward, kicking any weapons away, then with his shoe, kicking each body to see if they were alive.
One groaned.
Percy secured the man’s wrists with a zip tie from his pocket, then checked his wound. He found a wet patch on the man’s shoulder, but with nothing but the light from the moon and stars to work by, there was nothing he could do.
And he didn’t much care.
Part of him wanted the bastard to die, but another part wanted him to live long enough to be questioned. Then die.
He needed answers. He needed to know why two families had been kidnapped. Why a helicopter had been used. Why the military was involved. Why it was the first instinct of these men to shoot at a car that might be following them, without knowing who was inside.
And he had to know why his partner had to die.
Mona Reservoir, Utah
One Day after the Kidnappings
Sheriff Jack O’Neill pulled up in his pickup truck and slapped it in park. He pulled the mike off the dash radio, and clicked the push-to-talk button. “Martha, this is Jack. I’m on the north side of the reservoir, checking on our scientist friends, if you need me, over.”
“Roger that, Sheriff. While I’ve got you, Billy’s going out to pick up some food. Did you want anything, over?”
O’Neill’s mouth opened, knowing exactly what it wanted as his stomach growled. He looked down at it,
protruding a little too far out for his liking.
He clicked the button.
“Tell Billy I’ll pass. Out.”
He hung up the mike and climbed out of the truck. There was a late model sedan parked nearby, Utah plates, most likely belonging to the three scientists he had come to expect this time every year. They had been visiting the same lake like clockwork for as long as he could remember—first Saturday of May. As far as he could tell, they were great guys who always cleaned up after themselves, always bought local, every year buying new gear much to the delight of Chip at the local general store. They spent little time in town, but when they did, they were always friendly, generous tippers at the diner, and so polite, he at first thought they were Canadian.
“What’re you talkin’ aboot, eh?” had cracked one of them, Phil if he recalled correctly. There had been a belly full of laughs from everyone present.
Good guys.
Two of whom may have just had their wives and kids abducted.
O’Neill frowned as he walked past the car, toward the shore where he could see their three tents fluttering in the breeze. He hated delivering bad news. It was rare anything untoward happened in Mona. Usually it was hunting accidents, the occasional car crash, and last year there was that freak lightning storm that had killed Old Man Keller when a tree fell on his cabin. O’Neill had had to tell his two grown sons. They had both cried like babies.
Just as he had when his pop had died from cancer a few years back.
Nope, nothing exciting happened here, which was just the way he and the residents liked it. The youngsters were desperate to get out, at least some of them, but quite often they ended up coming back, big city life not all it was cracked up to be. Some did tough it out, but quite often they would retire back home after they were done with the rat race.
He kicked at a rock, and it skipped a little farther than he was expecting. He winced as it hit one of the tents, rolling up the side, then back down. He looked out on the lake for their boat, but didn’t see it. Nor was it onshore.
He stopped, hands on his hips, staring out.
God’s country.
There was no one. In another month it would be filled with tourists, but not now. It was too cold for most, and there were other lakes that most of the brave souls took to, with cabins and heaters.
But not these three. They were definitely hearty souls.
But where the hell are they?
His alarm bells were going off. He had spent thirty years on the force in Seattle, finally “retiring” here as Sheriff. It kept him busy, in the job he loved, in his home town, with none of the stress the same job in the city entailed.
And that experience had taught him to pay attention when his spine tingled.
Something’s wrong.
He stood at the edge of the water and stared, scanning the shoreline to see if they might be pulled up on the other side for some reason, but found nothing. Then he started to look at the water itself, and his heart leapt.
Running back to the truck, he didn’t look back, he just prayed what he had seen was an optical illusion, a trick of the waves. He reached in the truck and grabbed the binoculars, spinning around and scanning the water where he had seen what he hoped wasn’t real.
His heart sank.
He reached inside and grabbed the mike off the dash.
“Martha, this is Jack. Better get Randy and his crew out here. We’re going to need divers in the water. Over.”
As he contemplated the search ahead, another thing nagged at him as if the old days in the city were still pulling on the strings of his subconscious.
Their families get kidnapped, and these guys go missing on the same day?
“No friggin’ way.”
Salt Lake City International Airport, Salt Lake City, Utah
Today, Five Days after the Kidnappings
Dylan Kane stepped off the plane, refreshed after taking advantage of a true sleeper seat on his Thai Air flight from Bangkok to LA. He gave a wink to one of the flight attendants who had been particularly attentive on the last leg of his trip. She extended her hand.
“Thanks for flying Delta.”
He smiled, clasping her hand with both of his.
“It was indeed a pleasure.”
He felt something pressed into his hand as she withdrew hers, and he closed his fist around it so the other passengers wouldn’t notice. As he exited the jetway, he looked in his palm and found a small piece of folded paper. He opened it and smiled.
Call me! I’ll make it worth your while!
At the bottom was a phone number he had no doubt would lead to a riotous night of debauchery. But he was on duty now—not officially, this was after all a favor, but nonetheless he considered himself on the job. Between jobs the alcohol flowed, the women took priority, but on the job, it was all shut off unless part of his cover.
He looked at the paper one last time and stuffed it into his pocket with a sigh. Too bad. As he strode toward the rental counter to pick up his prearranged vehicle, his mind as always returned to the memory that haunted him, that dogged him almost his every waking moment. The cries, the screams, the desperation.
He focused on the floor as his feet carried him automatically to his destination, he having already memorized the layout of the airport on his way here. He began to flip through his itinerary, when his phone vibrated with a message.
Envelope waiting for you at rental counter. C.
Kane reached the Enterprise rental counter, and minutes later was sitting in his Ford Expedition XL, the unopened envelope sitting on the passenger seat. He left the airport, and aimed himself at the nearest set of golden arches to satisfy a morning ritual that he had kept almost every day of his adult life when he was stateside.
McDonalds breakfast.
Nothing said ‘You’re home!’ to him more than a sausage and egg McMuffin with a hash brown and large Diet Coke. Coffee was never his thing, he couldn’t stand drinks that weren’t cold. He’d make a show if he were on assignment, avoiding coffee or tea being one way to draw attention to yourself in the bazaars of whatever hole he might be in.
But back home, when not concerned about a cover needing to be maintained, an ice cold Diet Coke or Diet Pepsi, was his vice.
Or an ice cold Bud.
But at 7:48 in the morning, that was frowned upon in this country. Now in Phuket…
He smiled at the new memories he had been able to acquire before leaving that den of depravity, alcohol not clouding any of it. He took a bite of his sandwich, then ripped open the envelope, shaking the contents out onto the passenger seat. In between bites and gulps, he quickly read the contents, all briefs on the scientists and their work, along with the family members that had disappeared, and finally an Echelon intercept of a phone call that blew the entire case wide open.
There’s definitely something going on here.
And it was their research that terrified him. If these guys were building a better mousetrap, he’d say leave it to the FBI, and who cares. But if the mousetrap these guys had apparently designed was to get into the wrong hands, a lot more than mice would be screwed.
Tossing the last morsel of hash brown in his mouth, he washed it down with a long drag on his Diet Coke then wiped his mouth, checked his teeth in the vanity mirror, then climbed out, stuffing the garbage in a nearby can. Moments later, with the GPS programmed for the motel Chris had recommended but not reserved in the scientists’ home town, he was on the freeway, the radio tuned into the first station he found aimed at the twentysomethings, he finding it important to keep up with popular culture as part of his cover. Being able to discuss politics or metaphysics was surprisingly useless in his line of work. But knowing the latest hit from Rihanna or the name of the upcoming Tom Cruise movie was critical in reigniting a stalled conversation.
American popular culture was now almost universal.
Much to the chagrin of most other countries’ cultural elite.
He glanced in his rear
view mirror at an SUV that had done its fourth unnecessary lane change since he’d pulled onto the freeway. He was pretty sure it was the same Chevy Suburban he had seen at the airport when he was leaving. He had been trained to notice everything. Every vehicle, every person, every landmark. And this was the only vehicle he had seen at both the airport and since leaving McDonalds.
He had a tail.
A few slight increases in speed, mixed with some slowdowns, and he had pretty much confirmed his suspicions. He was being tailed, and that led to the myriad of inevitable questions. Tailed by whom? How’d they know he’d be arriving? Were they Company, FBI, local, foreign, private? What were their orders? Were they just there to observe? Were they there to take him out?
And that was the bottom line that he cared about. He enjoyed fresh air and daylight. Six feet under kind of disagreed with him. But he couldn’t just go and kill a truck full of what could be Federal employees assigned only to follow him and see why he had come back to the US without telling anyone.
Which brought him back to one of the most important questions—how did they know? Besides himself, Chris Leroux was the only guy who knew he was back. Which meant either Leroux had told someone, or he was under surveillance as well.
The latter was more likely. Though Leroux wasn’t trained as a field operative, he was no dummy—anything but. He’d keep this entire mission on the down-low if he could. And that meant Kane would have to get a message to Leroux outside of normal channels.
But first he had to lose his tail.
He pulled into a Walmart, parked, then entered the store, making a note of where his tail parked—two rows behind him, to the right. As he entered the store, a quick glance showed someone had exited from the passenger side, rear door.
That meant most likely a team of four.
No problem.
He beamed a smile at the elderly greeter, and grabbed a cart, making his way up and down the aisles, filling it with assorted items. Matches, lighter fluid, cigarettes, WD-40 and a few bags of unsalted nuts, along with two cans of Raid Max Wasp and Hornet Foam Bug Killer, a case of bottled water, duct tape, a rope as well as a couple of hunting knives, zip ties, a crossbow with several dozen bolts, and the biggest med kit he could find.
Rogue Operator (A Special Agent Dylan Kane Thriller, Book #1) Page 7