Rules of Engagement

by Ken Fite

  “Please, just go to Charlie’s,” I yelled over the sound of two car engines running and the squeals from the motorcycle’s tires. “They want me for some reason. It’s time to find out why.”

  “I can take him out,” she argued. “We can at least try to get some information out of him.”

  Turning to my right, I looked at the driver’s lifeless body. “We already tried that. Get under the car now!”

  As I faced forward, I saw the man on the motorcycle hook around the corner. Dressed in black and wearing an all-black helmet with a smoked-out face shield, he had his weapon out and trained on me.

  I held both hands in the air, my right still gripping the Glock as the man carefully twisted the throttle and closed the gap between us until he was twenty feet in front of me. He killed the ignition and climbed off.

  It was a Beretta M9 trained on me. The man used his free hand to remove the helmet and set it down. Shifting his gaze for the first time, he looked to his left and saw the dead man still handcuffed to the concrete column. “Put the weapon down, Mr. Jordan,” he said as he took another step closer and stopped.

  Lowering my body, I carefully brought my right hand down and set my weapon on the concrete floor before standing back up again, maintaining eye contact with the guy the whole time. “What do you want?”

  He looked past me, past the Town Car, back toward Jami’s SUV. “Where is the woman?” he asked as I noticed over the rumble of two engines the same accent. Another Russian. It was in that moment that I knew that my past had finally caught up to me, the haunting words of a dead man echoing in my mind.

  “Ivanov sent you, didn’t he?” I asked, referring to the man who I had killed six months earlier and remembering once again the words that he had spoken before his death. “Russia has a very long memory, Mr. Jordan. We’re going to keep coming after you,” he had said after telling me that he had already told his affiliates who I was and who I worked for. I knew that it was only a matter of time until they found me.

  “Ivanov?” he said, turning his head sideways with a surprised look. “You catch on quickly, Mr. Jordan.” He looked past me again. “But you still did not answer my question.” He paused. “Tell me where she is.”

  “I’m alone,” I lied, glaring at the man as he took another step closer to me. “There’s no one here but me.”

  A smile crept across his face as he looked down and shook his head. “Agent Jordan,” he said and took another step closer, resting the barrel of his M9 in the middle of my forehead, “I am told that the two of you left together, so I suggest that you be truthful unless you want to end up like my comrade over there.”

  My heart was pounding out of control. The only thing I had wanted for the last six months was to stay away from Jami so she wouldn’t be involved in any of this and to keep her safe. I thought about Jami on the floor just a few feet away from us and what the guy would do if he found her. Then I had an idea.

  “She got a head start on you,” I said.

  Keeping my eyes on the man, I saw a bright exit sign from the corner of my eye. Quickly, I glanced at it.

  When the man turned to look at the stairwell next to me, I brought my right hand up and grabbed the barrel of the gun and pushed it aside. He squeezed the trigger and fired a round into the wall, sending chunks of concrete and dust into the air. He brought his other hand up to punch me, but I blocked the blow instead. In frustration, the guy fired again as I knocked the gun out of his hand and onto the floor.

  Drawing his hand away, he made a fist and lunged at me as I sidestepped him, bringing my knee into his stomach and throwing him onto the trunk of the Town Car. I grabbed the back of his head and slammed it onto the trunk as he brought his elbow back and jammed it into my chest, knocking the wind out of me.

  I took a step backward and let the man kick me in the stomach. The blow sent me to the ground, fast.

  Gasping for air, I struggled to push myself backward with my legs. I was too hurt to get back on my feet.

  I watched the man reach down to pick up his gun, kick mine underneath the Town Car, and walk to the driver’s side door. Still on the floor, I looked past him and saw Jami. She stared at me, and I held a hand up, telling her to stay where she was as the man popped the trunk and walked behind the vehicle.

  He reached inside, found a collection of zip ties, and peeled one off as he stepped over my body. Turning me over, he rested a foot on my neck and brought my hands behind me so he could secure them together. “Do not worry,” he said. “We will find her, eventually. And when we do—” he grabbed the back of my shirt to lift me up “—I will make sure that she suffers the same fate as my friend here,” he said, pointing to the man handcuffed to the column as he spun me around and pushed me toward the back of the Town Car.

  “Where are you taking me?” I asked, knowing that Jami was listening, still trying to catch my breath.

  I felt the cold barrel of the M9 touch the back of my neck to encourage me to keep moving. “Get in.”

  “Not until you tell me where we’re going and what you want from me.”

  After a brief pause, he said, “Mr. Jordan, there’s somebody who’s waited a very long time to see you.”

  He pushed the M9 harder against my neck, and I stepped closer to the back of the Town Car until he pulled the weapon away, grabbed me by my right shoulder, and pushed me down toward the open trunk. I winced in pain from the pressure of his grasp on my already injured shoulder, but I tried not to show that I was hurt.

  As I stepped inside, the driver slammed the trunk shut, causing everything to go black.

  The car rocked as he climbed inside, turned the vehicle around, and accelerated down the ramp.

  I knew that the guy would take me alive, and I had managed to make him think that Jami had escaped. Still, the man had asked where she was and even called Jami by name. He knew who she was, knew somehow that we were together, and said that they’d find her and kill her as soon as they caught up to her.

  After the vehicle took the final turn out of the garage and picked up speed, I thought about Jami staring at me on the cold concrete floor. I thought about what I had told her to do—get to Charlie’s and contact Morgan.

  I breathed harder as I started to catch my breath from the wind being knocked out of me. As the man driving the Town Car twisted and turned down the dark streets of DC, I couldn’t help but think about the last time that I had been zip tied in a trunk. I had tried so desperately to escape, and I had.

  But this time was different. This time, I remained perfectly still. I knew I had to conserve my energy.

  I was being taken farther away from Jami and getting closer to knowing who was looking for me and why.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  JAMI WAITED UNTIL the sound of the tires disappeared before crawling out from underneath the car. She picked up the Glock, grabbed her cell, and climbed into the still-running SUV before calling Morgan. Jami kept the cell against her ear with a shoulder as she held the other phone to find the address in Maps.

  “Lennox,” he said, sounding annoyed and typing in the background as Jami found the address for Charlie.

  “It’s me,” she said, still balancing her phone against an ear while pulling up the Maps application and touching the screen with a thumb to navigate her to the address. “I need your help, Morgan.”

  The typing stopped. “What’s wrong, love?”

  Jami programmed the Rosslyn address into her vehicle’s GPS and dropped the phone into the messenger bag next to her. “I need you to run a plate for me, see if you can figure out who owns the vehicle, and…” Jami paused. Having finished backing the vehicle out, she pulled around the motorcycle and stopped next to it. “Actually, I have two plates I need you to run for me,” she added and gave Morgan the numbers.

  “I’ll look them up for you; give me a few seconds,” he replied a beat later. “You don’t sound like yourself.”

  Jami stepped on the accelerator. She navigated the vehicle down to the f
irst floor, drove out through the exit that she had busted through earlier, and turned left onto the road, following the GPS’s directions. It told her that she was just over three miles and eleven minutes away from the address in Rosslyn, Virginia. “Simon called us earlier and said he had located the guy on the motorcycle who was at DDC earlier.”

  “Bloody hell. Why didn’t I know about that?”

  “I don’t know, Morgan. We were with Chris and Mark when we got the call, so we left to track it down.”

  Jami went on to explain everything that had happened as she headed west on Constitution Avenue. She explained that the motorcycle was back at the top floor of the parking garage, but that they needed to locate the Town Car immediately. She said she couldn’t talk long, that she needed to turn her phone off.

  “I’m entering the plate number you gave me into VeriPlate to see if I can pick up the vehicle using the Automatic License Plate Recognition database,” he said, referring to the license-plate-scanning technology being used on major roads and highways by law enforcement. “I’ll let you know if I pick up anything. In the meantime, I’ll see if I can figure out where the car’s been lately.” He paused and added, “I can also try to get access to the Bureau’s Stingray program and try to ping Blake’s phone if it’s still turned on, Jami.”

  She paused for a moment before saying, “It’s still on, Morgan. I have it here with me.”

  There was silence on the other end of the line. “I’m sorry, love. We’ll get him back. Don’t worry, okay?”

  Jami looked to her left and stared at the empty National Mall as she approached the Theodore Roosevelt Bridge. Before she could answer, she heard the cell ringing from the messenger bag on the seat next to her. “I have to go. Call me as soon as you get something. And, Morgan—don’t share anything with Simon.”

  She set her phone down and, with one hand, fished around inside the bag for the other one still ringing. Bringing it up to her face, she saw that the incoming call was from Chris Reed. She answered and explained what was happening and asked if Chris could meet her at the Rosslyn address that she’d be arriving at in two minutes. He said that he was with Mark at the Hoover Building and about to meet with Bill Landry, but would bring the man up to speed and head right over.

  After giving Chris the Rosslyn address, Jami disconnected the call and exited onto Interstate 66 and took it to North Fort Myer Drive. Two more short turns later and Jami arrived at the corner of Ode Street and North Colonial Court. She brought her vehicle to a stop in the driveway immediately behind a red-bricked townhome and checked the address before she killed the ignition and proceeded to turn off both phones.

  Large willow oak trees lined the pristine street. Their branches darkened many of the streetlights, creating a menacing feel. She sat silently in her car and heard the rumble of thunder close by.

  Jami thought about Lynne May. If Reed was going to give Landry a heads-up that he and Reynolds were going to meet her in Rosslyn, it was just a matter of time until May found out. Jami thought about the warning she had been given about Simon and wanted to keep him and May in the dark as long as possible.

  She stepped out of the vehicle, closed the door, and headed to the front of the townhome. Looking up to the darkening sky, Jami saw the storm clouds rolling in, remembered the heavy downpour from the night before, and knew that another round of thunderstorms was about to hit DC. As she approached the door, she looked up at the old building. Unlike the connected townhomes across the street, this one was a stand-alone. Three stories tall, red brick, red front door. Jami climbed the steps and knocked three times.

  Through the window next to the door, she watched as a strange orange glow from a lamp somewhere inside turned off quickly. She cupped two hands on the window to look inside, but it was too dark to see anything.

  She knocked on the door again, but the result was the same. “Charlie, please open the door,” she said. Jami crossed her arms and turned her back as a strong wind from the approaching storm passed over her.

  Straightening her hair back in place, Jami heard a voice from the other side of the door. “Who are you?”

  It was a warm, kind voice. Jami stepped closer. “You don’t know me,” she said softly to the man.

  He paused for several seconds. “What do you want from me?”

  “Blake sent me. He’s in trouble, and I need your help,” she said and turned as the wind picked up again.

  A moment later, she heard a latch being twisted, a deadbolt unlocked, and the click of the doorknob turning fast. The door opened and an older gentleman with a short, graying beard ushered her inside.

  He flipped the lights on and locked up again before turning around to face Jami, who tucked a lock of her hair behind an ear again as she looked up at the large broad-shouldered man in his mid-sixties. “Charlie Redding,” he said, extending his hand, which Jami took and squeezed as she nodded to him.

  “Jami Davis,” she said. Her eyes broke away from the man as she checked out the home. “I’m with DDC.”

  Charlie held onto her hand. She turned back and saw him tilt his head at her. “You’re wrong,” he said.

  Jami furrowed her brow, just staring back at him. “About what?”

  “I do know you.”

  Jami’s eyes narrowed, and she shook her head slowly as Charlie let go of her hand.

  “Follow me, Agent Davis,” he added and walked past her into a large study and flipped on another set of lights as Jami walked behind Redding and entered the room. He gestured for her to take a seat as he walked around to an adjacent chair, eased into it, and leaned forward. “What kind of trouble is Blake in?”

  Jami sat down. “I don’t know. A couple of guys were after him. One of them took him twenty minutes ago.”

  Charlie nodded. “He’s right, I can help you,” he said and stood, moving to his desk to share what he knew.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY MINUTES INTO the ride, the Town Car started to slow. I figured we were still in Washington. The car rocked with each turn the man took as I tried to keep myself steady inside the trunk of the car.

  The pain from my right shoulder was unbearable. But the vehicle was driving slower as we approached our destination, and the turns the guy was taking were becoming smoother. I felt the car come to a stop and heard the engine turn off as I waited in the darkness to find out what the guy was going to do to me.

  A minute later, I felt the car rock back and forth from the weight of the man stepping out of the car. He popped the trunk as I looked up to the sky and saw the bright orange glow of a streetlight overhead.

  “Come on. Get out,” the guy said as he appeared from the side and reached down into the trunk to grab my arm. I winced in pain and tried to hide my injury from him, but he noticed and grabbed my arm even tighter. Climbing out, I pulled away from him and quickly took in my surroundings to try to figure out where he had taken me while the man grabbed the back of my shirt and slammed the trunk closed. Turning to my right, I saw that we were at Thirty-Fourth and Garfield. Northwest Washington, I thought.

  “Move,” he barked and pushed me to the sidewalk as I looked up to see the building we were entering.

  It was three stories tall, with faded yellow bricks on the outside of the building. It looked like it had been abandoned for some time, but I couldn’t understand why. It was a nice, upscale neighborhood, and the Naval Observatory—where Vice President Billings lived—was nearby. It shouldn’t have been abandoned.

  The guy ushered me up ten short steps and knocked twice when we got to the wooden double doors.

  “Yes?” a voice called from the other side.

  “I have Jordan. Open the door,” the guy grunted.

  I heard the deadbolt turn; then the door creaked open. We stepped into complete darkness and I closed my eyes. The heat was intense from the building baking in the summer heat of Washington all day without air-conditioning. That was when I noticed a man on the other side of the room with a flashlight in his hand. T
he man who had let us in flicked his on as well and shined it in my face as the door was locked behind us.

  “Where is Dimitri?” asked the man who had ushered me inside, still holding onto the back of my shirt.

  The guy kept the light shining in my face as I heard a low rumble of thunder somewhere in the distance. “He’s on his way,” he replied, lowering the light and moving it to offer a path to the other side of the room. “He wants us to prepare the prisoner,” he added, referring to me as I tried to figure out who Dimitri was.

  The man holding onto my shirt pushed me forward, forcing me to walk through the dark foyer and into an open space as the other guy guarding the entrance remained at the door and shined his flashlight in the direction that we were to follow. His light briefly caught what looked like metal hooks hanging from the ceiling. I looked up, waiting for the light to catch them again, before I noticed another light coming from the left of me, from the other man I had seen pass by moments earlier when I had entered the building.

  “Keep moving,” the guy holding onto me said as I approached the center of the room, and the man to my left lifted his hand and sent a strong white beam of light across the room, following me as I walked.

  I kept my eyes fixed on the dark objects hanging from the ceiling as they became clearer the closer I got. When I arrived at the center of the room, a chill ran up my spine as I understood what I was looking at.

  Two ropes hung from the ceiling, secured to two metal rings holding them in place. Stopping underneath, I heard the man behind me stuff his weapon in his belt before he cut the zip tie off my wrists and secured one hand to one of the ropes. I was in over my head and knew I had to do something to get out of this.

  When he was done with the first rope, the man moved to my right and lifted my arm as I writhed in pain. He laughed to himself as he started to fasten my other wrist to the rope. After a few seconds passed, I noticed that the man was struggling to secure it. The other guy, somewhere behind me, moved his light up to the rope and asked the guy if he needed help. The man ignored the question and kept working on it.