Wrong Town: A Mark Landry Novel (37 page)
Read Wrong Town: A Mark Landry Novel Online
Authors: Randall H Miller
“Whatever you say, Top Gun!” Mark yelled from the darkness. “You could have at least martyred yourself but you didn’t have the balls. Or let me guess—Allah had a different plan for you, right?”
Amir wrestled with his restraints and screamed. “I am not a coward! I am not afraid to die! My martyrdom awaits me in Washington and I promise you I will make it there. Do you hear me? I will fulfill my destiny and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.”
Landry walked slowly back into the candlelight. “Odds of you making it to Washington are looking pretty slim right now, wouldn’t you say? But just for shits and giggles, what were you planning on doing once you got there?”
“I’m done talking to you. Kill me. Hand me over to the authorities. I don’t care. But I won’t entertain your stupidity anymore.”
“Suit yourself,” answered Mark.
Both men averted each other’s gazes and sat in silence for several minutes. As Landry started to speak, a long, agonizing moan drifted up the basement stairs and eerily pierced the silence. He leapt to his feet with his carbine at the ready and pressed his ear to the basement door in time to hear a second faint groaning sound.
“Go ahead,” said Amir. “Look downstairs so you can see what a low-level foot soldier was able to do to one of your finest.”
Landry closed the distance between him and his prisoner in three determined strides and delivered an uppercut to the chin with the butt of his rifle, knocking Amir unconscious.
Officer John McDonough was in grave condition. Mark had found him in a puddle of blood behind the boxes in the basement and cursed himself for having missed the wounded officer when he had hastily cleared the cabin. Either the shooter had left him for dead or was letting him suffer and keeping him around for more torture. He was shirtless, shoeless, and bound at the hands and feet. Several of his fingers and toes had been cut off, his face and torso were beaten to a pulp, and the USMC tattoo on his left bicep was covered with burn marks. Landry put an ear to his mouth. The officer’s breathing was shallow and barely audible.
“Can you hear me? Can you hear me? Are you John? Is your name John?” Mark yelled.
McDonough grunted and opened his mouth. “Yeah,” he answered in a low whisper that took every ounce of his remaining strength.
Mark looked closer at the officer and former Marine’s wounds and considered his options.
This guy isn’t going to make it unless he gets help right now. He may have only minutes. The nearest hospital is fifteen miles away. If I call for EMTs, I lose control of the site and he could die waiting for them. His best chances are for me to stop the bleeding and get him to the ER, and I may not even be able to get him there in time. Shit!
Landry retrieved the tourniquet and pressure dressing from one of his cargo pockets and put them on his patient where he thought they would stop the most blood. They weren’t nearly enough. He quickly scanned the basement and grabbed several bags of napkins from the restaurant supplies.
“Listen, John. I’m going to get you out of here, okay? But I need to stop your bleeding as best I can before I move you. You’ve been through a lot, my friend. And it’s going to hurt some more if we’re going to make it to a hospital. Okay? Can you hear me, buddy?”
McDonough grunted. Mark started packing piles of napkins onto his wounds and securing them in place with a roll of duct tape he had found at the bottom of one of the boxes. “All you have to do is stay with me, John. I’ll get you there, but you gotta fight, brother. And judging from that tattoo I think you know what I mean. Who’s Linda?”
Mark struggled to plug the holes in McDonough’s body, glanced down at his left hand, and saw a wedding band wrapped around what was left of his ring finger. “Is she your wife, John? Is Linda your wife?”
McDonough grunted and tried to speak. “Yes …”
“Okay, save your energy, brother. I’m going to move you now and it’s going to hurt. But you have to push through the pain for me, Marine! You have a lot to live for, John. Linda says your baby is on the way. Keep thinking about her and that baby and don’t give up. I’ll do my part but you have to do yours and stay in the fight. We’re out of here right now.”
Mark took one last deep breath and strained every muscle in his body to pull McDonough up from the basement floor. He carefully stepped over Yasir’s body and slowly ascended the basement stairs with the wounded officer hoisted on his shoulder.
Kenny nervously paced back and forth in his office, his fingers laced behind his neck.
This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening. He’s probably wrong. We covered our tracks.
He stopped and looked down at the message on his screen to make sure he hadn’t misread it.
MESSAGE: DRONE JACK COMPROMISED. WIPING MY DRIVES AND BUGGING OUT. SUGGEST YOU DO SAME.
No. No. No. This isn’t happening. What the hell should I do? Should I bail? Should I stick it out and see what happens? Call Mark.
“I was just about to call you, Kenny,” Mark said when he answered.
“I’m freaking out over here, Mark. My guy is telling me the drone jack was compromised. But he doesn’t know whether it was compromised from the very beginning or not. He’s bugging out and I don’t know what the hell I should do. My connection to him was encrypted and rerouted through at least half a dozen different jurisdictions, but nothing is impossible to trace.”
“You’re the only one who can make that call, Kenny. So do what you have to do. But for what it’s worth, I can tell you from experience that nobody gets away forever.”
“I know that. Are you finished with the shooter? I can see you’re nowhere near the cabin. What did he tell you?” Kenny asked.
“I was just starting to get some information out of him when I had to alter the plan. I found a wounded cop in the basement. He’s alive but won’t be for long if he doesn’t get to a hospital. The nearest ER is about fifteen miles away and I’m en route.”
“Where’s the shooter, Mark? Did you just leave him there?”
“Yeah, I didn’t have much of a choice. This guy is bleeding out quickly.”
“I understand and I’m not questioning you, but if he gets away a lot of people could die.”
“The cop’s wife is giving birth as we speak. I never had a father. You lost yours. Think I could live with myself if I let some kid’s dad die? The shooter is tied up tight and I’ll get back as fast as I can.”
“Okay. Let me know if you need anything from me,” said Kenny.
“I need you to remember what I told you before I left. If they come for you, try not to say anything. I won’t leave you, Kenny. I promise I’ll help, but it could take time.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that, Mark.”
“One more thing. If they do come for you, depending on whose drone you jacked, they may not show up flashing their badges with the sirens blaring. Be careful, Kenny.”
“I’m going outside to have a cigarette,” the young uniformed security guard said to the emergency room receptionist through his walkie-talkie.
“You’re off duty in like ten minutes. You can’t wait?” she replied.
“I suppose I could. But then it would be on my time and I only smoke when I’m on the clock. Besides, I like to see the sunrise.”
“You’re unbelievable!”
The security guard stepped through the automatic doors, clenched a cigarette between his teeth, and removed the lighter from his front pocket. He bowed his head, lit the cigarette, and took two deep drags. When he looked up, a Toyota sedan was speeding across the parking lot toward the emergency room entrance. “Slow down, man!” he said out loud.
The Toyota screeched to a halt in front of the automatic doors and a masked Mark Landry jumped out of the driver’s seat, holding his credentials high. “Federal agent! I have a wounded police officer who needs urgent care. You clear the way. I’ll carry him in.”
The security guard stood stunned.
“Put out your friggin’ cigarette and clear the way for me. He’s going to die if he doesn’t get help right now!”
Seconds later, Mark passed through the doors with the bloody John McDonough over his shoulder. “Stay with me, John. We made it, brother! We made it to the hospital. They’re going to take good care of you now. Keep fighting, John! Remember, you have a wife and kid to live for.”
Landry lowered McDonough onto an open bed in the ER, the medical crew sprang into action, and he bolted for the door. On the way out, he grabbed a nurse by the arm and pulled her close. Her eyes were wide with horror. Mark pulled down and stretched the mask’s opening under his chin to expose his face. “Calm down. Look at me. It’s okay—we’re both good guys, okay?”
She nodded nervously.
“Listen, his name is John McDonough. He’s a cop and a veteran. His wife Linda is somewhere in this hospital and about to have a baby. You guys can take it from here. I have to go.”
Kenny downed a glass of cognac, placed it on the kitchen counter, and continued nervously pacing the house.
I could wipe my drives right now just to be safe. But if they don’t come, I did it for nothing. If they do come, I just destroyed evidence and I’m even more screwed. I could wipe it all and bug out, but they’d eventually find me. What the hell do I do? Another drink.
He returned to the kitchen, refilled his glass, and stared out the front window.
What the hell is Mark going to do? Like nobody is going to see him drop off a wounded cop at the ER? Like he can just sail in and out? And what if the shooter isn’t there when he returns? What then? We are screwed. We are both screwed.
Kenny’s worst nightmare soon came true as several dark sedans and State Police cruisers appeared at the top of the street. His heart sank as they silently descended the hill toward the cul-de-sac.
Mark was right. No lights, no sirens.
He drained the rest of the cognac from the glass and set it down on an end table.
Here I am. Come and get me. I’m not going to run.
When the cars reached the bottom of the hill, they turned right into Frank Tagala’s driveway. Uniformed officers and agents exited their vehicles and rushed to surround the agent’s home. After several unanswered knocks, the three men at the front door entered Frank’s house.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Kenny out loud. “Maybe it’s my lucky day.”
As he reached up to close the blinds, a gloved hand covered his mouth from behind and pulled him violently away from the window.
Ghassan Massoud had driven the entire way from New York City with the radio off, preferring instead to review in his mind the litany of reasons why he would never visit his sister and her family again.
It wasn’t the hints that she needed money that pushed him over the edge—she’d been cashing a yearly check from him since they were teens. And it wasn’t the nagging comments about his weight or how much wine he consumed. Those things he could get over. What caused Ghassan to blow his stack was her husband, a Somali engineer, and their three unbearable children.
On previous occasions, when Ghassan had reached his boiling point he would simply slip out the door. Later he would call with an excuse, and his sister would eventually get over it. But this year things had unfolded differently, and he could not resist the urge to share a piece of his mind on the way out.
With a full belly of Lebanese food and wine from his beloved Bekaa Valley, he stood at the table with his glass raised. “I’m afraid I must leave this evening, but before I go I wanted to say a few words. First, thank you to my wonderful sister Sara for your hospitality. But I would also like to say a few words to the three of you,” he said, turning to Sara’s children.
“I bounced each of you on my knee when you were babies and still can’t believe you are now in your twenties,” he began, filling his glass to the brim with more wine. “I can’t believe it, not just because you are so much bigger, but because you still act like children. You are all very smart. But you are also incredibly spoiled and disrespectful.”
The room full of relatives gasped and started to interrupt Ghassan until he slammed a beefy palm of the table. “I am not finished! Seriously, if you spent half as much time being grateful for what you have instead of bitching and complaining about the injustices you endure, you would be much happier and more successful. Try it, please. Especially, you,” he said pointing to his niece, who was in her third year at an Ivy League university on a full scholarship. “Either toughen up or be sure to spend the rest of your life on campus, because the real world doesn’t give a shit about your feelings.”
“Ghassan!” gasped Sara. “Please!”
He dismissed her with a wave, guzzled his entire glass of wine, and directed his attention to her husband, seated at the head of the table. “And you, Farooq. This country has been good to you. You have been able to work and make a living. You met your wife here and were able to raise your family in peace. But I have never heard a good word about the United States pass from your Qat-stained lips. If you had stayed in Somalia, you would be either dead or making a living as a low-rent pirate. Keep that in mind the next time you want to complain about having to take your shoes off at the airport or show ID to the police. If it was up to me, I would send your skinny ass back to Mogadishu the way you arrived—with nothing but the clothes on your back.”
Ghassan smiled for the first hour of the drive home. But now, as he pulled the dark green Range Rover into his driveway, all he wanted to do was sleep. Yasir’s car was not in the driveway.
Good, maybe he is at the restaurant actually doing what I asked of him.
He left his bags in the car and was slowly climbing the stairs to the cabin when he noticed that the door had been broken in.
Ghassan entered the house and froze. The air was thick with a foul odor, the furniture was in disarray, and there were pools of blood everywhere. “Yasir!” he yelled. “Yasir, are you okay?”
Hearing no answer, he ran for the fireplace mantle to retrieve his revolver. He gasped at the bloodstained floor along the way and panicked when he saw that the revolver was gone. He began to sweat and the room started to spin. As his panic grew stronger, his instincts screamed for him to run.
“Help! Please help me!” he heard from across the room.
Ghassan shook off his tunnel vision and saw a young man tied to a chair on the other side of the room. He approached slowly, mouth wide in horror at the sight of the boy’s swollen, bloody face and missing ear.
“Please help me!” he repeated.
“Who are you?” asked Ghassan, his voice quivering with fear.
“Don’t let him kill me! Untie me before he gets back! He’s crazy! He’s already killed a bunch of people. I tried to stop him but he tortured me!”
“Who are you talking about? Who has killed people and tortured you?” asked Ghassan.
“Yasir! He’s a terrorist! He helped hurt those people in Massachusetts two days ago. Please, I’ll tell you everything, but untie me before he gets back!”
Ghassan’s heart raced and he started to lose feeling in his arms and legs. He steadied himself with one hand against the wall, bent over, and gasped to catch his breath.
How can this be? My God, what have you done, Yasir!
“Please! I’m begging you! Untie me before he gets back or he’ll kill both of us!”
The big man breathed deeply and tried to calm his nerves. Then he examined the prisoner’s restraints and screamed over his shoulder as he scurried to the kitchen. “I’ll get a knife and cut you loose.”