The Pressure of Darkness (40 page)

Bowden was feeling pieces come together like clicking tumblers, the parts he didn't know. He lowered the gun. "Okay, I'm listening."

"I think these same people took Pal's wife, a lady I care a lot about, down to Mexico, where Buey is helping them culture the virus. They intend to kill her, Scotty. We are going to stop them."

"We?"

Burke winked. "You and me, bro. With a little help from the padre here and some friends of mine that still collect paychecks from Uncle Sam."

Bowden lowered the gun to his side. He closed his eyes like a man inviting a firing squad. His face crumbled into exhaustion. "Red, they are going to hurt my little girl."

Monteleone grabbed his cell phone. "Give me her name. Then be quiet and wait a few minutes before you go and blow up our shit."

Burke poured a glass of wine. He was pleased that his own hands were still rock steady. He extended a glass to Bowden. "Here. You look like you could use a drink."

Eleven long minutes later the cell phone rang. Monteleone listened intently, grunted approval, and closed the phone with a flourish. "Your kid and her mother will soon be on their way to Vegas for an extended vacation. All they'll be told is that they won a prize package and chips from the casino."

Bowden's face showed hope for the first time. "But what if . . ."

"Some of my folks will stay with them night and day. They are pretending to be a film crew. They won't tell the truth unless they absolutely have to."

"We should be back long before that becomes necessary." Burke glanced at Father Benny, who had finished praying and seemed calm. He nodded approval.

"Back from where?"

"We're doing one last op, pal. We're going to fuck with the guys who did Doc. Just you and me, okay?" He offered a clenched fist. "Brothers."

They slammed knuckles. "Brothers."

"But the truth is that we may not make it out this time. Does that sit okay with you?"

"That's fine. Does it pay?"

"Not half what it ought to considering the risk."

"I want two hundred and fifty large life insurance on me, with my daughter as the beneficiary."

Tony made a note. "Okay."

"Then I'm in." Bowden finished the wine, but to Burke's pleasure did not ask for more. "What about the rest of the members of this . . . cult, or whatever it is. Won't they still be in place afterwards, despite whatever we do?"

Burke offered a low-key smile. "You know the game I'm in. I have friends who are very good. These people might try to run, but they will be found, and they will be dealt with."

"Your way," Monteleone said, quietly, "or mine."

"It's a done deal."

The bodyguard began to stir and moan. Monteleone called over to him: "DeMartini, get up and get the fuck out of here. And by the way, you're fired."

Bowden rose, the Uzi dangling on his left. He approached the table and extended his right hand to Monteleone. "I'm in your debt."

Monteleone shook vigorously. With a straight face, he said, "I guess maybe we greaseball Guinea motherfuckers are good for something after all, huh?"

FIFTY-EIGHT

With Bowden in the van, Burke and Benny hurried northwest into the R4 industrial area situated close to the far end of the Los Angeles basin. The streets were lined with a pastiche of old houses and nondescript storage facilities; small business owners liked the cheap rent and relatively good security provided by the tall barbed-wire fences and armed guards, and the residents couldn't afford to move. Burke drove to the prearranged location and honked his initials in Morse code. Bowden looked at him askance.

"Don't look at me. That was Cary's idea."

A bearded man with white hair emerged from the parking garage carrying an open
Playboy
magazine that barely disguised a silenced automatic; behind him in the doorway, with half of her upper body hidden in shadow, stood a thin woman in a smart business suit.

"Oh, shit. It's Dave and Cora."

Bowden sighed. "Great. Someone you've pissed off."

"I'm afraid so."

The agent Burke humiliated in the coffee shop reluctantly lowered his weapon. He tucked it into his belt, dropped the magazine. He opened the heavy metal gate and shoved it out of the way while his partner kept watch. Burke steered the van into the enclosed area and remained in the vehicle, hands on the wheel, until the area was secure again.

Dave, his broadcaster's voice heavy with irony, spoke first. "Oh, so one of my favorite people needs a favor, eh?"

"Look, I'm sorry about grabbing your nuts and all that," Burke offered, weakly. "I was having a really bad day."

The man known as Dave glared. "Yeah, well thanks to you, so did I. If it wasn't for the Major's orders, I'd . . ."

Burke hopped out of the van. "You'd likely kick my ass. I wouldn't blame you. But right now we've got work to do."

Cora, from the doorway. "He's right."

Burke, over his shoulder. "Wait in the truck, Father."

"No, I want to help."

Father Benny slid out and trailed the three men and one woman into the darkened storage unit. Cora slammed the door behind them, flipped on the lights. The cement-floored facility was packed, floor to ceiling, with wooden crates and cardboard boxes. Most were marked with the names of fruits and vegetables.

Dave sighed and calmed himself, then found a plastic clipboard. He started scribbling. "Tell me what you need."

Burke touched his arm. "First thing I need is that we don't write anything down."

Dave gnawed at his moustache and sucked air through his lower teeth. He slowly set the clipboard down on a metal desk. "Major Ryan said anything you wanted. How hot is this going to get?"

"Scalding."

Dave looked at Cora; Cora looked at Dave. Finally, they both shrugged. "The Major has covered our asses more times than we can count. What the hell. We're in."

"Scotty? You know what to do. Start unpacking some gear. Dave, I'll explain while you help me load the van. Fair enough?"

"Fair enough."

Bowden located a hammer, knelt on the filthy floor and made some nails squeal, then yanked the lid away from a slatted wooden box marked RADISHES. He reached inside and removed two brand new thermobaric "bunker buster" charges and some small, portable rocket launchers still packed in a light coating of grease. Father Benny went a bit pale. Burke unpacked two Assault Rucksacks, already filled with emergency food, water and medical supplies. Bowden moved to a crate marked CARROTS and eased out a pair of vintage black M4 carbine rifles with PEQ2A laser sights, two 30-round magazines and two CA-15s with pump shotguns attached to the bayonet fixtures. One crate contained nothing but grenades modified to be powerful to the nth degree. Meanwhile, Cora and Dave were unpacking rope ladders, black flak jackets, and other safety equipment.

"How many on your team?" Cora asked.

"Actually, I was going in alone at first," Burke replied. He looked up. "But now there'll be two of us on the ground."

Bowden belched loudly, injecting some easy laughter. "I can hardly wait."

Burke opened a Dragon Eye system, small enough to fit into his backpack. It was a five-pound reconnaissance craft that could beam video directly to a camera on a soldier's wrist. But after mentally running the mission—and the speed that would be required of them—he replaced it in the carrying case.

"Let's take one anyway," Bowden called. "Just in case."

"Forget it." Burke turned his attention to collecting ammunition. He also packed several modified grenades and a large amount of plastic explosive. The grenades, medical supplies, new-age devices and eerie-looking NVG night vision goggles rapidly covered the cement. Father Benny went from white to green. Moments later he was outside, vomiting in the dirt. Dave and Cora looked puzzled.

"Don't worry," Burke said. "He's just the designated driver."

FIFTY-NINE

"Can't someone please just talk to me?"

Indira Pal is cold and hungry but afraid to eat the yogurt. She has handled the clear plastic container but the top could easily have been penetrated by a needle. Her surroundings are already horrifyingly medicinal, and the idea of eating something that has been tampered with makes her stomach curdle.

"Hello?"

She would love to pace the room just to get some blood flowing but the paper gown is backless. Indira is emotionally shaken, and she can feel she is being watched through the ubiquitous two-way mirrored tiles. The drug they have given her is wearing off and has left behind a pounding headache and a deep thirst.

Shahr-e-Khamosh. Kali Ma, help me.

She is thirsty but also afraid to drink the water.

Her conversation with Burke sticks in her mind. She knows that there were drugs in the food and drink at the last spiritual retreat, that most of what she has wanted to believe for years is almost certainly false, that she will soon be drugged again . . . and then burned alive, along with the body of her husband. The City of Silence cannot let her go. She knows too much. But how much has she told Burke? Ah, and that is what they will be hoping to find out.

"Are you comfortable?" The voice comes from nearby and startles her.

Indira clutches her legs and squirms back up onto the cot. She works herself deeply into the corner. Her eyes roam the room and finally land on the tiny metal speaker set deep into the sealed surface of the ceiling. "What?"

"I asked if you were comfortable."

Indira begins to cry. "Mo, I know that it is you. What are you going to do to me?"

"Hush, now," his voice soothes. "Don't work yourself up. There are many things to come that will truly horrify you, my dear, but nothing that is going to happen just yet. You must save your energy."

"Why?"

"You will need it for screaming."

Indira feels her innards quake. She knows the darkness in her husband. She has seen him beat servants and abuse followers not obsequious enough to suit him. He has beaten her many times as well, carefully and systematically, and always in ways that left no mark.

"Why are you doing this?"

Pal laughs, the speaker rattles like phlegm. "You dare to ask that question after laying with another man, grunting like a pig with him? After violating your vows just before we are to share the sacred rite of Sati?"

"Sacred to you," Indira replies. She can feel herself gathering strength. "Personally, I don't want to die yet, Mohandas."

He mocks her. "Why, neither do I, my dear. Who does?"

"This is just to satisfy the bottomless pit of your ego."

"Oh, it is for so much more than that," the disembodied voice intones. "It is to prepare the earth for the return of Kali-Ma, to create the sacred City of Silence on the face of the earth."

"Nonsense." Indira hurls her darkest feeling. "Your religion is a lie. You drugged us and tricked us, Mo. You're a fakir, a charlatan."

After a long moment, Pal chuckles. "Oh, I suppose you do have a point. I played a trick or two on the group. And I may have fudged a little here and there to impress the heathen . . . but I can assure you, I mean everything I say in the larger sense."

Indira hugs her knees again. "I don't understand you."

"No mortal could." Another laugh, a bit shriller. "But then I suppose that sounds like I'm quite mad, doesn't it? And I'm not, I assure you."

"Let me go."

"Quite impossible. But to be sporting, I will give you a choice in how you die. You may die of a horrible sickness and have your body burned, or you may be burned alive along with my body instead. It's rather a Hobson's choice, eh? If I were you, though, I would take the burning. If you inhale the flames you will die more quickly and with considerably more dignity."

"Go to hell, Mo."

"I will give you a few hours to come to a decision. If you refuse to make one, I will toss a coin. Does that seem fair enough?"

Indira shudders. "Burke will stop you."

"Not a chance that he even knows where you are. It took much effort to manipulate the two of you into bed again, but with the help of my followers and Peter Stryker, I have succeeded."

"You
wanted
us together?"

"I want his wounds to be fresh, for Mr. Burke to suffer as I have suffered. And now he will."

"Jack will find me."

"Hold on to your hope. How much have you told your lover, hmm? How much does he know of my organization, my plans?"

"Everything."

A laugh, followed by a deep, wracking cough; it takes Pal some time to recover. "Why, that is simply impossible, sweetheart. Why, even you don't know everything."

Indira thinks, takes a shot in the dark. "He knows about the formula."

She can hear the hissing intake of breath and takes satisfaction in having startled him. She makes herself grin wickedly, as if filled with feelings of triumph. The speaker clicks off. Indira sits, waiting for the torturer to arrive, waiting to be beaten or drugged. But no one comes. She remains still, completely isolated in the empty room.

SIXTY

They sat quietly in a deserted, dilapidated hanger near a private airstrip a few miles north of the Mexican border, listening to a swirling breeze claw some dried sage across the tarmac. Burke opened his cell phone, punched some numbers to retrieve messages. He waved to Bowden and sighed. "Gina and Stryker's daughter are okay. She just left a message that they're at the hotel in Vegas."

"The one your friend's family owns?"

"Yeah, same place as your ex and the kid. One less thing to worry about."

Scotty Bowden stopped screwing around with the Dragon Eye monitor long enough to flash Burke a wan smile. "Too bad we can't hump this sucker. I have one more question. Just out of curiosity, how exactly do you plan on not getting us killed?"

"What do you mean?"

"Didn't you tell me that Cary Ryan already lost two teams over this dude? How are we going to keep from getting toasted?"

Burke walked to the makeshift chalk board, combat boots crunching through small twigs and pebbles. "First of all, there will only be the two of us going in, and from a different direction. Look." He made an elaborate sketch with blue chalk as Bowden watched. "You've already seen the sketch of the layout. The property is about eight miles outside the town of Los Gatos, which is pretty much under the control of Juan Garcia Lopez, also known as Buey, The Ox."