“We weren’t given that opportunity,” said Daniel.
“Then we need to make the best of this opportunity,” said Sanderson. “And while I’m certain the team could handle this without you, I’d feel much better if you were directly involved. No offense, Jeff, but he’s better at the direct-action stuff. Even in his slightly deteriorated state.”
“There was never any question about it,” said Munoz, shaking his head with a smile.
“Jessica?” started Sanderson. “Do I really need to say any more? We need both of you on this one. If this whole transmitter thing turns out to be a bust, you’re on a flight within the hour.”
“Let’s get this show on the road,” said Jessica.
“Are you absolutely sure?” Daniel asked. “This could turn out to be a deep rabbit hole.”
“We never climbed out of the first one,” she said. “Karl has always looked out for me.”
Daniel pressed his head into hers and held it there for a few seconds.
“All right. We’re in.”
Chapter 33
Karl Berg sat in the pitch darkness on a sturdy wooden chair, his hands tightly bound to its back and his ankles to its thick legs. He guessed the chair was somehow bolted to the wood-planked floor, since his earlier attempts to budge the chair had absolutely no effect. A concentrated earthy smell dominated the air. Dirt and mildew — his favorite combination. From the light cast by his captors’ flashlights when his hood had been removed, he’d noticed thick, rough-hewn wooden girders running parallel across the planked ceiling. The shafts of light played across a few vertical wood beams connected to the girders.
His best guess was that he sat in a farmhouse cellar in Maryland or Virginia, not too far from the D.C. Metro area. The trip hadn’t lasted long enough, and his captors had been in a hurry to reach this destination. They’d grabbed him off a public street, which always carried a risk. A random witness could call in the abduction, putting the police on alert. Anything was possible in a crowded city, so they’d expedited his journey to a prepared location.
Judging by his surroundings, Berg assumed this would be his final destination. The end of the road. Hopefully they’d start his interrogation with a long period of isolation to “deprive the senses and disorient” before moving on to less subtle methods. Fourteen hours ideally. His prospects were dashed moments later when a light spilled down a crudely framed staircase built along what appeared to be an ancient fieldstone wall. He was most definitely in an old farmhouse — with no Wi-Fi. Even the cellular service might be spotty out here.
Three men descended the stairs and approached, one of them activating a lightbulb between the stairs and his chair. The man let go of the string attached to the bulb socket and shook his head. None of their faces were concealed, a foreboding sign in this line of work.
“We have a lot of ground to cover, Karl.”
“Berg or Mr. Berg, please. Until we’re properly introduced.”
The man lashed out at him with a fist, connecting with his left cheek. The blow knocked his head back violently, straining his stiffened neck muscles.
“Don’t fuck around, Karl. I’m sorry. Mr. Berg.”
He got a better look at the man. Mid to early thirties. Athletic, but not overly muscular build straining his untucked, button-down long-sleeved shirt. Clean shaven. Closely trimmed hair — not buzz cut, but the sideburns had been taken too high. A former military guy that hadn’t quite figured out how not to look military. The other two looked the same. All three wore thigh holsters over deep brown or khaki cargo pants. High-end, subdued-tone hiking boots. Their look screamed paramilitary contractor.
“Just trying to keep things civil,” said Karl, forcing a smile.
One of the men chuckled. “Well, that’s completely up to you.”
“That’s usually the way this works,” said Berg.
“Good. Sounds like we’ve come to an understanding. You answer our questions and we keep things civil.”
“That depends on the questions,” said Berg.
The guy hit him again, a vicious downward punch striking his other cheek. A blast of pain rocked his head, blurring his vision for several seconds until he could focus again.
“You answer all of the questions,” said his captor. “Without any bullshit, and to my complete satisfaction.”
Berg considered his response and decided to go with the most painful option. “You really don’t have a clue how this works,” he said, shaking his head and grinning.
The man cocked a fist and fired it at Berg’s face, catching the top of his quickly lowered head instead. Bones cracked, and the man stumbled back with a scream. Berg stared at him as he clutched his broken hand, the man’s face a mix of anger and agony.
“Fuck him up good, but make sure he can talk,” the guy said, wincing in pain. “I’ll be back.”
“Motrin and ice for now, but you’ll need to get that looked at by a professional soon,” said Berg.
“What the fuck did you just say?”
“Just trying to be civil,” Berg said with a wink.
He never saw the blow that hit his stomach, knocking the wind out of him. It was going to be a long thirteen hours or so.
Chapter 34
Jessica dragged herself out of the van and walked stiffly toward one of the ground-floor rooms the team had grabbed. The early arriving members of the team had struggled to find vacant adjoining rooms in a proper motel with exterior doors, near D.C., settling for a location a lot less centralized than they’d hoped. Berg could be anywhere outside of the Beltway. For all they knew, he was five states away. It was all a mystery that they would resolve in a few minutes.
She reached the second-floor overhang in front of the hotel door and took a moment to stretch her legs and back. The effects of the sedative or tranquilizer, whatever those fucks had used on her, still had a grip on her. She had a splitting headache and still felt a little wobbly. Daniel opened the door before she could knock.
“Spying on me?” she asked.
“Trying. They’re all set up. Less than a minute until showtime.”
“I hope this works and he’s not on a container ship in the Atlantic, headed for Russia.”
“There’s always that possibility,” he said, ushering her inside.
The team had rearranged the furniture, pushing the double beds together and moving a table next to the narrow desk just beyond the foot of the beds, which served as the tech team’s workstation. A low dresser sat next to the desk, strewn with most of the mess she’d seen in the dining room at the Chicago area location. Graves was busy connecting wires while Gupta sat in the only chair, watching his laptop screen intently.
Munoz and Melendez sat at the foot of the bed, looking over Gupta’s shoulder, while a woman Jessica had never seen before splashed water on her face from the vanity sink in the back of the room. She had to be Erin Foley. The woman caught her glance in the mirror and nodded. Jessica returned the gesture.
A few more steps and she could see partially into the adjoining room. Sayar, who she’d worked with before, unpacked the team’s gear with two unfamiliar men. It wasn’t hard to guess who was who. Mazurov, a Black Flag graduate from Sanderson’s original program, had to be about Daniel’s age, pushing forty, except he didn’t look like he’d stayed in the same top physical condition. The other guy didn’t look a day over thirty and was built like an Olympic swimmer. Had to be Daly, a recently recruited SEAL.