Wrecker

by Mark Parragh

  Wrecker

  A John Crane Adventure

  Mark Parragh

  Contents

  Copyright & Credits

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  John Crane will return

  Shot Clock - Chapter 1

  Afterword

  Join the Hurricane (Reading) Group

  Also by Mark Parragh

  Wrecker

  by Mark Parragh

  A Waterhaven Media Publication

  First Edition – June 2017

  Copyright © 2017 by Waterhaven Media, LLC. All rights reserved.

  Cover Design by Kerry Hynds, Aero Gallerie

  Edited by Courtney Umphress

  Production Coordination by Nina Sullivan

  There’s more of John Crane’s world waiting for you at AgentCrane.com. There you can explore Crane’s other adventures and join the Hurricane (Reading) Group to get the first word on upcoming releases, check out deleted scenes and commentary from the author, as well as free bonus materials like the novella Sneakernet, available only to group members.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to events or locales is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  For Lara Quinn

  She knows why …

  Chapter 1

  Tepehuanes Municipality, Durango, Mexico

  Martin Cottrell pushed his stolen ATV down the dirt road as the stars blazed like fire overhead. He didn’t think he’d ever seen a night sky so intense. It had been eight months since he’d seen the stars at all. Had they really changed so much, or was it him? He felt so alive in this moment. He’d made it! He’d kept his eyes and ears open, watched the guards. He’d gathered shreds of information and patiently fitted them together. When the time came, he knew how to get out of his room and up to the main shop floor without being seen. He knew door codes and how the alarm system was configured. He knew the layout of the grounds beyond the small compound where he was held, including where the ATVs the guards used to patrol the estate were kept at night. He’d disabled all but one of the four-wheelers and walked this one right out the main gate, unmanned this time of night as he’d suspected it would be.

  Things were going his way at last.

  Martin knew that the road he followed twisted its way down out of the Sierra Madre Occidental mountains for more than five miles, passing nothing but a few abandoned shacks. It would eventually take him to the highway, just a few miles from the town of Santa Catarina de Tepehuanes. There, Martin would find a phone and call for help.

  I’ll have a hell of a story to tell, he thought. He wouldn’t have to buy his own drinks for the rest of his life.

  Martin worked as a telecom engineer for his father’s company, Cochise Broadband and Wireless, back home in Texas. Eight months ago, he’d gone on vacation to Cabo San Lucas at the southern tip of the Baja Peninsula. He’d enjoyed a couple days on the beach and nights in the clubs. One night in a bar, a stranger had struck up a conversation and was fascinated by Martin’s work. Martin thought nothing of it at the time. But the next day, he’d rented an ATV not unlike this one and ridden out to explore the desert.

  And everything had changed.

  The cartel soldiers who took him drove him to a remote airstrip and packed him aboard a small plane. He’d ended up here, with a half-dozen other captives like himself. They were electrical and network engineers, spectrum planners, and programmers. To avoid police eavesdropping, Martin learned, the cartels had built their own illegal networks of cell sites and repeaters. The hardware was scattered across the country, hidden in remote locations and powered by solar panels. They gave the cartels their own secure communications, completely off the grid. Of course, the cartel’s people were drug runners and killers, not engineers. They lacked the skills to even begin to design, build, and maintain a sprawling telecom network. But that was no problem. If the cartels needed something, they simply took it.

  Martin’s captors reassured him that someone would pay to get him home safely; they always did. In the meantime, his skills were needed, so he would be treated well.

  His world became one building. The six men shared three basement bedrooms, and by day they worked upstairs on the main floor. They built radios, designed point-to-point microwave links, and repaired equipment. As promised, they were treated well. Their rooms were comfortable, and the food was good. They had recreation time outside in the enclosed yard around the building. And, to Martin’s surprise, he actually enjoyed the work. The technical challenges of an illicit hidden network were more interesting than those he’d faced back home. Eventually, Martin convinced himself that he would do his work for the cartel, and eventually they would ransom him back. Months went by this way.

  And then Garza disappeared.

  That wasn’t unusual by itself. Every so often, someone would be gone in the morning, and someone new would arrive to take his place. They were told the missing men had been ransomed and sent home. But Garza had no family. Just an ex-wife who despised him. He used to joke about how she’d pay the cartel to keep him. And yet, he was gone.

  That was when it occurred to Martin that he was now the senior man. He’d been here longer than anyone else. It was when the lies he’d used to calm his fears lost their power. Of course they weren’t ransoming the engineers! What did the cartel need with the few thousand dollars these men’s families could scrape together? If nothing else, they all knew where they’d been held. To do their work, they needed detailed maps and precise GPS data. Martin could locate the compound to within five meters. The cartel could never risk that information getting out.

  They used their captives and then killed them. And he was next in line.

  That was when he knew he had to escape. Thankfully, the guards thought they had their prisoners cowed, and security was sloppy. Martin had figured out how to get out, and tonight he’d done it.

  He glanced back up the road. The hacienda was out of sight. He was probably far enough away now to start the engine without being heard. He climbed on, turned the key, and punched the starter button. The engine sputtered to life, and he released the brake and set off down the road. The ATV was louder than he liked, but it was a lot faster than walking. He needed to make it to the highway and into town before he was missed in the morning.

  The night air was cool against his face.
He slowed around a switchback, and soon he could see the hacienda again, well above him now. As he drove, he noticed lights coming on, more and more of them until the whole mountaintop lit up. No, he said voicelessly to himself. No, no, no.

  A few moments later, a helicopter shot over the ridge, flying low. It followed the line of the road, sweeping it with a nose-mounted searchlight.

  Martin did the only thing he could do. He switched off the headlights, and opened the throttle, speeding down the road and hoping he didn’t collide with something in the night.

  He could see the helicopter off to his left. They didn’t know how much of a head start he had, so they were following the road from switchback to switchback. That was something, at least. If he could stay ahead of them …

  He took another sweeping turn, and the road opened up into a long, straight descent along the side of a ridge. The land rose up sharply to his right and fell away to his left. The land was stony and harsh, sparsely dotted with pines and scrub brush. There was enough moonlight to see by, and he accelerated to open up as much distance as he could from the helicopter.

  Suddenly he saw something moving ahead of him. A figure ran into the road from a flat-roofed adobe shack. Then there were flashes of light, and something slammed hard into the ATV’s fender.

  Good God, they were shooting at him!

  Martin reacted on instinct. He veered off the road and down the steep slope. The tires spun wildly, throwing up loose rock and sliding as he fought to control the ATV. He heard more gunfire behind him.

  The shacks he’d seen on the satellite imagery weren’t abandoned at all; they were the outer perimeter. That was why the main gate was unmanned. But it was too late for that knowledge to do him any good. The men firing at him would bring the helicopter down on him in moments.

  Martin half steered, half slid the ATV between tree trunks until he came out on the road again. There was one more switchback below this one before the road descended into rolling hills. Take the road, or keep on down the slope?

  The helicopter made his decision for him. It roared overhead, the searchlight sweeping across the road no more than fifty feet away. Martin gunned the engine, crossed the road, and soared over the bank. The ATV took to the air and then hit the ground hard and slewed sideways, throwing loose stones into the darkness. He steered into the skid, trying to bring it back under control, but a tree trunk swept into view as he spun, and Martin knew he was going to hit it. He let go of the handlebars and dove clear. He hit the ground hard as the ATV caromed off the pine and rolled away down the slope.

  Martin ended up face down in a slide of loose stone shards. He hurt and he could taste blood, but he didn’t think anything was broken. He had no idea where the ATV had ended up. The helicopter was almost overhead. Martin hauled his aching body across the loose stone, kicking up a few more small slides as he went, and plunged into a patch of dry brush.

  Martin lay there, his heart racing, as the helicopter hovered and swept the landscape with its searchlight. The roar of its engines drowned out all thought. Martin lay still with his eyes closed, waiting for the light to pick him out. Finally, the helicopter moved on.

  Martin found the ATV at the bottom of the slope. It lay on its side, battered and not running. But Martin managed to roll it over onto its wheels, and it complained when he hit the button, but it started. He turned the ATV around and set off down the road toward the highway.

  He made it within minutes and turned onto the main road. By now, the ATV’s engine was starting to complain. Something had been hit and was working its way loose, he guessed. But all it had to do was get him another few miles into Santa Catarina de Tepehuanes. From there, he could call home, and his father would have him out in no time. All during his captivity, Martin never doubted that his father was looking for him. If he knew his father, he’d have been tearing Mexico apart piece by piece since the day he didn’t return from the desert. He had no doubt that a significant reward was being offered for anyone who helped bring him safely home.

  Martin could still see the lights of the helicopter, but it was well behind him now, and he began to breathe a bit easier. He guessed he was about three miles outside Santa Catarina. Just a few more minutes and he’d be safe.

  Then he saw headlights. A battered pickup heading north out of town. Martin pulled the ATV across the road and stood in front of it, waving his arms over his head until he was sure they’d seen him.

  The truck stopped with a grinding of brakes, and two men got out.

  “Are you crazy, man?” the driver shouted as Martin hurried to meet them. “What are you doing out here this time of night with no lights? You going to kill somebody like that!”

  “I need help!” said Martin. “Please. I need to get to town. To a telephone!”

  They glanced up at the helicopter in the distance. “What are you doing out here?”

  “I’m an American,” Martin said. “I was kidnapped.”

  The two men glanced at each other. Then the passenger stepped back around the truck’s open door.

  “Please. Take me into town and get me to a telephone. I have to call for help. There’s a reward. A big reward.”

  “Yeah, man,” said the passenger, “we know.” He stepped back around the door, and Martin saw a heavy nickel-plated revolver in his hand.

  “No!” Martin shouted, and then the gun roared, and he felt the cold impact punch through him. He stumbled backward, and the man fired again. Martin collapsed on the asphalt.

  The passenger put his gun away while the driver retrieved a highway flare from the bed of the truck. Martin heard the snap and hiss as he ignited it. As darkness gathered around him, Martin saw only the baleful red eye of the flare waving back and forth, and heard only the growing clatter of the helicopter.

  Chapter 2

  Cannon Beach, Oregon

  “Recalculating,” said the GPS unit in a voice that sounded irritated that John Crane was ignoring its advice.

  “You do that,” said Crane.

  The single lane of asphalt was cracked and pitted. A sign had warned him that the state didn’t maintain this road, which explained why his GPS didn’t know about it. But Crane had also spotted a faded wooden sign for the Fox Cove Inn.

  He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised. If anyone could drop so far out of sight that even the GPS satellites couldn’t find him, it would be Malcolm Stoppard.

  Malcolm had been Crane’s mentor at the Hurricane Group. He’d been an agent in the old days. By the time Crane knew him, he was out of the field and training new agents. He’d retired and come to Oregon to run a bed and breakfast by the sea.

  But Malcolm still had contacts. When Crane found himself needing support in the Czech Republic, it was Malcolm he’d called for introductions. He’d promised to come visit when he got back, and he’d put off that promise for too long. So finally Crane had flown into Seattle, rented a 6 Series, and driven down the 101 to the Oregon coast.

  He steered the BMW through stands of pine beneath a slate-gray October sky. After a mile or so, the road emerged into a clearing overlooking the sea, and there it was. The Fox Cove Inn consisted of a main building and two wings of guest rooms. Crane took in weather-beaten cedar shingles and driftwood, carefully tended grounds, and an empty gravel parking lot. The beaches here were mainly a weekend getaway for Portlanders, so it wasn’t surprising that the place was empty on a weekday, especially in the off season. Or perhaps Malcolm was just a bad innkeeper. He found it hard to imagine the man he’d known serving tourists Willamette Valley wines and artisanal cheeses.

  As he got out of the car, Crane heard frantic barking, and a huge black lab tore around the corner of the building.

  “Molly!” Crane knelt down and let the dog dance around him, barking with joy. There were touches of gray fur around her chin now, Crane noticed.

  “Good girl!” he said. “Yeah, I missed you too.”

  A woman looked at him from the front doorway, a striking brunette of perhaps fifty.


  “Good morning,” he called, patting Molly’s head. “I’m John Crane. Malcolm’s expecting me.”

  The woman said nothing but gestured for him to follow. Crane and Molly followed her into a large rustic dining room and found Malcolm Stoppard unloading a dishwasher silverware basket.

  “John!” he said, wiping his hands on a towel. Molly jumped up on him, and Malcolm shooed her affectionately. “Yes, I know he’s here!”

  “It’s good to see you, Malcolm,” said Crane.

  “Same here! Let me—yeah, I know, it’s walk time. Go get your stick, then. Go on.”

  Molly bounded away, and Malcolm crossed the room to shake Crane’s hand and slap his shoulder. “Too long, John, too long.”

  He said something to the woman in a language Crane didn’t recognize. She nodded and stalked to the far end of the room where an island separated the dining area from a professionally equipped kitchen. She scowled back at Crane.

  “You’re looking good,” said Crane. Malcolm Stoppard was in his sixties and still in shape, though there was more silver in his hair than the last time Crane had seen him. His eyes were deep blue and intense. Crane could still see the good looks that had supposedly made Malcolm a legendary womanizer back in his field agent days.