The Killing Chase (Beach & Riley Book 2) Page 15

  Bryan Adler moved his body forward, exposing a self-satisfied grin. In his clear Southern drawl, he said, “I do believe we need to find a quiet place for some alone time, Mr. FBI.”

  Chapter 19

  Jake sat huddled in a rear corner of the limousine he’d rented from the airport to ferry the group to his home. Tik knew he’d become agitated by the phone call he’d gotten at the airport, but wasn’t sure if it was bad news about Ugolev or something else. Her boss and friend was a true man of action, but moral and ethical dilemmas left a sour taste in his mouth. She knew Jake well enough to know he’d want a little time to ruminate before he was ready to talk. She’d left him alone with his thoughts, but now her patience wore thin. She sat up and turned to face him. “Why you not tell me what wrong?”

  Jake curled his lip, turning to look out the window. Tik pushed her elbow into his shoulder, demanding a response. Jake’s uncharacteristic brooding finally caught the Aussie brothers’ attention. Dozer was first to speak: “What’s on your mind, Jakey? I know you’re a quiet bloke, but you haven’t said ‘boo’ since we left the airport.”

  “I hate detours.”

  “Detours?” asked Mike Lee. “We seem to be headed straight to Jersey City – you haven’t moved, have you?”

  “That’s not what I mean,” Jake sat forward. “I’m talking about a detour from the mission.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Lee looked shocked. “Ugolev is our absolute priority! What could possibly be more important than getting him?”

  Jake eyed each of his comrades thoughtfully before he spoke. “When I was active with Delta, I was often seconded for covert or clandestine CIA missions – a lot of them with Mike, here. Most operations were justified and straightforward, and the targets pretty understandable. But I also had to do some missions for secret departments within the DoD – there was a hell of a lot more grey in their motives and tactics.”

  “Hey, we’re soldiers,” Priest said. “You were just following orders, mate. No shame in that.”

  “I’m not ashamed of anything, Priest. I’ve done my fair share of jobs with British and Australian SAS operators. I know for sure you guys have had to do questionable things in the name of your government, too. Things you might regret.”

  “That’s bullshit, mate, and you know it,” Priest shot back. “I say regret’s for the guys who give the orders, not the ones who carry them out. Let’s face it, if we didn’t follow orders, we’d be leaving ourselves open for court martial.”

  “Sure, but there’s usually some wiggle-room. And we’re not just soldiers – we’re highly trained, elite assets with minds of our own.”

  “Oh, come on,” Mike Lee interrupted. “You know damned well that mission objectives are predetermined by the guys in suits. In the heat of battle, you’ve got about as much choice as you do in shoe size. You can’t hold yourself accountable for collateral damage or other complications. That’s what you’re talking about here, isn’t it?”

  “I’m starting to like you, Super Spy,” Dozer interjected.

  Jake sat back to ponder a moment before rejoining the conversation. “The upshot is, this suit at DoD has something on me – well, he thinks he has something on me. Either way, it’s necessary for me to do what he wants. And that means a detour. I can’t go after Ugolev until I get this done.”

  “Until we get this done, Jakey.”

  “Thanks, Priest, I appreciate it. But you haven’t got clearance for this operation. I’m on my own for this one, but I’d appreciate you staying on standby in case I need the cavalry. Sorry, but that means no drinking on your night off.”

  “Count on it, mate.” Priest looked at his brother.

  “Too right, Jakey. A bloke’s gotta pay you back for those first-class seats to America somehow.” Dozer gave an exaggerated wink. “Champagne and sheilas, mate, champagne and sheilas.”

  Tik grunted in disgust. “You think that lady like you, gorilla man? Oh, sorry, you name Dozer. What that mean, sleep a lot?”

  “I think it’s short for Bulldozer,” Lee offered.

  “Bulldozer, ha! More like Bullshit.”

  The Australians burst into laughter while the little Laotian crossed her arms in a stern gesture of disapproval.

  “Sorry, Tik, my brother’s always had a thing for hosties.”

  “Flight attendant, they call flight attendant, not hostie!” Tik’s ire combined with her accent to further fuel the men’s laughter.

  Jake patted her shoulder, gently reminding her of the humor of soldiers. She unfolded her arms, donned her best smile then blew Dozer a loud raspberry. The big man doubled over, tears of laughter streaming down his cheeks. When he finally recovered, Dozer asked, “So what’s the mission, Jakey?”

  “It’s a track-and-retrieval operation. One of DARPA’s divisions of darkness has lost an asset. Apparently he escaped from some secret experimental facility in Nevada and made his way to Connecticut.”

  “No offense,” Lee asked, “but why the hell do they have to call you in? DARPA has plenty of their own resources.”

  “I can’t go into details, Mike. Let’s just say this one’s gotten away from them, and they need my help.”

  “I don’t like it. If they can’t handle it in house, this ‘asset’ must be seriously dangerous. You should have a team.”

  Her feistiness at its peak, Tik said, “You think Mr. Jake not more dangerous?”

  “Don’t be naïve, Tik. I’ve worked with Jake dozens of times. If anyone knows his capabilities, it’s me. But nobody’s perfect. There’s always risk.”

  Tik’s face contorted in anger but Jake put his hand up to stop her coming tirade. “Mike’s right, Tik. Every mission brings its own set of dangers. But don’t worry – nothing on this earth is going to keep me from getting Ugolev.”

  *****

  Almost ten miles north of Hartford, Foxx guided the SUV along Interstate 91 to Windsor Locks. The tension inside was like a cold vacuum. Adler kept his gun aimed at Foxx, while maintaining a firm grip around Beach’s throat. The time driving had slowly replaced fear and anticipation with desperate plots for escape. As though reading their minds, the madman in the backseat spoke: “Have y’all come up with a good plan yet? A couple of clever FBI agents like you two should have come up with something real good by now.”

  “Why don’t you just let my partner go?” Beach pleaded. “I’m the one you want, right? He’s done nothing to you.”

  “Oh, but I already have you, Mr. FBI Agent Beach. It would be downright rude not to include your dark-skinned friend in our little soiree. Don’t worry, it’s not far now. I hope you like the venue. It’s a beautiful old historic warehouse on the Connecticut River. I spent a few very enjoyable weeks there back when I was a travelin’ man. Nice and quiet. I’m sure it’ll do just fine.”

  “Do for what?” Foxx asked. “What do you want with us? You don’t want to add capital murder to your list of charges.”

  “Oh my, your colored friend surely is a talkative one. Not very smart, though, is he now? He couldn’t really think the words ‘capital murder’ make any difference to the likes of me, now could he?”

  “I’m right here, you freak. Or you afraid to speak to a black man, you stupid hayseed?”

  “My goodness, he’s got the fire in his belly, your large African friend. Seems right uppity to me. Maybe we need to teach this here boy some manners.”

  “Look, I’ll do whatever you want – just let Foxx go. Please!”

  “Such loyalty – my, my. You two must be awfully close. Just how close are you, Mr. FBI? You two been disgracing yourselves in the eyes of God? You know he’ll damn you to hell for all eternity for such detestable behavior, don’t you?”

  Foxx’s fury was almost beyond containment. He wanted desperately to tear this evil creature limb from limb, but Adler had their weapons and he knew any such attempt would be futile. Seething, he cursed under his breath, hoping for an opportunity to get his hands on Adler.

  “Oh my
, now it seems your boy has become possessed as though by some evil spirit. I do believe he’s speakin’ in tongues.”

  Foxx turned to see pleading in Beach’s eyes. He pushed his rage down as best he could. I’ll wait for the right opportunity, he thought. Then we’ll see how smart-mouthed this little freak is.

  Adler directed Foxx until they reached the derelict building’s perimeter. Its dilapidated fence formed a useless barrier, and the SUV rolled smoothly past what had once been the front gate. Adler urged Foxx ahead, continuing his racist taunts until he was satisfied the vehicle was hidden from street view.

  “Turn off the car, FBI. Now, I want you to slowly get out and hug that wall with your hands in the air. Don’t you do anything foolish now, or I’ll have to hurt your lily-white boyfriend, here.”

  Foxx complied, while Adler released his grip on Beach’s neck. Exiting the vehicle, Adler kept the gun trained on his captive as he opened the front door. “Come along now, Mr. FBI Agent, we mustn’t keep our special guest waiting.”

  Beach got out, hands in the air, and Adler shoved him toward the front of the SUV. Again he wrapped a hand around Beach’s throat from behind then spoke directly to Foxx. “All right, you can turn around now, boy. Don’t think of trying anything or I’ll snap his neck like a brittle autumn twig,” Adler pointed toward an opening to the abandoned building. “Y’all get on up those stairs now – much nicer view up there.”

  Foxx led the way with Adler still gripping Beach’s throat from behind. The top of the stairs opened out into a large vacant warehouse floor, long since left to the elements. Rows of timber posts supported the roof structure, leaving sizeable clear areas of long-forgotten workspace. Adler reached out with his foot to shove Foxx toward the center of one such space. Foxx turned around angrily. “Put that gun down and let’s see you try that again, you little freak.”

  “Oh, yes, he is a fiery one, your large Ethiopian companion. Now, Mr. FBI Agent Beach, you sit yourself down against this here post. We want you to have the best seat in the house for this little show.”

  As Beach lowered himself to the floor, his back against the post, Adler thrust something into the meat of his leg. The pain was sharp but subsided quickly as Beach looked down to see he’d been stabbed with one of the same tranquilizer darts they’d found at the crime scene in Hartford. Pins and needles emanated from the wound. Beach shouted, “Run, Foxx – get the hell out of here!”

  Then suddenly, his entire musculature was paralyzed. Beach found he could still blink and breath, but nothing more. Foxx’s eyes darted around the empty structure but knew he wouldn’t try to escape, even if he could. He watched as Adler pulled Beach’s belt from around his waist, using it to secure the agent’s head to the post so he faced the center of the space where Foxx stood.

  “There now, you see? Don’t worry – you have a front row seat. Isn’t this exciting?”

  Now Adler’s air changed completely. He dropped the magazine from the gun, pumped the cartridge from the chamber and dropped the weapon on the floor. He turned to face Foxx, a dark, frightening, evil grin stretching across his face. Foxx stared at the diminutive monster before him, and he was unafraid. He’d faced far worse in the Marines. This little shit’s nothing, you got this, man.

  “Looks like you get your wish, boy,” Adler growled. “It’s your move.”

  Foxx stood in an orthodox fighting stance and moved slowly toward his quarry. His eyes set and teeth clenched in rage, he cut a truly frightening figure. But that had no effect on Adler, who continued to grin like an evil gargoyle. Foxx stepped in, throwing a lightning fast jab toward Adler’s face, immediately followed by a thundering roundhouse kick to his thigh, then danced back and to the side on the balls of his feet. He watched for a reaction from Adler, but instead of the expected outcome, Adler smiled wider. “My turn, boy.”

  Any other man Adler’s size would probably have been knocked unconscious by Foxx’s powerful jab and, even more likely, sustained a broken leg from the thudding and perfectly landed kick. But DARPA’s experimental treatments had hardened the serial killer’s bones to forty percent stronger than natural, and his physical strength was well beyond that of his opponent.

  Adler moved toward Foxx with such startling speed as to confound the former combat Marine. In a split second the smaller man had struck Foxx’s face with four solid blows in incomprehensibly rapid succession. Foxx slumped to the ground, feeling as though he’d been hit by a kettlebell. Dazed, he leaned back on his elbows, trying to regain his vision and senses before facing his opponent once again.

  “Come on, boy – you must have more fire than that.”

  “Fuck you!” Foxx spat blood as he began to push himself to his feet.

  Adler darted toward him again, but Foxx, still on the rise, dropped his arms and fell to his back, simultaneously shooting his legs up toward Adler’s face and torso. His feet slammed home, lifting Adler almost four feet into the air before his body came crashing back to the floor. The satisfying thump buoyed Foxx’s spirits, and he quickly regained his feet, moving fast toward his fallen enemy. But his hopes faded quickly as Adler bounced back to his feet with startling speed and balance.

  Foxx tried to land a looping right lead, but Adler easily ducked it. His Marine close combat training kicked in, and Foxx used his circular momentum to follow through with a spinning left back-fist. It caught Adler cleanly on the temple, causing the smaller man to wobble momentarily. Foxx capitalized on the opportunity, lifting his knee hard into Adler’s chest. The wind rushed from Adler’s mouth with a deeply satisfying groan, but Foxx wasn’t finished yet.

  Marine close combat’s goal is to “cause permanent damage to the opponent’s body with every technique,” and Foxx had taken this ethos to heart. Despite his freakish speed, Adler hadn’t yet returned to his stance. The former Marine slammed both fists down with all his might against the back of Adler’s skull. The smaller man dropped to the floor once more, but rolled into a backward summersault, and sprung straight back to his feet. Blood trickled down his cheek from Foxx’s up-kick, and Adler wiped it then looked at his hand. He licked the blood from his palm then shot Foxx an evil grin. “Warm-up’s over, boy – now you die.”

  Adler’s face took on a maniacal form as he stepped deliberately toward Foxx. He stood in a traditional boxer’s stance against his much larger foe, evoking an almost comical image. But there was nothing comical about it. Foxx adopted the opposite stance, and they began to box. Each time he struck or blocked his opponent, Foxx could feel the deep and immediate ache of damage to the bones of his hands and arms. The synthetically enhanced killer was seemingly impossible to hurt.

  Despite his most valiant efforts, Foxx’s blows simply weren’t causing damage, other than to his own body. His bloodied knuckles mashed into shattered metacarpal bones with every strike, and his left ulna had snapped cleanly below his wrist. He tried to substitute kicks for punches, but his legs weren’t fast enough to catch the smaller man. Adler continually found his mark, closing both Foxx’s eyes with severe swelling. The end was near – both men knew it.

  Adler threw three more punishing blows in a flash of flying fists, followed with a crushing uppercut that shattered the FBI agent’s jawbone. Foxx began flashing in and out of consciousness. His pulped and bloodied face was numbed from adrenalin and nerve damage. He felt like he was standing on a pool of thick, black mud that could no longer hold his weight. As he slowly sank into the mental quagmire, the pain suddenly stopped, and he thought he heard a sharp crack; then there was nothing.

  Chapter 20

  A few blocks from DARPA headquarters in Arlington, Virginia, Sergey Ugolev got out of the black limousine which had brought him from the airport. His contact, Ian McAdam, was the divisional head of the benignly named Scientific Research Department, or SRD. Exposing his Russian asset was far too risky, so McAdam kept Ugolev away from headquarters and public meeting places. Their meeting venue was a small but luxurious safe-house apartment reserved for such occasi
ons. Ugolev pushed the apartment’s call button and spoke a code word before the building’s security door buzzed, allowing him entry. He took the elevator to the eighth floor and approached two plainclothed armed guards. One took his briefcase while the other frisked him, before allowing access.

  “Sergey, it’s good to see you – how was your trip?” McAdam asked.

  “Quite tolerable – and you are well?”

  “Fine, fine, please come and sit down. I had a bottle of Sibirskaya Strong vodka and some caviar brought in especially for you.

  “Delightful.”

  McAdam brought a tray of Golden Ossetra caviar with sour cream and blinis from the kitchen, along with the vodka in an ice bucket and two crystal shot glasses. Ugolev gave his handler a suspicious look. “To what do I owe such opulent treatment?”

  “Two traits I’ve always appreciated about you, Sergey – your perfect English, and your directness.” McAdam poured two vodka shots and passed one to Ugolev. “There’s been chatter about some problems in Thailand and Cambodia. I don’t want to intrude, but I need to know more about the situation.”

  “It was taken care of – nothing I can’t handle.”

  “Do you know the source of the problems?”

  “A group of former special forces operators seem to have a grudge against me – probably trying to move in on my operation. This is nothing new in my business.”

  “You mean our business – don’t forget who you work for. The income stream your operations generate are instrumental in supporting a very special project of mine. I fully expect you to end the problem quickly and quietly. You must ensure continuity of supply.”

  “It’s you who’s being forgetful. I shouldn’t need to remind you, Mr. McAdam, I don’t work for you. As you just pointed out, my operations provide you with freshly laundered cash, so who is paying whom? Anyway, I know how to deal with interlopers.”

  “Interlopers? From what I heard, they decimated your crew in Pattaya. One of your men was a cousin, wasn’t he?”