Off the Grid (A Gerrit O'Rourke Novel) (15 page)

A
roar of an engine woke him up and he started shaking. He found himself struggling to breathe. Alena held him in her arms, her warmth warding off the chilly night. He tried to get his bearings.

She glanced at two others on the boat. “He’s awake. Get us out of here.”

He tried to sit up but felt woozy, pain knifing through his brain.

She pushed him down. “Stay still. You got knocked out and almost drowned. Just rest for now.”

Bones edged over and licked his face. The dog was a survivor.

The motor craft’s bow rose in the air when the motor roared to life. They must have dragged him to the boat. “What happened?”

Alena looked back toward where his house had been. “They rigged your place to blow up on command. A chunk of your house must have struck you in the head. We have to get you out of the area before others come.”

He lay back for a moment, her arm cradling his head. “Who are you people?”

She looked over her shoulder again. “Be patient and we’ll tell you everything. Right now, you need to disappear while there’s still time.”

He tried to raise himself again, but the exertion almost caused him to pass out. “I’ve got to get something I shipped from Vienna. I need to get to it tonight.”

Alena shook her head. “We’ve got to get out of the state. Immediately.”

Once again he tried to sit up. He almost threw up. “I’m not going anywhere until I get my hands on that package. It must not fall into Kane’s hands.”

She let out a breath, obviously annoyed. “Okay, then we get you to safety. Agreed?”

He nodded and lay back down.

As they drew closer to the far shore, the vessel’s engine cut back and the boat feathered alongside a low-lying pier, a black Suburban parked on the wood dock. Alena reached inside her wet suit and withdrew a set of car keys. The vehicle lights came on briefly and the doors popped open when she pressed a button.

Alena’s hefty partner lowered himself next to her, and they lifted Gerrit to his feet. She put one of his arms around her shoulders. “Move slowly.”

He felt dizzy, light-headed. He was in no condition to argue. They eased him onto the wooden pier and into the backseat of the Chevy. Another man operating the boat pushed the vessel away from the pier before disappearing into the blackness with a roar.

As they pulled away in the vehicle, Alena—sitting in the front passenger’s seat—turned toward him. “Tell us where to go.”

He gave directions as they left the lakeside and headed for the outskirts of Seattle.

The man cringed as Kane’s voice screamed over the phone line. “I told you idiots not to move until I gave the order.”

He glanced at his partner next to him in disbelief. “We did not set the charge off. I am sitting right here with the transmitter turned off. I never got a chance to use it.”

“Well, it did not blow up by itself, you imbecile. Did you guys screw up setting the charge?”

“Sir, it just blew up. I can’t tell you anything more.”

“Any witnesses?”

“Not that we can tell. Saw a boat out on the lake, but as soon as everything blew up, the boat hightailed it out there.”

“Who was in the house.”

“Just O’Rourke. The woman left a few minutes before everything went up in smoke.”

“You still have someone on her?”

“Yeah. They’re bumper-locking her as we speak.”

“So she failed?”

“Uh-huh. She said the guy would not change his mind.” The phone line remained silent for a few seconds. “Sir, what do you want us to do?”

Kane’s voice came back, low and terse. “Clean up the mess. You know what you have to do. And take care of the other matter as soon as you leave the area.”

“His partner?”

“Do I have to spell it out for you? Clean up loose ends and get out of the state. Now!”

The man heard the line click and the connection die. He pocketed the phone and turned to his partner. “Let Bravo-Two know to move in and take care of business. We’ve been ordered to clear out and head to our second objective. The boss has a team coming in to shadow the investigation.” He pointed with his chin at the smoking heap of wood and twisted metal below.

Sirens began to wail in the distance. “Here comes the cavalry. Better late than never.” He chuckled as he dumped everything back into a black drop bag. “And we’re out of here.”

G
errit’s body felt like he’d gone fifteen rounds with a heavyweight champion. Head pounding, he eased himself from the backseat of the Suburban and tried to stand. The other two quickly shed their wet suits. They emerged from both sides of the vehicle wearing blue denim trousers and dark shirts. His legs felt weak, and his head throbbed like a madman beating on a set of drums.

“Let me help you,” Alena said, rushing over. She put his arm over her shoulder and supported him as they walked toward the house. He heard the dog’s nails clicking on the concrete.

Tall, scraggly weeds and dry grass in the front yard advertised what this building represented—a dwelling abandoned by foreclosure. An under-the-table agreement between the police department and certain rental agencies allowed detectives to use selected residential housing to put up protected witnesses or give informants a place to crash during short-term sting operations. This was one of those places he and Taylor stashed Gregori before the ferry shooting.

“Reach under the second rock, near the front steps.” He pointed to the right of the concrete steps. “There should be a key.”

Alena’s heavyset partner stooped down, flicked over the rock. “Here it is.” The man sounded like he’d grown up in New York, a heavy Brooklyn accent, a strange contrast to Alena’s Eastern European inflections. The man stood, leaped up the front steps, and popped the door open. He turned back toward them. “Now where?”

Gerrit made his way up the steps with Alena’s help. Once inside, he extricated himself from her grasp and tottered toward a rear bedroom. He dropped to his knees and leaned under a queen-size bed. “Help me move this.”

Once they dragged the bed to one side, he found where loose boards had been pried up. Mark’s handiwork. Yanking up the boards, he saw it—the briefcase he had been given in Vienna. Opening up the case, he sighed with relief when he saw the laptop and thumb drive inside. He closed the case, then glanced up.

“Got it. Now let’s get out of here.”

Alena momentarily eyed the briefcase. “How do you say it here in America? Let’s scram?”

Gerrit smiled. “That’s what we say.” He rose to his feet and then his world turned black again.

Marilynn Summers climbed out of her coupe, closed and locked the door, before activating the alarm. She walked from her assigned parking space in the federal building toward the stairway leading to the lobby.

She began to relax, knowing that once inside she would have complete protection. She knew security cameras recorded her movement right now. Any hint of trouble and security would be running to her aid.

The only unease she felt at the moment had to do with a man a thousand miles away. Richard Kane. He had sent her to change Gerrit’s mind. That was her mission and she failed. Kane did not tolerate failure.

What was he going to do? Shoot her? Daughter of Senator Summers?

I think not, Mr. Kane.

The more she thought about it, the more secure she felt. Being John Summers’s only child brought some perks. Nobody but the senator could mess with her—and survive politically.

Footsteps echoed behind her.

She turned her head to see a man a few yards away. Funny, she had not seen another car enter the garage.

“Ms. Summers?”

She turned toward the voice as the man drew closer and her chest suddenly tightened. Just for an instant she saw a metallic reflection from something in the man’s right hand.

A gun.

Her brain registered an explosive flash. Then pain. Then nothing.

Clearwater River, Idaho

D
aylight streamed through a dusty cabin window when Gerrit finally managed to open his eyes. He tried to remember the details of the ride from Seattle during the night. He must have slipped in and out of consciousness several times. He barely remembered climbing into bed.

Noise from a television drew his attention, his eyes slowly focusing on the screen. A news reporter, mike in hand, stood near where Gerrit’s boathouse once stood.

“A joint local, state, and federal task force investigation continues as authorities sift through what is left of Seattle Police Detective Gerrit O’Rourke’s home. A source close to the investigation revealed that there appears to have been a body inside the residence at the time of the explosion, possibly that of the missing officer. However, investigators refuse to confirm the identity as bomb experts continue to search for clues. A spokesman for SPD did confirm the explosion was intentionally set.”

Gerrit closed his eyes, a headache nagging at the backside of his brain. He reopened them to see that the television screen moved to another crime scene at the Henry M. Jackson Federal Building in Seattle. The garage entrance was taped off, and two uniformed officers stood guard, prohibiting a number of reporters and television camera crews from entering. The same announcer’s voice continued.

“In a related investigation, task-force representatives are looking into the shooting death of federal prosecutor Marilynn Summers, whose father sits as chairman of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. Police say Ms. Summers was shot and killed after she parked her car and began walking toward the U.S. Attorney’s office. And in a third killing— Wait, we just have this in. Seattle Police Department has an announcement to make. We switch you live to Seattle PD headquarters.”

Gerrit raised himself onto one elbow, peering at the television screen, gritting his teeth. A knot developed in his stomach.
A third killing? Oh, God, no.
He seemed to know what was about to be disclosed.

Lieutenant Stan Cromwell, his craggy face tired and angry looking, loomed on the screen. It seemed the lieutenant had aged ten years since Gerrit last saw him. His boss approached a sea of bristling microphones, his broad shoulders rounded and hunched.

Cromwell glared into the camera. “I’m going to make a short statement and I will not answer any questions. Our patrol units were called to a warehouse near the waterfront shortly before nine o’clock this morning. They found the body of Seattle Detective Mark Taylor who has been missing for eight hours. He’d been shot at close range, and there is evidence he had been subjected to torture.” Cromwell’s voice cracked.

Gerrit pounded the bed in anger.
No. No. No.
Mark had nothing to do with anything. Kane reached out and killed his partner just to send a message.
No one ever turns his back on Kane.
Raised voices on the television drew him back to the screen. He watched with clenched fists, a wave of fury pounding his head with pain.

A flurry of voices followed.

The lieutenant waited until everyone quieted down. “Let me finish my statement.”

Silence followed.

Cromwell brushed the corner of his right eye before continuing. “There has been a body recovered from the explosion at SPD Detective Gerrit O’Rourke’s residence. There is no identification on the body; however, it is believed that the remains may be that of our officer. Lastly, we are continuing to investigate—along with the FBI and other state and federal agencies—the shooting death of the federal prosecutor, AUSA Marilynn Summers.”

Cromwell paused and took a swig from his water bottle. All eyes focused on him.

“We’re pursuing all possible leads. The only connection we have at this time in all three deaths is that these victims were connected to a strike force case involving Russian organized crime groups. The primary suspect in that OC case was killed by Detective O’Rourke during the execution of search and arrest warrants in a San Diego, California, residence a few weeks ago. We’re continuing to investigate. There will be no further comments at this time.”

Cromwell turned and walked away. No one seemed brave enough to follow.