Certain Jeopardy (23 page)

“Something has happened,” Rich said. “The motorcade came to a quick stop, then the first car and the van turned down a side street away from our building. The third vehicle, also a van, resumed course.”

“The helicopter spotted our video setup. It also found Colt and Billy. They’re on the move, with two hostiles behind them.”

Rich’s tone didn’t change, but Moyer knew the man well enough to sense his anxiety. “On our way.”

“No. Stay with the two vehicles. Cenobio must be in one of those cars. If we lose them, we may never find them again. We’ll join you. We’ll take turns tracking them.”

“What about Colt and Billy?”

“Cenobio is our mission. Do it, Shaq. Do it now.”

“Understood.”

A van sped past Moyer’s location, headed toward the target building. Moyer was five miles away, near the range limit of the video equipment.

Jose bolted to his feet and removed a 9mm pistol from one of the thin shelves in the panel truck, strapped it on, then reached for an M4 and its clip.

“What are you doing?” Moyer asked.

“You don’t need me to chase the caravan. Billy and Colt need me for backup. They’re packing only pistols.”

“Cenobio is our mission. We have to go after him.”

“Boss, we don’t know Cenobio is in the caravan; we
do
know that two of our team need some help.”

“We’re over five miles away.”

“Get me as close as you can, Boss. I’ll make the rest of the way on foot.”

Moyer looked back at the monitors. Everything looked quiet, but he knew better. J.J. and Caraway were hidden from the cameras. So were their pursuers. He moved from the chair by the monitors to the driver’s seat of the panel van and started the engine. “Hold on.”

HECTOR CENOBIO’S HEAD
HIT
the side window of the van as it turned abruptly. He raised his tied hands to the part of his skull that smacked the glass and rubbed. “What’s happening?”

“Sit still and be quiet.” Miguel Costa held a cell phone to his ear and spoke in rapid Spanish. “How many?” He looked over his shoulder again. “No, I don’t think we’re being followed. Stay over the area… . I know your light is out; just do what you can.”

Costa rang off then dialed a number. A second later he spoke in a tone Hector had heard before—the tone Costa used when speaking to Foreign Minister Santi. Santi had overseen Hector’s delivery to the caravan but refused to go further. He had returned to the helicopter and flew away. “Trouble. You were right to send a helicopter with us. The pilot saw two men in black on the roof of the building. He also spotted what looks like two surveillance video systems.” There was a pause. “Yes, sir, we’ve changed course. I’ve ordered the extra men to the building’s location to help with the search.” Costa rubbed his forehead.

“Stress headache?” Hector asked.

“One moment, sir.” Costa moved the phone to his other hand then backhanded Hector across the mouth.

Pain like hot needles shot through his head. He tasted blood and noticed a gash on the back of Costa’s hand caused by Hector’s teeth. If the wound hurt, he didn’t show it.

Costa raised the phone to his ear again. “No, sir, no problem. Just clearing up some static.”

Hector bent forward and spit a stream of red liquid between his feet. The blow had been hard enough to loosen a tooth and set his ears ringing. Straightening, he moved his head in a slow circle trying to drive the wooziness from his head.

“Understood, sir. We’re moving to the second location. No, sir, I don’t have a status report on the woman. That will be my next call.” He closed the phone.

“Will I get the back of your hand if I ask what is happening?” Hector looked into the man’s eyes and didn’t like what he saw. There was a blackness there, as if his eyes floated in a tar pit.

“We’ve had a slight change in plans.”

Hector nodded. “I’m only guessing, of course, but are there new players in this game?”

“You’d be wise to sit in silence.”

“You said you were taking me to see my wife and children.”

“That has been delayed.” Again Costa looked over his shoulder. He spoke to the driver, a young man with an old scar on his right cheek and a tattoo of a knife dripping blood on the back of his neck. “What have you seen?”

“Nothing. There are headlights about a half kilometer behind us, but the car doesn’t approach.”

“You tell me if it gets any closer.”

“I will. Where do you want us to go?”

“I will tell you in a minute.” Costa entered another number into the phone. “Status report.” It was an order, not a request. Costa listened then nodded. “Send three other men in pursuit. I want the other three on the perimeter. Send one of them to the roof. I want to know what they were doing up there.” Again he listened. “And the woman?” More nodding. “Good. Keep a guard by the door.”

Hector did the simple math. Three additional men in pursuit. That meant one or more guards were already pursuing whoever was responsible for the upset. Three on the perimeter would bring the number to over six plus one. Costa had mentioned “the guard by the door.” Singular. Three plus three plus one plus whatever number might have already been in pursuit. Eight? Nine? Maybe ten guards. Ten was such a small number, but it seemed so large now.

Please, Lord, keep my family safe.

* * *

SANTI PACED HIS OFFICE
,
looking for something to throw. Unfortunately anything other than crumpled paper would cost him a fair amount of money. Anything worth throwing was a collectable.

He forced himself to calm then ran the situation over in his mind. Two men had been seen on the roof of the building where he and his team held the wife and children of a renowned nuclear physicist. Caracas had more than its fair share of crime and violence—every city of its size did. But the odds of a couple of street thugs trying to break into the building through the roof were too small to be realistic. Nor did the behavior fit the pattern of a burglary. A common criminal would have gone in through a window or broken down the door. No, this had to be something far worse than two hoodlums looking for electronics to sell on the street.

He stepped to the window and gazed into the dark jungle, yet seeing none of it. His mind was elsewhere, on the streets of industrial Caracas. Two men on the roof, an injured American with a military tattoo—this could only mean one thing: the Americans knew of their activities. He took a few mental steps backward. What he was doing with Cenobio was not official Venezuelan business. President Chavez knew of the plan but kept his distance. “I need deniability,” he had said, with a smile that nevertheless showed his approval.

Santi was familiar with American military operations. He had studied their tactics in Afghanistan, Iraq, Somalia, and Central America. They were here, and they were a problem.

How did they find out about the scheme? Did he have a traitor in his midst? For the moment there was no way to know.

Santi stepped to his phone, dialed a number, and identified himself. “I want a military helicopter sent to my home right away. I want another in the air and moving to a location I will give you. How long will that take?”

The voice on the other end said the aircraft would be airborne in ten minutes.

“You have half that time.”

* * *

FOR A MOMENT
J.J.
thought Caraway was praying; then he made out several of the whispered words. No one prayed with that kind of language.

“Hang in there, man,” J.J. whispered.

“Lucky … shot. Just … a flesh … wound.” Caraway grunted between words.

The hole in Caraway’s right leg was anything but a flesh wound. Every step made things worse and left a bloody trail. Caraway couldn’t put weight on the leg, making J.J. think the round had shattered the thigh bone. He prayed this wasn’t the case.

The last five minutes had passed like days. The moment Caraway hit the ground, J.J. spun and unloaded four rounds in the direction of the two men chasing them. They were still a block or two behind them, too far for J.J. to know if he had done any damage. With adrenaline fueling his muscles, J.J. pulled Caraway to his feet. “Can you stand?”

“On one leg. Man this hurts.”

J.J. let go to retrieve his partner’s weapon and slipped it into Caraway’s shoulder holster. Moving to Caraway’s side, J.J. put an arm around the man’s waist, grabbed his belt, and pulled up, taking some of the strain off the injured leg. Caraway threw an arm over J.J.’s shoulder. “You want me to lead, Colt? I’m a better dancer.”

J.J. had to admire Caraway’s composure. They were being chased by two men with automatic weapons, he was bleeding and in great pain, but still he joked. “You better let me lead. I’ve seen you dance. It ain’t pretty.”

“Yeah, but have you seen me …” His head tipped forward and he groaned. “But have you seen me dance while drunk? Now that’s … entertainment.”

“Let’s go, Fred Astaire.” J.J. led them between buildings and down another alley. Overhead he heard the helicopter moving in slow circles. Without its powerful spotlight, it would have trouble spotting them. Nonetheless, every time the sound of pounding rotors grew sufficiently loud, they ducked under an overhang or next to a dumpster.

“It’s only a matter of time, Colt,” Caraway whispered. “We took out their light, but I’ll bet your left arm … they have … FLIR.”

Forward-looking infrared. The thought had already occurred to J.J.

“Jesus.”

“Ha! I knew it. When the going gets tough, even you can’t resist swearing.”

“I wasn’t swearing. I was praying.”

J.J. leaned Caraway against the wall of a dark industrial building next to a doorway. He ran a hand along the door’s surface.

“It didn’t sound like praying.”

“How would you know?” J.J. placed his gloved hand on the doorknob and turned. Locked. Still, it was what he was looking for.

“What are you doing?”

“The door is wood. So is the frame. All of the other doors have been metal with metal frames.”

“You thinking of … buying the place?”

“Not on my salary.” J.J. pulled his knife from the sheath around his hip and placed the tip between the wood doorstop and frame. He worked into the soft material until the point touched the metal tongue of the doorknob. He moved the blade back and forth until the doorstop parted from the jamb enough for J.J. to move the knife up and over the tongue. He tipped the blade and worked it until he could feel the backside of the mechanism, the angled portion that allowed the tongue to hit the strike plate and depress, freeing the door to close and lock. A few seconds later the door opened. Without a word, J.J. took hold of Caraway and helped him through.

Just as he stepped across the threshold, he heard the helo pass overhead.

J.J. PROPPED CARAWAY AGAINS
T
a wall and silently closed the door. The lock was still good but wouldn’t hold up against a solid kick. He holstered his weapon and pulled Caraway’s arm over his shoulders again. He handed his flashlight to Caraway. “Take this. Make yourself useful.”

“Hey, I may be bleeding to death, but I can still take you out.”

“Yeah, sure. Whatever.” If Caraway could still shoot off his mouth, it meant there was still enough blood in his body to feed the brain.

The flashlight beam cut the darkness, illuminating a dirty floor and a set of steel shelves holding boxes of various sizes. They stood in a room about the size of a two-car garage. A door in a wall a few steps ahead stood open. “Let’s go.” J.J. did his best to bear Caraway’s weight. Sweat poured from his brow, his back aching from the odd angle it had been in for the last few minutes. They slipped through the door and faced an abyss of darkness.

“I don’t suppose it would help to turn on the lights,” Caraway said.

J.J. knew he was joking. “Yeah, it would help the bad guys find us. Move the light around some.”

Caraway did, and the beam fell on work tables, machines, and rows of stacked metal chairs in an expansive room. He moved the light to the right, and it fell upon white-topped tables with folding legs piled one atop another. On one of the tables rested a stack of long, wide cardboard.

“Looks like the place makes folding tables and chairs.” J.J. moved to the largest work surface, the one with sheets of cardboard. The table had been made from two-by-fours. As gently as he could, J.J. lowered Caraway to the floor, removed his knife again, and cut the man’s pants leg from ankle to pocket. “Give me the light.” Caraway surrendered it then laid back on the concrete floor.

J.J. directed the beam over the wound. He saw a small entry hole in the back of Caraway’s thigh and an ugly exit hole with flapping skin just off center on the front of the leg. Three things bothered him: the amount of blood oozing from the wound (at least it wasn’t spurting), the fact the exit wound was at an angle from the entrance wound, and the bits of white specs embedded in the flesh. The last two items confirmed his suspicions—the bullet had hit the bone and shattered it.

“How … bad?”

“You won’t be dancing anytime soon, but you’ll have a great scar to show the grandkids.” J.J. cut off the split pant legs and formed a tourniquet. He could hear Caraway grit his teeth as he applied it four inches above the wound.

“You know you’re going to have to leave me.”

“Yeah, right. You know we don’t leave our people behind. You’re stuck with me.”

“Sweet as that is, Colt, I’m an anchor around your neck. Stop trying to be a hero.”

“I’m not trying to be a hero; I’m trying to annoy you.”

“You were always good at that.”

“I do what I can.”

“Seriously, J.J. You gotta bolt. I left a blood trail a blind dogcould follow. It’s only a matter of time before they find us.”

“Forget it. The rest of the team will be here in a few minutes.”

Caraway shook his head. “You know better than that. Boss said there were incoming vehicles. There’s a helo circling overhead. I’llbet you dollars to donuts that caravan is carrying Cenobio.” “

Makes no difference.”

“Of course it does, stupid. Cenobio is the mission. We’re expendable.”

J.J. did know, but admitting it would gain nothing. “If I leave you, I’ll have to tell Moyer why. I don’t think I want to do that.” J.J. studied the wound again. The blood flow had slowed.

“If you don’t leave me, you’ll be dead.” “Let’s see—death or Moyer, Moyer or death. I think I’ll takedeath.”

That made Caraway chuckle. “I see your … point.” Caraway stiffened and moaned. “Man, this hurts.”

J.J. rose and began moving folding tables and stacking them on edge against the side of the table facing the door. He worked as fast as he could. Five minutes later he had constructed a wraparound barricade enclosing their position. The concept was simple but unproven. The folding tables had tops made with a laminate sheet over particle board. Particle board was dense and heavy but not enough to stop an AK-47 bullet. Several tables, however, might provide enough protection for J.J. to pop whoever came through the door. He doubted he could hold them off for long, but it was worth the try.

“Help me up.” Caraway struggled to one elbow.

“Forget it. It’s past your bedtime.”

“I’m serious, J.J. I’m not gonna die on my back. If I’m going out, I’m going out like a soldier. Now help me.”

J.J. started to object again but couldn’t. He would make the same demand of Caraway had the situation been reversed. He stood and bent over Caraway. “This is gonna hurt.”

“It already hurts. Just do it.”

J.J. pulled Caraway close to the table and positioned him in front of a slot formed by the vertical edges of the stacked tables, a slot that faced the door. The slot was wide enough to shoot through. When J.J. turned Caraway onto his stomach, Caraway didn’t moan, didn’t groan—he whimpered. The sound of it broke J.J.’s heart.

“Be sure to keep your head to the side.”

“Are you telling me how to soldier?”

“Wouldn’t think of it.”

“I have one more favor to ask, Colt, and I want your word on it.”

“You can do your own work when we get out of here.”

“Just listen, smart guy.” Caraway turned his face away from J.J. “If I don’t make it, promise me you won’t let them put thatstupid billy-goat nickname on my tombstone.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“So help me, Colt. If you let them do it, I’ll dig myself out of the grave and stalk you for the rest of your life. Imagine my corpsesitting beside you in church.”

“I’d be happy to have you in church any way I can get you.”

“You know what I mean. Now promise.”

“I promise, pal, but I’m not giving you permission to die.”

Caraway turned to J.J. and said softly, “Thanks.”

Only one word, but it carried a lifetime of meaning.

* * *

MOYER KEPT ONE EY
E
on the streets and one on the sky, watching for the helo. “I can’t get much closer without being seen.”

Jose sat in the passenger seat, automatic weapon in hand, pistol and extra clips for both weapons attached to his vest. There would be no blending in tonight. Anyone who caught sight of him would know that he was dangerous. “Just say when.”

“I’m having trouble with this,” Moyer admitted.

“You have a job to do. This is mine. Let’s not talk about it, Boss. Let’s just do it.”

Moyer looked at the GPS display. “You’ll have to run at least two clicks through the alleys. I won’t know when or how to extract you.”

Jose studied the display, committing it to memory. “Nothing like an impromptu mission to get the blood going.”

Moyer checked his mirrors and, seeing no other vehicles or people on the street, pulled to the curb. Jose exited without a word. Moyer pulled away. Thirty seconds later he heard something new: the sound of another helicopter.

He felt sick in a whole new way.

* * *

ROB LA
Y IN HIS
bed staring at a Rolling Stones poster on his wall without really seeing it. The only light in the room came from a night-light that been in the wall socket since he was three. He should have removed it long ago but never had. If it were left up to him, it would be there another thirteen years and that fact bothered him.

Earlier that day he had gobbled two hamburgers with an Army chaplain. He pretended not to care, not to listen. He had gone along with the unexpected meeting for only two reasons: it might save him a lecture from his mother about being gone all night, and he wanted to drive the Camaro. What a sweet ride. But it wasn’t the talk or the car that kept him awake; it was a nagging sense of guilt.

Lately guilt had held no sway with him. He had enough apathy to drown any sense of responsibility, and he had lived that way for the last year and a half. The older he got, the more he despised his life and his father. Having Dad someplace else in the world was like having shackles removed from his legs and wrist. Or so he told himself. Truth was he didn’t feel free at all. Sure, he could stay out late or, as last night, not come home at all, but he found no satisfaction in it. The guilt stole the sense of pleasure his adolescent mind told him he deserved.

A sound came from the kitchen. He listened for a moment and heard the refrigerator door open and close. He looked at his clock: 3 a.m. Someone else couldn’t sleep. Rob assumed it was his mother. His sister never got up in the middle of the night. His mother hadn’t been home when he returned from school; she’d probably been with the pregnant woman in the hospital.

Rob swung his legs over the side of the bed and, without knowing why, rose and opened the door to his bedroom. Since he slept in an old pair of shorts and a T-shirt, he didn’t bother dressing.

The fluorescent lights in the kitchen glowed too brightly for the hour. He stepped to the breakfast bar and saw his mother dressed in a pink robe and matching slippers. Her disheveled hair looked as if a bird had nested there. Rob couldn’t remember the last time he had seen his mother with anything other than perfect hair. What surprised him most, however, were her eyes. They seemed empty and dark, as if someone had spooned out her soul.

“You okay?” Rob asked.

Stacy jumped. “Oh, you scared me. Don’t sneak up on me like that, especially at this hour.”

“Sorry.”

She lowered her head and sighed. “No, I’m sorry, Rob. I shouldn’t have snapped. You just startled me.”

“Next time I’ll whistle or something.”

“I haven’t heard you whistle since you were a boy. I’m fixing some hot chocolate. Want some?”

“Yeah, okay.”

Stacy pulled another packet of instant cocoa from the pantry, then poured more milk into the saucepan she was using to heat the cocoa.

“Wouldn’t the microwave be faster?”

“I guess so. Sometimes doing things the old way is relaxing. My mother always made cocoa this way.”

Rob slipped onto one of the bar stools. “Whatever works, I guess. I take it you can’t sleep.”

“I was going to say the same thing to you.” She stirred in the mix. “I haven’t been sleeping well since your dad left.”

“How come? He’s left plenty of times before.” He regretted the tone. “That sounded worse than I meant it. Force of habit, I guess.”

“I know it’s hard on you too, just in a different way.” As she spoke, Stacy removed two mugs from the cabinet and set them by the sink then returned to stirring the hot chocolate.

“You gonna ask?”

She set the spoon down. “Ask about what? You being out all night or about Chaplain Bartley?”

“Both, I guess.”

She shook her head. “Not tonight. Truth is, my brain is fried. I’m just going to trust you.”

The words punched him in the chest. “I fell asleep at a friend’s, and yes, I met with Bartley. He let me drive his car.”

Stacy turned. “He let you drive an Army-issue car?”

“I wouldn’t be seen dead in one of those. He let me drive his ’68 Camaro.”

“Wow. Should I be afraid?”

Rob smiled. “No. I behaved myself. I’ve only had my license a couple of months; I’m not ready to lose it.”

“Those are beautiful cars.” She poured the hot liquid into the mugs then carried them to the breakfast bar.

“So why are you up?”

“I told you. I can’t sleep.”

“Why can’t you sleep?”

“Just getting old, I guess.” She sipped from the cup. “Drink your hot chocolate.”

“Mom, you’ve been nagging me about telling you what I’m doing and where I’m going. It’s time you be open with me. You never get up in the middle of the night. What’s eating you? Is it that woman in the hospital?”

“Lucy? She’s part of the problem. I’m worried about her.”

“The chaplain said he thinks you’re carrying some kinda burden and that I should be sensitive to it. Well, he’s right. I can see something is chewing you up.”

“It’s nice of you to ask—”

“You don’t get to ask what’s going on in my life and expect an honest answer if you won’t be honest with me.” He stood.

“No, wait.” Stacy set her cup down.

Rob returned to the stool.

“It’s your father. The day he left I got a call from a doctor. A
civilian
doctor.”

“That doesn’t make sense. Why would a civilian doctor call you about Dad unless … he’s sick and hiding something.”

Stacy nodded, and Rob watched as a tear began to run down her cheek. She didn’t bother wiping it away. Rob’s stomach went into freefall. He looked into the cup of hot chocolate as if it held some answers.

“Apparently your father went to see the doctor the morning he got called up. At first the doctor didn’t want to talk about it, but I tricked him into telling me the truth. I guess I shouldn’t be telling you that.”