Certain Jeopardy (25 page)

NOTHING ABOUT THE PLAN
was right. It occurred to Moyer that it was less a plan and more of a reaction. He had no choices, no alternatives. If the military chopper fired on him, or just forced him to stop following the caravan, he would lose Cenobio for good. In very little time, the enemy would deliver the physicist to the airport and he would be out of reach.

The light from the helicopter bathed Moyer and his truck. There was no more hiding. Most likely their cover had been blown when Pete landed in the hospital and then escaped. Still, they had remained out of reach to this point. No longer—it was now or never.

“Go!” Moyer shouted into the cell phone. He slammed the accelerator to the floor.

* * *

HECTOR CENOBIO HAD
BEEN
looking out his window and up at the sky when everything went white. He snapped his head back and blinked his eyes. “What’s going on?”

“Reinforcements,” Costa said. “It seems you have friends. Who would send trained military men to rescue you and your family?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Costa looked at his cell phone. “I am told that two men tried to break into the building where we are keeping your wife. You have friends in the military?”

“My wife, my children—they are all right?”

“Yes. The two men failed. They’ve been captured. One is injured badly. He may not live.” Costa smiled. “The uninjured one may not live either.”

“I want to see my family.”

“Perhaps later. Your friends have changed everything.”

Hector struggled for words. “I don’t know who they are.”

“Perhaps they are not friends. If they know how valuable you are to certain countries, they may not be here to rescue you at all.”

“What do you mean?”

Costa turned in his seat to face Hector. “Killing you would be easier than rescuing you.”

Hector looked outside and tried to deny the truth of the words.

He failed.

* * *

THERE WERE NEW VOICES—SEVERAL
of them. Julia Cenobio stood next to the door, her ear just an inch away. She heard excited chatter in a Middle Eastern tongue. She heard a man scream in pain. Another man moaned. Was one of them Hector?

* * *

J.J. REGAINED CONSCIOUSNESS SLOWLY
.
A moment ago he was on the beach, sitting on a blanket, as a lazy ocean of deep blue rolled and tossed small waves on the shore, creating a backbeat to the song of gulls overhead. Next to him sat Ronnie—tall, trim, blonde hair to her shoulders, and skin painted brown by gentle tanning. They were holding hands.

J.J. had never held Ronnie’s hand. He had only seen her in church and during Sunday-morning Bible study for single adults. More than her good looks attracted him to her. She never hesitated to participate in the discussion, always offered educated opinions, and glanced at him frequently.

Last Sunday was going to be the day when he asked her out— the day when he would gather the courage to approach, chat, then spring the question: “May I introduce you to the best tacos in town?” A lousy line, but she had once told the Bible study group of her love for Mexican food. He had committed that to memory.

A breeze pushed through J.J.’s hair. The briny smell of the ocean seemed like perfume. He turned to Ronnie and she to him. She leaned closer. He could smell the lotion on her body, the sweetness of her breath.

Their first kiss hovered a moment away.

Scorching pain crossed his left cheek and ignited every neuron in his brain. He felt himself falling. Concrete replaced the soft white sand of the beach. J.J.’s head bounced off the floor. A coppery-tasting fluid filled his mouth. He opened his eyes. Someone spoke in a language J.J. didn’t understand, but he had heard enough of it over the years and during missions to recognize Farsi.

J.J. tried to rise, but he couldn’t move. Instinctively he reached for his sidearm. His arms didn’t respond. A second passed before he realized he had been bound to a wooden chair. He and the chair lay on their sides. Several blinks later the fire in J.J.’s head subsided enough for him to take in his situation. Memories inundated his mind like a tsunami coming ashore. With the recollections came the pain from his injuries. He recalled the gunfire and the butt end of an AK-47 landing on his nose. He tried to inhale then realized he couldn’t draw air. He could feel the swollen tissue of his face. The impact had broken his nose.

Again someone said something in Farsi. Despite the language difference, J.J. knew an order when he heard it. Two men righted him. Duct tape secured his wrists and legs to the chair.

“I see you’re awake. Did you enjoy your nap?” A thick accent weighted the English words.

J.J. looked around and recognized his location, although he had never been inside the room. He had, however, been on the roof above and seen it with the gooseneck spy cam.

“I asked a question.” The man—short and wiry with a scowl

J.J. assumed he had been born with—raised his fist. “Ease up, mate. No need to hit me again.” “What … what was that?” The man laughed. “Was that supposed to be an Australian accent? Pitiful. Laughable.”

“New Zealand,” J.J. said. Before they had left on the mission, they had been reminded that if captured, the U.S. would deny any involvement.

The tormentor looked at the others in the room. J.J. scanned the faces he could see: five men, all under thirty years of age, all with angry looks on their faces. He also saw the door leading to the small bathroom and wondered if the Cenobio woman and her children were still held captive there. A motion behind him drew his attention. He turned his head and could barely make out Caraway in his peripheral vision. The best J.J. could tell, his partner was alive, unconscious, and bound to a similar chair.

His captor leaned close to J.J.’s face. “I have been to Australia and to New Zealand. You sound nothing like what I heard there.”

“I’m still working on my act.”

The man lifted a booted foot and placed it on J.J.’s thigh, leaned in, and put his weight on it so that it pulled the tissue of

J.J.’s leg toward the seat. The pain was worse than J.J. thought it could be. “Let me tell you who I think you are. You are American soldiers, Special Operations most likely. If not that, then you’re with an American mercenary group.”

“And who are you?”

“What? You want to ask questions of me? The way I see it, I’m your captor and you’re my prisoner. I will ask the questions.”

“I guess you got me there. Wanna trade places?”

The man removed his foot and delivered a fist to the tender side of J.J.’s head. The chair toppled over again, and two men righted it.

“You are military trained. Your appearance does not fit the typical soldier, but all that means is that you are not typical. Why are you here?”

“Jungle cruise. I went on one at Disneyland and wanted to try the real thing. I heard Venezuela had a great ride.” J.J. steeled himself for another blow that didn’t come.

“My time is short, soldier. I have no patience with infidels, especially military infidels. If the situation were different, I’d take my time with you—maybe several days or weeks. Bit by bit I would get the information I want, but time is a luxury I don’t have.”

“You want me to come back later?”

“How many are in your unit?”

“What unit?”

The man looked at his cohorts. “Always they begin this way.

Brave, strong, as if pain means nothing to them. The American military train their men to resist interrogation. They call it SERE training—Survival Evasion Resistance Escape.” He spoke like a concerned teacher. “Their soldiers go into the field thinking they can resist any torture. It is not true, and do you know why?” He bent over J.J. again. His breath smelled sour. “Pain changes the brain chemistry. An injured dog will bite its owner who is trying to help the creature. Soldiers like you resist for a while, but the pain begins to alter the brain. Over time you begin to rationalize your behavior. Memories become blurred. Orders get confused in your mind. Soon you begin to think you’re doing the right thing. Do you know how I know this, infidel? I learned about the brain in medical school.”

“Is that where you learned to throw a punch? Release me and I’ll show you a better way.”

“The problem today is time, so I’m going to have to dispense with the more sophisticated approach.”

“Sorry to cramp your style.”

“I ask again: How many in your unit?”

J.J. looked away but said nothing.

“What do you call your friend?”

“What friend?”

“The man behind you. The man whose leg you bandaged. The man you were willing to die for.”

“Oh, him. He was just trying to sell me a timeshare.” J.J.’s heart picked up speed.

The man J.J. started thinking of as the evil doctor sighed and stepped from sight. “Turn him around.”

The two who had righted the chair spun J.J. around to face Caraway, whose face had become ashen, the color of the concrete walls that surrounded them. Doctor pulled a knife from his pocket and cut the wrapping loose and removed the bloody steripads. He seemed unconcerned that Caraway’s blood covered his hands. He studied the wound.

“A nasty business, gunshot wounds. Of course, you probably know that. How many of my Shi’ite brothers in Afghanistan and Iraq have you killed? Take your friend here—as you know the point of entry was the back of the thigh. The entry wound is fairly small, but the exit wound …” He took hold of a loose flap of skin and pulled up. Caraway, although deep in shock, moaned and twitched his leg. The wound began to bleed again.

J.J. closed his eyes. A second later something hit him on his broken nose. He did his best not to cry out in pain. Pain forced tears from his eyes.

“I insist you watch this. I’m doing you a favor.”

“You’re sadistic.”

“Why, yes, I am. I didn’t start off that way. I wanted to help humankind, and so I studied medicine. But that was before infidel soldiers like yourself killed my father, my mother, and my sister.” His face turned hard. “Tonight, you killed one of my men.”

“Was he one of the guys shooting at us?”

“He was my brother. My only brother. Tell me, soldier, which of you shot him in the face?”

“It was kinda dark.”

The doctor nodded, bent over Caraway again, then began to pound his fist on the wound. Caraway came to and screamed.

“Leave him alone! He’s almost dead already.”

“Then it won’t matter if I speed things along.” He turned to one of his men. “Bring me a pencil.” The man disappeared into the office area of the industrial building and reappeared a moment later. The blood drained from his face as he handed the writing instrument to his leader.

J.J.’s heart beat so fast that he felt certain it would either blow through his sternum or simply explode. Either would be fine with him.

“I ask again: How many in your unit?”

J.J. shook his head.

The doctor plunged the pencil into Caraway’s wound and left it. The screams made J.J. tremble. For the first time in his life, he wanted to kill a man with his bare hands.

* * *

WHEN JULIA TURNED
, SHE
saw her children covering their ears. They had never heard a man cry in such pain. Neither had she. The sound of it rattled around in her soul and scaled her spine with icy fingers. Tears poured from her face. Scream after scream pushed through the locked door; only slightly muted, it rebounded off the tile walls. She couldn’t silence the sounds, couldn’t force them from her ears. They stabbed at her consciousness, branded her eardrums. She knew if she survived, she’d carry the hideous cries with her forever.

Julia prayed the prayer of the desperate, of those so stunned, so shocked, that whole sentences were beyond their capabilities.

“Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God.” She hated herself for her next thought, but the hope didn’t come from the rational part of her brain: She prayed the screams came from someone other than her husband.

ALONE. JOSE HAD
BEEN
taught to work with a team, but his team was in two different locations and he was between them. More than anything he wanted to use his radio to report what he had found, but he couldn’t. J.J. and Caraway were in the hands of hostiles, and if Jose used his radio, they were certain to hear. He had taken a few moments to call Moyer on the cell phone, but the call refused to go through.

He had never felt so alone. His wife and child hovered near death’s door. Two of his team were in the hands of the enemy. The three other members of the team were miles away with problems of their own.

The logical part of Jose’s mind—the part that stored his instincts for self-protection and survival—screamed for attention. He refused to listen. He had learned long ago that courage was defined by what a man did when nearly overcome with terror. This night he would live or he would die. This night would be whatever this night was intended to be. If that meant bleeding out in the street, then so be it.

He forced one foot in front of the other, slowing only at intersections of alley and streets, and continued forward in the darkness of the night and the ebony dawn of his soul. With every stride his apprehension gave way to the steel of determination. With every step he forced back fear. Nothing mattered but getting to J.J. and Caraway. Nothing. Let hell release its minions. They would find one man determined to do what had to be done.

* * *

THE PANEL TRUCK SPED
along the road. Moyer had only a few seconds to make his move. If he had outlined this plan on paper, every one of his superiors would have nixed the idea and wondered about his sanity. It made no sense, had little chance of working, and would probably end in his death.

As he closed the distance between him and the two vans, he thought of his wife, his daughter, and his son. He didn’t know what happened after death. Maybe J.J. did. He felt a moment of sadness that he had never availed himself of the opportunity to discuss it with him. Well, he would know soon enough.

The light from the A109 fell behind him but would only take a few seconds to catch up. Moyer kept his gaze fixed on the vehicles ahead. They had maintained course, but in a moment they would certainly bolt, hopefully not before he or Rich could do what needed to be done.

The speedometer read ninety miles per hour and rising. Moyer’s grip on the steering wheel turned his knuckles white. He waited. With every second that passed he expected machine-gun fire to cut him and his vehicle in half.

* * *

“STOP THAT VEHICLE! SHOOT
it!”

“I’m sorry, Minister, but we have orders not to fire our weapons within the city. I must await clearance.”

Santi had heard the pilot ask for permission to fire, but that had been close to thirty seconds ago. No doubt their commander was seeking permission from a higher-ranking coward. “I am ordering you to open fire on that truck. There are terrorists aboard, and they are endangering an important diplomat from our country.”

“I have yet to receive permission, Minister.”

Santi pounded the seat like a child. “I will hold you personally responsible if you do not shoot that truck right NOW!”

Nothing happened.

Santi snapped up his cell phone. “Behind you. Behind you!”

* * *

THE MOMENT COSTA PU
T
the phone to his ear, Hector saw him crank hishead around to look behind him.

“Go, go, go!” Costa ordered the driver.

“What? Why—”

“GO!”

The driver hesitated long enough to pull the van from behind the lead car then drove the accelerator to the floor. He had hesitated too long.

Something struck the lumbering van. The back of the vehicle slid forward. Hector watched the driver’s head snap back then forward as he tried to straighten the van, but it refused to cooperate.

Hector turned and saw another vehicle pressed against the back bumper.

* * *

POLICE CALLED
IT A
“pit maneuver.” Moyer had seen it done a dozen times on television but had never attempted it himself—just one more thing wrong with the plan. The engine’s roar lessened for a moment as Moyer allowed his truck to slow enough to keep control when he made contact. The van steered abruptly into the oncoming lane but a second too late. Moyer determined not to miss his only chance.

He matched the van’s maneuver then floored the gas pedal. His front bumper touched the right rear bumper of the van. Moyer steered slightly to the right forcing the back of the van to move sideways, its rear tires breaking traction with the asphalt. He turned the steering wheel a few inches to the right. The driver of the van lost control.

So did Moyer.

The van and Moyer’s truck, both with high centers of gravity, slid sideways then tipped over. Moyer had time to see the van tilt onto two wheels then begin to roll. The next thing Moyer saw was pavement rising to meet his side window. He threw himself to the right and grabbed the passenger seat.

Metal screamed as it skidded along the macadam. Glass exploded and filled the cab with tiny fragments. Moyer waited for the vehicle to roll, but its tall sides kept it from doing so. Eternal seconds passed as the vehicle continued to slide, the sound of grating metal stabbing his ears.

The truck came to a halt. Moyer wanted to wait a moment, to take a few seconds to get his bearings, but moments might cost him his life and bury his mission. He popped his seat belt, fumbled for and flipped the switch that turned on the overhead lights, and scrambled into the cargo area. The floor stood vertical and to his left. Equipment lay strewn across the area where Moyer walked. The monitors that Moyer and his team had watched diligently were damaged beyond repair, not that it mattered. They’d never be used again.

Snatching an M4 from the weapons rack, Moyer stepped over the detritus of equipment, batteries, radios, and weapons. He twisted at the handle to open the back doors, but it wouldn’t budge. Moyer had no time for this. He kicked the handle twice and the left-hand door—now the “bottom” door—swung open and crashed to the pavement. Moyer raised his weapon and stepped into the night.

He had less than two seconds to do what had to be done next.

The darkness disappeared in a glare from above. The helicopter’s beam covered him.

* * *

RICH POWERED HIS SEDA
N
down the side street. He had no idea how fast he was traveling, but he knew it wasn’t fast enough. Pete had already drawn his sidearm. Neither man spoke. Neither needed to.

The car bottomed out crossing an intersection. Rich hit his head on the roof and pain pierced his skull and neck. He would worry about that later—if later ever came.

“It’s the next street,” Pete said.

“Got it.”

Based on Moyer’s last communication, Rich and Pete should be slightly ahead of the two-vehicle caravan. They assumed Cenobio was in the rear van. Rich hoped they could snatch him safely, but he understood the unspoken order: The hostiles would not be allowed to take the man. Not alive.

Rich hit the intersection and turned the wheel hard to the left. The sedan began a short four-wheel drift, its tires screaming the arrival of two more players. Rich noticed the overturned van and truck first. Then he saw Moyer step from the truck and the light from the chopper shining down on him.

“Shaq, behind us!”

Rich snapped his eyes to the rearview mirror. The other vehicle in the caravan was pulling a U-turn, its tires spinning on the pavement and sending smoke into the air.

“Hang on.”

Cranking the wheel as far to the left as it would go, Rich again floored the accelerator. Like the car behind him, the sedan made a tight U-turn. Rich’s turn, however, didn’t clear the curb. The car lurched as the right front tire jumped from street to sidewalk back to street again. The force of the impact threw Rich into the door, his shoulder hitting the window so hard he was surprised the glass didn’t break.

Rich steered directly for the oncoming car as if planning to ram it. The performance was convincing—the other driver flinched and steered away. Rich wouldn’t let him off the hook. He rammed the driver’s side door, pushing the car sideways several feet.

White air bags exploded into the faces of Rich and Pete. A half second later they deflated. With ears ringing from the crash and the explosive air bag deployment, Rich threw his door open. He saw Pete do the same.

The impact must have been harder than he realized because Rich staggered to the side two steps. By the time he gained his footing, two men had exited the passenger side of the car and raised Uzi-style submachine guns. Rich didn’t take time to identify the weapons properly. Instead he raised his sidearm and squeezed the trigger. Before he felt the recoil of his weapon, he heard a percussive bang from his right. Pete had already squeezed off a round, followed by another. Man number two, who had crawled from the backseat, dropped backward, his face blank and his forehead bearing a large hole that hadn’t been there a moment before. Man number one had been in the front passenger seat. Rich’s shot hit him in the neck. A second shot entered the skull just above the man’s right eye.

A movement in the driver’s seat drew Rich’s attention. The driver had raised a similar weapon. Rich stepped to the side just as the driver’s already fractured window erupted into shards. Rich aimed, pulled his trigger twice, and the driver ceased firing.

Another shot to his right. Pete had shot another man who had crawled across the backseat. He never had time to raise a weapon.

A new sound—automatic fire. Rich spun on his heels. The military helicopter had opened up with a blast of machine-gun fire aimed right at Moyer.