Blood Covenent, page 39
“I’ve got three at the Conway location.”
“Dormant?”
“It appears so.”
“And Harlequin?”
“Nothing yet. We need him more than we need the bombs right now.”
“Agreed.”
Harper cut the connection. It was time to wait.
* * * *
A shaken Lynn Harper closed the door on the retreating backs of two police officers. They had come to apprehend Jim on a Federal Fugitive warrant issued in the last hour. The logical place to start was his home. They had effectively forced their way into her home. They examined each room, expected her to know the combination to the gun safe, and did not trust her answers regarding Jim’s whereabouts.
Lynn Harper was a strong and capable woman, but there had been no regard for her person or her girls. They went through the house with guns drawn and she did not appreciate the lack of proper gun handling. Grace cried quietly into her leg, confused by the intrusion, and Catherine folded her arms and glowered at the two cops. Lynn kept telling them Jim was not home, they laughed derisively and continued to press their way through the home. It was fortunate for the cops that Harper was gone.
Anger replaced anxiousness, and Lynn resolutely marched into her husband’s study. He had received one call this afternoon—the call that moved him from preparing to act to action. Her limbs trembled as she thumbed the caller ID box on his business line. The gray liquid crystal display reported: OUT OF AREA. What good were these things, when they could not give you information when you needed it most? She almost stormed out of his office when she remembered she was the one responsible for managing the phone lines for his office, fax, and computer dialups.
She picked up the phone and punched in the codes to call back the last number received. It took the switching stations and computers longer than normal, because the call was international.
“Jonas here.” Came a thin voice from the Caribbean.
“Jonas!” she half shouted. She gripped the edge of the desk and said in a calmer tone, “Jonas, it’s Lynn Harper.”
“Lynn—how’d you get this number?”
“Never mind that, why does the FBI have a Federal warrant for Jim?”
Silence interrupted by static answered her. “Jonas?” she asked again, her knees giving way as she sat in Jim’s chair.
“I don’t know, Lynn. That’s a real good question.” Jonas paused again. “Lynn, has he left?”
She found a picture from her college days where the two of them were sitting on a bench while someone else took a picture.Has he left? The real question was:Had he ever come back? Her heart turned to ice. “Jonas, he left to go fight a war. I don’t know where he is.”
“Yes, he would do that,” murmured the thin voice. “Lynn, I don’t know what’s going on, but hang tight. I’ll get back to you.” The connection went dead. She still did not know where Jonas or Jim was.
She looked back at the picture. It was from a time before the nightmares and cold sweats. They were just kids exploring the edges and responsibilities of adulthood. Their faces unlined and worry something parents practiced. It was before the missions and Louis Edwards. It was before—the killing. She closed her eyes, afraid to say the words aloud. Somehow, his world had reached forth and touched her girls.
* * * *
Michael Rehazi closed the meat locker on a couple steaks, hard salami, and hot dogs made from turkey meat. He had cheese, bread, beer, and two liters of claret. He had purchased new charts for Lakes Michigan and Huron. The shotgun he kept aboard was cleaned, and two boxes of Remington 00 buckshot were in the ammo locker. He checked the radios, radar, and global positioning system. He had three changes of clothes, detergent, cold weather, gear, and camping equipment. There were three sets of identification: American, British, and Canadian. He had ten thousand dollars in American and Canadian currency, another five thousand in pound sterling.
He had paint and stencils to change the name of theLady Slipper II and a Canadian flag plus the necessary registration papers. Once he made it to Toronto, he could vanish completely. There was a safety deposit box with one million American dollars in fifty-and hundred-dollar denominations, and a new set of identity papers. It was a simple matter to melt away towards South America, the Caribbean, or Asia. Europe and North Africa would be placing himself too close to his masters.
He decided to make them believe he had perished in one of the bombings. How would they argue the point? A nuclear weapon vaporizes everything in its path. The confusion resulting from the weapon discharge tomorrow would cripple the current administration and effectively break the country. How long America remained broken was a different question. The Mullahs would have their mushroom clouds and he would have his freedom. He locked the passports away in a small safe housed in the master stateroom. Tucked next to the passports, bank documents, and cash was a Rossi Model 971 .357 Magnum with a three-inch barrel. He checked the cylinder to ensure there were six rounds loaded. An open box of shells was pushed further into the safe.
The fuel tanks were brimming with 286 gallons of diesel fuel, and the 100 gallon water tank was topped off with fresh water. He turned over the engines and felt the confidence in their steady rumble. He replaced the batteries and checked the circuit breakers, plus his store of spares. He decided theLady Slipper II was ready to sail. He shut down the lights and locked the main cabin hatch. Tomorrow it would end. His obligation to his masters would be over. The shame endured at the hands of the Great Satan repaid. He headed for the Plymouth Voyager waiting for him in the parking lot.
* * * *
Louis flipped through the screens on the federal warrant database until he came to Harper’s name. There were no photographs, and a national security directive blocked fingerprints. He came to the issuing officer box and saw: L. FELDMAN. Feldman listed Harper as armed and dangerous. It had become personal. He checked another database for any cops requiring assistance in the Chicago area. Edwards was not concerned for Harper’s safety.
Louis tugged on his mustache again. He considered activating the Nuclear Emergency Search Team waiting at O’Hare Airport. His hand rested on the phone, instead, he decided a different course would serve his purposes.
“Sir, this is Louis Edwards.”
Louis ended up calling his old nemesis, the National Security Advisor. It was time to jerk Feldman’s chain and put him on a very short leash.
“Yes.”
“Sir, I have good news. We’ve located three more bombs in Chicago.” It was best to lead with the strongest suit—results.
“Three? Is that all of them?”
Louis wondered the same himself. “We’re not entirely sure about that. My people are pursuing a few other leads.”
“But you’re close.” They desperately wanted this thing to be over.
How little they understood.
“Yes, but we do have a problem,” he continued.
The groan was audible over the phone.
Louis took particular relish in the next words he spoke, “Lou Feldman has gotten in the way of a successful conclusion to this issue.”
“I thought those problems were straightened out.”
Louis sighed understandingly. “I did too, sir. Unfortunately he’s gone off the reservation again.” Probably not the most politically correct analogy to use, but Louis was tired and the game still had several moves before it finally ended.
“You need some muscle, I take it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s he done?”
Louis explained the details. After he hung up, he watched his browser. Ten minutes later, the fugitive warrant on Jim Harper was cancelled. Lou Feldman got a second call from a very upset FBI Director.
CHAPTER 38
Lake Forest, Illinois
Tuesday, July 20, 1999
10:30 P.M. CDT
Indy stirred from where he was resting when the automatic garage door opened. They reacted to the motor’s vibration rather than any sound they could hear. Harper’s vision had adjusted to the gloom. He ran his tongue over his teeth considering his options. He levered himself out of the chair he had been sitting in and pulled open the Velcro strap on his side holster. He lifted the Glock and wedged the web of his hand into the natural nook formed by the polymer grip.
He stepped across the room until he was hidden from the garage entry and the upstairs entry. The Tritium night sites glowed in the darkness and he waited again. He was keenly aware of his breathing and heartbeat. He imagined the blood flowing through his veins. He sensed the heated air exiting his nostrils. His lips were dry and energy pounded in his muscles as the adrenalin surged through his system.
He understoodHarlequin , and it frightened him more than nuclear immolation. The man would come and check on his charges. The need to ensure his weapons—his warshots—were ready for tomorrow. Yet, another side of him was repulsed byHarlequin when he considered the dead twins and disregard for innocent lives. True people die in wars, and Harper had done his share of killing, but he fought soldiers. He did not butcher the elderly, women, and children. He believed in a soldier’s honor. There was no honor in killing civilians. There was no glory in butchering the defenseless. For Harper, it was the bright line between murder and killing.Harlequin was a murderer, a soldier removed from civilization and any bounds of morality.
The door leading from the garage to the basement opened, and the lights snapped on. A man, maybe ten years older than Harper, stood at the top of the stair. He was shorter and smaller than Harper and forty or fifty pounds lighter.
Harlequinpaused at the top of the stair. He sensed something waiting for him. Cautiously he pulled the door shut behind him. His steps were tentative. Halfway down he froze. There, standing next to the pool table was the largest black Labrador retriever he had ever seen. The hound was standing and a low growl emerged.
Harlequinflung himself backwards and hit the light switch before swinging over the stair railing. Somewhere behind him a heavy caliber weapon exploded and the bullet ploughed into the wall behind his head. He landed on all fours. He spun once and froze. The gun roared in his ears and his night vision was totally gone.
Silence.
Harper let his trigger finger rest along side the trigger guard. Not the best way to start things, but they were all trapped in the basement together. He slid from where he was crouched and assumed a prone shooting position closer to the big screen television.Harlequin knew enough not to run. This would not be a simple take down. He questioned his judgment regarding the dog. Perhaps it was the need for a flesh and blood companion who would not turn out to be working for someone else. Perhaps it was a foolish need for something familiar. He waited and imagined whatHarlequin would do next.
The tinkle of billiard balls was the only warning he had before the lights flipped on and Harper reared up to faceHarlequin swinging a cue stick towards his head from atop the pool table. Instinctively, he brought his hands up to guard his head and block the blow. The fat end of the cue stick smashed the back of his gun hand and his arm went numb as he rolled away from the attack. The Glock flew into the room as Harper presented his left side toHarlequin .
Harlequinleaped off the table and landed in a balanced fighting stance holding the cue like he understood how to fight with a stick. Harper pulled back as he spun the stick back so his rear hand held the fat end and the cue tip pointed in his direction.Harlequin jabbed at Harper’s head. Harper bobbed away from the jabs wondering when his right hand would become useful again. It was completely numb.
Harper figured he had five feet before he ran out of space to retreat.Harlequin attempted a vicious down strike followed immediately by a horizontal strike then a reverse horizontal. The last caught Harper’s left arm. He circled away fromHarlequin, desperately attempting to avoid the room’s corner. The cue stick seemed to blur inHarlequin ’s hands.
The reverse vertical strike missed Harper’s chin. He only knew it had happened because he felt the windswoosh by his ear. Harper guessed the next move was a horizontal strike. He spun, performing a reverse hook kick. He timed the strike for the base of his foot to hit the cue stick at the same level. He continued his motion to maintain his left side forward. He was rewarded with a decisive snap on the cue stick.
The stick came apart inHarlequin ’s palm and the jagged pieces of the broken cue stick sliced through the meaty part of his hand. Blood dribbled down his wrist andHarlequin took a step back for the first time. Harper wasted no time and drew his rear leg through in a back leg front kick catching a nerve inHarlequin ’s elbow.Harlequin’s arm shot skywards as he slid behind the pool table. Harper continued to hold his numb right hand. They stood facing each other breathing hard. Both had drawn blood. Both were injured.
“You fight well for one destined to die.”
Harper ignored the taunt and moved closer. There was no way he could handle the Browning or his combat knife. The good news was his hand had started to throb unpleasantly. He suspected there would be a nasty bruise tomorrow. The thought caused him to laugh as he watchedHarlequin edge back towards the cue sticks.
The variable in the entire situation was the hound. Indy took up station next to the cue sticks. His front incisors were over an inch long, and when coupled by an unfriendly growl, it causedtheTerror of Tehran to cease his movement towards the cue sticks. He hazarded a look over his shoulder to see the drooling maw behind him. Harper swung around the corner of the pool table.Harlequin turned back to Harper and skipped towards him with an offensive sidekick. Harper registered the heel coming up and slid backwards along the other edge of the pool table. He dropped his good elbow to block the kick. His backward motion, andHarlequin’s failure to press the attack, amounted to little more than a parry.
The two locked eyes. “You boast many things in your email. Now we meet; it’s not as easy to fulfill.”
Harper realizedHarlequin was faster than he. He remained silent, looking for a weakness. He understood how to deal with speed. Most everyone he fought these days had more raw speed than himself. Harper tried to form his right hand into a fist. The fingers curled, but a solid fist was not yet possible.
“I make no boasts,” Harper replied evenly.
Harlequincame at him, kicking at his head and arms. He drove Harper back towards the wall and slammed his left blocking hand mercilessly. Harper hated kickers andHarlequin was a talented one. One got by his left hand and slammed into the side of his head. He stumbled forward seeing stars shoot across his vision.Harlequin followed with a hook kick designed to shatter his jaw if he let it make contact. Harper stretched his neck backwards so the foot skimmed across his eyebrows. Next came a series of back leg round kicks and Harper sealed off with both arms. They were hard, fast punishing kicks jarring his bones.
Harper clenched his right hand into a fist and ignored the pain shooting through his arm. He stepped into the danger zone—a circle surrounding his opponent where he was in range ofHarlequin ’s fists and feet. He absorbed the blows and recognized he could not continue much longer. He met the next kick at his head with a vicious side block. He momentarily causedHarlequin ’s foot to stop moving.
An old coach came to mind saying, If you ever find yourself in trouble, use your right hand—no one wants to stand and take that kind of punishment.
Harper stepped intoHarlequin ’s attack and landed a crushing right punch toHarlequin ’s ribs. He landed the next blow acrossHarlequin ’s nose. Each punch sent shock waves up his arm. Harper found himself insideHarlequin’s leg and it was time to end this thing. He delivered a third shot with his right hand and followed with his left before slammingHarlequin ’s face into the pool table.
He shovedHarlequin on top of the pool table and slammed an elbow intoHarlequin ’s spine. He stepped back and way fromHarlequin ’s legs. He produced the Browning Hi Power and flipped the thumb safety off. He brought his left up to hold the gun steady. His arms were quivering. He could not seem to stop the tremors.
Harlequinlooked into the gun barrel and shouted, “Shoot!”
Harper shook his head. “Not so fast.”
Harlequinspat at him and missed. “Shoot!”
Harper shook his head again. “Where are the rest of the bombs?”
Harper dropped the aim of the Browning and fired a round into the pool table’s heavy wood structure. The normally loud 9mm round was muffled by the silencer he had for the Browning.
After a moment he said quietly, “I know who sent you. Tell me where the other bombs are, and I’ll let you live.”
“In an American jail?” He laughed. “Do you really think I would ever make it to trial?”
Never lose sight of the goal.
Harper straightened his back a bit.
“I said live, not rot. Tell me while you still have two hands and feet in working condition.”
Harlequincocked his head at Harper. “You’d let me go?”
Harper nodded. Harper did not want to be Louis’s executioner. He had enough ghosts to manage. The fight had spent the anger he held towards this man. He proved who was better. He was the one left standing with a gun. He simply wanted a way out of this mission that did not end in more blood.
“Otherwise?”
Harper walled off the part of himself that was appalled at his next statement, but he knew he would do these things if he did not have an answer soon. “Otherwise, I will shoot you in your hands, knees and feet. Then we’ll fill you up with truth drugs and finally I will turn you over to the FBI. You’ll be a cripple with a death sentence, but considering how the death penalty works in this country, you’ll live in pain for many years.”
Harlequinheard the steel behind the words, and knew the pain such wounds inflicted. He understood the depravity of the human soul, for he had lost his a long time ago. There was a kinship with this warrior clad in black. He did not comprehend the turmoil raging in Harper’s soul between evils of torture and rightness of justice.Harlequin did not recognize a bright line between murder and killing. He did not wrestle with any moral dilemmas. The struggle raging behind Harper’s tortured eyes did not register withHarlequin . Survival was paramount toHarlequin —survival and escape.
