CHAPTER 24

 

THE RIOT SHOTGUN WAS just like the one Mark remembered in his dream—down to the black stock and the way the cold metal felt in his hands. He paid Fred and left.

The road was paved with graying blacktop. Fall leaves shone in bright colors, making the hills come alive with bright reds, oranges, and yellows. Better than the snow. Then again, had that really been snow?

He wasn’t sure what to think. The dream, or whatever he’d gone through, had taken him through a year of life he had no desire to repeat. His future was in his own hands now. For better or for worse, he believed what he dreamed or saw was real—or would be real, if he didn’t act.

He glanced in his rearview mirror. He couldn’t remember why, but he had a feeling he was supposed to see someone.

A car, maybe, or a woman. Yeah, a woman. Bits and pieces of that day were coming back to him as he drove the dangerous path toward the cabin.

Just past a KOA Campground sign, a dirt road on the left called to him like some spirit pulling him to his fate. He glanced in the mirror before swinging his Honda onto the road. He almost didn’t recognize the hard eyes that stared back at him. He looked away before he lost his nerve and hurried home to his wife and daughter, who would be killed tomorrow.

He found the wide spot in the road where he’d parked before. For a moment, he stood on the hill staring at the valley below and the cabin at the base of the mountain. The shotgun was loaded and ready. He edged into the trees with it cradled in his left arm.

Up close, the cabin looked the same, but without a pile of wood stacked on the porch.

Two trucks were parked in front—the same two he remembered. A chill ran up his spine, making him shiver. The men inside were going to see someone other than Pat Rotter today, someone who didn’t want money.

He crouched behind the old, gray Chevy and could hear what sounded like an intense argument inside the building. Peering around the front bumper, he could see that one of the men was standing with his back to the front window, waving his arms and yelling.

Time to make history. He shifted his feet, his heart pounding. But then, like a machine, he seemed to downshift a gear. He could feel his heart rate slow and a sense of control and knowing surge through his body.

He jumped from his hiding place and bull-rushed the door with his shoulder down, shotgun ready. The door splintered with a cracking, groaning sound and gave way as he crashed through it, landing on his side.

The man at the window swung around, yanking a pistol from his hip holster.

Mark rolled to his feet and pumped a shell into the man’s chest.

The big man doubled over, and his gun clattered to the wood floor, sliding away in a spin. He landed in a bloody heap, a huge, red stain covering his chest.

The other two men, who’d jumped to their feet, guns in hand, froze.

“Anyone else care to try me?” His voice was calm, almost conversational.

They did not hesitate this time. Like obedient children, they dropped their weapons in unison.

“Sit down with your hands in the air. You drop ‘em, you die.” He waved the shotgun toward the table, and they did as they were told.

He saw the shell of a phone sitting on the table with a black remote transmitter next to the detonator. He picked the transmitter up.

The blond, scruffy-haired man twitched in his seat.

“What will happen if I push this button?” He moved his finger over the red button. The two men exchanged nervous glances. One started to rise in protest.

“Sit down.” Mark dropped the phone and jacked another round into the chamber. His mind was racing. Bits of information processed too fast for him to grasp what it all meant. He’d sort it out later. Tactical details flashed through his head, providing information—the cabin layout, windows and doors locked or open, possible hiding places.

The bomb had apparently been wired and was about to be placed into the phone when an argument had ensued. He presumed the disagreement was about who was going to detonate the device. The poor sap who activated the bomb would die in the explosion, and they all knew it.

Walking over to the scarred wooden table, he found a button that looked to be the right one, the one that had been on the top of the phone casing. He pushed it.

The two flinched as the red light came on.

“It’s ironic you should have this bomb in this very place at this very moment.” Walking around behind them, he shoved the end of his shotgun against the hairy one’s head.

But the guy, who was gaping at the bomb that was now activated and sitting just a few feet from him, didn’t seem to notice.

Mark pulled four zip-ties from his pocket and tied the men’s hands together. Then he hooked their free hands to the table legs, so that they had to sit with their heads on the table. The shorter man spit at Mark and cursed.

Mark wiped the saliva off his face and strapped the phone bomb to the spitter’s back with the duct tape that was sitting on the table. Despite their cursing and kicking, he managed to tape both men’s mouths shut.

Finished with the job he came to do, he walked out the front door and was struck by the fall hues that colored the mountainside. How could something so ugly exist in the midst of such beauty?

When he arrived at his car, he turned to look one last time at the little cabin sitting at the edge of the valley like a painting in an expensive hotel lobby.

He pressed the button.

A mushroom cloud rose to the sky, and the screeching squeal of ripping wood filled the little valley. A rush of wind charged up the hill and blew past his face, rustling through the trees and lifting red and yellow leaves from the forest floor in a brilliant kaleidoscope whorl.

Better here than in a crowded supermarket.

The simple thought did not justify what he’d just done. But he felt no guilt. He climbed into the Honda, anxious to go home, to kiss his wife and hold his daughter again. He had a feeling he would not only never feel guilt, but that he might even think of this day as the day he saved his family.

* * *

KIRK COULD FEEL BLOOD caked to his eyelids, which made opening them difficult. He carefully pried them apart and looked around. He was in a different cell, though it was the same as the last one—dark and cold.

His body shrieked in agony with every movement. Even breathing hurt, but he didn’t have a way of not doing that. Sitting up, he could see light coming from under the door.

Is it morning, or is it still night?

He couldn’t tell. All he knew was that he had to get out of there, because this time they would kill him. They would not be as stupid around him again, knowing he’d killed a few of their men already. He shivered as he remembered the woman and the little girl and hoped they were alright.

A plan. I need a plan. He didn’t know where he was, or even what country, for that matter. However, one thing he knew without any doubt—if he stayed much longer, he would die.

Pulling himself to his feet, he dragged himself to the door and began to pound and yell for a guard. He threw in a few remarks about their mothers and the stench that surrounded them, although he was not entirely sure what he was going to do if one of the Russians came.

The yelling worked. Loud footfalls announced an arrival. He backed away from the door. A masked guard carrying a machine gun burst into the room.

“I want to talk to the person in charge—your boss, the main pig leading this pack of swine. You understand, tough guy?”

The guard whipped the butt of his gun around, hitting Kirk across the jaw and sending him to the ground.

Spitting blood out onto the concrete floor, Kirk looked up from his knees at his attacker, who stepped aside when another guard came in with a chair. They tied him to the chair and blindfolded him like before. He clenched his throbbing jaw as every broken rib made itself known.

Okay, this could be good. At least I can die in peace.

A third set of footsteps resounded as someone else entered the room. Kirk could hear the sound of another chair as it scraped on the concrete, and it made him cringe.

“Detective Weston, you have been trouble for me. You killed some of my men, and you took two very important prisoners.” The voice came with an accent, but Kirk couldn’t place it. It was very familiar, but something was not right with it.

He smiled and felt his lip bust open. That meant the woman and child were still out there, hiding somewhere.

“What do you want from me?” His voice cracked.

The man chuckled. “You should have figured it out by now, Detective. Unless you are dumber than I thought.”

“You’re the mole.”

“Ah, yes. Then you have been paying attention.”

Kirk thought as fast as he could. This had to be an FBI or CIA agent. “What made you turn against your own kind? You some sort of religious wacko or something?”

“No, no.” He chuckled again. “Religion is for weak people. I don’t need God. I want his power. And soon I will have it!”

Kirk tried not to laugh. He needed more information before he was executed, and the guy seemed ready and willing to talk to his dying prisoner. “Let me guess, you’re one of these World Justice Agency freaks who thinks they can decide who lives and who dies, and it all went to your head. Am I close?”

By the silence in the room, he figured he hit on something. He could feel anger rising in the room.

“The WJA is a drop in the bucket compared to what I am capable of. They betrayed me. They left me, and now they are trying to kill me.” His voice rose as he stood up and paced in front of Kirk. “You’re one of them, aren’t you, Detective? You’re here to kill me?”

This time Kirk laughed out loud. “No. I’m trying to catch the WJA and the mole who works with them. I’m not a big fan of vigilantes, myself.”

He was beginning to put the pieces together. This man used to be in the WJA and now worked with the FBI. He was their inside guy. But now he was rogue, out killing and doing whatever else on his own. The WJA must have dropped him when he went psycho, and now he was trying to bring down the WJA.

“I gave top-secret information to them, but they tied everything back to me and tried to set me up. No one sets me up!” He leaned down to yell in Kirk’s ear. “Then you come along and mess everything up with your investigation. You stuck your nose into places where it doesn’t belong.”

“You killed a cop and his wife!”

“He was a liability, it had to be done. I’m going to take down the WJA by bombing every supermarket and school in this country—in their name—if that’s what it takes. The FBI, CIA and every other government organization will hunt them down without mercy.”

“So says you.”

Kirk felt the man’s harsh breath on his face as he screamed at him. “Who’s going to stop me?”

The three marched out of the cell, and the door slammed with a loud bang before he heard the sound of a key being shoved into the lock and turned. He was still tied and blindfolded, and he could taste blood as he licked his lips. But he had to stop the lunatic before he killed any more innocent people.

* * *

THE TERRIFIED WOMAN AND her child finally made it to the door of the small outbuilding, which was more like a shed than a building and unlocked. She breathed a sigh of relief as they slipped inside without drawing attention to themselves.

Several electrical boxes lined one wall and two large machines, which she thought were pumps, sat in the middle of the floor like sleeping monsters, making a loud droning sound. They found a spot behind the larger of the two pumps and cuddled together in the warm room. After a few short minutes, they fell asleep.

The silence woke the sleeping woman when the pumps turned off. The lack of sound seemed almost louder than the noise. She yawned and rubbed her eyes, trying not to disturb her sleeping daughter. She ran their escape options through her head. As far as she knew, the gate was the only way out, but she didn’t know how she could get herself and her daughter through two sets of fences and guard dogs, especially in broad daylight.

The door rattled, and her heart jumped into her throat. She froze as a short guard with a submachine gun slung over his shoulder came into the little shed. He took out a cigarette and lit it, then took a long drag and blew out a puff of smoke.

When he finished the cigarette, he dropped it and ground it into the dirt with his heel. Then he leaned against the wall, slid to the floor and pulled his hat over his eyes. Within minutes, he was snoring. His loud breathing was erratic and choppy, but he was definitely out.

She looked down at her daughter, who slept with her head on the floor, then back at the guard. His gun rested against the wall next to his shoulder. She waited a few minutes, then slipped off her shoes and stood.

Barely breathing, she watched the sleeping man, trying to get up the courage to take his gun. From the look of the small pile of cigarette butts on the floor next to where he slept, he did this on a regular basis. Her stomach turned when he moved his arm.

She hesitated. I can’t do this. What if he wakes up? Then what? She swallowed. I’ve got to get it together, for both of us. I have to do what I have to do. Inching closer, she bent down and grabbed the weapon.

She pulled it to her chest just as the guard’s eyes blinked open. She tried to bring the gun around but couldn’t. All she could do was stand there, frozen. He didn’t move, either. Instead, he stared through her as if trying to plan his next move.

Then it hit her. He was asleep. His eyes were open, but unresponsive and empty. She slowly backed toward her daughter, who smiled in her sleep.

Sweet dreams, honey. Sweet dreams.