Myrmidon (5 page)

 

CHAPTER ELEVEN

C
hapel crossed one last dirt road and came to the first of the warehouses, a tall, brick building that dwarfed the white houses. A real road led up to its loading bays, presumably so trucks could come in and take on shipments of machine parts. Chapel hurried across the pavement and climbed up onto a waist-­high platform in front of a rolling door. “Open this up,” he said.

“All right,” Belcher said. He climbed up beside Chapel and pressed a button on the side of the door. “It's never locked. No thieves here in Kendred, after all.”

Chapel shook his head and waited for the door to open. Beyond lay the interior of the warehouse, a shadowy, cool space lined with row after row of shelves. A wide space in the middle of the room was more open but still partially filled, with big wooden crates.

Chapel recognized those crates. They were big enough to hold twenty rifles each. Stamped on the side of each one in Cyrillic characters was the legend
AVTOMAT KALASHNIKOVA.
He'd seen crates exactly like them in Ygor Favorov's basement. They were the crates he'd come to find.

“This is it, Belcher. This is where we make our deal. Or I leave here, and I don't come back—­but a ­couple hundred of my friends, those jackbooted thugs that scare you so much, come in my place.”

“All right,” Belcher said.

“All right? You're ready to hear my terms?”

“I am.” Belcher looked surprisingly calm.

Chapel tried not to let it ruffle him. “Fine. Then here's the deal. We take all the guns out of here and destroy them. We'll try to do it in a polite fashion, but there will have to be inspectors in here verifying we got every last rifle, and that'll take some time. You agree not to harass or deter our ­people, and you don't hold out on us.”

“That's fine,” Belcher said. “What do I get in return?”

Chapel shook his head. “Much as I don't like it, you get a free pass.”

“I'm sorry?”

“No prosecution. At least, not for gun charges—­we don't send you to jail for illegally obtaining the rifles. We pretend like you never bought them, and they were never here.”

Belcher lifted his free arm and let it fall again to his side. “Doesn't seem much in the way of compensation. Those guns weren't cheap.”

“You must have known where they were coming from when you bought them. We're not going to pay you back for them,” Chapel told him. “That's ludicrous.”

“Maybe not fair market value, I understand,” Belcher said, nodding. “But I should get at least a little something for my cooperation, shouldn't I?”

“I'm not here to bargain. I'm here to tell you how it's going to happen, that's all. Either you let me take those crates out of here quietly, or we blow them to smithereens.”

Belcher rubbed his chin as if he were thinking it over. “Those crates? You can have those crates. I've got no use for the crates, now.”

Chapel's heart sank in his chest. He ran over to the stack of crates and pushed back its lid. As he'd thought, the crate was empty. He went to the next crate over and lifted its lid. Empty.

“Very funny,” Chapel said. “Where are the rifles? In another warehouse? Or no—­I get it now. The reason you showed me the children. You've got the guns stashed in all those houses, don't you? So we can't destroy them without putting your children at risk. That's a pretty lousy move.”

Belcher shook his head. “No, not there, either. You can look if you like. You can look inside any building in Kendred, and I guarantee you won't find any AK-­47 rifles.”

Chapel bit back the first words that came to mind, most of which were obscene. “You knew it would come to this. That we would come looking for the rifles. You thought this would be your chance for a big payday. Am I right?”

“Afraid not,” Belcher said. “Now, I've heard you out. I've heard what you're selling. You want to hear my counteroffer?”

Someone moved behind Chapel—­he could feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He spun around and saw Andre and Charlie back there, standing between him and the door of the loading dock. Andre had his hunting rifle up, the barrel pointed right at Chapel's face. Charlie was down in a fighter's crouch, ready to grab Chapel if he tried to make a run for it.

He heard a metallic click behind him and turned again, this time to see Belcher loading shells into the shotgun he carried.

“My offer is this,” Belcher said. “You take out your sidearm and lay it carefully on the floor, or we fill you full of holes right here.”

 

CHAPTER TWELVE

C
hapel had to admit when he'd been beaten. He saw it all at once—­how Belcher had manipulated him. “Nice. You got me angry, got me frustrated. Got me to stop thinking through every move. You knew if you pushed my buttons enough—­and gave me crates to play with—­I would come in here. Under this roof.”

“Where your little drone friend can't see you,” Belcher confirmed. “I believe I asked you to relinquish your weapon.”

Chapel nodded. Very slowly, very carefully he drew his pistol and held it up by the barrel. Bending low, he placed it on the concrete floor.

“Kick it over to me,” Belcher said. “No theatrics, now.”

Chapel did as he was told. The pistol skittered and scraped over the concrete. Belcher stepped forward and put his foot on top of it, leaving it where it lay.

“Charlie,” he said, “search the agent. Make sure he doesn't have any other weapons or listening devices.”

The big, tattooed man was thorough and quick about it. He took Chapel's wallet and the keys to the rental SUV and stuffed them in his own pockets. When he got to Chapel's shoulder, he grunted in surprise. “Something wrong with his arm,” he said.

“There's nothing wrong with it. It's just a prosthesis,” Chapel told him.

Belcher raised an eyebrow. “Pretty convincing. Does it have a built-­in microphone? Does it launch tiny little missiles from the fingers?”

“No. It just does what my other arm does.”

Belcher nodded. “Let him keep it for now. Agent, why don't you have a seat on the floor there and put your hands on your head.”

Chapel complied, maintaining eye contact with Belcher the whole time. “I thought you were smarter than this.”

Belcher ignored him for the moment. Once Chapel was sitting down, he bent over and retrieved Chapel's pistol, checked the safety, and put it in his pocket. “Andre,” he said, “I think you know what comes next. Go and tell the others.”

Chapel couldn't see Andre's face—­he was standing behind Chapel—­but he could hear the stammer in Andre's voice. “It's . . . it's time? Really?”

“This is what we've been waiting for. Go on, now. Charlie can back me up here.”

“Hot damn,” Andre said. Chapel could hear him run out of the warehouse, his boots slapping on the concrete floor.

“This won't work,” Chapel said.

Belcher nodded but didn't reply.

“If I don't come out of this warehouse in an hour—­and make the right signal that the drone can see—­the whole weight of the US military is going to come crushing down on your little racist town, Belcher. You wanted to keep your kids safe? This is the worst thing you could have done. But it's not too late. You can—­”

Belcher nodded at Charlie, and the big tattooed man came up behind Chapel and put a thick arm around his throat, choking off his airway. Charlie pulled upward like he wanted to pull Chapel's head off his neck. Chapel had no option but to stand up, his shoes kicking at the floor. His vision started to go red, and he felt his chest heave for breath.

The Rangers had trained him for this exact situation, drilling him endlessly in combative moves to escape even a sleeper hold. He shot his left elbow backward, straight into Charlie's groin, and immediately felt the big man's grip loosen. But apparently Charlie had been in a few fights before, himself. He stepped backward, pulling Chapel with him and keeping Chapel from getting his feet planted on the floor. He made a fist of his free hand and pounded Chapel hard in the kidney—­a move that could kill if it ruptured a blood vessel. Chapel felt his head reel from the pain and thought he might throw up, but he still refused to submit, reaching up with both hands to grab the back of Charlie's neck, trying to bring the big man down, so he could get his footing.

Then he stopped, because Belcher had come forward and stuck both barrels of his shotgun into Chapel's stomach.

“I need you alive,” Belcher said, “but you can survive with half a colon. Maybe now it's your turn to cooperate.”

Chapel lifted his hands in front of him, calculating the odds. If he could grab the shotgun and twist it to the side, so its blast struck Charlie instead—­

Unlikely. Belcher was ready for something like that. He would probably pull the triggers the second Chapel started to move.

So instead, he lifted his hands higher, in surrender.

Charlie squeezed his neck, hard, and Chapel fell into unconsciousness in seconds.

 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

C
hapel woke to feel hands dragging him, pulling him through a narrow opening. Sunlight flickered across his eyelids, and he opened his eyes, not without some effort. His arms felt sore, so he wriggled them and found he couldn't move them at all.

“Stop squirming,” Belcher said. It was Belcher who was dragging him, pulling him out of a car door. His belt snagged on something, but then it pulled free, and he felt himself falling, tumbling into the dirt.

He was bound. Belcher hadn't just tied his hands—­Chapel knew a way to get out of that kind of restriction, using his artificial arm. Instead, he'd been tied up cowboy style, with a rope wrapped around and around his torso, pinning his arms to his sides. It had been done well, and Chapel knew he couldn't wriggle out of it.

“What the hell are you thinking?” Chapel asked. “You can't tell me you've really thought this through.”

“You'd be surprised.”

Chapel rolled over on his side, trying to get his bearings. He'd been driven out into the desert maybe a quarter mile from the town—­he could see the white houses off in the distance. He was on top of a low rise on the far side of the town from the road, a place with a good view of a lot of nothing. A single tree stood out from the top of the rise, and in its wavering shade stood a block of granite that looked like a gravestone.

Chapel doubted very much that he'd been brought up here to be buried. Belcher had said he needed Chapel alive, and Chapel had no reason to doubt it. But what, in fact, they were doing up on the rise he had no idea.

Belcher reached down and grabbed the rope that bound Chapel. He grunted and swore as he dragged Chapel a few feet farther through the dust. Then he lifted Chapel's shoulders and helped him sit up.

“You were only out a little while. Long enough for us to get ready.” Belcher pointed over at the town, and Chapel saw cars and trucks moving between the white houses. It looked like every single person in town was out and moving, loading up the vehicles with long boxes or steel drums, or just running from one place to another. Chapel could see a bunch of children being herded into one of the warehouses by a blond woman, while other women headed over to the clinic building.

“You're evacuating?” Chapel asked. “Getting everyone to safety before the troops arrive?”

Belcher grinned. “Not exactly. I want to thank you, Agent. I've been waiting a real long time for somebody like you, somebody to come along and give me the kick in the backside I needed. The somebody who would tell me my time had come.”

Chapel had no idea what Belcher was talking about, and he had no interest in riddles. “You plan on going down fighting?” he asked.

“How about you worry a little less about what I have planned?” Belcher asked. “I would think you'd have more important things to worry about. Like what's going to happen to you.”

“I'm not worried about that,” Chapel said.

“No? Given your current predicament—­”

“Not as long as my drone is still up there,” Chapel interrupted. The Predator was still circling the town, giving no sign it had seen anything out of the ordinary. It didn't need to. Chapel was certain Angel had already spotted him and knew he was in trouble. She would already have put out the call for help.

“Huh,” Belcher said. “Yeah, I guess that thing's served its purpose.” He took a cell phone out of his pocket and sent a quick message.

Down in the town someone—­it might have been Andre, but at that distance Chapel couldn't see the mustache tattoo—­stood up in the bed of a pickup. Then he hefted a big tube onto his shoulder and pointed it at the drone. A line of smoke jumped out of the tube's mouth, and, a moment later, the drone exploded in midair, bits of it pinwheeling in every direction and seeming to hang in midair for a moment before they started to rain back down to earth.

Chapel knew that wasn't Angel up there—­the drone had just been a machine—­but he couldn't help wincing as if it were his operator who had been blown up, not just some very expensive military hardware.

“Was that a Stinger missile?” he asked.

“Favorov wasn't the only arms dealer I bought from,” Belcher explained.

Chapel shook his head. “You really think that helps anything?”

Belcher came and squatted next to Chapel, so they could speak face-­to-­face. “You seen anything since you got here makes you think I'm an idiot?” he asked. Chapel didn't answer, but Belcher didn't seem to need a reply. “I was army, just like you. I know how this works. Your bosses in Washington, DC, saw that, sure. They probably saw me haul your heavy ass out of that warehouse fifteen minutes ago. But I figure they weren't expecting this.”

“Oh?”

“You came out here thinking you could talk me into just handing the rifles over if you talked tough enough. But I could tell—­the reason you came alone was you wanted to do it quietly. I don't know why you need those guns back now, but you do, very badly, and you need to make sure nobody finds out they were ever here. Don't bother telling me if I'm right, I know I am. That means you don't have an infantry battalion waiting just over the next hill. I'm sure now that things have gone sideways, your ­people will start mobilizing everything they've got to get you back. In fact, I'm counting on their doing just that—­I hope they send every goddamned soldier in Colorado after me. But I also know how long it takes the army to do anything. They'll have to get orders from DC. Then they'll have to send those orders down the chain of command. Then they'll have to muster the troops, arrange transportation for them, issue them weapons . . . it's gonna be an hour or two before they can even get a helicopter out here to take a look. I've got time to do what I need to do. Just.”

Chapel knew Belcher was pretty much right. The need for complete secrecy on this mission had meant Hollingshead couldn't let the local armed forces bases in Colorado even know that Chapel was in their state, much less give them orders to stand by in case they were needed. Help would be slow in coming, indeed.

“What if you're wrong?” Chapel asked. “What if they move faster than expected?”

Belcher waved a hand in front of his face as if Chapel's protestations were flies that merely annoyed him. “Then I die early, and everything I've built over the last fifteen years will have been for nothing.” He shrugged. “You can plan for everything, you can plan for anything, but sometimes planning isn't enough. I'll take my chances.”