Point of Crisis (40 page)

“And I need it delivered to Captain Adler’s hangar in less than ten minutes, fueled and ready for a 115-mile, maximum-speed transit to the Belgrade Lakes area. This is a one-way trip for me, and I’m running out of time. There’s more at stake than just losing Eli Russell.”

Gedmin didn’t respond for a few seconds. “What’s your alternative plan if I can’t pull this off?”

“You don’t want to know,” said Alex.

***

Kevin McCulver thumped the back of his head against the metal wall, creating a steady, low-grade pounding rhythm to compete with the self-hating voice inside his head. The distraction technique hadn’t proven very effective. Sitting in the dark on the coarse plywood floor, all he could think about was how stupid it had been to think he was indispensable, part of Eli’s inner circle.

He kept trying to rationalize Eli’s decision. Maybe Eli had ordered him killed if it looked like they might be captured, to keep the Rangeley Lake house a secret. Possible, but deep inside, he knew it wasn’t true. Eli had used him to cull the herd, and he’d never once suspected that he was being played. None of them, including Karl Pratt, had a place at Eli’s next table. He quietly laughed at the irony of the situation. He sat in a hot, unventilated shipping container, zip-tied to the floor next to four men he had readily betrayed.
They’d tear him to pieces if they discovered the truth, just like he’d stab Eli in the throat if he ever saw him again.

“Quit banging your fucking head against the wall!” someone shouted, startling him.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, resting his head against the corrugated steel.

A voice to his left started the same angry line of questions they’d rehashed at least a dozen times since their capture. He was thankful everyone was handcuffed to the container tie-down bolts. Two of the prisoners were from the correctional facility, and there was little doubt they would beat him to a pulp given the opportunity.

“How the fuck didn’t Eli know they had this much shit here? He
had
to know!”

McCulver stayed silent, hoping the question would go away.

“I’m talking to you, shit stain! Don’t act like you don’t know that!”

McCulver cleared his throat. “I told you. Reports from our guy in town indicated one company of Marines and a few vehicles. That’s why we planned a run-and-gun operation. A quick shake-up.”

The container jolted as the inmate pulled on his restraints.

“More like a shake and bake! Our cars were rigged to explode!” he said, kicking the plywood floor with his heels. “First chance I get, you’re a dead man.”

The guy next to him, one of the men assigned to Matt Gibbs’ squad, spoke for the first time since the soldiers locked them in the container.

“You knew everything was rigged, right? I mean, you’re Eli’s bomb guy.”

Time for some tap dancing.

“Not all of the cars were fitted with explosives. We had a primary and a secondary, in case the first car didn’t make it to its objective. Everyone driving in one of those cars knew about the explosives.”

“GI Joe said
all
the cars had explosives,” said a gruff voice at the back of the container.

“They made that up so you’d give them Eli. You didn’t tell them anything, did you? A bunch of helicopters took off right after they finished pulling us one at a time into the office.”

McCulver hoped floating a few of his own accusations might put a stop to this line of questioning. Nobody like being called a rat.

“I didn’t say shit!” yelled the prisoner who had started the inquisition. “Maybe I should have.”

The container door swung open, causing him to squint. With the sun blazing through the doorway, he couldn’t see who had opened the container. The outline of a combat helmet appeared briefly.

“Which one of you is McCulver?” said the figure, stepping into the enclosure.

“The piece of shit right in front of you,” said an angry voice.

A gun barrel pressed into his right temple, lukewarm against his skin. “Is that right? Just nod or shake your head.”

He nodded swiftly, concerned about the situation. The gun barrel jammed into his head represented a significantly disturbing setback in their treatment. All of them had been abused upon capture, subject to sudden, short-lived beatings while they were corralled into the hangar. The situation changed quickly with the arrival of some government-looking types. The civilians put a stop to the blatant physical abuse, removing their captors from the scene. The group that took responsibility for their custody seemed less intense, like they didn’t do this for a living. The soldier pushing the business end of his rifle into McCulver’s head looked deadly serious, and he was alone. Not a good combination for someone wearing a dead sheriff’s deputy’s uniform.

“I’m going to cut you loose. If you do anything besides sit there quietly, I’ll use the same knife to spill your guts on the floor. Understood? Nod or shake.”

He nodded, spurring the soldier into action. A second later, with his shoulders nearly pressed out of their sockets, a sharp pain seared through the top of his left wrist, causing him to writhe against the floor. McCulver howled as the pain continued, burrowing into the top of his hand. A moment later, his hands snapped free.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” yelled McCulver, receiving a bloody fist to the side of his head for the question.

“You’re lucky I didn’t cut off one of your thumbs and slide the zip-tie off,” said the soldier, kicking him in the solar plexus and knocking the wind out of him.

McCulver was yanked to his feet and kneed in the right quadriceps muscle, causing an agonizing spasm. His leg felt immobile from the blow, and he couldn’t put weight on it. A second strike to the side of the thigh collapsed his leg in a series of unbearable cramps, and a forearm locked under his neck. The soldier’s hot breath washed over the right side of his face.

“You won’t be able to run, not that you’re going anywhere,” he said, tightening the grip against his neck.

“You’re choking me,” gasped McCulver, struggling to breathe.

“Not even close. We’re moving forward now,” he said, manhandling him out of the container.

Once clear of the makeshift prison, he marched them behind the container, out of sight from any observers on the airfield. The soldier shoved him against the hangar wall, knocking him to the ground. Glancing around, McCulver noted the hangar looked empty.

Not a good sign.

“This isn’t an officially sanctioned visit, if that’s what you’re wondering,” said the soldier.

McCulver lifted his trembling left hand, examining the damage. A deep gash ran from the bottom of his hand to the knuckle under his middle finger, bleeding profusely into his lap.

“What do you want?”

“I want Eli.”

“I already told them where to look,” McCulver whispered.

“Let me see your other hand,” said the soldier.

McCulver kept the previously bandaged hand pressed against his spasming right thigh. He’d momentarily forgotten about the throbbing pain of his mangled fingers.

“They already know everything.”

When the soldier squatted a few feet in front of him, he immediately recognized the digital camouflage pattern.

Now I’m really fucked.

The marine’s uniform looked filthy, like he had spent the past week crawling through the forest. Patches of frayed, blackened material covered his arms, and his face was smeared with a gritty black film. A faint, charred rubber smell filled the air between them.

“The place was abandoned,” said the marine, staring at him impassively.

“That’s because we threw everything we had at the airport. There’s nobody left,” said McCulver.

The Marine checked his watch, fiddling with the buttons. “One minute before I start slicing and dicing, and there’s no going back from that.”

McCulver swallowed hard, not doubting for a second that he meant it. He didn’t see any other option. Maybe he’d be willing to trade information.

“What do I get in return…if I knew where you might find him?”

The Marine glanced at his watch. “For saving me a little time? I won’t cut the rest of that
Deliverance
crew loose and toss you back in the container with them. I need an answer in the next five seconds.”

“What happened to the minute?”

“I’m on a tight schedule,” he said, standing up and drawing a black serrated knife from a scabbard on his belt.

“I know where to find him,” said McCulver. “We secured a place on Rangeley Lake.”

The Marine leaned over and grabbed his collar, pulling him to his feet. The knife bristled against his neck.

“You and I are going on a field trip,” he said, dragging McCulver to the front of the hangar.

The marine’s radio chirped when they reached the left side of the open hangar door.

“Captain Fletcher,” the Marine answered.

Fletcher? This can’t get any worse.

“Just in case you’re curious, sir. I saw you walk the prisoner to the side of the hangar. At least make some kind of an effort to conceal yourself until the helicopter arrives. I’m not the only one keeping an eye on the situation.”

They don’t know he’s taking me? It’s worse.

“Does that mean you found me a helicopter?” Fletcher inquired.

“Medical bird from the 126
^th
Aviation Medevac unit based out of Bangor. They just returned from a trip ferrying two of the RRZ casualties to Central Maine Medical Center. I didn’t see any follow-on tasking, so I took the initiative.”

“What’s my cover?”

“Vehicle injury sustained during routine patrol in the vicinity of Belgrade Lakes. Transport to Central Maine Medical Center and RTB.”

“I need to stop in Limerick on the way up. Any way you can help with that?”

“I’m staying clear of the control tower for a while, sir. Any add-on services are your responsibility. Good luck out there.”

“Thanks for taking a chance on me. Sorry I won’t be around to return the favor.”

“It’s all about building good karma, sir. Remember that when you’re thinking about pushing your guest out of the helicopter.”

“I’ll try,” said Fletcher, pushing McCulver’s face into the hangar wall.

His cheekbone ground into the corrugated metal, the cheaply fabricated sheets of steel scraping his skin.

“I think I see our ride spinning up right now,” said Fletcher, turning him around.

“Here’s the way this works. You’re an injured sheriff’s deputy who will accompany the injured Marine to Central Maine Medical Center.”

“How was I injured?” asked McCulver.

“Car accident, from what you can remember. You hit your head pretty hard on the door,” said Fletcher before yanking his head back by the hair and slamming it against the hangar—twice.

Cheers echoed from the shipping container as he spat bloody tooth fragments onto the concrete floor.

“One more for the crowd?” said Fletcher, pulling his head back.

“No. No. Please,” he begged. “Please.”

His head raced forward, abruptly stopping less than an inch from impact.

“Take a seat. I need to make a few calls,” said Fletcher, releasing his grip.

McCulver quickly lowered himself to the ground, wincing at the pain caused by using his hands. He looked up at Fletcher, who held the olive-drab tactical phone to his ear.

“Don’t think I’m not watching you,” said Fletcher, never looking down at him.

“Staff Sergeant Taylor, I need a twelve-marine assault team assembled in five minutes. This is not an authorized mission, so volunteers only. I guarantee this will be a career killer.”

“Can I assume this has something to do with Eli Russell?”

“This has everything to do with Russell.”

“I don’t think career progression is on the front burner at the moment. I shouldn’t have much trouble rounding up a few eager Marines for some payback, sir.”

“I didn’t think you would. Find a suitable location to land a Black Hawk helicopter and pass me the grid. Red smoke marks the LZ. I need to talk to my wife.”

“I’ll get her a ROTAC after we pick the LZ, sir.”

“Roger, see you in less than fifteen minutes. Out,” said Fletcher, peeking out of the hangar. “I hope you don’t get airsick.”

McCulver kept his eyes on the bloody pile of teeth and saliva on the floor in front of him. He’d finally met the one person that scared him more than Eli.

Chapter 43

EVENT +21 Days

Medevac flight over southern Maine

Three minutes out of MOB Sanford, Alex pretended to receive a call on his ROTAC, writing on a green notepad that already held the location of a baseball field in Limerick. He tore the page from the pad and held on to it tightly as it whipped around in his hand from the wind generated by their high-speed transit. The pilots were pushing the helicopter’s speed envelope, flying them north at close to one hundred eighty miles per hour. He stood up, holding onto one of the straps attached to the ceiling, and walked forward, passing the medevac litter restraining “Deputy” McCulver.

Reaching the cockpit, he thrust the paper between the seats and activated the headphones connected to the helicopter’s communication system.

“I just received information that the vehicle accident may have been caused by a local militia group. My CO wants us to set down at the FOB in Limerick to pick up a squad of Marines. They’re at this ten-digit grid. Red smoke will mark the LZ.”

The copilot reached up and took the paper, clipping it to his kneeboard.

“Copy. Inputting grid coordinates. We can take six-combat loaded Marines. Any more than that is pushing the cabin configuration,” said the copilot, pushing buttons underneath one of the color displays in front of him.

“We don’t mind squeezing in,” said Alex.

“Hang on back there,” said the pilot, and the helicopter banked sharply left.

“ETA five minutes. Tell them to pop smoke as soon as they hear us,” said the copilot. “We’ll try to fit as many in as possible.”