Black Ops 03 - Deadly Games (6 page)

So, was Edguardo now stuck in that traffic jam outside or had he been unable to even get onto the interstate? Either way, he was probably even more pissed than Harry.

After twisting the top off his thermos, Harry refilled his mug. He blew across the coffee’s steaming surface before taking a sip. After years of choking down the strong, bitter brew that foreigners called coffee, good old Folgers tasted like nectar.

He kept the television muted as he flipped through channels, finally settling on ESPN to watch the replay of the Dallas Cowboys kicking San Diego’s ass.

In spite of its beat-up exterior, the Winnie’s inside was fully tricked out. For two hundred extra bucks, the RV’s previous owner had thrown in the illegal
black box that unscrambled all the satellite channels and Internet.

Harry pumped his fist as Dallas scored a field goal. Lord, he missed living in the states! Two years of living and working in the cesspool called Southeast Asia gave one a whole new appreciation for all things red, white, and blue.

In fact, once Harry’s future was secure—beyond risk this time—he’d consider moving back to the U.S. Hell, maybe he’d keep the Winnie and pose as a retired RVer. Travel from Las Vegas to Atlantic City. The thought almost made him snicker.

“Can’t see me as a fucking snowbird.” Turning away from the television, Harry fired up his laptop to check e-mail again.

By running the black box’s cables through the customized junction box hanging off his laptop, Harry had added several layers of security to ensure his connections remained untraceable.

When his e-mail finally opened, however, he was disappointed to find no updates on Rocco Taylor’s status. The news that Travis Franks had indeed moved swiftly to forestall Rocco’s departure had been a relief. That Travis had taken things one step further by throwing Rocco into lockdown hadn’t been a total surprise either. Rocco was one ingenious motherfucker. Which was exactly the reason Harry needed his ass here in the states. Rocco was a fast pass to reclaiming Dr. Rufin.

Minh Tran had had the right idea for getting to Rufin. Kidnap someone Rocco Taylor cared about and let Rocco do the dirty work in order to rescue his lady fair.

In fact, Tran had actually inspired Harry’s current
plan, though the similarities ended there. Harry was much smarter than Minh Tran. And Harry knew more about Rocco’s taste in women.

The scenario’s poetic justice hadn’t escaped Harry either. It was Rocco’s fault that Dr. Rufin was here to begin with. Rocco had gone in, guns blazing, and snatched Rufin from Harry’s associate in Bangkok, nearly killing the scientist in the process.

Sure, Rocco’s action had thwarted Minh Tran’s son’s attempt at seizing Rufin. If Tran had managed to get Rufin, Harry would be washed up.

So, while irksome, it was preferable that Rufin was in the CIA’s custody. At least now Harry had a chance.

Actually, Minh Tran had helped to keep the Agency distracted by kidnapping Madison Kohl-meyer. Harry had further contributed a little sleight of hand by leaking key information on himself to a CIA snitch. The news that a third American spy was being held captive in Burma had sent the Agency scrambling to marshal its thinly spread resources.

Without doubt, the Agency had its hands full. The so-called war on terror meant nonterrorists were ramping up operations on all other fronts. The stats on money laundering, arms trading, and sex slave rackets had doubled. Which kept other law enforcement agencies busy, too, making it a little easier for Harry to move about.

What a contrast to nine days ago when Harry had first arrived in the states! He’d barely gotten off the plane when news broke that his partner in crime, pharmaceutical financier Abe Caldwell, had been taken into custody for his role in kidnapping Dr. Erin Houston.

On the heels of that fiasco came word that Dr. Rufin had disappeared from the hiding spot where Harry had left him in Thailand. Initially, Harry had panicked, retreating to the one place he’d sworn he’d never return: his father’s farm in southern Illinois.

Shortly before his death, Ephraim Gambrel had agreed to sell the place for its mineral rights. The sale would have made Ephraim a multimillionaire. But glitches in the paperwork meant the place temporarily sat in limbo while the buyer waited for new zoning variances and estate settlements. That his old man had left everything to Harry’s ex, Gena, still rankled.

With the estate unsettled, the farm sat vacant and untouched, which meant his old man’s fifties-era bomb shelter hadn’t been discovered. Ephraim’s paranoia, carried over from the Cold War, had provided a shelter that was kept well provisioned, too. Harry could have survived there six months, easy.

But a little quiet time quickly gave rise to a new plan. Sitting alone in that dank, concrete hole in a cornfield had helped Harry distill one simple truth: His Golden Goose was the designer drug recipes. If Harry could get to Dr. Rufin just long enough to make him cough up the drug formula for SugarCane, his future was set. The deal Harry had proposed to the Rialto cartel didn’t include future royalties. Just a onetime cash buyout that Harry wouldn’t have to split with anyone.

It was a win-win. Once Harry got what he wanted, the CIA could keep Rufin and all his dirty little secrets encoded in data chips embedded in the renegade test subject know as Taz. Provided Taz was still alive and the chips were retrievable. And even if the
data was viable, all that crap on mind control would require years of testing.

When the news broke that Abe Caldwell had been freed on bond pending a deal with the Justice Department, Harry left his father’s farm and paid Abe an unexpected visit.

Two bullets in the shoulder had Abe begging for mercy. Turned out the man was terrified of dying. In those last few hours of his life, Caldwell had spilled his guts over and over, hoping to win a respite.

“You and I can strike a new deal,” Abe had blubbered. “You can come to Zurich. We’ll both be protected there. I have connections you can only dream about.”

As a desperate show of good faith, Abe had spewed forth the combination to his safe, which had been well stocked with cash and gold Krugerrands. Not enough for Harry to retire on, however.

“I can get more,” Abe had gone on. “Please! Just let me call my personal physician.”

In the end, Caldwell even gave up his most valuable human asset: his mole within the Agency.

Taking over Caldwell’s personal traitor had been disgustingly easy. People sold their allegiance for money, not friendship. Loyalty was a matter of cash flow. And while the CIA mole would have to be done away with soon, for the time being the man was worth his weight in the Krugerrands Harry now controlled. Krugerrands the mole had been smart enough to stash away, amassing a secret fortune without the telltale trail of cash the Agency regularly checked for.

Growing impatient, Harry peeked out the blinds again. This time he noted that the southbound traffic was starting to creep along.

His cell phone went off just then with a special ringtone. Edguardo. “Finally,” Harry said. “What’s your ETA?”

“There’s been a problem,” Edguardo said.

Those four words had Harry snapping off the television. “Go on.”

“The men we hired were spotted by another woman, who ran to warn the target.”

“Jesus! If they blow this job—”

“Unfortunately, that’s exactly what they did. They knew they could be identified, so they firebombed the place before the police arrived.”

Harry groaned. Even though riskier, he and Ed-guardo had agreed to hire local talent to grab Gena Armstrong. A new face in a Podunk town like Sugar Springs would draw the attention of hometown cops faster than a hot fresh doughnut.

If everything had gone as planned, Edguardo would have eliminated the locals once Gena was handed off. In this part of the country, dead bodies were part of the landscape and were always blamed on border issues.

“I’ve taken care of the men,” Edguardo went on. “So it can’t be tied to us. In fact, the cops are already blaming the husband of an illegal alien.”

Harry peered out at the traffic again. It moved slowly. The familiar urge to flee built in his chest as he began shutting down his laptop. “What about the target? Is she dead?”

“Unknown. I’ve got a report of one fatality at the shelter. Plus several burn victims were transported to the local hospital. The fire spread to a nearby apartment building, so the body count is expected to climb.”

Harry climbed behind the wheel but didn’t start the engine. “See if you can find out if one of the victims is a thirty-year-old Caucasian female. Blond hair, blue eyes. Five-six. Then call me back.”

Swearing, he disconnected and stared out the window before drawing back and smashing his fist against the dash.

Gena Armstrong Gambrel would pay for screwing with Harry again. If she was one of the burn victims, he hoped she was suffering, but alive. Because right now he needed her to survive … just long enough to get leverage.

God, please, don’t let the bitch die.

Washington, D.C. Area
October 4, 7:00 A.M.

“I want breakfast. Two eggs, scrambled, with toast. Coffee, black.” Rocco looked directly at the closed-circuit camera that monitored his movements in the room. He maintained three seconds of eye contact, then turned away before giving in to the urge to flip off the viewer.

Food was the last thing Rocco wanted, but he figured Thing 1 and Thing 2 would be more likely to respond to an innocuous-sounding request. Offering threats had done nothing.

And after a night of no sleep Rocco really could use the coffee. Edgy, he paced. He hated being kept in the dark, literally and figuratively. The windowless nine-foot square room made him restless.

Sparsely furnished, it held a twin bed, a wall-mounted television, a compact refrigerator, and a small-scale table with chairs just slightly larger than
kiddy furniture. The adjacent bath was equally spartan: sink, shower, head.

Rocco was familiar with his place of detainment, the basement level of a high-rise not too far outside D.C. He had debriefed “persons of interest” here before. He’d just never imagined himself on the receiving end.

While considered a secure location, it wasn’t as private as the truly hidden places the CIA used when it needed to keep a subject’s whereabouts secret. And even though this place was designed more for protection than detention, the bar across the outside of the door effectively held Rocco against his will.

Once Things 1 and 2—the cocky bastards refused his request to see ID—had locked Rocco up, they had seemingly abandoned him. Except for that one short blast of verbal crossfire over Travis Franks’s whereabouts. That had been fun. The Things were convinced that Rocco and Travis were jointly pulling the wool over their eyes. And Rocco had been too pissed to bother correcting them.

While Rocco had yet to figure out Travis’s game, one thing was as clear as rainwater: Rocco had been played. Right along with Travis’s two watchers. And none of them were happy campers.

Point of fact was the call Rocco had overheard during the ride there. Thing 1 had placed it—to whom?—only to receive a royal ass-chewing for letting Travis out of their sight. Interesting.

Rocco glanced toward the remote-controlled camera installed above the prison-issued door. If not for the camera’s periodic movements, he might have wondered if the Things had skipped out, and maybe
they had. But someone was out there watching him. He could feel it.

And he’d make damn sure they felt it, too, because he planned to throttle the next person who came in that door.

Screw Travis. Rocco wasn’t
behaving
any longer.

So where was Travis now? And damn it, whatever he was up to, how would it affect Maddy’s chances for survival?

That Rocco had allowed Travis to confiscate his friggin’ cell phone was another mistake. Rocco had initially thought he’d understood Travis’s hesitancy to disclose strategy in front of the two watchers and had gone along, fully expecting Travis to reconnect here and bring Rocco up to speed.

None of that had happened.

Without his cell phone, Rocco was pretty much screwed seven ways to hell. He had no way to contact Minh Tran. No hope of saving Maddy. Travis better have a giant rabbit up his sleeve.

Rocco eyed the clock. Three hours. He was supposed to be in San Francisco by ten A.M. What would happen when he didn’t show? Maybe if he’d had his cell phone he could have talked Minh Tran’s goon down. Or struck a new agreement. Was Travis even thinking of that? Or was he too focused on his own agenda? On recovering Harry Gambrel?

The new intel on Harry couldn’t have come at a worse time. For Maddy. Ever since recovering Dante Johnson and Max Duncan from prisons in Thailand, Travis had been mentally flying a missing-man formation. Travis had seemingly been hell-bent on bringing home the last member of his team. No matter the cost.

And yet Travis had assured Rocco that someone they both trusted was working to save Maddy. “Both trusted” made for a very short list: Dante and Max. Check.

Unless Travis had enlisted help in Southeast Asia. That list was even shorter: Diego Marques. Uncheck. After helping Rocco free Dr. Rufin, Diego had sworn never to work with the Agency again. Had Travis somehow changed Diego’s mind? Or had Travis come up with a fix on where Maddy was being held?

Who knew? At this point Rocco was second-guessing every supposition he’d made. To be left isolated like this was unacceptable. So was being left hanging without word on Maddy.

Even though Travis was one of the few who knew that Rocco and Maddy’s relationship had devolved to a platonic one—at Maddy’s insistence—Travis knew Rocco had feelings for her. If not love, then genuine caring.

Travis also knew Rocco felt responsible for Maddy’s situation. God, was she okay? The sound of her screams still echoed in his head.
“Nooooo! … Rocco … make them …”

Minh Tran and his men would pay for hurting her.

“Swear to God,” Rocco muttered.

Bet they’re quaking in their boots.
The snide thought reminded Rocco of how ruthless Minh Tran was. And going after Rocco’s sister proved how mercenary he could be.