Patriots Betrayed (32 page)

Finding a locked door, he shouldered it open and stepped into a stateroom, nearly falling over from the pain in his right leg. It felt like the screws in his bone brace had broken loose.

A small man with wild, terrified eyes lunged at him. Raylan squeezed off a quick shot. The little man grunted and doubled over. His knees buckled under him as he looked up at Raylan in shocked surprise. Another round to his forehead finished him. It wasn’t until later that Raylan would learn the small man was the most powerful underworld kingpin in France, Pierre Ladue, second only to Janowski in power and misbegotten wealth. Janowski and Ladue died thinking they had a U.S. President in their pockets. Raylan had been the weapon Riley used to prove them wrong by killing them both.

Movement in a dark corner caught his attention. He moved closer, looking over the pistol sights. A teenage girl dressed in a strange black dress and ridiculously high-heeled shoes someone had made her put on cowered and recoiled from him, shaking violently. After making certain no one else was in the room, he approached her slowly, stuffing the pistol under his belt and holding his open hands out. As he came closer, he saw bruises on her face and both her lips were swollen and cut. He spoke in Russian, telling her he wouldn’t harm her and she should leave the plane before it blew up. He thought that might get her to listen and exit the plane with him. Chances were anyone found in the plane would be killed after he left. He wasn’t even sure
he
wouldn’t be killed when he walked outside onto the steps.

She was too terrified to move. Then he tried something else, another pathway to her trust: human empathy. In Russian he explained that he was wounded too seriously to make it down the stairs without her help. She looked at him and saw that he was bleeding from several wounds and slowly pushed her shaking body to her feet. Overcoming her fear, she kicked the high heels off and walked to him. She braced his right side, taking much of his weight off the shattered leg. “Thank you,” he said. Together, they inched through the plane, past Janowski’s body, and out through the hatch. On the steps, she looked back at Janowski, and for a moment it seemed her fear faded away. It took Raylan all he had to step down the stairs without falling on his face, but once on the tarmac, he made good time with her help.

At the hanger, he said, “Open the door for me, and we will find friends on the other side.” His words rang hollow in his ears, and he wondered how she could believe a man who obviously didn’t believe his own words. She reached for the doorknob with a shaking hand, turned it, and pulled it open. The same three men who had prepared Raylan were waiting, submachine guns aimed. The girl shivered and cried, expecting to be shot. Raylan wondered if her fear wasn’t justified.

The talker, who had given Raylan his personal gun, lowered his weapon and said. “Damn, Maddox, you work fast. You’ve already found another girlfriend.”

The two mutes almost smiled.

“Did you get Janowski?” the talker demanded.

Raylan answered, “Everyone on board is dead.” He held the 9 millimeter in his left hand. “She lives and she lives free. Anyone wants to argue, we’ll have it out now.”

“No argument,” the talker said.

The mutes lowered their weapons.

Raylan leaned too heavily on the girl. She yelled something in Russian. Not able to hold him up, she strained as he lost consciousness and dropped to the hard concrete. All three men rushed to him. Within minutes they were in a helicopter, flying back to the hospital Raylan had left just two hours before. The girl held his hand until doctors took him away and rushed him to an ER. Raylan and the girl never saw each other again.

Chapter 25

Raylan spent fifteen minutes warming up before starting his three-mile jog. Every bone-jarring step sent a shockwave of pain up his right leg, but he insisted on his exercise routine every morning. The doctors told him the leg had healed over the last few months, but the pain would never go completely away. His shoulder was stiff at times, especially when waking up early on cold mornings like this one, but it wasn’t bad and didn’t hurt much. He could do pretty much anything he needed to do with it.

He was no longer in the custody of the CIA and had been transferred to a federal prison where he was kept behind bars in a wing all to himself, except for a dozen M4-carrying U.S. Marshal Service deputies that surrounded him at all times. The installation was brand new and only partially filled, leaving him with plenty of room and a safe separation from the criminals in the other wings. Someone high up wanted him kept isolated, and that was obvious. The Deputy Marshals had been told nothing about him and were instructed not to say a word to him about anything other than prison security topics, such as, “Cross the red line and you’re dead.” The emptiness of his life didn’t seem so bad, because he had been told it wasn’t forever and he kept busy reading when he wasn’t exercising. Since President Riley hadn’t double crossed him so far, he still had hope of freedom someday.

Senate hearings on CIA corruption under the late Director James Dulling had started, and they had questions. They had been told Raylan couldn’t travel until he had recovered from his wounds, an obvious stalling tactic of President Riley’s, who was holding onto his presidency a little longer. For what purpose other than ego and a lust for power, Raylan didn’t know. Smelling blood in the water for months, senators grew impatient and demanded Riley produce Raylan Maddox, or face impeachment. He had plenty to say and knew many people would not like it. He believed President Riley’s advice to tell the truth still stood, and he planned to do just that.

He had been assigned another lawyer. This one he didn’t like so much, but he seemed to be competent enough. During their short and infrequent jail-cell meetings, Raylan always pumped him for news on what was going on in the world outside the prison, especially what Riley had been up to. No lawyer or judge was going to help him. Only a president’s power could. If Riley didn’t come through, he was finished. Two things chewed on him day and night: a lingering doubt Riley would keep his promise in the end, and a deep emptiness that came from missing Carla.

~~~

One morning, his lawyer told him he would be testifying in front of the Senate the next day. He brought a barber with him to make sure he had a trim. He also brought a new suit and shiny black shoes. Raylan wondered how much this guy was charging the taxpayers for his high level of legal expertise. Who would’ve thought of putting on his best appearance? The guy was good, real good. Raylan smiled as he got dressed, thinking he might as well have fun on the way to the gallows.

~~~

After Raylan was sworn in, Senator Cameron started the proceedings. “Let’s get to the heart of this matter. Can you tell us if President Riley knew of the late Director Dulling’s connections with international crime syndicates?”

Raylan answered, “Riley knew Dulling was dirty and so did many in the CIA. We were being ordered to do things that had nothing to do with national security and everything to do with serving Janowski and other crooks Dulling had sold out to. As for the killing of Mita Agenziano and President Riley’s involvement, I only know what Carla Baylor told me.”

“And you believe her story?”

“Every word of it. Evidently, Dulling had the president’s mistress murdered to cover up his affair and give him a chance to win another term. Dulling used that to blackmail the president, and that gave him a green light to use much of the government as an international crime syndicate at taxpayers’ expense and with the blood and lives of patriots who were in the field dying for a country they loved.”

Several senators lost their cool and yelled out, “Lies! Lies! He’s a Republican shill!” One senator yelled that Raylan must be a ‘tea bagger.’

Senator Cameron regained control, and the others settled down, their eyes bulging with hate, as they glared at Raylan.

“I notice,” Senator Cameron said, “a glaring lack of any allegation that the president was involved in the murder of the young lady and her unborn child.”

“I have no proof, but he certainly profited from her silence through her death, and Carla Baylor certainly believed he had given at least tacit approval of the murder.”

“But she had no proof.”

“No,” Rayland said. “And neither do I. That’s why I haven’t accused the president of the crime here.”

“Have you been threatened?” Senator Cameron asked. “I mean, have you been warned not to implicate President Riley in any crimes, especially the murder of Mita Agenziano?”

“Actually, I met the president once, while I was recovering from my wounds. He told me to tell the truth as I knew it. I’m not here to protect anyone or to lie about anyone for political or personal reasons. I may despise the president, but I have no proof he had any knowledge that his lover was going to be murdered. I know only what Carla Baylor told me. I will repeat here that I believed her when she told me the story, with tears of shame running down her face over the killing of an innocent woman, and I still believe her. She was the one ordered to kill Agenziano under the false pretense the young woman was a threat to U.S. national security, and she knew more about it than I do. Unfortunately, she was killed by Janowski’s thugs and cannot speak for herself.”

Senator Sandy Mann, a member of the Tea Party, was given a chance to ask Raylan questions. “I’ve been going over your record with the CIA, and it’s very impressive.” He looked up from his notes. “I have a feeling, though, there are large gaps in the information the CIA sent me. Would you fill in some of those gaps?”

Raylan braced himself. “Just keep in mind that I will not reveal any information that harms the national security of the United States.”

Senator Mann said, “I understand. I promise I’ll keep my questions focused on the corruption of the CIA under Director Dulling and the president.” He shuffled through some papers. “Let’s see…uh, I have some questions about the killing of international Mob bosses in South Carolina.”

Raylan relaxed. It didn’t matter if he admitted to any crimes he may have committed. He had come to the end of his life as Raylan Maddox. There was no need to fear prison. His life was completely in Riley’s hands. Riley had told him he had to die. Whether that meant a faked death, as he thought Riley was saying, or a real one, he expected Raylan Maddox to be dead soon.

Raylan calmly asked, “Such as?”

~~~

The hearings had come and gone, and Raylan had no idea what the people’s reaction to his testimony had been, or what Congress was up to. They didn’t allow him access to the outside world, no papers, radio, or TV, and no internet. He could only guess and assume certain reactions and that the American people were outraged. But then, the American people had yawned at so many scandals in the past.

Sitting in the small cell at a federal installation somewhere in Washington DC and wondering how many hours or days he had left, Raylan realized he might have taken President Riley’s advice to tell the truth a little too literally. He hadn’t gone easy on Riley, but there was no proof Riley had direct involvement in any of Dulling’s crimes, and he doubted there would be any legal problems for him, unless someone else popped up from out of the blue to provide incriminating evidence that could hold up in court. Still, was Riley expecting something different from his testimony? He had little faith in Riley’s word, and now he wondered if he had pissed him off by being a little too truthful to the Senate. To make matters worse, he wasn’t sure exactly what Riley had meant when he whispered in his ear and whether he had told him the truth. He was adrift in a dangerous sea, wearing a life preserver that offered little to no floatation and therefore little to no hope. A storm of thoughts brewed in his head, always coming back to Carla.

Raylan stood when the cell door clanged open.

Deputy U.S. Marshal Bowden was more severe and short with Raylan than usual this afternoon and seemed to have something on his mind. He gave short, choppy orders with a tone of voice that carried a hard, cold edge. Holding a Taser at the ready, he ordered, “Turn around. Don’t move. Try anything and I’ll floor you.”

Raylan did what he was told without a word.

Someone he couldn’t see laughed, while he chained Raylan’s ankles.

Deputy Marshal Bowden said, “People from the CIA are taking you off our hands.”

Raylan turned to face them. His chest rose and held, then slumped. He recognized the face of the man standing next to Bowden, but didn’t know his name. Raylan did know why he was there. The waiting was over.

The man clamped cuffs on tight, so tight it wasn’t long before Raylan felt his hands swelling. A chain was also put around his waist and attached to the cuffs to keep his hands close to his stomach. “We’re going out the front,” the man said. He gave Raylan a leering look. “Just so you know. Whatever deal you think you made is off.” He laughed. “It’s time to pay for your treason.”

Raylan clenched his jaw and swallowed. “No trip to the garage, huh? So this is the day I die.”

Bowden’s eyes flashed to him for just a second and then instantly regained their cold glass appearance. “Don’t you think that would be too obvious?” He walked away.

Raylan moved to the elevator, taking short, awkward steps with the chains hindering his progress, and waited for the door to open. “Don’t expect me to lie down and die – chains or no.”

“Shut up.” The man who had laughed before wouldn’t look at Raylan, wouldn’t let their eyes meet. Two other men who came with the one Raylan had seen a few times at Langley wouldn’t look directly at him either. He knew a fourth one wasn’t in on it: She looked at him as a human being. He wondered if she would throw up when his brains splattered on her face.
Maybe not. She looks like she may have seen the elephant, or at least its big, ugly ass.

Raylan sighed and looked around the elevator as they dropped to street level. He knew the minute he walked out the front door of the building someone with a rifle around four or five hundred yards away, up in an elevated position, a window or a roof, would send a bullet through his head.