Brass Monkey: A James Acton Thriller Book #2 (20 page)

“You must trust me, Professor Acton. If I wanted you dead, you would be already.”

Dawson watched as Acton processed the information, then reluctantly reached forward and clasped Dawson’s hand. Dawson leaned back and pulled Acton to his feet.

“Why are you here?” asked Acton, his voice surprisingly steady.

“We have a national security situation that we believe your partner, Laura Palmer, may have stumbled upon.”

This struck a chord as Acton’s face turned red, anger flaring in his eyes. “What did you do with Laura!” he growled, stepping toward Dawson.

Dawson didn’t move. “What do you mean?”

“What did you do with her?” repeated Acton.

“Nothing,” said Dawson as he tried to figure out the reaction. “Why? Has something happened?”

“You tell me. You said she stumbled upon your national security situation and now she’s missing.” Acton sneered, surrounding ‘national security situation’ with air quotes. “What have you done with her?”

She’s missing?
“Professor, I can assure you this is the first I’ve heard of this. You said she’s missing, when did this happen?”

Acton clearly didn’t believe him. “This morning.”

Dawson took a step back to deflate the situation. “Professor Acton, my men just left for Egypt several hours ago.”

“What? What does that mean?” Acton sounded confused.

“It means, Professor, that we don’t have Professor Palmer. We aren’t even there yet.”

Milton Residence, St. Paul, Maryland

Acton’s rush of adrenaline wore off as the reality of the situation sank in. The man who had tried to kill him and Laura, and had possibly paralyzed his best friend for life, was now telling him he had nothing to do with Laura’s disappearance. He wasn’t sure what to believe.

“Professor, we don’t have much time. Perhaps if I explained the situation to you, you might better understand what is going on.” The man extended his hand toward the kitchen table.

Acton nodded. “After you.”

The man smiled. “Of course,” he said, then entered the kitchen, all the while keeping an eye on Acton. Acton followed him into the kitchen, where they found Milton in his wheel chair, the phone in one hand, a kitchen knife in the other.

“Dean Milton,” said the man, nodding. “I know it won’t mean much if anything, but I am sorry about that.” He motioned at the wheel chair. “We were told you were a terrorist, and were just following orders.”

“'I was just following orders' is an excuse used far too often throughout history.”

The man nodded and sat down. “True, but let’s not get carried away. It’s not like we were indiscriminately killing civilians, we were hitting specific targets, under orders, who were supposedly threats to national security. The fact that I am still here, working for the government, should indicate that the new administration agrees we did nothing wrong.”

Milton glared at him. Acton sat down at the table and turned to Milton. “I think you can put the knife down.”

Milton looked at Acton for a moment then at the knife, as if he had forgotten he was gripping it. He let out a sigh and his shoulders sagged as he realized the futility of it all. He placed the knife and phone on the counter, then rolled up to the kitchen table.

The man turned to Acton. “We don’t have much time, so I’ll be brief.”

Acton nodded and raised his fingers off the table to stop him. “What’s your name?”

The man smiled. “Sorry, I guess you never did get that. I’m Mr. White.”

Acton gave a single chuckle. “Riiight.”

Mr. White smiled. “No, that’s not my real name, but if it were to come out, the lives of my family and friends could be put in jeopardy.”

“What about
my
family and friends?” asked Acton, glancing at Milton.

“I’m not here to debate procedure,” said Mr. White, “I’m here to deal with a national security issue that your girlfriend now seems to be knee deep in.”

Acton nodded, realizing the man was right. If Laura was kidnapped, having this man on his side might just save her.

Mr. White fished two folded sheafs of paper from a pouch on his vest. “Non-disclosure agreements. I need you both to sign them.”

Acton was about to tell him to go fuck himself when Milton leaned forward and signed the bottom, then looked at Acton. “For Laura,” he whispered.

Acton’s chest tightened.
Choose your battles.
He nodded, took the pen Milton was holding out, and signed the paper in front of him.

Mr. White took the pages, folded them up and returned them to his pouch. “Thank you.” He leaned forward, and lowered his voice. “I’ve been authorized to give you the following information,” said Mr. White. “We have been ordered to attempt to intercept and retrieve a black market nuclear missile that we believe is being sold to a white supremacist group who are posing as a United Nations Non-Governmental Organization in Egypt. We believe the UN NGO Professor Palmer spoke to you about last night is this group.”

Acton’s eyebrows shot up as he processed this information.
A nuclear bomb? White supremacists? He listened to my phone call?
“How did you know about our phone call?”

Mr. White smiled, but ignored the question.

“Why are you here?” asked Milton.

Acton nodded. “Yeah, why
are
you here?”

“Because, Professor Acton, you have a knack of sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong, and with your girlfriend involved, it was decided that you would start asking questions which would raise too many red flags internationally. This, Professor, is a containment situation.”

Acton didn’t like the sound of that. “What do you mean, containment?”

“I’ve been sent here to take you, and if necessary, everyone in this household, into protective custody.”

Somewhere over Continental Europe

Reading hadn’t been to Egypt in years. He hated flying, preferring to take the train wherever he could. But there was no train to Egypt. It wasn’t that he was scared of flying. On the contrary, after flying in God knows how many military transports, especially during the Falklands War, flying was nothing to him. What he objected to was the way airlines now treated, or more accurately, mistreated, their passengers. Reading was not a small man. He was tall, which meant his knees were usually pressed against the back of the seat in front of him when the inconsiderate bastard decided to push it back, and since he had a frame that wasn’t designed for ballet, he actually filled his seat, meaning the battle of the armrest must be won by him. Hence his preference for trains. The one blessing on this flight was that he had managed to secure an aisle seat, meaning he could at least stretch one leg out, and lean into the aisle, giving himself a little more room. He just had to guard against the flight attendant rocketing down the aisle with a cart. Having taken one in the shoulder years ago, it was an experience he’d prefer not to repeat.

Normally he would have tried to sleep, but with Laura most likely kidnapped, he couldn’t rest. He was going crazy, his police trained mind imagining every horrible scenario he had seen a thousand times before. Ransom, white slavery, terrorism. There were just too many possibilities. His mind wouldn’t let him rest. And if that damned baby three rows ahead of him didn’t stop crying, he wouldn’t be responsible for what he’d do. Who the hell brings a baby on a five hour flight? What kind of mental midget thinks this is a good idea? “Hey honey, let’s go to Egypt, a violent, Western hating country, with terrorists who’ll kill you just because you’re Christian.” “Great idea sweetheart, but only if we can take our poor defenseless child!” “But of course!”

Reading turned up the music on his headset as loud as it would go, trying to drown out the rage. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath in through his nose, and slowly exhaled through his mouth. He imagined a small white ball on the back of his eyelids, and focused, trying to make the image coalesce, concentrating his entire mind, his entire being, on turning that one mental image into a visual reality. The whirring pinks and blacks of his eyelids at first refused to cooperate, but as he calmed himself, blocking out the noises around him, he could almost picture the white ball, dancing in front of him. He sighed and opened his eyes, feeling about as relaxed as he had all flight. He glanced up at the display showing how much time remained in the flight.
Too long
. He closed his eyes again, and quickly fell asleep.

Unknown Location, Egypt

A stinging pain seared through Laura’s cheek. And another, this time accompanied by a slapping sound. She opened her eyes and saw someone leaning over her, hand raised, preparing to slap her again. She instinctively raised her arms and closed her eyes.

“She’s awake.”

Her wake-up call gripped her shirt and pulled her to her feet. She opened her eyes and squinted as sun poured in the now open back of the truck. She heard a roaring sound from nearby, almost rhythmic.
Is that the ocean?
The man, still holding her shirt, pulled her toward the truck door, then jumped down, letting go of her shirt as he did so. He motioned at her to jump down, beckoning her with his hand.

“Come on,” he urged as she stood, looking about. The lorries of the convoy were now parked, their backs facing what she assumed was the Red Sea, the waves gently rolling to the sandy beach stretching as far as the eye could see in either direction, unmarred by tourists’ umbrellas or beach towels. She took a deep breath of the salty air, then gripped both sides of the truck door and jumped to the ground.

The man immediately gripped her by the upper arm, leading her to a throng of men nearby, staring out at the water. As they approached, one of the men pointed to the horizon.

“There!”

One, who she recognized as Jack Russell, the leader of this supposed UN aide group, raised a pair of binoculars and scanned the horizon. He handed them off to another man, nodding. “That’s them.”

“Look to be about fifteen minutes out,” said the man who now held the binoculars.

“Let’s get everything unloaded!” Russell ordered, clapping his hands together several times, loudly. “I want everything off these trucks and ready to be loaded on the boat before it gets here. Move!”

The throng split into groups, each racing for a truck, and within seconds, crates, bags, guns, and more, were being unloaded.

“Mr. Cole, here she is.”

Russell turned toward her, glancing at her unbound wrists now hanging at her sides.

“Professor,” said Russell. “So good to see you again.”

“Likewise, I’m sure,” said Laura, her heart pounding as she tried to remain calm on the outside. “I thought your name was Jack Russell?”

Russell smiled at her, motioning with his eyes for the man who still gripped her arm to let go. “I guess it won’t matter soon. Edison Cole.” He nodded at her, a condescending smile smeared across his face.

Laura rubbed her arm where the iron grip had been, then turned to Cole. “Why have you kidnapped me?”

“I’m afraid you were too nosy, little lady.”

Laura gritted her teeth at the patronizing name, trying to keep her cool.

“I didn’t see anything,” said Laura, which was in fact true.
What have I seen? Nothing! Some trucks, some men. And some guns.

“Of course you didn’t,” said Cole, his artificial smile reminding her of a preacher from morning television shows she would see when in America visiting James.
They want your money. What does he want?
“Unfortunately, I can’t believe you.”

“What’s to happen to me?” asked Laura, meeting Cole’s gaze.

Cole looked at her for a moment. “I think we’re going to test how strong a swimmer you are.”

Milton Residence, St. Paul, Maryland

Acton wasn’t sure who shouted first, but he did know that Milton actually stood up. For a moment the anger was frozen in time as both he and Mr. White stared at Milton, and then Milton, realizing what had happened, stared down at his legs. He collapsed back into his chair, the effort exhausting him, but Acton couldn’t help but react to the excitement on his friend’s face. He was about to say something when Mr. White spoke.

“The situation has evidently changed however,” he said.

Acton turned his attention back to the armed man at the kitchen table.

“How?”

“You tell me,” said Mr. White. “What has happened to Professor Palmer?”

Acton took a deep breath, steeling himself. He did not want to show any weakness in front of this man. “We received a call from the dig site saying she’s gone missing, and there’s evidence that she may have been taken by this UN NGO you were talking about.”

“Don’t forget the helicopter,” said Milton, still staring at his legs.

“Helicopter?” Mr. White’s eyebrows jumped, his interest apparently piqued.

“The students think they heard a helicopter during the night.”

Mr. White nodded and activated some type of communications device. “Bravo Eleven, please join us in the kitchen, Bravos Five and Six, stand down.”

“Can I tell my wife that everything is okay?” asked Milton.

Mr. White nodded and Milton wheeled himself into the foyer. “Hon, everything’s alright!” he yelled up the stairs.

There was no answer at first, then the creaking of floorboards overhead, followed by a timid voice. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, dear, everything is going to be fine. Just stay with Niskha in her room.”

Acton heard Sarah say something, most likely to Niskha, then he heard her start down the stairs. “If it’s supposedly safe, then why can’t I come—”

Acton heard the front door open as he caught sight of Sarah. She screamed. Milton spun his chair toward the door.

“It’s okay,” he said to Sarah, not sounding entirely convinced. Sarah for her part had frozen on the steps, one foot in midair, both hands gripping the rail as if about to turn and run back upstairs.