Sunday, April 12
Delilah Hussein plopped herself down in a heap on the Adirondack chair beside the pool under the covered pergola, out of sight of satellites, drones, and any possible surveillance aircraft. She sucked in several long, cleansing breaths as she studied the blood-stained chair opposite her, the discarded flap of ear, the bloodied knife, and the areas where the acid had peeled away the paint on the chair.
Checking her watch, she saw it was almost seven-thirty in the morning. The sun, slicing in horizontally, had lifted over the watery horizon and warmed her face. It felt good, lifting her spirits. She had calmed down since learning about the failure of the technology on the truck speeding toward the rendezvous point. Her concern initially swelled when she learned that Peter Rodgers, the brother of the pharmacist, had tagged along with Jason. In hindsight, she should have instructed Jason to stop the vehicle and tell the former marine to get the hell out. She could have confirmed their compliance through the video feed. But the thought had not occurred to her until after she disconnected the call. By the time she realized her mistake, the drone had returned to its landing pad and was being serviced. In the interim, they lost all video and sound in the cab of the Freightliner. She did not want to risk another phone call at that point. They had already been careless. Thinking that their plan was going to shit, she popped a pill. It had not touched her rising anxiety.
As time passed, her angst plateaued and then waned slightly. There were two reasons for her shrinking concern. First, the truck carrying the two brothers had continued along its route with no deviations. Second, they had arrived at the dilapidated old house on Turkey Run Road in Mappsville, Virginia. The fact that the brothers were there now, meant they were one step closer to the final destination. The fragile but deadly cargo was another step closer to finding its way to the plant in New Jersey. Once there, the cargo would be offloaded and installed in the secret room. Then the waiting would begin.
Oliver had suggested that they simply send a text message to the cell phone with the address or coordinates. But Hussein had reverted back to her fear and disdain of electronics and technology and insisted that the final destination be communicated through a dead drop.
Thanks be to Allah! she told herself. The failure of the camera and the microphone in the truck demonstrated that her techno-fear was justified.
She popped a second anti-anxiety pill into her mouth, following it with two sips of Espresso. She would need the caffeine to counteract the sedative effects of the anxiolytic. Though she was feeling better about the mission, she didn’t need another flare-up of anxiety crippling her ability to think clearly.
As she swallowed the tiny white pill, her cell phone chimed. She checked it. The latest round of data had been uploaded from Reprisal One. There was only one message. It was from The Watcher:
Need to meet you! Final payment instructions must be delivered personally.
Hussein considered the request. She was leery of visitors to her compound, lest they lead the Americans to her. Hammon’s visit had taken place on a neighboring island for that very reason.
The Watcher was requesting a meet to deliver the instructions for payment of the final $50 million installment. Hussein steepled her hands before her face. Today was a crucial day in their operation. It would be extremely busy and would spell success or failure. She hesitated to allow The Watcher on the compound. But she could also not afford to lose three or four hours running off to another island to take possession of account numbers and passwords.
I could send Oliver, she mused. No, she finally decided. I need him here as well. Oliver was the only person she trusted to make sure everything was in place.
Receiving the final payment instructions had to be done by her … and her alone. She did not trust anyone to have access to such a large amount of money.
The Watcher’s deeds and actions over the preceding twelve months had been exemplary. He’d delivered on every promise—monitoring Jason Rodgers’s every move, listening in on his phone conversations, intercepting email, and eavesdropping on him and his girlfriend. The Watcher knew every move the pharmacist was going to make before he made it. He’d corralled William Luther and Clyde Hutton, putting them in place for Rodgers, and delivered the cell phones and the small coffins. He’d rescued Jason Rodgers from the car wreck and the jail in Newport News, allowing her sordid plan of vengeance on the man to continue to play out. Without him, this mission would not have been possible.
Except for the one security slip-up in which he’d used Rodgers name in a text, The Watcher had acquitted himself like a true professional.
Hussein sighed and typed in her reply:
Come to my compound! Get a flight to St. Bart’s immediately. I will have a car meet you at Gustaf Airport. Use the password with the driver … Amo …
Hussein gave him the location and coordinates. Then she laid her head back on the Adirondack chair, closed her eyes, and let the warm breeze wash over her.
Try to relax, she told herself. The time is drawing near!
Since leaving the gas station, Jason had driven for twenty minutes. It was almost seven-thirty in the morning. The spring sun had blossomed over the tree line. Jason couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept. He felt no fatigue at the moment. He was running on adrenaline and fear.
A surge of healthcare worker’s guilt filled him. His job was to assist a person with any kind of health crisis whenever and wherever and to never leave a patient in distress. He couldn’t remember anything in the Pharmacist’s Oath, the Nightingale Pledge, or the Hippocratic Oath that said a pharmacist, nurse, or doctor was required to stay with a patient when their son’s and girlfriend’s lives hung in the balance.
He had done everything he could for the diabetic Sheryl Penney, bringing down her blood sugar with a dose of insulin and instructing one of the bystanders to measure it again in ten minutes. Hopefully, an ambulance had already taken her to the hospital.
The Freightliner was long gone. He wondered where Peter was and hoped that Hussein hadn’t somehow figured out that he had left the truck. Relax! He told himself. You can’t do anything about it now!
He pulled into the parking lot of The Great Machipongo Clam Shack, found a parking spot away from other cars and lifted Penney’s smartphone off of the seat beside him.
He turned it on and entered the password, pressing in the numbers corresponding to the word: B-I-T-C-H. A rotating circle appeared on the phone, followed by a warning: Low Battery … 10%
He cursed as he pulled up the Safari browser for a website and typed words into the url address bar.
Will the battery last?
His goal: get in contact with Clay Broadhurst, the Secret Service agent in Washington. But he didn’t have a number. He had one option because he only had one cell number burned into his memory: John Palmer, the Newport News homicide detective. The same man who, right now, was looking for Jason and Peter so he could put them in a cell. And the man who was probably still fuming over Jason’s request to retrieve the keys. He needed Palmer’s help and Jason had to find a way to convince the cop to help.
The automated voice on the other end answered. “Thank you for calling the Newport News Police Department …”
Peter approached the door, hanging from the top hinge in its frame. The wood was blanched and weather-beaten. The house was more than just old. It was a rotted, collapsing shell of wood and shingle, looking like the remnants of a bomb blast.
A piercing screech startled him from the right.
Instinctively, he dropped to a knee.
The door to the mobile home had opened. A short, squat, silhouetted woman stood backlit in the doorway. In her hands, she held what looked like a shotgun.
“Who’s out there?” the female voice called.
Peter did not respond. He realized it would be futile to remain silent with the idling truck humming behind him. Her disheveled appearance clued him in that she must have been awakened by the truck.
Peter swallowed and called out. “It’s me, ma’am. My name’s Peter.”
“What the hell you want over there?”
Peter heard the distinctive click of a hammer being cocked.
“I got a gun!”
“I don’t mean no harm, ma’am. Just checking out this old house. I have a thing for old houses … like to take pictures of them,” Peter lied.
“This early in the morning?”
“This is when the light is best.”
“Where you from?”
“Across the bridge-tunnel.”
“That damned bridge-tunnel. Does nothing but allow you crazies over here.”
“I promise I’ll leave. I just came from inside and I dropped something in there. I’d like to get it. Then I’ll leave. I promise.”
The woman stood silent, partially concealed in the door. The outline of her jaw revealed the probability of a hard scowl on her face. Her patience was short.
Finally, she said, “Make it quick. Then git your ass outta here.”
He is going to show your father’s girlfriend what a real man looks like!
The words were spoken without emotion. But they hit Michael like a punch in the gut, sucking the air from his lungs. He trudged forward. A sinking feeling flooded him.
The guard named Pierre had retrieved Michael from his dungeon, leaving Miss Christine behind. Michael trudged up the steps as Pierre pushed him. As they passed the low window to the cellar, the naked light bulb hanging from the rough timbers of the wine cellar ceiling illuminated the scene clearly through the rectangular opening. The wild-eyed guard named Charlie stood over Miss Christine, unbuckling his belt.
The guards had seemed in a hurry to get Michael out of the cellar and failed to notice that the blindfold had slipped a little lower on his face and that Michael could see. Or had they chosen to ignore the fact? Michael had asked why the woman wasn’t coming with them. That prompted Pierre’s ominous reply.
Michael had been angry with Miss Christine for not being his mother, for being his father’s girlfriend. He wanted the person held with him to be his mother. Disappointed that it was Miss Christine, he felt almost cheated. But ultimately, he realized, this was the last place he wanted his mother to be.
He had been angry with his father, too.
Miss Christine’s words about his father being a hero had stunned him. Not that he didn’t think his father was heroic. He’d almost been killed and he’d saved some people! His father was like that. He always did the right thing.
Through the window, Michael saw the guard standing over Miss Christine. Her blindfold had been removed, and there was a look of horror on her face, her eyes looking up at the guard, filled with a sense of the coming unspeakable deeds. Michael felt fear, too. Fear for Miss Christine. The small feelings of jealousy that had consumed him for so long evaporated.
His father had taught Michael a valuable lesson a few years back. A lesson that crystallized now following the uncomfortable ebb of the guard’s words.
At school, Michael had watched a smaller boy being beaten by an older classmate. Michael had come home and told his father about the exciting fight, explaining how the older boy’s punches drew blood and closed the younger boy’s eye.
His father listened without reaction as Michael recounted the story. When he was done, his father asked if the younger boy was alright. Michael said he didn’t know.
“And you just stood there and watched?”
Michael’s reply was a weak “yes.” The question, and the way his father had asked it, communicated volumes about his father’s feelings about Michael’s lack of action. Instantly, guilt consumed him.
His father’s lecture was a simple two sentences: “Sometimes you have to think about other people before yourself, son. Bad things happen when good people do nothing!”
Days later, his father had presented Michael with the Saint George’s Medal that he now wore around his neck. Michael could feel the medal swinging back and forth across his chest as he walked.
Michael recalled his father’s story about Saint George. As the patron saint of England and courage, George stood up to a tyrannical king. He didn’t remember all the details. But he’d done what was right, despite the difficulty it caused him.
Whatever feelings he had about Miss Christine—and he understood now how selfish his feelings were—she was about to experience a life-changing assault. Michael’s anger and frustration, which had melted away moments ago, now reappeared in a different form, morphed into hatred and motivation … motivation to act.
He could not do nothing!
“Oh really. I never liked her anyway. She deserves whatever she gets,” Michael lied. “What’s your name?”
“Pierre.”
“Pierre. That’s French for Peter. That’s my uncle’s name.”
“Vraiment?” Really?
Michael took two more steps. “Hey, Pierre, I have to pee.”
A long, frustrated sigh emanated from the guard along with a breath of smoke over and around the cigar dangling from his lips. “Sacré bleu. You Americans have such weak bladders.”
“I’m only thirteen.”
Pierre walked him over to a tree and began undoing his belt. Michael twisted his hips, stopping him.
“Please, I’m not going to run away. I’d like to be able to take a piss with some …”
Michael paused looking for the right word.
“Dignité?” Pierre added.
“Yeah, that’s it … dignity. For a thug, you seem like a nice guy, Pierre. Not like your buddy.” Michael motioned toward his pants with his chin. “Do you mind?” Michael lifted his cuffed hands behind him.
Pierre frowned and looked back toward the building and the cellar.
“Come on, I won’t tell. He’ll never find out.”
Pierre hesitated, then slipped a key into the handcuffs, and Michael’s hands slipped free.
“Vite! Vite!” Pierre commanded, pointing at the tree. Quickly! He placed the barrel of the gun against the boy’s head.
“If you try anything, I will shoot you. My unit in Libya wiped out an entire village because the tribal leader offended Miss Delilah … women, children, and old men. Despite being a pain in the ass, I like you … for now. But I get paid whether you live or die … comprends?” Understand?
“No problem.”
Pierre was behind him and had been the entire time. Running away was not an option for two reasons. Michael’s ankles were shackled, making running away impossible. That and the fact that he could not outrun a bullet.
As he undid his pants, Michael’s eyes scanned the terrain near him. Another shriek from the cellar sliced through the ocean breeze. Five feet away, Michael saw something he could use.
“Palmer,” the detective barked into the phone, his early morning voice nasal and phlegmy.
The one word spoken by the man through Sheryl Penney’s cell phone was filled with stress and fatigue. Be convincing and do it before the battery dies!
Jason removed the phone from his ear and glanced at the power percentage on the phone: two percent.
“Hello? This is Palmer!” the cop repeated.
“Palmer,” Jason began, his voice filled with authority, “listen to me. It’s a matter of life and death. I don’t have much time.”
“Who the hell is this?”
“Jason Rodgers!”
“Screw you, Rodgers! I don’t believe you have the stones to call me after what happened last night. That was a nice touch, asking me to get some keys so you could have your partner bust you out. Who was he by the way?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen him before …”
“No more favors, son. You’ve used up all your collateral.”
“Shut the fuck up and listen, you pompous ass!”
Jason hesitated, waiting for the cop to respond. His words must have shocked him to the point of speechlessness. After a few seconds, Palmer continued.
“Give me one reason why I should help you?”
“Because it may stop a terrorist attack!”
Palmer’s short, stifled sigh filled Jason’s ears. He didn’t wait for the detective to speak.
“Call Clay Broadhurst. Tell him to trace this cell number. Write this down. I don’t have much time … my battery may die any moment”
Jason repeated it twice. Without waiting for Palmer to respond, he continued speaking.
“I’m on the Eastern Shore headed north. There is a delivery being made somewhere north of here. Get Broadhurst! Get the Feds to find me. Hussein is up to something. Did you get all that?”
There was no response. Jason repeated the question. “Palmer did you get that?”
Jason pulled the phone away from his ear. The screen on the phone was dark. The battery had died. He had no idea how much Palmer had heard including the tag numbers of the Chevy Malibu.
Peter grabbed the handle of the door and pried it open. It dropped from the rusted hinge and clattered to the rotten wood of the step below, falling to the side.
“I’ll just be a second,” he called to the woman, hoping she wouldn’t fire.
Inside, he turned the phone around and shone the light around the dark space. Debris, broken boards, dirt, and spider webs blocked his way. Everything screamed despair and dereliction.
Everything, that is, except the crisp, pristine, sealed manila envelope nailed to an angled, rotting board. Peter tore the envelope from the nail and stuffed it in the back of his shirt.
He retreated out the door. “Found it!” he called out.
Using the flashlight from the phone, he tiptoed back through the forest debris to the truck. He pushed it into first and drove straight ahead, deeper along the holler.
A mile down the road, he turned the Freightliner around, executing a six point turn on the narrow road. He zipped past the ruins of the house and the mobile home with the grizzled fat woman holding her shotgun. Peter hoped a bullet didn’t shatter the window and lodge in his skull. When Peter reconnected with Route 13, he breathed again, the pulse in his head thumping his temples.
He turned north, gunning the engine.
Where the hell are you Jason?
“Agent Broadhurst,” Maria Gonzalez, the Secret Service agent’s day shift assistant, said. “We just received a phone call from a Newport News homicide detective. His name is John Palmer.”
“What did he want?”
“We don’t know he’s still on the line. Said he’d only talk to you.”
“What line?”
Gonzalez held up three fingers. Broadhurst rolled his wheelchair to the nearest landline and punched a button, picking up the handset.
“Broadhurst.”
“It’s John Palmer in Newport News.”
“Tell me you found Jason Rodgers.”
“No, but he just called me.”
“Where is he?”
“Somewhere on the Eastern Shore. Don’t know exactly. He was not very forthcoming. He asked me to call you.”
“We already know that. Why is he there?”
“You’ll have to ask him. He wants you to call him. Can I text you the number? He gave it to me before the call dropped. He said the battery was dying.”
“Go.” Broadhurst gave Palmer the cell number.
“What do you want me to do?” Palmer asked.
“Stay by the phone. Call me if he calls you again.”
“One more thing. Take down this Virginia tag number.” Palmer recited the license plate number. “He’s driving a Chevy Malibu.”
“Thank you, Detective.” Broadhurst ended the call and hollered to an agent across the command center. “You. Here is a cell phone number. I want it tracked and traced. I want to know where it is. I’m dialing the number now. Also, I want these tag numbers run through the NCIC.”
Broadhurst dialed the contact Palmer had texted him and lifted the phone to his ear and listened. It rolled to voicemail without ringing. Broadhurst heard the greeting, the squeaky voice of a very agitated female, Sheryl Penney.
“Sonofabitch! Bring up a map of the Delmarva Peninsula.”
Seconds later, the screen on the wall switched to an overhead view of the Eastern Shore of Virginia. Broadhurst moved to it. Broadhurst used a laser pointer to highlight the map. “I want two teams to head south from DC. And two more teams from the FBI Office in Norfolk to cross the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel, heading north, now!” Broadhurst screamed with what little energy he had left. He coughed, recovered, and continued. “Get me a chopper airborne and scanning the area. Where is the nearest Virginia State Police Office?”
An analyst directly in front of Broadhurst pounded a keyboard. Muted clicks sounded in rapid-fire succession. “Sir, there’s an office in Accomack County in Melfa about halfway up the Eastern Shore.”
“Get the watch commander on the line.”
Charlie stood over Chrissie for several minutes, taking his time and massaging himself into readiness. She looked up at him through a curtain of blood-soaked eyelashes.
At first, Chrissie refused to turn her head toward him.
“Watch me,” he had commanded earlier as he stroked. “Or I will cut you then take you as you bleed to death. Watch me, whore!”
He had unchained her hands and legs from the wall. Her wrists were still chained together. But her legs were completely free now. He stood between her legs, spread-eagled on the dirty floor. Charlie kicked her about the legs and buttocks, pummeling her. Then he launched several kicks about her head. Chrissie curled into a ball. Despite the pain he was causing her, she sensed his growing frustration. Not satisfied to just hurt her, he wanted more. The monster wanted to violate and humiliate her, mouthing invectives in French. Her reddened face swelled and bled. She sensed an urgency in him, an uncontrollable desire feeding him. He was making her pay for the blow to his manhood.
“I’m sorry,” Chrissie pleaded. “Please don’t hurt me anymore. I’ll do what you want me to do.” Tears leaked from her eyes, mixing with the grime on her face. She tasted the saltiness on her lips. “Please don’t do this!”
That’s when the beating had ceased and Charlie had dropped his pants and began stroking himself once again.
Now, Charlie stopped massaging himself. His trousers were still open, hanging from his hips. His manhood, hard and angled toward the ceiling.
“Puta!” he seethed. Whore! “D’Accord!” Okay! “I will stop beating you. But we are not done! Take off your clothes!”
Chrissie pleaded with her eyes. An animal rage resided in the Frenchman’s eyes. She had never before seen such a quality in another human being. His chest heaved in a slow, methodical manner.
As she cowered before this beast, she knew she was a dead woman. He would ravage her and then kill her. Even if she managed to survive rape, whoever was holding them was going to kill her and Michael to torment Jason.
Everything she did now was buying time in a life that would be cut short. She had to buy as much as possible … for her and for Michael. She prayed he was safe and not being tormented … or not already dead.
Chrissie reached deep into her soul and summoned courage she had never before grasped.
“Take them off now or I will rip them off!”
Chrissie forced a tense smile. She placed her cuffed hands on the hem of her shirt and began to lift it.
“I’m transferring my screen to your terminal,” the technician said.
Broadhurst was already seated in his wheelchair at the three-screened terminal. “What am I looking at?” he wheezed.
“It’s a blow-up of the Delmarva Peninsula, specifically, Route 13, in Parksley, north of Accomack. He’s about five and half miles south of Mappsville.”
Broadhurst watched a blinking red dot on his screen moving slowly north along the yellow line marking State Road 13. An identical image displayed on the massive wall screen simultaneously.
“How did you find him?”
“The Malibu is equipped with Lo-Jack.”
Broadhurst smiled, shouting his reply as best he could in his weakened state. “The state police are closer than any of our units. Get their asses on him. And find out where we can land a helicopter.
Thinking a moment, the Secret Service agent turned to another agent several workstations to his left. “You,” he demanded, pointing. “Have the agents from the Norfolk Field Office mobilized to the Eastern Shore yet?”
“No, sir. They are getting ready to leave now.”
“Good. Tell them they are, instead, to go to Jason Rodger’s home and search the place.”
“Do we have an address?”
“You’re the goddamned FBI. I’m sure you can find it.”
“What about a warrant?”
“This is national security. He’s not home. He’s on the Eastern Shore. Screw the warrant!”