"All right," Ted said. He had seen the threat of imminent physical violence, and the even more effective threat of imminent death, bring a torrent of words from the mouths of more than one reticent cold warrior. "Sarge and I will babysit these two. Bob can fly the other two team members back. While Sarge and I are waiting, I'll see what I can dig out of these assholes."
"You might want to get a little guidance there," Golanov said. "I've dealt with some of your private detectives. This one doesn't fit the mold. He should be protesting his innocence and demanding that you release him. He may be something entirely different, requiring special handling."
"You have a point, Andrew." He needed to advise the "old man" about this development anyway. He turned to Sarge. "Keep a close eye on these two while we get things moving."
"Don't worry," the old soldier said. "They ain't going nowhere."
Chapter 38
They could hear the shouted orders outside, instructions to load everything in the truck and onto the boat. Then the rumble of the truck's engine as it started and quickly moved away. The quiet was broken again by the sound of Jeffries' airplane being warmed up. Soon they heard the droning engine fade off into the distance. An ominous silence enveloped them, like the oppressive stillness before a tornado.
Brackin moaned again. Sarge pushed up from his resting place against the table and walked to one side, taking a closer look at the injured right shoulder. He shifted the gun to his left hand, rubbed the right against the stubble under his chin.
Ted returned shortly. Sarge looked around. "They see anything from the airplane?"
"A small sailboat about a mile out, on the side where we found the raft. Didn't see any lights or people. Apparently they came alone." He turned to his captives, a smile on his face. "I have some good news for you, if you want to call it that. The 'old man' says to forget the rough stuff." He paused to get their reactions. Both had guarded looks. "He's sending someone for a proper interrogation, with intravenous needles."
Burke felt a cold chill ripple down his spine. Truth serum. While it couldn’t compel a person to speak truthfully, it would make them particularly talkative, without much concern for the subject. A skilled interrogator could draw out information the speaker wanted to keep hidden.
"We'll find out how you tracked us down here, Mr. Burke Hill."
Burke's heart skipped a beat. How had they discovered his true identity? A description would be the only way. Or would it? He had taken a chance by using his real name at Aerial Photomap and Starr Security Fence. And, of course, with Toby Callahan. He thought of the anonymous call he had made to the Acapulco Princess. Might it have spurred Jeffries to talk to Toby? He glanced around at Brackin. Somehow they had to engineer an escape. But being bound to sturdy chairs, constantly menaced by a lethal Army .45, the chances looked slim. Walt hardly appeared in shape to fight his way out of a paper bag, and the pain in Burke's stomach wasn't encouraging.
The man called Ted continued chatting, apparently just to taunt them. "It will be interesting to learn how much you know and who you're working for, Hill. And who your friend here is." He turned back to Sarge. "I need to make a few more calls. Then I'll do a final check of the buildings, be sure nobody left behind any little hints about who was here."
"Don't take too long," Sarge said. "I may… uh… I may have to go to the latrine."
Ted laughed, shook his head and walked out.
"What time is it?" Burke asked.
Sarge frowned. "You got an appointment?" Slowly, he checked his watch. "About four-thirty."
Burke noticed that something seemed to be agitating the grizzled old man. His voice sounded jerky, like someone on edge, and he was shifting about nervously. Glancing around at his partner, Burke got the impression that Brackin was making the same observation.
Then Brackin suddenly screwed up his face, gritted his teeth and blurted a long drawn-out, "Shhhiiittt!"
Sarge shot up straight, eyes blinking. "What the hell's wrong?"
"My damned right arm, feels like it's coming off. Loosen the damned rope on it. Please! I don't care if you tie two more onto the other one."
Sarge stared across at Brackin's contorted face with a troubled frown. Burke could imagine his thoughts. He was obviously an old soldier, had heard them described as P.O.W.’s. You didn’t deny medical attention to prisoners.
Finally, he made his decision and walked around behind the chair, fumbled with the knots. Each movement was accompanied by a painful grunt from Brackin. After an eternity, he went over to a workbench and brought back a screwdriver.
"Knots are too damned tight," he muttered. But he finally worked them loose from the right arm. When he grasped the wrist, Brackin flinched and uttered a sharp, unintelligible growl.
Sarge moved back to his former spot and cradled the gun with both hands.
"Thanks," Brackin said with a sigh.
"You gonna be okay?" Burke asked. He wasn't feeling too good himself.
"Hopefully. Sorry I messed things up for you."
Burke shook his head. "You tried."
"Yeah, I tried." His voice turned philosophical. "You know, it's the little things in life that can really screw you up. Like a little foot drag that seems so insignificant you disregard it. And a little headache that keeps coming back but you try to ignore it. Then you go to your doctor and get the diagnosis. It hits you like a brick — brain cancer."
Burke raised an eyebrow. What was all that leading up to?
"I made a mistake by not counting heads. There should have been eight out there, but there were only seven."
Burke nodded. "You weren't alone. Even the best make mistakes in the heat of battle. I didn't see that guy cut out. I had no idea who hit you."
Sarge had been listening with a deepening frown. Finally, he waved the pistol toward them. "That's enough talk. You can hold your talk for Ted. Save yourselves a heap of trouble."
Burke shrugged his shoulders, as best as he could the way he was tied. He attempted to shift his position a bit, constantly aware of the pain in his stomach. Then he looked around at Brackin. He had to fight to keep his face from showing the shock he felt. From the angle where he sat, he could see the back of Brackin's chair. Both of his hands were waving, free of the ropes. What was he going to try? Sarge held the gun, and he was far enough away that an attempt to rush him would mean almost certain death. But if they didn't do something soon, Ted would be back, and the chances then would be nil.
Hoping to distract the old man from noticing what Brackin had done, Burke licked his lips and said, "I'm dying of thirst. Isn't there any water around here?"
Sarge stared at him with a grimace. "If there was water in this damned place, I'd have had some. I told that bastard Ted not to—"
His voice broke off as he saw Brackin suddenly push himself away from the chair and lunge toward the cook. With both hands, Sarge raised the automatic, pointing it directly at Brackin's chest. Burke could see the finger gripping the trigger. All he could do was cry, "No!" In that split second before the expected blast, the thought seared through his mind—what will I tell Lori and Chloe?
Brackin slammed into the outstretched arms, knocking Sarge off his feet as the pistol toppled to the floor. Brackin fell right on top of him.
Burke sat with his mouth agape, unable to believe the gun hadn't fired. Brackin quickly picked himself up and snatched the gun off the floor. The heavyset old man just lay there on his back, as if in shock.
"I've been looking around," Burke said. "There's a hacksaw blade on that bench." He nodded toward the near wall.
Brackin grabbed the blade and sawed at the ropes holding Burke. As soon as he had one wrist loose, Burke took the blade and freed the other. Brackin moved back to check on Sarge, who had begun struggling to get up.