Painless (40 page)

Chapter 90

Dash Naqui was making the trip from New York to Clarksville to meet with Jordan. It was a trip he’d made hundreds of times. But then everything changed.

He didn’t have time to wonder about the who, why, or how Jordan was killed. His first order of business was to stabilize the operation. Jordan had willed the plantation to a phony medical research group headed up by Naqui, to cover their ass-ets if an emergency situation were to occur.

But Naqui didn’t get there soon enough. André Rose, who had escaped in Iran, and Carolyn Whitcomb, a four-year-old girl whom Stipe assured would be a simple capture, were able to trespass onto the grounds. And by doing so, they exposed a major breach in what once was impenetrable security.

Luckily, Naqui had already been en route to the plantation, and his presence was able to stabilize any further chaos. But André wasn’t talking, and any torture to try to make him come clean would be fruitless. He had been trained
by them
to withstand such tactics. Naqui saw the irony, but also knew André had a weak spot—his loyalty to his mother and siblings. That was where his true threshold for pain resided.

The little girl was another story. When tossed back over the wall, she technically became the first CIPA child to escape the grounds of the plantation. She and her handlers would be a major problem. Especially with her surprising connection to André Rose, who most likely passed them intimate knowledge of the inner workings of the plantation and Operation Anesthesia.

Naqui stood in Jordan’s upstairs office and peered out over the plantation grounds, trying to convince himself that he’d stabilized any lurking trouble. But he felt the storm clouds on the horizon. It was a lot like when he first saw Claire’s hands shake and he convinced himself it was nothing. “Just nerves,” he told himself at the time. He looked at his own hands and they were now shaking.

A phone call jolted him from his spell. It was Rutherford, reporting that their worst fears had come true. Rutherford had just left a surprise meeting with Carolyn Whitcomb, Billy Harper, and Senator Oliver LaRoche. Just as Naqui feared, Harper and the girl had come to LaRoche with knowledge of the inner workings of Operation Anesthesia, maintaining that they were working with the Rose brothers. Rutherford took credit for thinking on his feet to momentarily hold off any investigation.

“We began this together, Dash, and now we must end it together. And in the end, you and I will stand tall like heroes,” Rutherford said.

“Do you have a plan?” Naqui surrendered. He didn’t need any speeches. He was a doctor, he knew Operation Anesthesia was dead.

“Tomorrow at daybreak I’m going to authorize a staged attack of the plantation with Stipe’s men operating under the identity of a covert Special Ops team under my control. Their mission will be to take down Operation Anesthesia, but they really will be eliminating any evidence of our connection. I told LaRoche I had an embedded doctor source on the inside who confirmed what Harper and the girl said. History will record that courageous doctor as you, Dash.”

Naqui remained quiet, allowing Rutherford to continue waving his pompoms, “We will be cheered for saving the day, but in the end, you and I both know the only thing we did was guarantee another 9/11, or worse.”

Naqui’s thoughts traveled back to the beginning, trying to focus on the lives they had saved. But he kept returning to the present. “What about all those at the camp? And the children?”

“Dash, we must eliminate
all
the evidence. It is for the greater good.”

Naqui’s stomach slipped. They were like his children. He felt conflicted, just as Lincoln had spoke of, but was no longer sure he had Honest Abe’s Teflon resolve. He forced himself to push on. “Can Stipe’s men be trusted?”

“Stipe overestimated their loyalty. They are now working for me. But I’m going to need you to take care of Stipe, so he doesn’t become a nuisance.”

The idea of
taking care
of Stipe almost brought a smile to Naqui’s face.

A long silence filled the phone line, before Rutherford made his closing argument, “Mourning the sacrifices is counterproductive, and should be left in the rear-view mirror, Dash. We performed a heroic service, but all things run their course. We must focus on all the lives saved, and freedom preserved, all thanks to Operation Anesthesia.”

Naqui looked out the window at the quiet grounds. The quiet before the storm. He listened to what Rutherford said, but he wasn’t so sure anymore. Just as the black and white had turned to gray, the shades of gray had now tuned to darkness.

Chapter 91

Wednesday morning began with overcast skies and a slight drizzle. Naqui sat behind a desk in Jordan’s former office, the one on the lower level of the manor house that was once Sir Quincy’s bedchamber. Another member of the Jordan lineage with dreams of grandeur, who died a youthful death.

He looked out the window at the gloomy weather, thinking it was fitting. It was the final day of Operation Anesthesia, and endings were usually gloomy. Naqui fell into a melancholy trance, his mind waging an inner debate on the merits and morals of the last twenty years. Was it really for the greater good? Or was Jordan right; were they just slaves at a five star resort, the very thing Lincoln would have fought against?

An aggressive knock rattled him back to reality. Before he could even respond, the door flew open and Franklin Stipe arrogantly limped into the office. He wore a blue Stipe Security rain slicker and a cocky smile. For a man who failed to capture a four-year-old girl, he was sure pretty confident.

“You rang, doc?”

Naqui sat with the cool of an assassin. “Please sit down.”

“I’ll stand.”

“Would you like some coffee?”

“Can we get to the point? Unlike you doctors, I actually work for a living. I’m in the middle of interrogating André Rose.”

“Speaking of which,” Naqui began matter of fact, “we have decided to replace you as head trainer.”

Stipe’s face roared. “Then you better start praying to your imaginary friend Allah because you’re going down with me.”

“Just calm down, Franklin.”

Stipe pulled out his loaded Glock. “No—I won’t calm down. I built this place and I’ll decide when I leave. And if you try anything, I’ll put a real dot in your head. Then who will take care of Shakes?”

Stipe performed a cruel imitation of Claire. Naqui remained calm, focusing on how much he was going to enjoy watching Stipe die.

“If you’d let me finish, what I’m trying to say is that lately I’ve been examining my future. I could never bring myself to step down the last few years, but Samuel’s death has forced me to face my own mortality, and made me realize there are other things I want to focus on in my later years. So I talked to our contact in Washington, and we both agreed I would step down as Chief Managing Partner. I will continue to consult on the medical side if asked, but it will be up to you, since you will be the new CMP of Operation Anesthesia.”

Stipe never trusted. “What’s the catch?”

“There is no catch. Truth be told, I think you’re an arrogant son of a bitch. But I grudgingly have to admit you’ve been the blood and guts of this place for as long as I can remember, and a change should have been made a long time ago. I no longer have the same passion. My focus these days is solely on Claire.”

An “about time” grin leaked out of the corner of Stipe’s mouth. “Well then, doc, I say we have a toast with the Naqui Cocktail. My leg has been killing me.”

Naqui flashed his assassin smile as he pulled open the top drawer of the desk. His weapon was already loaded.

Stipe first removed his rain slicker, and then his T-shirt, revealing his burned torso. Naqui found a vain on his arm and applied the needle, just as he’d done so many times in the past.

But this time was different. This time the syringe was loaded with a lethal combination of drugs. It was death by lethal injection. Naqui waited calmly as Stipe’s shield of arrogance withered away. But before he died, he became like many of the children he’d kidnapped over the years...

 A scared child.

Chapter 92

Mitchell Jones wore a black Harley Davidson T-shirt and camouflage pants as he led a squad deep into the plantation grounds. Ironically, their mission this day was to destroy the place they spent years building and protecting.

The first stop was the old slave quarters that rested in a wooded area behind the Jordan Family Memorial Cemetery. It was where the Anesthesia soldiers were housed. Since all they knew was taking orders from trainers, it would be the easiest suicide pact since Jonestown. This would be Mitchell Jones-town.

As his first act as head trainer, replacing the late Franklin Stipe, Jones was determined to get it right. Rutherford promised him a job as his personal assistant after the mission was complete, and assured him any investigation into the security guard he shot at the school in Schenectady would magically disappear. Mitchell Jones was going to the White House—
who would-a thunk it?
He was surprised the weather was so gloomy. Usually gloomy weather represents an ending, but for Jones it was a new beginning.

He moved to the housing quarters of the Anesthesia soldiers. As expected, they flawlessly executed his orders. They torched the slave quarters and set themselves on fire. It was what they were trained to do, and they didn’t feel a thing.

Jones’s next move was to send two of his men—Regan and Poindexter—to torch all the other buildings on the property. Rutherford made himself very clear he wanted no evidence left behind. Not even a fingernail!

Jones then moved toward the water where the stables were located. The place where the men, or stallions, as that freaky doctor Jordan would call them, were housed. He was sure they would put up more of a fight than the children. He hoped so—he loved a good fight. But he knew he’d come out on top in the end. The laws of nature dictated that he would. He was the fittest, and therefore he would survive. A lesson Franklin Stipe had just learned the hard way.

Chapter 93

Chuck sat in his stable apartment, ready to strike the monster. Strangely enough, Operation Anesthesia had helped prepare him for his battle against them.

The stables were originally built by a horse breeder who once owned the plantation. They didn’t have a trough or hay on the floor anymore. The building had been converted into small housing units that reminded Chuck of the closet-sized apartment he shared with Beth in Albany, only much cleaner.

Chuck could smell the smoke and hear the crackling of fire. He wasn’t sure what was going on, all he knew was that he had to get to Beth. But then he started to recognize the sounds. It was the sound of the doors opening, followed by a gunshot, then the short-lived shriek of a male voice. They were shooting his fellow “stallions.” It was death by firing squad.

The sounds grew closer.

Chuck held tightly onto his weapon of choice. He was good with a rifle, but he was deadly with a hockey stick.

When they provided him the stick upon his arrival, Jordan told him they wanted to make all the “residents” comfortable with their new surroundings, so they would be at their best when “performing.” Operation Anesthesia meticulously researched each of their lives, and since Chuck was a hockey player, they felt the stick would be a form of positive reinforcement. Of course, Jordan’s henchmen also mentioned that if he chose to use the stick for the “wrong” reasons, he would be one man against an army and an inescapable wall. And if that wasn’t deterrent enough, they had his wife as collateral.

He got the message, but now he was going to deliver one of his own. He wasn’t going to die without putting up a fight that Beth would be proud of.

Three doors down—open—shot—shriek. Then two. Then his neighbor, a nice guy from Sweden named Mats Lerner, who liked soccer, and had a son named Petr at the camp. Chuck was next. He fought himself to remain patient. He tightened the grip on the stick, thinking of Beth. He was channeling her—she was his self-control.

When his door swung open, Chuck uncoiled like a cobra. He used an old hockey trick: slash the forehead, causing blood to run into the eyes like a waterfall, and blinding the opponent.

The man, who Carolyn had referred to as Osama Banana, looked stunned when the blade of the stick slit the area just above his thick eyebrows. He shot wildly, lodging a bullet into the wooden wall behind Chuck’s ear.

Chuck went back to the great martial art of hockey fighting. While his opponent was blinded, he grabbed him with his left arm and dropped about twenty punches to his bloody head with his right. The left arm was the key in holding his opponent upright, which was easier in the stable than on the ice. Most fights ended up in wrestling matches on the ground, leveling the playing field. As long as they stood, Chuck held the advantage over his blinded opponent.

Chuck released hold of the blood-soaked Harley Davidson T-shirt and karate-chopped the gun out of his hand. After kicking the gun away, Chuck grabbed him with his punching hand and went to his next hockey fighting tactic—pulling the jersey, in this case a T-shirt, over the head from the back. When he was fully debilitated, Chuck let the dazed man fall to the floor. He scooped up the gun and ran toward what he hoped was Beth’s direction.