The Missile Game (The Dr. Scott James Thriller Series Book 1) (16 page)

CHAPTER SIXTY

Drone Control Center

3:06 pm

KEYES BROKE FREE FOR a split second and jumped for the phone. Waters saw her trick. He grabbed it from her. “So, my dear, is this phone your detonator for a bomb you’ve planted?”

Waters looked at the contact numbers on the cell phone. “Ah! And these will be your detonation codes, isn’t that right, Elizabeth? Well, I’ll have to press them all when I leave you people to do my errands. What a pity. ISIS will get all the credit.”

I suddenly went at Jefferson with the only thing I had, my
fist. My shot to his chin was solid, but it didn’t hurt him at all. He slapped my face, nearly knocking me down.

Then he pointed his gun at my head.

“Go ahead! Shoot me!”

He looked like he was about to pull the trigger, but then he said quietly, “Mr. Waters wants you alive. At least for now.”

Waters held my gun on me while Jefferson tied my hands behind my back with a plastic zip-tie.

Waters seemed to notice the brilliant, blue-white diamonds in Keyes’ Rolex. He walked over and looked at the watch. “That’s very nice. Which of your boyfriends gave that to you?”

“A very rich one.”

“Yes. Omar Farok is almost as rich as I, and I admire his taste in jeweled watches.”

Waters returned his attention to me. “I should kill you both right now, but I can’t resist giving you one final demonstration.”

I sighed in relief. I had a few more minutes to whip them. I just needed something sharp to cut the plastic hand restraint.

Waters opened the bulletproof glass door, and gestured to the controls. “Dr. James knows what these are.”

“Video games.”

Waters shook his head. “No. These aren’t games, and I don’t play. This is the operational brain for the deadliest drones the world has ever seen. My control chair operates them all.”

Jefferson interrupted. “Kill them now, boss! Before the cops get here!”

“Be patient, Jefferson. It’s entertaining to play with mice before you destroy them.”

I studied the controls, the joysticks, the animated screen.

“They’re all mine. The drones. They’re the world’s finest; I paid more than thirty million apiece for them. This hobby is more expensive than the horses I used to own. But unlike the horses, they yield a real return rather than a capital write-off. The CIA marks the targets, and I eliminate them—for a price, of course. In the last six months, I’ve made thirty kills. Today, I have another job, and then I will take care of my unfinished business.”

A flashing orange light appeared on the board. Waters went to the controls. “Watch how the master does it. Here’s my last target for the day.”

I watched every move Waters made and the corresponding response on the monitor. It was déjà vu: I saw myself at the video arcade with Herb Waters, flying planes with control panels that looked remarkably like this one. Even the target sights were like those on the fifty-caliber machine guns on the arcade planes. At one time I was better than Waters. But not anymore. I was out of practice and Waters had been honing his skills for years.

Waters stared at the screen. “Abu Al Baghdadi is hiding there in that truck. He’s third in command in ISIS. The people who pay my bounty made the decision. My job is to carry it out. I kill; I get twenty million bucks.”

Taking advantage of Waters’ attention on the drone, I began cutting the plastic tie on a jagged corner of aluminum where the wall had been shot up.

Waters used a mouse pad to move the cameras on the nose cone of the Reaper drone. A dozen still pictures showed on the monitor. One pictured Al Baghdadi.

Waters fired a missile. As the smoke cleared, the badly ripped truck appeared on the screen, engulfed in flames.

“I just made twenty mil taking out Al Baghdadi. And you and your little girlfriend here are next!” he said, shoving my gun in my face, pressing it on my cheek. “I’ve looked forward to this since we were kids. I’m going to make you suffer before I kill you. I want the satisfaction of beating you to a pulp and then putting a bullet in your fucking head.

“People used to look up to you and paid no attention to me,” he ranted. “But
I
was the one who opened holes in the line so you could run through.
I
was the hero of all those games! But the papers never mentioned that; they just lauded the farmer’s kid who ran through
my
holes in the line.

“But all that’s changed. The paper, the town, the stockholders—they all adore me now. I’ll shoot you and your whore, the disgraced killer plastic surgeon and his accomplice. First, though, I’ll bash in your face. In self-defense, of course.”

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

Drone Control Center

3:10 pm

I HAD TO KEEP him talking. I
had
to. “I have a couple of questions ... ”

“Fuck you! I don’t have to answer any of your goddamn questions.”

Waters’ face turned red and he bared his teeth as he shook my pistol in my face.

“Herb, at least tell me what you think of my Browning.”

Waters gathered his composure. He paused for a second, realizing he hadn’t actually looked at the gun since picking it up from the floor. He took that opportunity now. “Nice. Very nice. I’ll do you the honor of killing you with this exceptional handgun.”

He chambered a fresh shell, purely for effect, and put the gu
n to my head.

“What about Harris?” I asked, trying to buy time. “He’ll put you in jail for murder, in addition to all your other crimes.”

Waters lowered the gun and laughed out loud. “You fool. You’re in over your head. Don’t you know Harris is dead? Actually, I sent Jefferson to kill him, but somebody else got him before he had a chance. Jefferson saw them carrying his headless body. Now, without you two to question the hospital sale, I can be rid of this place in a matter of months.”

My knees nearly collapsed at the news of Harris being decapitated.

Farok’s assassins must have got him.

I looked at Keyes. Tears were in her eyes. She knew how savage they were.

I took a deep breath and said to Waters, “Before you can sell the hospital, you’ll have to expose the changes that transferred hospital ownership to you.”

“Why? There’s no grand announcement to be made, Scott. Some minor alterations appeared in the charter over a ten-year period, nothing all at once. It’s all legal and will endure court scrutiny.”

Waters put the gun to my temple. I quickly made a statement I couldn’t substantiate but tested on a hunch. “Herb, I know you ordered the killing of Cabot Barnes and Quinton Jolly to shut them up. I know you had Dr. Carey killed—and that young cop at my office, too—in order to frame me. I’m the only one who’ll stand up to you. You’re so damned insecure. You always were. I also know that you’re helping Al Qaeda launder money, and now maybe ISIS, too. You’re playing both sides to build your little empire. You’re going to be exposed as a traitor.”

Waters’ face turned red. He shook the gun in my face. “You’re lying! You don’t know any of that shit!”

“Who injected Valium into Dr. Carey’s neck? Was it Brightman? That’s my guess.”

“Right man, Dr. James, wrong drug. He hit him with succinyl-choline, a drug that can’t be discovered and is deadly. But I knew about your stash of Valium. Brightman even carried a bag of hospital Valium that he poured in the cabinet with your stock. And you acted guilty by trying to hide it all. You spilled a little, but Brightman threw a couple handfuls more on the floor after you left.”

He motioned to Jefferson, who held me upright. Waters smashed me with his fist, punching my face, abdomen, and groin. I absorbed the blows and spat blood on Waters. Waters picked up a three-foot section of a broken, half-inch water pipe, and approached to beat me further. Using Jefferson behind me for support, I arched my back and kicked with both feet. Waters went sprawling against the wall. He lay there, stunned.

Keyes kept looking at her phone.

Waters shook his head, calmed himself, then stood. All the stalling had given me just enough time to work through the plastic bands on my wrists. They were just about to go. I gave a hard twist of the wrists, broke free from Jefferson, and punched Waters as hard as I could. He fell back, badly dazed by the blow. Keyes grabbed for her phone. Jefferson slapped it from her. With all the strength I could muster, I lifted the battering ram from the floor and slammed it into Jefferson’s chest. It knocked him against the wall. He shook himself and smashed his huge fist into my shoulder. I fell to the floor on top of Keyes.

Jefferson grabbed me by the collar and lifted me until my head touched the ceiling. The ceiling was constructed of slip-in panels of aluminum. The edges looked sharp. As Jefferson stepped back to throw me into the wall, I yanked out a metal panel and swung it wildly, slashing Jefferson’s arm.

Bulky muscle pushed through the six-inch cut in the tight skin covering his arm. He tried to throw me against the wall, but, weakened by the deep cut, there was not enough force in his arm.

I fell to the floor.

Enraged, Jefferson screamed, “Enough of this. Now you die!” And went for the kill.

He raised his foot to stomp on me, but I rolled to the side and the foot crashed to the floor. I reached for the pipe Waters had dropped and slammed it into Jefferson’s ankle. A jagged edge, protruding from the pipe, cut deeply into his leg. For the first time in the fight, he screamed and his face twisted in pain.

Jefferson hopped on one foot and then fell to the floor.

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

Watson Farm

Chapel Hill, North Carolina

3:10 pm

MICHELLE PACED THE FLOOR of the barn, continually looking at her watch. She kept the launch control remote in her hand. Thirty minutes earl
ier, Celena had informed her that the control center had been discovered, but she still hadn’t confirmed that Alpha Charlie was at the site. Things were in a holding pattern.

60,000 Feet above the Virginia-North Carolina Border

3:11 pm

Omar Farok was visibly agitated as his Learjet 60 flew over the vast Dismal Swamp on the Virginia-North Carolina border. The muscles in his jaw worked and sweat beaded on his forehead.

He called Quasart. “Celena must be with Waters at the drone control center. Use the bomber now and blow it up. Launch the first missile to strike one minute after the bomber detonates.”

“But why do we need the missile if the bomber is—”

“In case the bomber fails, we will still achieve our objective.”

“You want to kill Celena along with Alpha Charlie?”

“Yes! Kill them both!”

“But I thought you and Celena—”

“I said, send the bomber! And the missile! Now!” Farok bellowed.

“Yes, sir.”

Watson Farm

Chapel Hill, North Carolina

3:17 pm

Quasart texted Farok: BOMBER ON THE WAY TO CELENA’S LOCATION. ARRIVAL IS 3:37 pm. MISSILE TO LAUNCH AT 3:36 pm for 3:38 STRIKE.

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

Drone Control Center

3:25 pm

BRIGHTMAN SHOOK HIS HEAD and opened his e
yes. As he slowly sat up, he brushed away blood from a bullet wound that had creased his scalp and knocked him out. He stood and shook his head. He was still dazed, but sensed Celena was in danger and entered the RV.

“Zahar! Help me!” Keyes screamed when she saw him. “Get my phone! It’s in Waters’ hand.”

Joshua Zahar Brightman stepped toward Waters.

Waters called out, weakly, “Zahar, I pay your salary, not Celena. Kill her. And the doctor!”

Brightman paused. Waters had paid him well for eliminating Carey, Fowler, Jolly, and Barnes. But now Farok was his boss, and Farok paid ten times what Waters did. As Brightman lurched for the phone, something slammed his kidney. Zahar turned to face Jefferson.

For a brief moment, the two giants stood face to face, their heads nearly touching the ceiling. Then Jefferson threw a body block. The entire Emergency Disaster Unit reacted by rolling with the huge men. Brightman raised both arms and threw the huge football player back to the other side. The mobile hospital lurched back with them. I fell to the ground.

Jefferson was not fazed. Ignoring his badly injured ankle, Jefferson locked arms with Brightman, spun around, and yanked the huge blond back across the RV. The entire Mobile Hospital squealed under the strain. The room rolled and equipment flew into the air, crashing all around.

Suddenly Brightman saw an opportunity and smashed his fist into Jefferson’s throat. Jefferson had been hit a thousand times in the neck by eager young football players, both his teammates who wanted his spot on the roster, and opponents who wanted to kill him. It was a move to fracture the trachea and permanently disable the opponent. Jefferson had spent hours in the gym developing his neck muscles to sustain such blows, and now he blocked Brightman’s punch and grabbed one of his arms.

Brightman tried to put Jefferson in a headlock. Jefferson let go of Brightman’s arm and grabbed his leg. He yanked up on the leg and forced the pony-tailed giant to fall backwards, sending him crashing to the floor.

Brightman immediately sprung back to his feet.

Jefferson threw a crushing blow to Brightman’s face, splattering blood into his eyes. Brightman didn’t even stagger before returning the blow. The two goliaths traded lethal blows to the head, but neither showed any signs of injury. Brightman faked a strike to the face and then pummeled Jefferson’s ribs. Breaking bones snapped loudly as Jefferson fell against the wall.

Honing in on the point of weakness, Brightman hammered the fractured ribs. Blood flowed from Jefferson’s mouth as he fell to his knees. Brightman continued to hit the defenseless man with smashing blows to the body until Jefferson fell, face forward, to the floor.

Then Brightman turned and started coming at me.

“No, Zahar!” Keyes screamed.

Brightman didn’t hear her. He was like a beast on a hunt.

As he raised his fist to strike me, Waters slapped Keyes and she fell backward. The giant turned to help her, giving me time to pick up the battering ram.

I’d seen enough of Brightman, as had my dead, cremated friend, Andy Fowler.

I took the heavy pipe and slammed it into Brightman’s body. He didn’t fall backward like Jefferson did. Instead the giant pushed away the fifty-pound weapon and came at me again.

I swung the battering ram as hard as I could, this time centering the strike on the solar plexus. Brightman doubled over in pain from the direct hit to the bundles of nerves in his mid-chest.

The blow knocked the wind out of him.

In Brightman’s momentary incapacitation, I gathered every ounce of strength I could muster and swung the ram upward, slamming it into his chin. The force of the explosive uppercut knocked the giant backward and onto the floor with a crash. He blinked several times. Blood poured from his mouth and into his lungs each time he gasped for air. He started turning purple, suffocating from his own blood.