Patriots Betrayed (16 page)

Chapter 9

Raylan was up before sunrise. The clamor of traffic just yards from their door woke him. Slipping out of bed without disturbing Carla, he headed for the bathroom. He shaved and took a shower, noting that his hand was free of infection when he pulled the bandage off. He opened a penknife and cut the fishing line stitches. They should’ve come out long before. A tug on each of the cut stitches removed them with no problems. It felt good to get cleaned up. A T-shirt and a thin baggy shirt over it to hide his pistol, complimented the slacks he wore. The bathroom door swung open, and he noticed Carla standing behind him. He spoke while looking at her through the mirror. “I’m done. Go ahead.” He turned and touched her bruised and scratched face, and then edged past her. “Didn’t notice that last night. Looks like you slammed into a limb during our wild ride through the woods yesterday.”

“I’m okay.” Carla eyed him. “You know we can’t stay here long.”

“I know. Take a shower and be ready to travel. I’ll be packing. We’ll grab something to eat on the way out of town.”

She stood in the bathroom, staring at him. “What exactly are your plans now?”

He saw something on her face that made him wonder if she was asking an entirely different kind of question that demanded an entirely different kind of answer from the one he planned to give her. “Dump the bikes and get a new ride. Evade until we can get out of the area and break any trail that can lead them to us again. I think we’ve struck back enough now. Hell, we’ve cut the crooked politicos’ cash flow drastically by killing most of their clients. They still, of course, have the deepest pocket of all – the American taxpayers, but their backdoor payoffs from the Mob have been really hurt.”

“That’s not what I meant. What about after we’ve shaken them off our trail and we think we’ve survived to live a little longer?”

“Well, that’s up to you. I hope you decide to stay with me. Together, we have about ten times as much of a chance as we do separate and alone.”

She had kept her eyes on him while he talked. She nodded and swung the door to close it, until he put his hand out. They stood there and didn’t say a word for several seconds.

Raylan broke the silence. “The way I see it, well, why should we be alone? I like you, always have. And you’re not hard on the eyes. We’ve gotten along okay under stress without going at each other’s throat. Besides, who else am I going to find who understands what I’ve been through and why I’ve done what I’ve done? You’re also the only one I can talk about my past with.” He motioned with his hand between them. “And that last part works both ways.”

Her face softened, and she reached out and lightly touched his. “I agree. We’re kind of stuck with each other.” She kept her eyes on him as she slowly closed the door, a smile on her face.

He spoke through the door. “And you’re not bad in the sack, either.”

Carla could hear Raylan loading magazines for the heavy fifty and his M4. She looked in the mirror. The discoloration on her cheek was noticeable, and probably would be for at least another couple of days. The scratches were deep enough it would take longer to heal. She’d need to get some makeup from her kit to cover it. She showered fast and emerged from the shower looking refreshed, but bone-weary from their fight for survival. The last few days had been especially hard on her. Being hunted required twenty-four/seven vigilance, and there was no way to prevent it from wearing her down over time.

She opened the bathroom door.

Raylan looked up from putting the last magazine in his pack. “There’s a newsstand at the other end of the parking lot. I’ll go get a paper, and we can check on the big lie of the day.”

She finished dressing and then packed. A quick peek in the motorcycle’s tanks told her they had plenty of gas to get out of town.

Raylan returned and scanned the front page of the paper while standing at the closed door. It had extensive coverage of the road ambush and the attack on the compound before. All painted as Mob violence, with speculations about Mob kingpins battling for supremacy. There was no mention of CIA involvement, and no questions were asked as to why local law enforcement was providing security for international Mob syndicates. Another blaring absence that Raylan noticed was no mention of Carla or him as the culprits. The reports claimed a small army of mobsters was involved in the attack.

Photos of the bullet-riddled SUVs and cars covered much of the first page, as did several grisly crime scene photos of dried blood on the road, proof the reporters were not allowed on the scene until long after it had been sterilized. He turned the page.

“Well?” Carla asked. She slipped her pistol into its holster.

“They’re keeping quiet about our involvement. Just a Mob hit, they say.” Raylan turned pale, his eyes racing across the page as he sat down on the bed.

“What is it?”

He handed her the paper. “The pilot of the chopper I shot down was severely injured. He may not live. Another cop was injured but not seriously.”

She didn’t bother to check the paper. Her eyes were on him. “I’m sorry, but we’re fighting for our lives, and we’re not the ones who involved the police, the company did.” She put her hand on his shoulder. “We had to take down that chopper, if we were to have any chance of getting away.”

He nodded, pretending it didn’t bother him. “Yeah. There’s no time to cry about it now. We were lucky at the bank; no bystanders caught a stray bullet. We can’t be that lucky every time. Let’s leave this place behind us.” They walked the motorcycles out the door onto the parking lot. In a few minutes, they were doing sixty down a backcountry road.

~~~

Janowski’s eyes widened. His white-knuckle grip on the phone caused tremors in his right arm. “Give me the names of those lost.” As the names were revealed to him, rage became terror. “The syndicate is in danger! It’s been precariously weakened. The payoffs to thousands of government officials and leaders have been shouldered equally among the whole group, but now there are so few, and the greedy hands are still extended. They only care about our money and will insist on the regular payments. There is no way the few of us left can pay the monthly overhead. And when we’re late on the payments, expect shipment losses and arrests of our employees. Eyes that have been miraculously blind over the years will suddenly see crimes committed under their noses again.” He got a grip on himself as the thought came to him he was revealing way too much of his fears and worries.
Never let anyone know what you’re really thinking. Keep them guessing.

Pierre Ladue, the man he was talking with, had a long history of uneasy cooperation with Janowski in a multitude of criminal endeavors and had always proven himself to be as much of an ally as anyone could be in the dirty business of white slavery, drugs, and illegal arms, but Janowski knew through long, painful experience there was no such thing as a friend in this world. He had been informed Ladue was not going to be at the meeting in the U.S., because Ladue had pressing issues to deal with in Germany and he had thought nothing of it at the time, but at the moment, suspicions raced through his mind.

Ladue had an enterprise almost as large and profitable as Janowski’s. What Janowski was in the former Soviet Union Ladue was in France, the UK, and Germany, though he was nowhere near as violent and tried to keep a much lower profile, so as not to cause undue political pressure on the officials from which he purchased protection or at least a blind eye. His area of operations was nowhere near as dangerous as Janowski’s, and the two men had very different life histories and backgrounds. Ladue didn’t have a third of the professional killers Janowski had under his employ. He just didn’t have the need for them. Blood was expensive, and Ladue’s overhead was a lot lower, because he didn’t operate in a world quite as violent as Janowski’s, even though it was just as immoral and illegal. Though less bloody in his ways, Ladue was the more sophisticated man, and was known to be a dangerous adversary out of sheer cunning, whereas Janowski was dangerous out of sheer willingness to kill. When they worked together, which wasn’t that often because they had incompatible personalities like matter and antimatter trying to occupy the same space, the result was tens of millions in profit. Most of the time, they just stayed out of each other’s way, and that worked well enough, but occasionally they managed to work together to take advantage of an opportunity. They had learned to use liaisons on such occasions to insulate their incompatible personalities from each other, but this was too important a development to not speak man-to-man, if only over the phone.

Ladue took advantage of the break in Janowski’s outburst. “Yes, there is risk, but there is also opportunity, my friend.”

“I know what you’re thinking.” Janowski had calmed, but the edge was still in his voice. “The problem is I don’t have the funds for that kind of massive expansion of my organization at the moment, and I doubt you do either. The officials must be paid. Without protection, the cost of business would be too high. Too many shipments would be lost.”

Ladue’s voice became even calmer and more soft-toned. “I have an idea that we should talk over, but not this way and not now. I will say only this for the moment: You must take care of the two thorns in our side soon. If that doesn’t happen, our discussion will never take place. Get that done; then we’ll talk.”

He hung up.

Janowski slammed the phone down. He had more to say and didn’t appreciate being hung up on. “The little French prick,” he muttered. “He’s a smart little bastard, though. I wonder what he’s up to. Whatever it is, I’d better watch my back.” He lumbered to his office door and swung it open. A hulking guard outside turned, his face expectant, waiting for an order. “Get a security team together. The best I’ve got. And tell them to prepare for travel. Have everyone at my jet waiting for me in less than two hours. Also, notify my American security people to be ready for our arrival.”

Janowski turned and headed for the bar. After belting down a stiff drink, he looked out the window at the Moscow traffic below.
I will take care of these two CIA killers myself. Then Pierre and I will talk.
His face contorted from hatred when he thought of Yule Keevlof and his failures.
You’re lucky, Yule. You died quick and painless, along with those you were charged to protect. The CIA killers just might not be so lucky. If taken alive, their screams will last for hours.

~~~

After traveling all day and half the night, Raylan and Carla checked in another motel, using the same tactic as before. As far as the manager was concerned, it was just a woman traveling alone, who had come by cab. No man and no motorcycles, nothing to tie them to a couple wanted for treason and murder.

They made use of the bathroom, slept for three hours, and snuck out of the motel. In thirty minutes, they were on the outskirts of town, heading northwest. They were low on money and had no particular destination, just away, far away. When the money ran out, they would have to look for work, using their last untainted aliases. The million deposited in the Bahamas bank was out of reach. At least for the time being. A kill team was surely waiting for them to show up. They could have it transferred to another bank anywhere in the world, but CIA computer hackers would know, and a team would be waiting. There were ways they could get some of the money without getting killed, but that would have to wait.

Since being forced to find work to earn money, or steal it in a desperate robbery, was one of the most common ways fugitives were caught by the police, Raylan kept his mind busy as he rode. He would much rather they had money to live on and travel with. Certainly, they needed a new ride. Those hunting them knew they were on motorcycles, as the helicopter crew had seen them, and they had to dump them soon. Maybe they
could
get their hands on some of that million without getting killed. He had enough left in his money belt to last a while, but they were going to be on the run a long time, at least he hoped so. The alternative was bleak. They needed cash, untraceable, anonymity providing, no-questions-asked cash.

Raylan and Carla blew through Tennessee and Arkansas, enduring several thunderstorms, shivering in their wet clothes at highway speeds. At sunrise one morning, they turned north and entered Missouri, where they found a motel and enjoyed a much needed shower and rest. After a sunset meal, they were on the road again. They didn’t leave the highway until they pulled into Topeka, Kansas. Another motel stop and they hit the local streets, this time to look up a bank and an Internet cafe.

Carla stayed with the bikes, while Raylan paid for half an hour on the Net. He found a computer in a back corner, looking for as much privacy as possible. He logged onto his Bahamas bank account. He had a fake corporation registered in Florida, and a bank account with little money in it in the name of that corporation. First, he transferred exactly one million dollars to his Florida corporate account, then he had it transferred to an old account he had in the UK under an alias he hadn’t used lately, a Frank Branston. It just so happened a Frank Branston had opened an account in Topeka that morning. Finally, he had the million transferred to that account. It would take the CIA techies a while to hack into so many bank records in so many different countries and track his money to its destination.

~~~

The next day, Carla helped Raylan with a disguise that didn’t add years to his age, but would actually make him appear a little younger and better-looking. He entered the bank and asked to speak to the manager.

“Is there a problem with your account?” the thirty-something blonde teller asked. She pulled her eyebrows together and eyed him with suspicion.

He smiled in an effort to reassure her he had no complaints about her service. “I’m still waiting for my debit card and checks to arrive, so I would like to make a withdrawal.”

“I can handle that. I just need your driver license and account number.”

“It’s a rather large sum, and I would like to have the manager handle it.”