“The U.S.” His goon knew what was expected of him.
“Well, a wonderful lawyer got a man called Thomas Kaleb released — the ‘worst serial killer in Northern United States history’ it says here. My, my. This is deliciously gross. Listen!
‘Kaleb fixes his victim’s eyes open by using a staple-gun to fire fixings through the lid and the forehead, then forces live insects down their throats, forcing them to chew and swallow until they choke to death.’” Frey gave Milo wide eyes. “A little like eating at Mcdonald’s, I’d say.”
Milo did not smile. “He is a murderer of innocents,” he said. “Comedy does not jive with murder.”
Frey smiled at him. “You have killed innocents have you not?”
“Only in the execution of my job. I am a soldier.”
“Hmm, well, it’s a thin line, yes? Never mind. Back to the job at hand. This Kaleb has murdered two more innocents since his release. The clear result of an ethical doctrine and a bunch of moral values I’d say, eh Milo? Anyway, this Kaleb has now disappeared.”
Milo’s head swerved towards the laptop screen, towards Kennedy Moore. “Two more?”
Frey laughed now. “Ha, ha. You’re not so dense that you don’t get it, are you? Imagine her grief. Imagine her torture!”
Milo caught on and, despite himself, gave the grin of a polar bear ripping apart his first catch of the day.
“I have a plan.” Frey giggled with delight. “Oh hell,… do I have a plan.”
TWENTY-ONE
Inside the mobile HQ chaos was king. Drake, Kennedy, and Ben followed Torsten Dahl and the furious SWAT commander up the steps and past the commotion. They passed through two compartments before stopping in the relative quiet afforded by an alcove at the end of the metal shed.
“We got a call,” the SWAT commander threw his weapon down in anger. “We got a Goddamn call, and fifteen minutes later three of my men are dead! What the…?”
“Only three?” Dahl asked. “We lost six. Respect requires we take a moment for…”
“Screw respect,” the SWAT guy was furious. “You invaded my turf, you English asshole. You’re as bad as the goddamned terrorists!”
Drake held up a hand. “Actually, I’m the English asshole. This prick’s Swedish.”
The American looked bewildered. Drake gripped Ben’s shoulders tighter. He could feel the lad shaking. “We helped,” he told the SWAT guy. “They helped. It could’ve been much worse.”
And then, as fate dropped its ironic hammer, there was the shocking sound of bullets peppering the HQ. Everyone hit the floor. Metallic pings bounced off the east wall. Before the firing had ended, the SWAT commander stood up. “It’s bulletproof,” he said with a little embarrassment.
“We need to go,” Drake looked for Kennedy, but failed to spot her.
“Into the line of fire?” the SWAT guy said. “Who the hell are you?”
“It’s not the company or the bullets that bother me,” Drake said. “It’s the rocket-propelled grenade that might soon follow.”
Prudency dictated evacuation. Drake exited in time to see black-and-whites screaming off in the direction the bullets had come from.
He looked around for Kennedy again, but she seemed to have vanished.
Then, a new face was suddenly amongst them. A Bureau Chief, judging by his three-star insignia and, as if that wasn’t enough, pushing in behind him was a man sporting the rare five stars of Police Commissioner. Drake knew immediately that this was the guy they should be talking to. Police Commissioners handled counter-terrorism.
The SWAT commander’s walkie squawked: “All clear. Got a weapon on the roof here, controlled by remote. It’s diversionary.”
“Bastards!” Drake thought about the Canadians and the Germans getting further away with their captives.
Torsten Dahl addressed the newcomer. “You really should speak to my Statsminister.”
“It’s done,” The Commissioner said. “You’re outta here.”
“No, wait,” Drake began, physically restraining Ben from rushing forward. “You don’t understand….”
“No, no,” the Commissioner said through gritted teeth. “I don’t. And what I mean is you’re outta here, on your way to Washington DC. Capitol Hill wants a piece of you guys, and I hope they take it in big slices.”
The flight lasted ninety minutes. Drake worried about Kennedy’s mysterious disappearance right up until the time she reappeared, which was when the jet was about to set off.
She came running up the aisle, breathless.
“Thought we’d lost you,” said Drake. He felt enormous relief, but tried to keep it light-hearted.
Kennedy didn’t answer. Instead she threw herself down in a window seat, out of chatting distance. Drake got up to investigate, but stopped when she flinched away from him, her face as white as alabaster.
Where had she been, and what had happened there?
No calls or e-mail communications were allowed during the flight. No television. They flew in silence; a few guards watched them without interfering.
Drake could have let it flow over him. SAS training called for hours, days, and months of waiting. Of prepping. Of surveilling. For him, an hour could pass in a millisecond. At one point they were offered alcohol in those little plastic bottles, and Drake hesitated for more than a moment.
The whisky gleamed, the amber charm of disaster, his weapon of choice the last time things got hard — when Alyson left. He remembered the pain, the desperation, and still his eyes lingered.
“Not here, thanks.” Ben was alert enough to motion the hostess away. “We’re Mountain Dew boys. Bring that.”
Ben even tried to snap Drake out of it by doing the geek thing. He leaned into the aisle, watching the hostess sway back to her station. “In the lingo of our American brethren — I’d hit that!”
His face reddened when the hostess stared back at him in surprise. After a second she said: “This ain’t Hooters Air, kid.”
Ben shrank back into his seat. “Damn.”
Drake shook his head. “Cheers, mate. Your constant humiliation serves as a happy reminder that I was never your age.”
“Bollocks.”
“Seriously — thanks.”
“No worries.”
“And Karin — she will be okay. I promise.”
“How can you promise that, Matt?”
Drake paused. His inbuilt obligation to help the needy had spoken out, not the clear-cut judgement of the soldier.
“They won’t hurt her yet,” he said. “And very soon, we’re going to have more help than you can imagine.”
“How do you know they won’t hurt her?”
Drake sighed. “Okay, okay, it’s an educated guess. If they wanted her dead they’d have killed her straight away, right? No messing. But they didn’t. So…”
“Yes?”
“The Germans want her for something. They’ll keep her alive.” Drake knew they could have taken her for isolated interrogation, or something even more common — to a dictator-like boss who liked to exert dominance over every event. Through the years Drake had come to love that particular type of tyrant. Their authoritarianism always gave the good guys a second chance.