Off the Grid (A Gerrit O'Rourke Novel) (20 page)

“Ain’t it a trip, Mr. G? I get paid to go into rich folk’s homes, rummage through their hardware, and install security systems so guys like me don’t break in. And they pay me good money to boot.”

“Where do you ‘rummage through their hardware,’ Willy?”

“Oh, Mr. J moved me back to Virginia, just outside D.C., where we operate the company. Gives us a cover to do what we really are about—going after guys like Kane.” He started to put the headphones back on. “Can you imagine a guy like me living in the same hood as all those white crackers?”

“Hey, Willy. Mr. J taught you better than that. And so did I.” Alena’s face took on a stern look.

“Sorry. I know—turn the other cheek. WWJD. I’ve got a ways to go.” He shot her a smile before inserting the earplugs and wrapping himself up in his music.

“WWJD?”

She turned to Gerrit again. “You know…What Would Jesus Do?”

He looked away. “So, you’re a—”

“Follower of Jesus. I confess I am. Does that bother you?”

He shrugged. “I think whatever gets you through the night is okay with me, Alena. Just not my cup of tea.”

“You don’t believe in God?”

“I didn’t say that. I come from a scientific background—my folks raised me that way, and my experience and education is based upon hard, irrefutable facts. God is not a quantified entity I can prove. And if He exists, I don’t think He and I would ever see eye to eye.”

“Why don’t you think you could relate to God?” She seemed genuinely interested in his answer.

“Because the world’s not geared up for turning the other cheek or loving your neighbor. It’s about getting ahead, protecting your own interests, and getting what you can now—because there is no tomorrow.”

“What if God showed you otherwise?”

“If He comes down off His mountain and shows me a better way—I might listen. So far that hasn’t happened, and all I’ve seen in this world is pain and death.”

“You mean like your parents?”

“Yeah, like my folks, your folks, and hundreds of others I’ve seen killed, tortured, or victimized. So short answer: God goes His way; I go mine.” Gerrit paused for a moment. “Now, tell me about Redneck. How does he connect to this…family?”

It seemed to take Alena a moment to focus on his question, seemingly troubled by what he just said. She glanced toward the cockpit where Joe and Redneck sat. “Our gentle giant is not what he appears to be.”

“You mean a white racist with a low IQ? I saw the prison tats.”

Alena frowned. “Looks can be deceiving. Yes, he used to be caught up in all that. But he has changed, and let me tell you—this guy is a walking calculator. He can figure out complicated flight plans in his head or take a look at a set of books and quickly pinpoint any errors. And you never want to have to go up against him—his street-fighting skills would make Muhammed Ali quiver.”

“How did he connect with you and Joe?”

“It was Joe. Back when Joe still lived in Chicago, he came across Redneck in an alley, facing off against three other attackers. Joe grabbed a two-by-four and waded in to protect him. After it was all over, they became friends. First a beer here and a lunch there. Then the more they hung around each other, the more he grew on Joe.

“Redneck was trying to go straight at the time. I will let him tell you about that part of his life if he chooses. Anyway, Joe saw potential in this guy, made a few phone calls, and got him hooked up with an accounting firm.”

“An accounting firm? You gotta be kidding.”

“I told you he has a mind for numbers. After a few years, Redneck started his own accounting service with Joe’s help, and they stayed in touch ever since. After Joe…had to leave Chicago, he reached out to let Redneck know he was okay. Redneck wanted to help pay back what Joe did for him. So here we are—a muscle-bound accountant who can fly planes and toss people around with hardly any effort at all.”

Gerrit looked over at Willy, then at Joe and Redneck in the cockpit. “This is certainly a strange group. Which just leaves you. So, what’s your story, Alena? You a race-car driver? A belly dancer?”

Alena laid her head back and closed her eyes. “Maybe I will tell you sometime. Right now, I need to rest. We are going to be quite busy very soon.”

He looked at the ceiling for a moment and then out the double-paned window. The Pacific Ocean glistened off to his right. The sky was an ocean of blue, allowing him to see far into the distance. Glancing across the aisle, he saw Mt. Hood, capped with snow, off to his left.

He started to ask Alena one more question, but she was already asleep. He watched her breathing for a moment, slow and rhythmic. Her brow furrowed.

What are you hiding, mystery lady?
And why were you watching over me all these years?

Gerrit settled back to rest until the end of the flight, determined to find out all he could about this mystery woman. In a few minutes, he felt himself slip into another world, darker and more sinister.

A wicked, twisty path led him down the face of a cliff, rocky shale making each step treacherous. Above, bare trees stood dark against a star-pocked sky, like angels of death pronouncing sentence upon his soul. Their gnarled limbs twisted out in agony as they struggled to pull him back into their grasp for final judgment.

Down below, only darkness and a bottomless pit. A familiar voice seemed to be drawing him down into the bowels of the earth, where more voices called out. He had no choice. Angels of death loomed above. A dark abyss lay below.

As he slipped and slid down the rocky slope, something inside compelled him to continue, as if promising answers to all his questions if he would just submit. Give in. Suddenly, his feet gave way, and he began to fall into the deep cavern, screaming.

“Gerrit, wake up.”

He shot his eyes open to see Alena leaning over, shaking his arm.

“You seemed to be having a bad dream.”

Sheepishly, he sat up and stretched his arms. It was the same recurring dream. And it always ended with him falling, pulling him toward what he feared most—that unknown beyond death. This dream began after he visited his parents’ gravesites and continued ever since.

Sleep always came at a cost.

Harrogate, England

R
ichard clutched the phone. “Give me some good news, boy. I’ve got Senator Summers waiting in the lobby.” One of Richard’s contacts just called in about the Seattle murder investigations.

“We got the piece of evidence you wanted hidden at the bomb site before the first units arrived. Just a matter of time before they link the trigger to the Russians. We did everything but stamp
Russia
on it. I don’t know if the feds will release that information or withhold it to verify a suspect’s confession.”

“What about the body?”

“Still unable to identify it, sir. I knew where the explosives were set, but additional charges had been placed around that bed. The body almost vaporized. They’ll be lucky to gather any of the remains. And even if they do, it’s so charred they may not be able to pick up any usable samples for identification—even DNA. It’s like we had two separate explosions that went off simultaneously.”

“Let me know the second they learn anything about the remains. I want assurances that Gerrit was in that house.” Richard lowered his head, frustrated. “And that incident in San Francisco? Have them check all the security cameras, boarding information, everything. I want to know what happened to our people on the ground. I mean, C4 in her purse? Two guys wind up in the head because someone slipped them poison? I want to know who did this. I want them interrogated and disposed of—permanently. Am I clear?”

The man on the line paused before responding. “Sir, we’ve already been over that—the security cameras, travel records, everything. I don’t know whether we will be able to come up with anything.”

“Don’t you dare tell me you can’t find any information on one or more people operating in a highly protected international air terminal. We’ve got all kinds of electronics in those buildings. If need be, use our satellite surveillance feeds to isolate this crew. I want to know who they are.”

“I’ll get right on it, sir.”

“There has to be a connection between Gerrit and what we’re trying to do. I know his uncle is still out there somewhere hiding. Did they connect? It’s imperative to know whether Gerrit is dead. Alive…he is serious trouble.”

He slammed the phone down and yelled to his assistant through the closed door. He jerked his head toward the ceiling when his assistant poked his head in. “Senator Summers is upstairs in the lobby. Escort him directly to my office. Don’t let him take any detours.”

The assistant nodded and slipped out of the room.

Richard leaned back in his chair, trying to calm down. So much at stake here, and too many unresolved issues. No matter how hard he exerted control over this operation, people seemed incapable of giving him any resolution to these matters. How hard would it be to determine whether that body was Gerrit’s?

What if his suspicions became a reality? What if Gerrit is still alive?

He jumped up and closed the door to his office, then returned to his desk and snatched up the phone. He redialed the same number he’d called minutes earlier. The same voice came on the line.

“Look, let’s assume that Gerrit is alive.”

“But he—”

“Shut up and listen. If he’s still alive, then he had help. Go back to the first bombing where his uncle disappeared in Seattle. Take that man’s life apart. Check every contact, every move he made, leading up to Gerrit’s parents’ deaths. I want to know everybody and anybody Joe O’Rourke may have contacted when he started running. I want to know where he landed in his efforts to hide, who helped him.”

“That’s going to take—”

“I don’t care about anything but tracking these guys down. We need to eliminate any exposure to our project. Get on this right now.”

A sharp rap on the door made him turn toward the sound. “Got to go. Let me know what you find.” He hung up the phone. “Come in.”

A haggard-looking John Summers entered the room as Richard came around the desk, extending his hand. “Senator, I am so sorry about Marilynn. Please accept my condolences.”

Summers’s jaw tightened, broadcasting the man’s state of mind. “I don’t need your condolences. I want answers. I want to know how this happened.”

Richard pulled over a chair. “Sit down, John. I’ll tell you what I’ve learned.”

The senator balked. “Tell me you had nothing to do with this. Everywhere I turn, I’m getting stonewalled. Just the way you like to operate.”

A look of shock crossed Richard’s features, an expression he’d cultivated over the years. “I can’t believe you’d think—”

“Save the innocence for someone who might swallow that bull, Kane. I flew all the way to this godforsaken place to meet you face-to-face. I wanted to look into your eyes when I asked this question. Did you have anything to do with Marilynn’s death?”

“John, I swear to you, I had nothing to do with her death. I will do everything in my power to find out who did.”

The senator’s whole body seemed to wilt as he sank into the chair. “Since her mother and I split up years ago, Marilynn was the only family I had left. We’ve had our differences, but I did love her. I had great hopes for her future. And now…this.”

Richard lowered himself in his chair, letting the man talk.

“I can’t get any answers. You’d think the chairman of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence could get information on his own daughter’s murder. DOJ, FBI, Seattle PD, ATF—they’re all giving me the runaround. I want to know who did this.” He seemed to have run out of energy as he studied Richard across the desktop.

Gritting his teeth for control, Richard leaned on the desk, clasping both hands together. “We are looking into this because her death is a great blow to our efforts. I, too, had great hopes for your daughter. She was bright, articulate, and filled with drive that would have taken her anywhere.”

“So what happened?” The senator’s voice softened, his tone almost pleading.

This was not the senator Richard remembered only a week ago. He was like a beaten man. He would have to monitor Summers more closely. If this man fell apart, all of them would have serious exposure. He might jeopardize everything.

“John, here is what I just learned from some of my people on the ground. As I suspected, I believe the three deaths—Marilynn’s, Gerrit’s, and the other cop’s, Mark Taylor—are all related.”

“Who killed my daughter?” The man’s voice sounded hoarse.

“You remember the last case Marilynn worked on? The Russian mob?”

The senator nodded.

“They have found a part of the trigger that set off the explosion in Gerrit’s house. Russian made. And we started picking up other chatter about the dead gang leader’s members. It seems this was clearly retaliation for that gang leader getting killed in San Diego. The shooting Gerrit was involved with just before you met him at the airport in D.C. Marilynn and the others are all tied to this one case.”

John Summers drew himself up, pointing a finger at Richard. “Find those responsible and take them out. I do not want them to wiggle out of it in court someday. Find them. Kill them.”