Patriots Betrayed (31 page)

He shrugged. “You’ll have to die, of course. Otherwise Janowski’s associates will be sending more killers, and sooner or later they’ll get you.” He nodded and smiled. “Better if you die. But that’ll be months from now after the hearings. By then you’ll be back on your feet and ready to enjoy your new life as a dead man. To help you enjoy your afterlife, I’ve added another million to your account in Florida. The one under one of your many aliases. Don’t worry; it’s not dirty money from Janowski or some other asshole, and it’s not a payoff. I only ask that you tell Congress and the American people the truth after helping me catch Janowski. You’ll also need surgery on your face. I’m making arrangements for that to take place after you die. Any questions?”

Chapter 24

Raylan’s body ached from the sudden exercise over the last hours. The president was right. Being chained to the bed for so long had taken its toll, and he was still weak from his wounds. His leg was in some kind of a brace with screws that were threaded into his bone to support the part shattered by a bullet, yet allow for swelling and drainage. It hurt like hell. His painkiller dosage had been gradually reduced since the president’s visit, so he could function better. He would receive no more medication until after it was over and he had done his part. A surgeon had warned him not to try to walk on his leg, but the surgeon wasn’t there when he used crutches and rattled up and down the hallway only minutes after President Riley had left. His appetite had returned, pleasing his nurse. It wasn’t much preparation for what was to come, but it would have to do. Secret Service agents were waiting to take him to meet Janowski, who was at that moment, Rayland had been told, in his private jet flying to the States.

President Riley had called Raylan only an hour before to drop another bomb in his lap. He prayed it was the last one.
I’m still being used as a tool for those in power.
Two Secret Service agents strapped him in a wheelchair and cuffed both wrists to the armrests. “There’s just no trust anymore,” Raylan said dryly. He was wheeled out of the room and down the hall at breakneck speed. A short elevator ride took them to the roof, where a helicopter waited. He was quickly carried on board, wheelchair and all, and in seconds they were airborne.

Raylan sat in the helicopter as it flew low and fast. He looked out a window, squinting in the bright sunlight, and instantly recognized the streets below and the topography in the distance, discovering for the first time he had been held at a small hospital run by the CIA. He had been in McLean, Virginia, near Langley the whole time. The CIA had him all along. He had no idea how much he had been told was truth and how much was lies, but there was no doubt he was being used. During the recent phone conversation with Riley, Raylan had been informed that he was expected to kill Janowski on the plane before it took off. Since Janowski would never be in custody, and would be killed by a rogue agent, the official story would have fewer loose ends to be tied. The added benefit was Janowski would never go to trial and have a chance to buy off jurors, prosecutors, and judges. Raylan suspected Riley was most concerned with preventing Janowski from talking about his dealings with the administration. So the president wasn’t throwing himself on the mercy of Congress and the American people after all; he was still playing the odds and insulating himself from Janowski and his death. If successful, it would all be blamed on a rogue agent, who had escaped long enough to kill the man he blamed for the death of his lover. If not, the plane would be shot out of the sky over the ocean. At least he would not be flown to Russia, where he would suffer a living hell. Or would he?

In a hanger at the airport, Raylan met two Secret Service agents. Raylan recognized them, because they were actually CIA operatives he knew to be incorruptible. This gave him a little more confidence, because he trusted both of them. Unfortunately, they probably didn’t think much of him releasing classified information to the public. Somehow, the president’s people had missed the fact the men knew Raylan. Obviously, they had lied when asked, and the lie held because the two had never worked directly with Raylan, so there was no record of them actually meeting. Their solid reputations were what caused them to be chosen for the job in the first place, yet they lied about knowing him. Raylan had confidence the two had lied because they wanted to be there and help him, if possible.

One man showed Raylan how his arms were going to be wrapped tightly to the wheelchair armrests with a weak material that appeared to be strong silver duct tape. To ensure that Raylan had no trouble breaking it and freeing his arms, the tape would be cut on the bottom side of the armrests, where it couldn’t be seen.

The man wrapped Raylan’s wrists with the fake duct tape, but didn’t cut it. “Give it a try and see how it breaks.”

Raylan yanked his arms upward from the rests and found the tape ripped away easily.

While he removed the broken tape from his arms, the man opened a briefcase full of knives. “Take your pick,” he said.

Raylan threw the sticky used tape on the floor and grabbed a Ka-Bar. He felt the edge for sharpness. Satisfied, he put it on the left armrest, where it would be hid under his wrist when it was taped up.

“Good choice,” the man said. “A classic with a long history of use in combat.” He opened another briefcase, this one full of pistols. “No telling how many body guards he’ll have in the plane with him. I would pick the Glock 19 for its mag capacity.”

Raylan nodded and reached for the Glock. Two men who had been standing nearby moved in and snatched him back from the briefcase. Raylan didn’t struggle. He looked up at them, his face a question mark.

The man took the Glock in hand and set the briefcase on a nearby table. “I’m placing the Glock under you, positioned so you can get at it with your right hand.” He pulled the slide back enough Raylan could see there was a round in the chamber, then he removed the magazine so Raylan could confirm it was fully loaded. There was no way he could know if the rounds were loaded with gunpowder or were duds, though. The man said, “Lift him off the chair a few inches.” They did as he asked, lifting him with a hand under each arm and keeping his wrists tightly grasped with their other hand. A bolt of fire shot up his left arm from the bullet wound.

The two men set Raylan down on top of the pistol and held his wrists until they were both cuffed to the wheelchair. The only one who had spoken a single word so far grabbed the tape and said, “The cuffs will come off just before you’re wheeled out to the plane.” He wrapped both wrists with the fake duct tape again and used a utility razor to cut through it underneath the armrests.

Raylan sat there, looking at the empty, cavernous hanger and stoic men, who stood around him, not speaking a word, checking their wristwatches every few minutes. Outside, the roar of jets reverberated against the steel walls, as airliners took off or landed. He could tell when someone communicated with them using their closed-loop com system, because they would freeze and stare off into space or up at the steel rafters, and nod slightly. The one Raylan didn’t know had a bad habit of reaching up and pressing the earphone deeper to help him hear – a dead giveaway to anyone watching and an amateurish mistake. After a few minutes of that, he found the whole thing humorous and chuckled under his breath. That prompted glances from all three men, but they said nothing and never showed any emotion. They probably attributed it to nervous release.

Ten more minutes passed in silence. Raylan began to sweat. At the hospital, they had helped him dress into a T-shirt and thin slacks, so the sweating wasn’t from being dressed too warmly. The problem was his already-reduced-dosage meds had worn off completely, and his leg in particular was throbbing. The same could be said of his chest wound, but it seemed more like a steady ache, and his left arm was still on fire from the abuse it had taken earlier. He started to speak when a sudden change in all three men warned him something was about to happen.

The two mutes ran to a door and waited for the other man to push Raylan to them. As the wheelchair-bound Raylan reached the door, one opened it and stepped aside. The roar of jet engines grew louder.

Then the cuffs were removed.

Raylan’s heart jumped into high gear, as he thought about all the ways Riley could screw him. The bullets could be duds, the Glock’s striker could have been filed and useless, hell, even the knife could be rigged to fall apart when he tried to use it. There was no way to know what Riley’s real agenda was. It was likely he wanted
both
Janowski and him dead, and this was the perfect way to get it done. There could be high explosives in the wheelchair, ready to be triggered any number of ways. And if Janowski somehow managed to take off with Raylan on the plane, he could only hope that Riley would order it shot out of the sky over the ocean and not allow the hell awaiting him in Moscow to happen.

The man behind him leaned down and said, “How you do it is your business, but you have to do it inside the plane. I’m going to push you out there and leave you. Once I walk away, you’re on your own. If you try to run before they get you inside, a sniper will kill you.”

Raylan listened intently. “Nice. What a plan. Somebody deserves a raise.”

“Yeah, it’s a raw deal,” the man said.

Raylan heard a spark of humanity in the man’s voice and thought he would at least give it a try. “Could you ease my worries a little by slipping your pistol under me? I have little faith that Glock will go bang when I need it to.”

There was silence for a few seconds. The man pulled his pistol out of a holster, another Glock, .40 caliber this time, and slid it under Raylan. “Both of them will fire, I promise you that much. I wish I could have done more.”

Raylan nodded. “Thanks.”

“Good luck,” the man said, and pushed the wheelchair through the open door and out onto the tarmac.

The pilot didn’t bother to kill the engines, and it was obvious to Raylan he might be leaving U.S. soil in a few minutes and out of U.S. airspace as fast as that plane could fly. He fought to control his breathing and heart rate.

A giant emerged from the plane, so tall he was forced to bend over when exiting the hatch, so wide he had to turn at an angle to squeeze through. He had lifeless black marble eyes and a blocky face with sharp edges. His head was shaved. To Raylan, he didn’t look remotely human, and he knew the giant was going to be trouble. It took considerable self-control to fight off an urge to rip the tape loose and reach for both Glocks, but he had to wait until he was in the plane. When the wheelchair stopped moving, he knew he was in the hands of the Russians.

The giant didn’t push the wheelchair from behind; instead, he reached out with a five-inch-wide hand and pushed it along from the side. When they got to the stairway, Raylan felt himself being lifted and bodily carried up the stairs, wheelchair and all. He pretended to be sedated to the point of near-unconsciousness, allowing his head to hang down on his chest. At the top of the stairs, the wheels touched the plane’s cabin deck and a shove pushed him inside.

A voice, heavy with Russian accent and mingled with a hint of some backwater Soviet hellhole, came to his ears. “So now we finally meet, Raylan Mad Ox.”

Raylan looked up bleary-eyed and saw Janowski standing in a salon area, puffing deeply on an over-sized cigar, leaning back to counterweight his protruding belly, a look of total satisfaction on his face. The smoke from the cigar filled the cabin and smelled like burning shit. Raylan let his head fall back onto his chest, pretending to be barely aware of his surroundings. Janowski stepped closer, sucking air through his cigar and causing the lit end to glow red. He pressed the fire into the flesh of Raylan’s right hand. Raylan tried to seem as if he was too sedated to feel it.

“Just a small taste of what’s to come,” Janowski said. “I always smoke one of my favorite cigars to celebrate success.” He laughed. “You have no idea what I’ve planned for you. Wait until the drugs they gave you wear off. It’s a long flight. We’ll start the fun before we arrive.”

The sound of the hatch slamming closed told Raylan the giant was occupied and had his back turned. He ripped the tape loose and snatched the knife from under his left arm, rising from the chair and slashing upward in one motion, he opened Janowski’s big belly from crotch to sternum, spilling his intestines out onto the lush carpet. Janowski made an effort to scream but couldn’t, collapsing bug-eyed to the deck while silently working his big mouth like a trout out of water, still holding the cigar. Raylan had both Glocks in his hands before the giant could get to him — hindered by the wheelchair in the way, he had taken a tenth of a second too long. Round after round of 9 millimeter and .40 caliber bullets buried themselves ten inches deep into the giant’s chest, but he kept coming. Raylan aimed higher and double-tapped him in the head with two 9 millimeter rounds. The giant fell in his own shadow and never twitched. A bullet struck Raylan in the right shoulder, spinning him around, he fired at two men who had emerged from the cockpit, both armed with Russian Makarovs. Another bullet hit his right shoulder only inches from where the last one hit, and his right hand involuntarily released its hold on the pistol. It fell to the carpet. The weak round wasn’t enough to stop a determined man like Raylan, and he continued to fire with the Glock .40 in his left hand until they fell and stopped moving. When the striker clicked on an empty chamber, he dropped the .40 and bent down to pick up the nine. His right leg seemed to snap, and he almost fell over on his face. Pain shot up his leg, and he gasped. Gun smoke in the confined cabin choked him and his ears rang so loud he couldn’t hear the teen Janowski had brought with him for entertainment screaming her head off.

He moved through the cabin toward the cockpit, trying to keep most of his weight off the shattered leg. Finding no one else on board, he turned and hobbled toward the back, pistol held out in front, ready to shoot. He had been told to kill Janowski. The others were inconsequential. But he was pissed off and in pain, there were a few more rounds in the gun, and he intended to make good use of them.