Fade to Grey (Book 1): Fade to Grey (43 page)

“Did you help your grandfather at his office?”  I asked.

“No, never.”

“Did you take a bunch of first aid courses in college?” My
eyebrows arched slightly.

“I’ve had a first aid and CPR class,” Emily said, although
her voice tone told me there was more to the story.

I used the balled up sock to apply some pressure to my still
dripping ankle as I asked, “When was that class?”

Without taking her eyes off of me she said somewhat defiantly,
“When I was twelve years old and trying to earn some money by babysitting. Of
course, if you’d rather wait here for some beautiful paramedic to airdrop in,
I’ve got no problem with that either.”

“Why would I want a beautiful paramedic to drop in when I
already have a stunningly gorgeous EMT on site?” I forced a smile through the
pain.

Emily rolled her eyes and said, “Enough of the schmoozing,
Eric.”

I could tell that at least some of the schmoozing got through
and made her smile, on the inside anyway. “Can you get the medical kit out of
my backpack?” I asked.

We spent the next forty-five minutes or so getting me patched
up. The wound was going to require further medical care in whatever would pass
for civilization when we got back, but for now it had been cleaned with
filtered water and butterfly bandaged on the upper and lower areas. I had also
managed to walk Emily through nine stitches along the middle section where the
worst tear was. She did a much better job than I could’ve done considering
where the wound was located. Several layers of gauze held in place with duck
tape and the bleeding slowed to a leisurely seep. I reached into the bag of
medicine that Doc had given me to take on this trip. One of the bottles
contained large tablets of penicillin. The instructions said to take one every six
hours. I took two. There were also three different types of prescription
painkillers. I passed on those in favor of two Advil from my own kit.

Max came over to inspect the repairs, and apparently
satisfied with the job Emily had done, he hopped into the passenger seat of the
Gator. He wouldn’t stay there when it was moving, preferring to trot alongside,
but it was his way of saying let’s get moving.

“Stand up slowly and try to put some weight on it,” Emily
said.

I scooted forward and slowly stood up off the cargo bed. The
blood rushing down to my ankle sent a multitude of throbbing pains racing back
up. A few minutes later the pain had subsided to a medium roar.

“How does it feel?” Emily asked.

“You did a great job Emily, much better than I could have
done myself.”

“Yeah, but how does it feel?” she repeated. “Can you walk on
it?”

I took a few tentative steps, hobbling a bit as I assessed
the situation. “I think we should stabilize my ankle with one more layer of
duck tape. Enough that it’s a bit more steady, but will still fit in my boot is
what I’m thinking,” I said.

“Sit back down.” Emily inclined her head toward the Gator.

Five minutes later my wrapped foot was stuffed back into my
boot and we were heading south with Max trotting alongside. About a mile from
the cabin the front left tire blew out. An inspection showed it was in the
sidewall, so patching it was not an option. On top of that my watch band broke
when I caught it on the bumper guard while I checked the tire status. I sat
back down in the driver’s seat and shook my head, wondering just what the hell
was going on. It was like a conspiracy of misfortune to somehow counterbalance
the good luck I had on the way up. Emily leaned over and started to rub my
shoulder.

 “How much further is the cabin?” she asked.

“Not much. It’s only about, maybe three-quarters of a mile
that way,” I pointed towards some trees to the right, “but if you stay on the
logging road it’s a little longer but much easier terrain.”

“I suppose we don’t have a spare tire, right?” she asked.

I shook my head.

Emily stood up and circled the Gator twice, appraising the
situation as I fumed. Finally she mumbled, “No, that’s not going to work
either.”

“What won’t work?”

“Well, this thing has six wheels. Since we blew out a front
one, and we need those to steer, I thought that maybe we could use one of the
back ones on the front. That way we’d still have support in the back with three
wheels and we’d be able to steer. But like I said, it won’t work.”

I knew the answer, but I wanted to hear it from her anyhow,
so I asked, “Why won’t that work?”

She looked at me, and apparently my face gave away my
knowledge of the situation, but with a little “OK, I’ll play along” smirk she
said, “Because they don’t attach the same way. The back wheels have those metal
things, bolts I guess, that hold them onto the . . . the . . .” She started using
her right hand to make small circles and she sought for the words.

“The rest of the Gator?” I asked.

“Yeah, whatever. Anyhow, the front wheels don’t have those. They
just have one center, um, thingy that the wheel looks like it goes over.”

“Thingy?  Is that the technical term?

Emily scrunched her eyebrows close together as she replied,
“Yes, that is the correct term.”

We locked eyes in a serious stare for almost five seconds
before busting out and laughing.

“Well done Mrs. Goodwrench. You are, in fact, correct in your
assessment of our wheel incompatibility issue, as well as being spot on in
mechanical knowledge as it relates to technical terminology,” I gave a mock
‘half bow’ from the seat of the gator as I spoke.

Emily stepped near me and asked, “So what do you want to do? 
Will your foot hold up to walk the rest of the way?  Do you want me to go on
ahead and bring back some kind of tool or something that can get the Gator
moving again?

I thought for a minute before answering. “As to your second
question, I’m pretty sure that if we stay on the logging road and don’t try to
run any races, my ankle will make it. Your third question’s answer is no. The
tire has to be replaced, and I don’t know if my uncle has a spare. As to what I
want to do, I think our best bet is to leave everything here and walk back to
the cabin. Then I can drive my truck back pretty close to here and load up the
Gator onto a trailer. Sound good?” I finished.

“I think a mile walk without carrying my pack sounds rather
pleasant, although I am taking my camera bag and a few lenses. But don’t worry,
I won’t make the cripple carry anything,” she said with a grin.

I smiled back and stood up, moved to the front of the Gator,
and waited for Emily to gather her camera equipment. A few minutes later she
was by my side and we started walking. About one hundred feet from the Gator I
stopped, frozen for a moment in thought.

Emily snapped a quick picture of my expression before
lowering the Canon. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

I held up an index finger in the universal sign for “wait a
minute” as I asked myself that same question. “
What’s wrong
?”

Yeah, my ankle was torn up and throbbing underneath the
layers of dull gray duct tape. Yeah, the Gator was broke down a mile from my
destination. I stood there pondering, trying to focus in on something that I
couldn’t quite place my finger on. And then it hit me. That feeling in my gut. That
“the light at the end of the tunnel is an oncoming train” feeling that I had
back at the clearing was still there . . . intensified even. I limp-hopped back
to the cargo bed and unstrapped the small rifle from my backpack. Popping out
the ten round factory magazine, I inserted one of the two twenty-five round magazines
into the gun. The other high capacity magazine went in the cargo pocket of my
BDU’s. My detachable “last chance” survival pouch got clipped onto my belt as I
moved back to where Emily was waiting. Her expression was slightly nervous.

“Is everything OK?” she asked.

I scanned as far as I could up and down the old logging road
and saw nothing. “I hope. I’m just a little bit edgy for some reason,” I said.

Emily looked like she wanted to ask more but kept silent.

I whistled for Max who came bounding in from the left. “Max .
. . tight. Stay tight Max.”

Lieutenant Estes made it back in four minutes. The scene
before him looked identical. Colonel Jordan sitting in a student sized desk,
his skin pale and sweating in direct contrast to the cool, almost tranquil
appearance of the DHS suit standing behind him. The Amazon was standing near
the doorway. A quick look at her showed impatience etched on her face . . . maybe
a trace of something else too. Apprehension?  Estes doubted it. He handed the
small duffel bag to the suit and stepped back quickly, snapping out with a
salute.

“Sir, the item you requested sir,” Estes said.

The man nodded acknowledgement in his direction before
stepping around to face Colonel Jordan. Setting the duffel on the prefabricated
melamine writing surface of the desk he simply stated, “Open it.”

Estes’ saw a look of confusion across the colonel’s face. The
command was repeated.

“Open it.” The suit had leaned in maybe one inch closer. His
tone had dropped maybe one octave lower, but the combined effect had the
colonel’s hands leaping for the zipper of the duffel.

Estes’ watched as the colonel withdrew the shrink-wrapped
package. Comprehension and confusion fought for dominance on his face as he
mumbled, “I don’t . . . understand . . . what you . . . mean.”

The suit cut him off. “No, I wouldn’t expect that you do, Colonel.
And since my time is short let me explain, that way even someone who’s as much
of an incompetent asshole as you are can follow.”

The colonel’s face changed, frozen in a mixture of fear of
the unknown and acceptance of whatever was coming.

“What is that, Colonel?” the suit asked.

“It’s a body bag,” the colonel answered softly, his eyes
never moving from the object in question.

“Yes it is,” the suit hissed as he inched even closer to the
colonel’s face, “and your answer to the next question I ask will determine
whether I fill that body bag with someone else, or with you. Because make no
mistake colonel, in five minutes that bag will be filled, so I’m going to ask
you one final question. Think carefully before you answer.”

Lieutenant Estes watched as Colonel Jordan began to quiver,
his eyes darting left and right in nervous anticipation until the DHS suit
snapped his fingers, locking the colonel’s eyes on his own.

“Up here colonel, focus on me and don’t interrupt,” the suit
said with barely concealed disdain in his voice.

He continued, “I have intel that leads me to believe you may
be holding a target of value to my organization. Why I want this person is of
no concern to you. What he has done to earn the wrath of Homeland is also none
of your business. Your only, and I mean only saving grace and chance at
redemption for the tragedy you call commanding a unit is the blind luck or
chance that led this person to you. He has gone by several aliases in the past,
but the current identity we believe he’s traveling under is one Samuel
Ironfeather. Usually he poses as a law enforcement officer of some branch;
border patrol, state police or U.S. Marshals have all been used in the past. I
want him alive. I want him alive just long enough to look him in the eyes
before I put a bullet in his brain.”

Estes noticed the colonel shift nervously in his seat, the
fear still showing on his face but also a glimmer of hope.

The suit continued, “So, that brings us full circle to right here,
right now. I want a yes or no answer. Do you have this person I seek, and is he
still alive?”

Estes watched as the colonel appeared torn. Uncertainty mixed
with excitement and fear showed plainly on his face.

The suit looked at his escort and nodded. She approached
quietly, the stainless steel pistol with the silencer already threaded on
magically appearing in her hand.

“My patience is at an end, Colonel.”

Estes stood silent as Colonel Jordan noticed the approaching Amazon.
Practically vibrating in his chair the colonel shouted, “SIR, PERMISSION TO
SPEAK FREELY SIR.”

With a sigh of disgust the DHS suit held up a hand to stop
the advancing red-haired assassin. “You’ve got thirty seconds to live Colonel,
make the most of it.”

“Sir, yes sir. It is the colonel’s belief that he has an
individual fitting the description of the one you are searching for. This man
has been in holding at the colonel’s orders awaiting execution for treason. The
order for termination was given by agent Loomis of the Department of Homeland
Security. The order was to be carried out today at 0930.”

“What time is it now, Lieutenant Estes?” the Amazon asked.

Estes looked down at his watch, then quickly up, unavoidably
catching the colonel’s eyes as he did. “O942, sir.”

“Lieutenant Estes, get on the radio right now and find out if
the termination order has been carried out. If it hasn’t, which wouldn’t
surprise me considering the sloppy way this unit has been commanded, I want you
to stop it and have the prisoner returned to his cell or wherever it is that
you’re keeping him,” the suit said.

“Yes sir,” Estes replied, already moving toward the group of tables
with the COM system set up on.

Keying the microphone, Estes said, “
Gamma One base to all
units, Gamma One  base to all units, security detail Tango Three, report in
immediately, repeat, security detail Tango Three . . . report in immediately
.”

“Tango Three?  What’s that?” the suit asked.

“It’s one of the colonel’s . . . ah . . .” Estes hesitated
out of habit, catching a murderous glimpse from the colonel.

“Out with it Lieutenant, don’t make me ask again.” This time
the suit’s voice matched the impatience in his eyes.

“Sir, Tango Three is a group of handpicked soldiers assembled
by Colonel Jordan. Regular army sir. They answer only to the colonel and . . .
seem to be exempt from normal military routine.”
Or discipline,
Estes thought.
His answer seemed canned, not only to him, but everybody else in the room as
well.

“Speak freely lieutenant . . . and quickly.” This time it was
the red-haired bodyguard who spoke, approaching silently from his seven o’clock
position, stopping just in range of his full peripheral vision. Estes noticed
that the silver pistol no longer had the cylindrical noise suppressor threaded
onto the end of its barrel. The same barrel that was both innocently and
menacingly angled in his general direction.

“YES SIR!  Tango Three is the code name for a trio of heavy
handed assholes that Colonel Jordan has been using for his dirty work,” Estes
snapped.

“
Gamma One, Gamma One, this is patrol scouts Echo Bravo
Niner, we have eyes on unit Tango Three. They do not appear to have COM
equipment and are probably unable to report in
.” The sound quality of the
replying unit was amazingly good considering the diminutive size of the
speakers flanking the radio area.

“
Roger that Echo Bravo Niner, what is Tango Three’s
location
?” Estes keyed the microphone and spoke.

“
They are walking across the courtyard by the gym, over
.”

Estes quickly mashed the transmit button down and said, “
Which
way
?”

After a small delay the voice echoed back, “
Ah . . . say
again Gamma One, what do you mean
?”

Ignoring their call sign, Estes practically jumped through the
radio. “
Which way are they walking . . . are they walking toward the gym or
away from it
?”

“
Gamma One, patrol scouts Echo Bravo Niner has eyes on Tango
Three walking toward, repeat toward the gym
.”

Estes turned towards the suit and said, “In the back of the
gym there’s a couple of rooms where the athletic equipment is kept. The front
part of the rooms have interlocked wire fencing with a service window to pass
the equipment in and out. They call ‘em cages. And right now they are. That’s
where the colonel keeps . . . people.”

The suit nodded and spoke. “Tell the patrol scouts to have Tango
Three stop and hold position effective immediately. Colonel Jordan’s orders. If
they don’t comply, the patrol is authorized to use any means necessary, including
deadly force.”

Estes nodded and immediately relayed the command.

Another moment of silence passed before the speaker blared to
life again. “
Roger that, Gamma One
.”

Estes watched and waited silently as the next thirty seconds
ticked several years worth of life away from the sweating and shaking colonel.

“
Gamma One, Gamma One, patrol scouts Echo Bravo Niner have
detained Tango Three unit in the tunnel. They are requesting to speak directly
to Colonel Jordan, over
.”

“Where is the tunnel?” the suit asked.

“It’s a short concrete hallway that goes from the back of the
gymnasium to the cages, sir,” Estes said.

The suit nodded and turned his attention back to Colonel
Jordan. “Well, it looks like you have a temporary stay of execution, Colonel. But
keep in mind it’s only because I want my target dead more than I want you dead.
So what you’re going to do is get off of your ass and over to that radio. And
you’re going to order your goon squad to sit tight, understand?”

“YES SIR!” Colonel Jordan shouted.

“Miss Frost, will you escort the colonel to the radio and
make sure that he gives the correct orders?”

Estes watched as the flame-haired bodyguard glided over to
Colonel Jordan, and with a slight tilt of her head had him moving up and out of
the chair towards the radio equipment.

“Lieutenant, you’re with me,” the suit stated as his compact
frame swiveled and walked towards the door.

“Yes sir,” Estes said while following.

Once out in the hallway, the DHS suit quietly clicked the
door to Colonel Jordan’s office shut, walked the twenty feet out to where the
hallway intersected with the main concourse and looked both ways. Apparently
satisfied he motioned Estes over. Estes stood at attention while the suit
stared at him.

After a pause too long for Estes’s blood pressure to remain
stable, the suit finally spoke. “Lieutenant, I am a man of my word, and I
believe a man of good judgment also. You seem to me like a straight shooter, so
I need to ask you a few questions son, and I’m not looking for any bullshit,
just your honest gut feeling, OK?”

“Yes sir,” Estes fired off quickly.

“And keep your voice down a bit, this conversation is between
you and I, not the rest of the world, understand?”

“Yes sir.” Estes met the suit’s gray eyes and nodded as he
answered a bit more softly.

“Good. Now the first thing I want to know is who is second in
command.”

Estes answered. “Sir, Major Larrabee is the second highest
ranking officer in this unit, but he isn’t due to transfer in until this
evening.”

“And this Major Larrabee, is he the colonel’s right hand man
in all ways?” The suit was watching Estes carefully as he asked.

“No sir, Major Larrabee thinks the colonel is a useless prick
who should be forced to retire at the earliest possible convenience . . . or so
the scuttlebutt says, sir.”

“Mmmm, well maybe we can help that along,” the suit said. He
continued, “Lieutenant, do you think you could find six or seven hard charging
soldiers who share the same commitment and integrity as yourself?”

Estes nodded immediately and said, “Yes sir, I will personally
vouch for my entire squad.”

“How long will it take you to round them all up and get them
here?” the suit asked.

“Can I use the radio, sir?”

“No, for now I want to keep this a little quieter.”

“In that case sir, it will take me about twenty minutes,”
Estes replied.

The steel-eyed man stared hard at Estes for a few moments
before speaking. “Make it happen, lieutenant.”

“Sir, yes sir,” Estes said as he threw a crisp salute before
turning and sprinting down the hallway.