Indeed, she had seen men huddled around burning trashcans and sleeping in doorways, but once she got close to the school all evidence of the homeless had disappeared.
Almost as though the indigent population had been driven off.
By the Iraqis.
Because they had something to hide.
Once again as she drove, Tracie observed the clumps of dirty men and even the occasional woman, drinking from bottles hidden inside paper bags, some of them watching her drive past with the vacant expressions of people with nowhere to go and no expectation that their lives were ever going to improve.
Tonight was busier than last night. But still, as she motored through the trash-strewn streets of a section of D.C. the tourists never visited unless they were hopelessly lost, Tracie noticed that all activity ceased as she got close to the school building. She continued past it and discovered that an identical sector north of the building had been sanitized as well.
There was no way this could be a coincidence.
For a moment Tracie wondered why the car from the Iraqi embassy stopped so far from the school, subjecting their people to the added risk of detection as they walked to and from it.
Then the answer occurred to her, so simple she was embarrassed not to have thought of it immediately. Deniability. If the men were apprehended, any remaining occupants in the Town Car could simply drive away and no one would be the wiser. And from a distance, even if the car were to be seen it would be much more difficult to prove a connection between it and whatever was happening inside the abandoned school.
Tracie returned to where she had parked last night. She eased to the curb in the same spot. Shut down the engine and sat quietly in the darkness, allowing her senses to adjust. She could hear the ambient noise of any large city at night—a siren wailing, a dog barking—but it was all muted by distance; the immediate area was as still as an empty church.
After ten minutes, during which time Tracie maintained a continuous scan and saw nothing unusual, she picked up her backpack and bottle of whiskey and eased out of the car. She locked the vehicle and slung the backpack over one shoulder. Then she started walking.
Half a block from the school, she melted into a darkened doorway and broke the seal on the whiskey bottle. She swished some around in her mouth and then spit it out. Poured some over both forearms, letting the amber liquid run over her hands and splash to the ground. She splattered some liberally over her Redskins T-shirt.
Within seconds, Tracie Tanner had transformed herself from a beautiful twenty-something woman into a wasted skid row drunk. She had purposely left her normally lustrous red hair unwashed and unbrushed, and now she stumbled out of the doorway, holding the bottle of JD by its stubby neck.
She turned a corner and the big brick school building loomed in the distance, silent and alien-looking in the near-total darkness. She weaved along the deserted road, pretending to pay no more attention to the school than to any other structure, all of which were abandoned and still.
She affected a drunkard’s warble and started singing a verse from Joan Jett’s I Love Rock and Roll, her voice low but clear: “I love rock and roll, so put another dime in the jukebox, baby. I love rock and roll, so come and take your time and dance with me…”
Tracie was certain that at least one person was inside the big building providing security. The paranoid route the driver of the Lincoln had taken last night in order to avoid detection suggested the Iraqis considered whatever was inside the school to be of extreme importance.
She was probably being watched right now.
At least she hoped so.
The idea was to draw the attention of the guard, to lure him outside. Tracie had every confidence her ploy would work. If the Iraqis had gone to the considerable trouble of sterilizing the area of the homeless population—which she was sure they had—they would not hesitate to drive away an intruder, especially a drunk, defenseless woman.
She stumbled and weaved down the street, still singing, pretending to stop and drink from the bottle every few steps. She passed the school’s entrance, keeping as close a watch on it as she could in her peripheral vision.
Bingo.
She had no sooner crossed in front of the big double-doors than one of them opened, just a bit, and a lone figure slipped out.
Tracie started moving a little faster. She was still weaving, still singing, but she needed to get around the corner of the building, out of sight of a second guard, if there was one, before her pursuer caught up to her.
The man didn’t shout at her, didn’t make his presence known. Had Tracie really been drunk, she would never have known he was even there. He closed the distance between them rapidly. But not rapidly enough.
She angled off the road, crossing the crumbling sidewalk and a small patch of weed-strewn brown grass, disappearing from the man’s view around the corner of the school. By now he was no more than ten feet behind her. He still had not said a word, and the moment he rounded the corner, she would once again be in his sights.
She hoped she would have enough time.
She darted to the side of the building and tossed her backpack to the ground. Then she bent over, hands on her knees, like she was about to vomit. She waited, counting down the seconds in her head. When she reached three, she started dry-heaving, knowing her pursuer would now be right behind her.
She was right. The man finally spoke, saying in a gruff, heavily accented voice, “What are you doing? You cannot be here.”
Tracie ignored him. She sank to one knee, still with her back to the man, and pretended to puke onto the grass. The sound was deep and convincing, as she coughed and sputtered.
The man spoke again, more sharply this time. “I said you cannot be here. You must leave, now!” He stepped right up next to Tracie’s kneeling body and reached for her shoulders to haul her to her feet.
Exactly what she was waiting for.
In an instant she spun sideways and shot to her feet, extending her right arm, palm out, forcing it up and under the man’s exposed jaw. Between the drive from her leg muscles and her arm extending at the same time, the amount of torque was tremendous. His mouth slammed closed, teeth clattering together, as his head bounced violently backward.
He stumbled, stunned, but stayed on his feet. In his hand was a pistol, which he somehow managed to hold onto despite the suddenness and ferocity of Tracie’s attack. She grabbed his wrist with both hands and slammed it against the bricks once, twice, then the gun dropped to the ground with a soft thud.
The man swayed and stumbled but tried to fight back. He took a wild roundhouse swipe at Tracie’s head, which she slipped easily. Then she stepped forward and hit the bigger man in the side of the face with a closed left fist. His head connected with the side of the brick building with a muffled wet smack. He staggered sideways, dropped to his knees, then sank face-first to the ground where he lay still.
One down.
Tracie nudged him in the side of the head with her foot, ready to defend herself if he was playing possum. It didn’t seem likely, given how hard his head had struck the bricks. What did seem likely was that he would be down and out for several minutes and would awaken with a headache the likes of which he had probably never experienced before.
But Tracie hadn’t stayed alive in some of the most dangerous locations on earth by making assumptions. So she played it safe. She nudged the man and he didn’t move.
She wedged a foot under his shoulder and rolled him over onto his back. He still didn’t move.
Out cold. A thin line of blood ran from under his hairline across his face. Tracie took a quick look around to be sure they were still unseen. The buildings loomed over them like ghosts, silent and accusing. If anyone was watching, he was keeping to the shadows.
She quickly retrieved the man’s weapon, checked the safety to be sure it was engaged, then shoved it into the waistband of her jeans at the small of her back, next to her own personal Beretta 9mm semi-automatic pistol. Then s
he pulled her long T-shirt back down, covering both guns.
She had to get her attacker out of here. Leaving him unconscious in the schoolyard was unacceptable. Moving him would be risky and dangerous, but there was no other option.
Tracie positioned herself behind the unmoving man’s head and knelt, threading her arms under his shoulders at the armpits. Then she lifted with her legs and dragged the much bigger man’s unresponsive body across the schoolyard and the empty road, to another of the dozens of abandoned tenement buildings littering the neighborhood.
A dilapidated door providing access to what had once been a triple-decker apartment building, or perhaps a boarding house, swung in the light breeze. The wooden door was partially rotted, and a padlock meant to keep out vandals had long since been destroyed.
Tracie kicked the door fully open and dragged the still-unconscious guard inside. The air felt stagnant despite the partially open front door close behind her. Four feet past the entryway the darkness was nearly complete. It surrounded her, stifling her, pressing down on her like a heavy blanket.
She turned left, dragging the man into what may have once been some kind of sitting room or common area. A furtive scrabbling noise from somewhere off her right side told her the rats that had claimed the space were abandoning ship. For now.
She eased the man’s upper body to the floor. His head struck the dirty hardwood with a crack. Then she straightened and considered her next move.
She had forgotten her backpack.
Dammit.
Tracie turned and sprinted outside and across the street. She had to balance the need for stealth with a recognition that speed was of the essence. There was no way of knowing how many men were guarding this mysterious location. If there was more than one, it wouldn’t be long before he became concerned about how long his partner had been gone.
If it hadn’t already happened.
Seconds later she was at the school’s side wall. The backpack lay undisturbed in the dusty schoolyard. She grabbed it and slung it over her shoulder, then ran back across the deserted street to the building where she had left the guard.
She stopped at the doorway. Flattened herself against the wall. Unzipped her backpack as quietly as she could. Rummaged inside until finding a small flashlight and a roll of duct tape. Then she re-zipped the bag and placed it on the ground.
She crouched just outside the doorway to present as small a target as possible in the unlikely event the man inside had regained consciousness and was waiting to ambush her. Then she pivoted and swung into the building.
She covered most of the flashlight’s lens with her hand, leaving only an opening the size of a quarter for the light to shine through. Then she flicked it on, ready to defend herself.
The unconscious man lay on the floor exactly where she had left him. His eyes were closed and he was unmoving. Tracie shined the thin beam of light around the room, examining it quickly. It was big and empty, the once-shiny hardwood floor now littered with trash and the detritus of drug use and homelessness: a used needle here, an unopened condom there. A pair of men’s underwear lay in the far corner of the room.
Tracie returned her attention to the man on the floor. He moaned softly and his arms and legs twitched before falling still again. She knelt and frisked him, paying special attention to his pockets, unsurprised to find no wallet and no form of identification. The only item in his possession was a set of three keys. She pocketed them.
She rolled him onto his belly and then began ripping strips of duct tape, first sealing his mouth and then binding his arms behind his back at the wrists and elbows. After that, she repeated the procedure on his legs, taping them together at the ankles and then just below the knees.
Then she went back over what she had done, repeating the process for added security. She hated using up more valuable time but could not afford to take the chance that the man would be able to free himself after waking.
Tracie counted in her head while she worked. She estimated the entire process, from stumbling down the street singing Joan Jett in an off-key voice to trussing up her attacker like a Thanksgiving turkey, had taken no more than six or seven minutes.
It was too long.
The man still had not awakened, but he had begun to stir, and Tracie knew it would only be a matter of minutes before he regained consciousness.
She slapped him on the back companionably and whispered, “Thanks for the workout.” Then she picked up the flashlight and switched it off, sliding it into her pocket. She grabbed the duct tape and made her way back outside, where she picked up her backpack and returned to the school grounds across the street.
26
Date unknown
Time unknown
Location unknown
This time, when the man who had cut off his finger entered the room, J. Robert Humphries was surprised to see that he was not alone. A second man trailed behind then took up a position next to hedge-clipper man as they approached, taking their time, strutting arrogantly across the room.
J.R. was tired.
He was hungry.
He needed to use the bathroom.
But mostly, he was afraid. More afraid than usual. He was terrified. This departure from the norm—two men entering his prison cell instead of one—signaled a change in the status quo, and that could not be good news.
The two men stopped in front of him and stood silently, looking him straight in the eyes. Their faces were impassive, their postures relaxed and confident. He knew they were playing with him, more of the mind games they’d been subjecting him to from the moment he had heard the piece of glass hit the floor in his Georgetown study.
He told himself not to react, tried not to react, but couldn’t manage it. The panic built steadily, and soon he was panting, hyperventilating, as he recalled the sound of his little finger falling with a barely audible plop into the bucket. He thought he might be sick.
The man who had severed his finger spoke. “It is time,” he said.
J.R. cleared his throat and tried to keep his voice steady. “Time for what?” He was marginally calmer now that he had something, anything, to concentrate on, rather than allowing his imagination to run wild.
“Time for you to begin the long trip to your new home.” The man smiled, and the sense of relief J.R. felt was almost overwhelming. Moving him meant they weren’t going to kill him, at least not yet, and calling it his “new home” implied their intention was to keep him alive for the foreseeable future.
His sense of relief at the sudden realization that he was not going to be murdered, not yet and not the near future, was so strong it was almost overwhelming. The feeling washed over him like an ocean wave, cool and refreshing, and for a moment he wanted to leap up and shake the two men’s hands, to hug them and slap them on the back, maybe buy them a drink.
J.R. tried to keep his facial expression neutral, but doubted he was successful. The sensation was too strong. He said, “New home? What new home?”
“Never mind that. Right now, the question you must consider is whether you wish to do this the easy way or the hard way.”
“What do you mean?”
“Doing it the easy way means you will come quietly, make no attempt to escape or to alert anyone to your presence. Your mouth will be sealed and your hands will be secured behind your back, but you will be conscious, and with our assistance, will walk to the vehicle in which you will begin your journey.”
“What is the alternative?” J.R. spoke without thinking. The words escaped almost before he was even aware of opening his mouth, and his fear and horror returned with a vengeance. Why had he said anything?
The man smiled. The effect was ghastly. His eyes remained cold and blank and emotionless. “The alternative is that we carry your unconscious body to the vehicle. You do not want to choose this alternative. We have no drugs with which to render you unconscious, so we will be forced to do it the old-fashioned way. With this.” He reached behind his back and lifted up a short le
ngth of common rubber garden hose, which hung from a piece of twine tied to his belt. J.R. could tell the hose had been filled with something, he guessed sand, rendering it heavy and lethal but still somewhat pliable.
Hedge-trimmer man held the length of hose in front of J.R.’s face and then let it drop. It swung back and forth beside him in ever-decreasing arcs. “I suggest you choose the first option, but the decision is, of course, entirely yours.”
“I choose the first option. I won’t give you any trouble.” J.R. hated himself for the lack of hesitation in his response. But, like before, the words came out before he was even aware he had spoken.
The man smiled again. It was no warmer this time than it had been the first. “I thought you might. But you should know that if you make one move we find threatening, just one, or attempt any kind of escape, or simply look at either of us in a way we do not like, your fate will be sealed, and we will do what we must.”
J.R. shook his head violently. A headache had been forming at the base of his skull and now it flared like a lit match, but he didn’t care. He wanted to reassure these lunatics, to do whatever was necessary to avoid being beaten unconscious with a rubber hose. “Don’t worry,” he said firmly. “As I told you before, I won’t give you any trouble.”
The man nodded, and then the two of them began unlocking the cuffs binding J.R. Humphries to the chair.
27
Thursday, September 10, 1987
2:00 a.m.
Washington, D.C.
Marshall Fulton wiped his sweaty palms on the legs of his jeans and checked his watch.
Again.
Three minutes had elapsed since the last time he looked.
After Tracie had dismissed him outside the liquor store parking lot, he had driven away and then circled back, making a left and another immediate left, driving four blocks before repeating the process. He had wound up two blocks north of Tracie, certain she would be long gone.
Tracie Tanner Thrillers Box Set Page 40