Off the Grid (A Gerrit O'Rourke Novel) (35 page)

“Got it. Be careful.”

Gerrit smiled to himself. Bombs going off. Firefights ranging right and left. And Willy wants us to be careful. He tapped Alena’s shoulder. “Let’s go home.” Into the radio, he said, “We’re on the move.”

“Roger that.” There was a moment’s delay until Willy came back on the air. “SWAT is at your twelve o’clock. Move to your left about forty yards. Redneck and Mr. Stars and Stripes blew a hole in the outer wall and cut a path through the concertina wire in all the confusion. SWAT can’t see it from their location.”

Gerrit acknowledged Willy with two clicks on the radio and moved in that direction.

Willy came back on the air. “Update. Stars and Stripes moved back to the pickup site. Redneck will cover your retreat.”

“Ten-four.” Gerrit said, as he and Alena moved closer to the outer wall, weapons at the ready.

A huge figure loomed from the shadows as they drew near. Redneck emerged, cradling his rifle. “Took your sweet time, jarhead. Let’s get outta here.” He pointed toward a jagged hole in the wall. “Made it easy for you.”

Gerrit patted him on the shoulder and moved toward the door. He was about to step through when he heard a startled gasp from Alena. Whirling around, he saw Redneck holding a semi-auto handgun to her head.

“Easy there, Mr. G. Lower your weapon, slow and easy.”

Gerrit froze.

Alena gazed at her captor with an anguished look.

Redneck grabbed a fistful of hair and pressed the gun against her temple. “I’m not going to tell you twice, Gerrit. Drop it.”

He started to lower his rifle, never breaking visual contact.

It happened in a flash. One blink and he saw movement in Alena’s left hand. A flash of metal as she plunged a knife into Redneck’s upper thigh.

Before Redneck could react, Gerrit squeezed off two rounds straight at the giant’s head. His head snapped back and he fell, slamming into the floor with a thud.

Dead.

Alena looked at Gerrit as if in shock. Her expression seemed to ask the unspoken question.

Why?

Harrogate, England

O
h, God. Give me strength.

Another powerful blow snapped his head to the side. Joe tensed, waiting for another strike. And another. One of Kane’s goons kept pounding him with blows. Face, stomach, kidneys. His tormentor knew how to hurt someone.

Pain came in waves, each blow taking away his breath, making him cry out. Fear almost paralyzed him as he struggled to free himself from the chair. It was useless.

Kane emerged from the shadows and waved off the attacker. He moved closer, inches from Joe’s swollen face. “We are just getting started, O’Rourke. Remember Chicago?”

Just the mention of that city, that attack, made his heart jackhammer.
God help me stay strong!

Kane looked into his eyes and leered. “This is going to get much worse. You’ll wish my boys had dropped you off the roof in the Windy City by the time I am finished. Unless you tell me what I want to know. Do you understand?”

Joe glared back, fighting his fear.

“Have it your way.” Kane stepped back and motioned for the attacker to continue. “I’m going to enjoy watching this.”

The next blow almost made Joe lose consciousness.

Joe slowly woke up, his arms still cuffed to the chair, eyes puffy, almost closed from the rain of blows. That had just been a warm-up. A pain in his side told him a least one or two ribs might be broken, and two of his fingers felt painfully swollen after Kane tried to force them in a direction they were never designed to bend.

Joe had finally passed out. How long had he been out?

Running his tongue over his teeth, Joe felt at least one tooth had been loosened. Amid all the pain, he enjoyed a moment of joy. He had not caved in.

The door opened and Joe acted as if he was still unconscious.

“Don’t insult my intelligence, Joe. You’re being watched 24/7.” Kane came closer and grabbed Joe’s swollen jaw. “Wakey, wakey. We have more fun planned for you.”

Joe opened his eyes, realizing his ploy wouldn’t work. The pressure Kane put on his face alone was excruciating. He tried to raise himself and face his tormentor.

Kane stepped back. “Uncuff him and put him on the table. It is time Mr. O’Rourke realized that we mean business.” The muscle-bound ape that slapped him around earlier waddled from the darkness and unlocked one end of the cuffs holding Joe to the chair.

Once loosened, he was jerked to his feet as the bigger man twisted his arms behind his back and forced marched him across the large room. Another light came on that illuminated what appeared to be a hospital bed. Flinging Joe on the mattress, Muscle Man quickly produced another set of cuffs. He immobilized Joe’s arms, securely anchoring the wrist restraints to two metal stanchions anchored to the concrete floor on each side of the bed. He pulled on each restraint.

Escape was futile.

His captor moved back into the shadows and Kane and another man in a white smock moved closer. Kane leaned over the bed, partially blocking the blinding light above, his face and shoulders silhouetted, his body a black outline like a paper target posted on a gun range.

“You are not going anywhere, O’Rourke. Make this easy on yourself. Tell me what I want to know and you just might live. Resist and I will kill you.”

Joe looked up at Kane’s unseen face and spit.

Kane slammed his fist into Joe’s face. “Get him ready,” Kane screamed, moving back into the shadows.

The man in the white smock wrapped a rubber hose around Joe’s arm to create a tourniquet. He disappeared for a moment, only to return with a hypodermic needle the size of which made Joe shudder.

One thrust into his veins and soon Joe felt a panicky euphoria creep through his limbs. His head started to spin. He was about to lose consciousness again. A moment later, he blissfully blacked out.

Richard watched Joe’s body slump as the injection took hold. “You used sodium pentothal, right?”

The medical technician nodded as he put the serum away.

“You idiot, he’s nodding off. You must have given him too much.”

Worriedly, the technician thumbed Joe’s eyelid to see pupil reaction, then felt for a pulse. The man glanced at Richard, concern tightening his face. “I’m sorry, sir. It’s hard to get the right dosage under these conditions.”

“I don’t want to hear excuses. Let me know the moment he can respond to our questions.” Angry, Richard made his way back to the office. A red message light flashed on his phone. Punching the code, he waited for the recording to begin.

A man’s voice came over the speaker, an explosion and gunshots in the background. “Sir, we are under attack. We—” is all he heard before the recording stopped.

He glanced at the last number dialed. The call came from the lab in Albuquerque. He dialed Collette’s number and listened to her cell phone ring until his call rolled over to voice mail. She was not picking up. Or unable to answer his call.

Something went wrong.

Frustrated, he tried to think of someone on-site who might be able to give him an update. He did not want to leave a phone trail to the lab, and if he called his contacts in Albuquerque, he’d be leaving a trail to those contacts with a timeline corresponding to whatever was happening at the lab.

He dialed a Seattle number. As soon as his contact answered, Richard demanded an update from New Mexico. “You have any contacts there you can trust? I need a quick assessment as to what’s happening.”

“Call you back in a few, sir.”

Richard hung up and thought about Joe O’Rourke and the interrogation. He dialed the medical technician standing by. “Move him back to the holding cell. Something has come up that needs my attention. We’ll have to continue this later.” He slammed the phone down, waiting for a call back.

Ten minutes later, the phone rang. He snatched it up. “Speak to me.”

“Sir, looks like all hell broke loose out there. They got police and fire responding. Reports of a bombing and a firefight going on. The cops are holding everyone back until they can assess the danger.”

“They have to get in there right now. Before anyone can escape.”

“I know sir, but the cops are playing it real cautious. Things are really volatile. They may be even calling the feds—ATF, FBI, and the rest of the federal alphabet-soup agencies.”

Richard shook his head. “No. No. We can’t have everyone poking their noses into that lab. We have to contain. Now!”

“It may be too late, sir. It sounds like a war just started.”

Richard ended the call and quickly dialed another contact in Justice. He needed to start containment immediately. Before too much information got out. And he needed to kill whoever did this before they could talk.

They needed to be silenced.

Albuquerque, New Mexico

A
lena seemed transfixed as she stared at Redneck’s body. Gerrit grabbed her arm, tugging her toward the gaping hole in the wall. “We have to move.”

Willy came over the air, his voice frantic. “Mr. G, what’s going on down there? I show Redneck down. Not moving.”

“He’s dead,” Gerrit said, tersely. “Guide us out.”

“You got movement to your right. SWAT must be reacting to your shots.”

“Tell Jack to keep the engine running. This is going to be a close one.”

Alena started to move and he released his grip on her. “Follow me,” he said, crouching as low as he could to limit the target his body made. Off to his right, he saw a light flash, a police officer in full gear moving along the wall. Apparently they had not spotted the mangled hole in the fence. They must be zeroing in on the blast radius around the outer wall of the lab.

He sprang forward, hearing Alena’s quieter tread behind him. They made it through the outer fence when there was a yell behind them. Turning, Gerrit saw a flash of gunfire. One of the SWAT officers was firing. “Alena! Run! Run!”

Gerrit wheeled around and fired, aiming just behind the officer’s head. The officer flattened out, then began to rise to fire again.

At that moment he heard the whirl of blades as Jack Thompson’s voice screamed into Gerrit’s ear. “Run for it, boy. Give that flyboy some room to work.”

As Gerrit dashed across the open area behind the fence, he heard the sweet sound of 20mm cannon fire chewing up dirt as the helicopter opened up. Belching across the wire, each round raised dust as the perimeter turned into something akin to hamburger meat. Enough firepower to keep SWAT from chasing them any farther. The pilot made one pass, almost went vertical, then fell back for another run.

Just before Gerrit crossed a rise, he looked back one more time and saw the helicopter crew make a third pass. Those officers trapped on the ground knew better than to cross no-man’s land as the helicopter pinned them down.

He dashed down a sloping hill to a waiting car below. Alena reached the car first, diving into the backseat and leaving the door hanging open. Gerrit was a few steps behind. He flung himself inside, yelling, “Go! Go! Go!”

Jack Thompson stepped on the gas and the car hurled forward. Gerrit slammed the door shut, looking back to see the helicopter streaking across the sky into the darkness.

A mile away, Jack slowed down.

Gerrit keyed his radio. “Willy, give us an update. You tracking us?”

“Yeah, Mr. G.” Willy’s voice sounded subdued. “What happened back there with Redneck?”

Alena’s voice came over the air. Gerrit glanced over and saw tears in her eyes. “Willy, let’s keep this off the air. Redneck’s gone. There is nothing we can do now.”

Silence filled the car, oppressive, gloomy.

Another mile slipped by before Jack spoke. “What did happen back there, Marine? We need to know if we’ve got a security breach.”

Gerrit caught Jack looking back at him for a moment, then the colonel glanced away. “It’s as bad as it gets, sir. Kane planted Redneck to spy on us. Everything we know, Kane must know by now.”

“How could Kane have gotten to him?” Alena looked over at him, her eyes pleading.

Gerrit took her hand. “I think he was one of them the whole time. Working for Kane way back when Joe met him in Chicago. My guess, Redneck didn’t have a direct link to Kane, to protect himself from Joe and Willy. Didn’t know what kind of protections Joe might have raised to catch messages. They must have done the old spy world thing—maybe a dead-letter trip through an e-mail account, or maybe they did really old school—written only, left at a physical drop site.”