Sea of Crises (28 page)

Nate turned and saw a man dressed in a pair of jeans and a work shirt with a name tag embroidered above one of the breast pockets. In the moonlight, Nate couldn’t make out the name on the tag. The man was slight, not quite six feet tall, and he had graying hair that was just a little too long to be fashionable, excess strands pushed behind each ear.

“Good to see you Carson,” Matt said, reaching out and shaking hands with the man. “Thanks for this.”

“Any time.” The man glanced over at Nate, a neutral look, but said nothing. Matt made no effort to make introductions, so Nate simply returned the look, his hands held self-consciously by his side, fully visible. From behind him, there was a sudden muffled clanking sound, and, when Nate turned reflexively to look, he saw that the back end of the truck was rising like a garage door on well-oiled hinges. From the darkness of the trailer, a small platform at floor level slid toward them, cantilevered out, then tilted down and made contact with the ground, forming a ramp. With the moon in front of the truck, Nate could not see into the black of the interior.

“It’s all there,” the man said.

“Thanks,” Matt replied.

“You know,” the man said, “Yesterday morning I had a visit from a couple of our old amigos.” He hawked and spat. “Just checking in, they said. I suppose they must be part of some new retirement committee. Making sure there’s no problem with pension benefits and all.”

“Oh, yeah?” Matt said it casually, but Nate could hear a slight tension in his brother’s voice. “They have anything interesting to say?”

The man shook his head. “No. They dropped a few names. Yours was in there, believe it or not. Just wondering if we kept in touch. Told them I hadn’t heard from you in years.”

“Any chance they…”

“None.”

Matt nodded. “Good.”

Nate looked from his brother to the stranger. They seemed completely comfortable with one another, standing here on a dark, deserted roadway in the middle of nowhere. It was a little surreal.

“Listen,” the man said, “I know a few of the guys would be happy to…”

“Not yet,” Matt said, “wouldn’t be the right move. They’d tumble to it fast. They’re already scrambling.”

The man lifted his head slightly and tilted it to the side in an acknowledging gesture. He was quiet for a moment. Finally, he said, “Well
I
can certainly help.”

Matt was shaking his head. “You already have. Now you’ve got to get back and be very conspicuous doing nothing.”

After a short pause, the man nodded, though it seemed to be with some reluctance. “I’ve gotten pretty good at that, I guess. It’s just,” he added quietly, “I hate to see you try to do this alone.”

In the faint light, Nate could see a slight smile flit across his brother’s face. Matt glanced at Nate briefly before returning his attention to the stranger. “I’m not. Don’t worry. I’ve got it covered.”

The man chuckled softly. “I hear that.” He tipped his head at the truck and then back toward the SUV. “Let’s do it.”

He put a hand out and he and Matt shook. He glanced at Nate and gave a quick nod. Then, without another word, he turned and began walking in the direction of the SUV.

Matt tapped Nate on the shoulder and said, “Let’s get our stuff.” He turned toward the truck and stepped quickly up the ramp. Nate followed.

At the top, Nate’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he realized that inside the trailer were two vehicles. The one closest to the rear was a light-colored Ford Explorer, maybe four or five years old. Matt had opened the rear hatch and was apparently checking some contents. Then Matt closed the hatch, stepped around the rear corner of the vehicle and, turning sideways, made his way forward. At the driver’s side door, he paused and looked back at Nate.

“You take the other and follow me.”

Nate nodded, and, when Matt had slipped into the Explorer, he continued up the side of the trailer. Parked immediately in front of the Explorer, its bumper touching that of the Ford, was a compact sedan. A Honda Civic, he realized. He opened the door and eased his body inside. It was an automatic, he was relieved to see. He hadn’t driven a stick shift in years. The car wasn’t new. In fact, it looked to be at least ten years old. But, from what he could tell sitting in the dark interior, it seemed to be in decent condition.

From behind him, Nate heard the Ford’s engine start, and, through the rear view mirror, he saw the vehicle back up and out of the trailer. There were keys in the Honda’s ignition. He reached forward and cranked the starter. The engine turned over immediately, with more of a punch than he’d expected. Then it quickly settled into a soft purr. Nate put the transmission into reverse, looked behind himself to ensure the Explorer wasn’t in the way, and backed out, the underside of the front bumper scraping just slightly against the rear of the ramp as the wheels found the shoulder of the road.

Matt, he could see, had guided the Explorer out onto the road, parallel to the truck, his headlights now illuminated. Nate turned on his own lights, put the car into drive and, as Matt started forward, pulled out behind him. In tandem, they began retracing the route they’d taken earlier.

As he drove, Nate considered the meeting he’d just witnessed, parsing the comments and looking for hidden meanings. He couldn’t shake the notion that there was more to Matt’s story than he’d let on. It was all so mysterious, shadowy. Hell, Nate thought, what about the fact that he was now sitting behind the wheel of a car he’d never even seen before. He wondered idly to whom the thing was registered. And where. He hadn’t noticed license plates before he’d gotten in. In light of everything that was happening, he realized he’d better start paying more attention to details around him. In the illumination provided by his headlights, he could see the plate on the Explorer in front of him was white with blue lettering. He wasn’t sure, but he thought it might say Pennsylvania across the top.

The road they were on dead-ended, and Matt turned right onto the narrow highway. After a short drive, they came to an intersection, and Matt again turned right. Nate did his best to try to spot landmarks, but it was difficult in the dark.

After several minutes, they rounded a sharp curve, and Nate thought he might recognize where they were. A short distance ahead, if he was right, would be the point at which they would leave the highway and start back down the lane to the cabin. Sure enough, the glow of the Explorer’s brake lights indicated that Matt was preparing to turn. Nate began to slow the Honda. Suddenly, however, the brake lights ahead went out, and Matt gradually accelerated. Surprised, Nate followed suit.

They passed the turn off, and Nate thought perhaps both he and Matt had been mistaken. After a couple minutes, they came to a long narrow bridge, and, as they crossed, Nate could see to either side reflections of moonlight off water, most likely, he realized, the lake on which the cabin sat. They had not, Nate was sure, crossed a bridge on their drive earlier this evening, nor, to his recollection, during their initial drive to the cabin. A feeling of unease began to tug at him.

Near the end of the bridge, the Explorer’s brake lights again glowed. Just after they had traversed the span, Matt eased his vehicle to the side. Nate pulled up behind him. Matt jumped out and came jogging back. Nate rolled down the window and Matt leaned in. His grim words sent ice through Nate’s veins.

“They’re here.”

14

The instant the flash-bangs ignited, Raen was on the move. He sensed, rather than saw, the others in his team as they descended on the dwelling, each moving in perfect synchrony.

Less than three seconds after the initial shock, he cleared the front door, turning right and moving parallel to the front of the cabin, the .45 in his left hand held out at the ready. As he did, he noticed bodies down on the floor of the large main room, covered at gunpoint by the men who had entered from the lake side. He counted three, which meant there were still three targets to go.

Ahead of him to his left, a door opened, and an older woman with closely cropped grey hair staggered out. He grabbed a handful of her hair and violently yanked her to the floor, stepping past quickly and leaving her for the team member behind him.

At the end of the hall was an empty bathroom. To the left was another door, this one closed. He paused briefly, leaning back against the opposite wall for leverage. Then he threw a booted heel against the door, crashing it inward. He waited a beat to see if there was return fire, then, at a crouch, he entered, sweeping the room with the barrel of his pistol. A lamp in the far corner illuminated the small space, and he saw that it was empty. He put two rounds into the closet before throwing open the doors to confirm that none of their quarry was hiding inside.

“Clear,” he called out, stepping back into the hallway.

“Clear,” one of his men echoed as he exited the adjacent bedroom.

Shots sounded from above where his men were conducting a sweep of the second floor. Gun still at the ready, Raen returned to the main room. Four bodies now lay face down on the floor. Their hands were bound behind them with plastic restraints, and their ankles were similarly fettered. Two were women, and he immediately dismissed them. One of the men was older, his thin silver hair matted with blood from a nasty gash. The fourth, Raen saw, was Peter Cartwright. He had his head raised awkwardly, looking about the room with a frantic expression. He did not, however, appear to be injured.

From the space beyond the balcony above, Raen heard several shouts of “Clear” as his men checked each room. A moment later, Dacoff appeared at the head of the stairs. “All clear up here. No targets.”

“Shit,” Raen muttered under his breath. Where the hell was Marek?

One of the men assigned to his action team, an older agent, entered the room from the kitchen area, a 10 mm Auto Glock in his right hand. He’d taken a couple of steps in Raen’s direction, clearly about to say something, when his eyes went wide. He raised the weapon and pointed it toward the center of the room. Instinctively, Raen reached out with his gun hand and slapped down hard on the agent’s weapon just as it discharged. He glanced quickly back at the prisoners lying on the floor. The bullet from the Glock had left a gouge in the floorboards just a couple feet short of Peter Cartwright’s head.

The agent tried to raise his weapon again, but Raen’s outstretched arm prevented it from coming up. “What are you doing?” the man exclaimed. “That’s Marek.”

“No, it’s not,” Raen replied quickly. “That’s Peter Cartwright. Stand down.”

The agent looked at him sharply, then glanced back at the figure lying on the floor, alarm and doubt playing across his face.

Raen had given strict orders. They would kill only in self-defense. Otherwise, he wanted as many of the targets taken alive as possible in case he needed hostages to trade for Marek. The exception, of course, was Marek himself, whom they were authorized to shoot and kill on contact. Unfortunately, most of the operatives, like Raen, had never met Marek, so they wouldn’t necessarily know when they’d encountered him. They didn’t even have pictures of the man. They’d all been provided surveillance photos of Peter Cartwright and had been told that Marek was his twin. Raen, though, had not fully appreciated how alike the two brothers apparently were. There was no doubt in his mind that the figure on the floor was Peter Cartwright. But here was an experienced officer who’d obviously known Marek, and he had been - still was, as near as Raen could tell - convinced to the contrary.

Raen refocused his attention on the figure lying a few feet away. He stepped toward him and, as he did, he heard the older agent behind take in a quick breath. Oh, for God’s sake, Raen thought. The prisoner was bound hand and foot. Even if it
was
Marek, what could he do? Raen, of course, had heard all the stories. He didn’t believe half of them.

He knelt down by the prostrate figure. The man looked up at him. Raen could see that he was afraid, but there was still defiance in his eyes.

“Where are your brothers?”

The man blinked a couple of times, then said, “I don’t know.”

Raen roughly jammed the barrel of his .45 against the prisoner’s forehead and repeated slowly, “Where are your brothers?”

Cringing, both eyes shut tightly, the man said, “I don’t know. They took the car and left.”

“When?”

“I don’t know.”

Raen pushed the barrel hard against the man, driving his head back and up in an unnatural position.

“It was about an hour ago,” the man said quickly.

“Where?”

“They didn’t say.”

Raen resisted a strong urge to pull the trigger. Instead, he shoved even harder, generating what had to be excruciating pain in the man’s neck and forehead.

“Honestly,” the prisoner exclaimed. “They never told us where they were going.”

Raen believed the man. Still, he kept the pressure on for a few more seconds before finally pulling back and standing.

“Set up a perimeter,” he commanded. He turned to Dacoff, who had descended the stairs. “Do a full sweep.”

Dacoff nodded. He’d already pulled out one of his electronic detection devices. Pointing to one of the other agents, he said, “You take the upstairs.”

While one of Raen’s men remained in the large family room, his M-16 trained on the prisoners, the others quickly dispersed, taking up defensive positions around the cabin.

Again, Raen cursed quietly. His best opportunity to get Marek had come up double-zero. Now, he was going to have to hunker down and wait for the man. And, he’d have to do it with less than a full action team. The six men he’d lost in the assault outside Bar Harbor had yet to be replaced. A pair of operatives from the Boston office had been scrambled, including the older agent who’d almost killed Peter Cartwright just now, and he’d been promised replacements within the next two to three hours. But Raen had opted for speed, and now he’d have to make do with what he had.

And Marek was out there.

His thoughts were interrupted by Dacoff. “Ah, hah,” Raen heard the man say from the dining room, “what do we have here?”