Shattered Bone (33 page)

The door exploded open as seven armed and helmeted men burst like lightning into the dimly lit room. Morozov awoke with a start, then instantly rolled off his bed and went for his gun. Ammon stood at the bathroom doorway without moving.

“
Get down on the floor!
” someone screamed. “
Get your freaking face down on the floor!
”

In a daze, Morozov reached for the 9mm which was stuffed under his left armpit. But before he could even get his hand around its beveled grip, he found himself sailing backward and crashing into the wall. Three men were instantly on top of him, pushing him to the floor and smothering him with their weight. A thick, black hood was immediately pulled down over his face. And then he felt the jabbing pain of the needle as it was shoved deeply into the meat of his thigh.

Six feet away, Richard Ammon found himself in an identical position, covered with black-uniformed bodies and pressed unmercifully onto the floor. He also felt the sharp sting of the needle and almost immediately passed away into a deep and foggy sleep.

As the two men stopped struggling and drifted away, a husky voice spoke into a cellular phone. “We've got them,” he said without introduction. “Yeah, they're both alive. No shots were fired. We're bringing him in.”

________________________                  

______________________          

Simply put, it comes down to this.

You have to drop steel on the target.

___________________ 

___________________       

WICHITA, KANSAS

R
ICHARD
A
MMON WAS ALONE
. H
E LAY ON HIS BACK ON A HARD MATTRESS
, staring at a bare cement ceiling. It was dark and cold and very quiet. His mind was swimming, he couldn't think, and it hurt to focus his eyes. His tongue felt numb and swollen and his mouth was thick and dry. His arms felt like heavy weights and there was a soft buzzing in the back of his head. It would take another twenty minutes for his kidneys to completely wash the heavy sedative from his blood. Not until then would his arms quit tingling and the feeling move back into his legs.

He closed his eyes and smelled the urine and cleanser as he tried to figure out where he was. With a painful strain, he rolled over, pushed his feet onto the floor, and sat up. Looking around him, his heart sank. He was in a prison cell. A dank, dark, cold prison cell. He rubbed his eyes and glanced around the room, taking in the stainless steel toilet and tiny wash basin, the cement bed and the shiny, flat, metal plate that served as a mirror. He studied the huge steel door, with its tiny slot to pass through plates of food, and the windowless, gray cement walls.

And then it hit him. And as he remembered, he took a quick breath, paralyzed for a moment in fear.

Morozov had sworn he would kill her. He could hear his cold voice and could see the green eyes.

“If this mission fails, for whatever reason, Jesse will certainly die.”

Ammon's heart raced. Pushing himself up, he stumbled to the door. Pressing his face against the tiny, grate-covered window, he peered out into the hall. Nothing. He couldn't see a thing. He stopped and listened. Nothing. Not a sound. He called through the window. No one was there. He glanced at his watch. It was gone. How long had he been here? How much did they know? He called out through the window once again.

“Is anyone there?” He listened as his voice echoed down the empty, steel hallway. He called again. No response. Far off in the distance, he could hear a fan turning, an eerie and lonely sound.

Thirty yards away, at the end of the hallway and behind two thick, double-locked doors, three guards sat behind a bulletproof window and watched on their remote controlled monitor as Ammon pushed his face against his prison cell door. One of them immediately picked up the phone.

“Yeah, he's awake. No, not more than a minute ago. Yes ... yes.... Okay, we'll be waiting.” He placed the receiver back in its cradle and motioned to one of the other guards.

“Open her up. They're on their way down.” Another guard pushed a series of codes on a computer keypad, and they listened to the quiet buzz as the internal locks inside the first door retracted into the cold steel.

Ammon swallowed hard to fight down the panic. Morozov would kill her! He was running out of time!

He stumbled back to the bed, fell onto the corner and pressed his eyes with his fists. A mighty shiver ran the length of his body. Folding his arms across his chest, he rubbed his biceps until the skin burned.

Like a cold slap of thunder, the sudden clang of a metal door sounded from the end of the hallway. He looked up and listened and waited. Footsteps approached from the far end of the hall. He sat on the edge of the bed. His own door buzzed and then clicked as the internal locks rolled open.

For the first time in weeks, a flicker of life burned in Ammon's eyes. He pushed himself to his feet as Lieutenant Colonel Oliver Tray walked into the musty cell.

Ammon stumbled forward. “Tray! They got Jesse,” he muttered through a thick tongue and chattering teeth. “They got Jesse. Please, you've got to help me!”

Oliver Tray grabbed Ammon by the arms and turned him back to the bed. “Richard, it's okay. It's okay. We got her.”

Ammon slumped onto the mattress and looked into Oliver's face with unbelieving eyes.

“I swear to you, she's going to be okay,” Tray assured him.

Ammon's eyes glistened. He wiped his hands across his face and through his short hair. Was it really over? He just couldn't believe it. He looked up at Tray, pleading. Oliver read the pain in his eyes. Kneeling in front of his friend, he said slowly, “Richard, listen to me. We got her. I wouldn't lie to you. Everything is going to be fine. We brought her in a couple days ago, and I swear to you, she's doing just fine.”

Ammon dropped his eyes to the floor, then buried his face in his hands. She was alive! She was okay! He was so grateful. Words could never explain. It was enough. It was all that he needed. He would ask for nothing ever again.

Three hallways over, in a cell of his own, Ivan Morozov was still suffering from a heavy and continuous dose of Pentothil. He was proving to be a good patient, very receptive to the mind-intrusive drug. He was talking up a storm, spilling his guts, seemingly willing to reveal every classified thing he had ever known. The Air Force intelligence officer was having a hard time keeping him focused, keeping him on track and off of the superfluous details of long-past intelligence operations. But Colonel Fullbright, who was supervising the whole interrogation, kept prodding him on, pushing the intelligence officer to keep the prisoner on the matter at hand.

By the time the interrogation was over, Colonel Fullbright's face was as gray as an old tombstone. It was an incredible operation! An absolutely incredible plan! Whoever had conceived the whole thing, well... just think of it... attack Russia with a stolen U.S. bomber—at the height of a bitterly renewed Cold War. With U.S. bombs exploding all over Russia, who could expect them not to retaliate? And in the midst of the missiles and anger, who would even remember the war with the Ukraine?

Fullbright shivered again as he considered what might have been.

And they had nearly made it work. They were within hours of completing their plan.

Fullbright leaned against the cell wall and stared at Morozov, who was now in a deep sleep. He stood for a very long time, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, deep in thought. And as he stood there, watching Morozov sleeping, an idea emerged in his mind.

They could use him, this slimeball Morozov. They could use him.

It was a very promising thought. No, more than that, it was a downright brilliant idea. It was bold and daring and the potential pay-off was hard to comprehend. However, it was peppered with danger, and there wasn't much time.

But still....

Turning to the Army physician, he asked, “How much will our patient remember, once we bring him around?”

The doctor looked up, expressionless. “How much do you want him to remember?”

“How ‘bout nothing. Let's bring him around in the morning, thinking that he just fell asleep watching television. Can that be done?”

“Easy as making a pancake.”

Fullbright smiled. Morozov would never even know! Never have any idea. Not a clue, until it was already too late.

Turning toward the cell door, Fullbright called out over his shoulder. “Okay, do it,” he commanded the doctor, then quickly walked out.

He glanced at his watch. Time. Time. He needed more time. He had to talk with Milton Blake. And Oliver Tray. And Ammon... . What about Ammon? He was the key.

Col Fullbright left Morozov in his cell, under the watchful eye of two guards and the Army physician. He nearly trotted down the hallway to where the sheriff, a willowy man in a brown uniform and gray cowboy hat, was waiting. The sheriff followed Fullbright down a barren corridor, through another set of guarded, double doors, down a wood-paneled hallway, and into a tiny office where two of Fullbright's staff sat, unsure of why they were there or what they should do.

“How long you going to be here screwing around with my operation?” the sheriff asked as he followed Fullbright into the office. “I'm not running some secret military training camp here, ya'll know. This is the Harvey county prison, not some CIA headquarters. You've already caused me a lot of trouble. So why don't you just tell me what the sam hill is going on? I think I deserve some kind of explanation.”

Fullbright cocked an eye toward the sheriff. The colonel was wearing a white shirt and tie, as were all of the other members of his party. They had shown no identification. No papers to use the prison had ever been served. A quick e-mail message from the Justice Department in Washington, D.C., was the only authorization the sheriff had ever received.

But of course, inside his shiny, bald head, the sheriff's mind was already racing. Who were these men? What were they doing? Whatever it was, it had to be big. Direct orders from Washington, D.C.! Had to be CIA. Or some kind of paramilitary operation. This was so cool. He couldn't wait to get home and tell his wife. And maybe even his brother-in-law, Jake. There were a few people he just couldn't keep a secret from.

Fullbright didn't waste time with the man. “Yes sir, sheriff. You certainly do deserve some answers. But don't expect any. Now if you'll just leave us alone, we'll soon be out of your hair. Then, I promise you, we'll never bother you again.”

The sheriff started to protest as one of Fullbright's aides stood up and opened the door. Then, changing his mind, he shrugged his shoulders and walked from the room, shutting the door quickly behind him.

Turning to a captain who stood by his side, Fullbright commanded, “Get Oliver Tray in here! Now! And you,” he turned to another captain, “get Milton Blake on the phone. Then all of you, clear out of the room.”

A guard brought Ammon a tray of corned beef and mixed vegetables, and Ammon dug into the food. He was feeling much better. His head was clear, and the feeling was rapidly returning to his arms and legs. He was famished. And very thirsty. He felt like he hadn't eaten or drunk in days. Col Fullbright disappeared and came back with a couple of Cokes from the machine at the guard station on the other side of the double doors.

“How did you know about Jesse? How did you find out about the cabin?” Ammon asked. He avoided looking into Oliver Tray's eyes. It was a very uncomfortable question. But still, he needed to know.

“Really, we got very lucky,” Oliver answered. “It was just a shot in the dark. I remembered you telling me about spending weekends up in some cabin together, but I didn't have any idea where it was. I knew it was somewhere in eastern California, but that was about all. We finally found it through tracing the deed. The FBI is pretty good at such things. But to be honest, even once we found out the location of the cabin, I still wasn't very optimistic. It was my own feeling that we wouldn't find Jesse there. Fortunately, it turned out I was wrong.”

Tray thought back on the scene of Jesse hiding in the bush, while Clyde took pot shots at her through the trees. It had been very close. Two minutes later, and Jesse would have been dead. Someday, he would have to tell Richard Ammon. But not now. There were more pressing matters at hand.

“You know, Richard,” Tray continued, “it would have helped if you had told us about your plan. If we had just known what you had intended to do, we could have helped. You should have trusted us to take care of her.”

Ammon stared at his plate. He knew that now. But that wasn't the only harsh lesson he had learned over the past few weeks. And it wasn't the last time he would feel guilty for what had happened to his wife.

He scooped up a forkful of meat and shoved it into his mouth, wanting to move on from the subject.

“You know, Oliver, I called the number you gave me. On the day that they brought me in. I called and left you the code. Do you think that Morozov might know? If he had my lines tapped, could he have traced the call?”

Tray thought about that for a moment, then shook his head in reply. “Perhaps, but I really don't think so. Even if he were to trace the call, it wouldn't lead him to our organization. We are very careful about that. Having an untraceable number might have caused him to be suspicious, but it would give him nothing concrete to go on. Nothing he could point to with any degree of certainty.

“So, no. I'm certain that you are still clean. I don't believe that Morozov knows that you have been working for us. Now, he might have suspicions, but that would be all. You and I both know that if he did know for certain, you would already be dead.”

Ammon looked up and shrugged his shoulders, then turned back to his food. “What about the drugs? Why did you have to drug me up? Had you decided I couldn't be trusted?”