Sabotage: Beginnings (28 page)

S
unday wasn’t the
best afternoon to travel. So many old fogies out in their antique roadsters, spandex-clad cyclists pee-pedaling up and down hills and tourists looking for free bottles of Sonoma Valley wine to polish off after an extended church service.

Ben’s palm slammed against the steering wheel. He was still pissed about the way he’d been treated by Heinrich Shultz back in November. He cracked the driver’s window and angled his nose toward the fresh air. It appeared his last encounter had left remnants in the backseat before Ben escorted his corpse into the trunk.

Mental note: Clean out car.

Ben’s gaze left the winding road. He peered into the rearview mirror and felt a chill streak across his body. Had something moved in the backseat? He struggled to spin backward, but his neck stiffened, resisting.

“Keep your eyes on the road, young man,” Ben said, imitating an old lady’s crotchety voice.

He peered again. Nothing.

His dark eyes fixed on the rearview mirror.

“Boo,” Ben screamed. He cackled like a crazy person.

Quickly, he quieted. Something was wrong and it spooked the heck out of him. He spun the manual handle to drop the window. Cold howls of early March air gusted through the opening. Full weight against his right forearm, he tried to avoid the wind’s force against his pristinely styled hair. As a child, his mother insisted that he groom properly. No need changing old habits now—after all killing for consumption was a messy business.

The directional guide in his late model sedan alerted him to the turn off about one hundred yards away. He slipped his foot off the gas and allowed the car to coast into the downhill switchback. He snaked his right foot off the floorboard and against his seat. With his left hand, he reached beneath his cargo pants to tug at the blade he’d secreted there before he left his ranch-style home.

Ben sighed as the wide shoulder appeared around the curve. There wasn’t anyone there. This had to be the spot. It looked exactly as described, so he flipped a finger down onto the blinker stem and waited to turn left.

Intense was the best word to describe the smash of water that tumbled down that section of the Russian River. Miles of premature spring fields of light green clover huddled against clay banks that directed the crystal waters. The lashing of water over river rocks for thousands of years had sculpted the boulders to a smooth sheen.

Ben became lost in the moment, and was glad to be away from the stench of old flesh that hung in his car. The toes of his leather loafers were dusty from the sand and gravel ticked about as he teetered on the edge of the lookout, but never dared extend too far. It was peaceful here and the wind was brisk. He tugged at the zipper to his thermal fleece jacket.

“About time.”

Ben jumped at the sound of the devil’s voice.

“Where’d you come from?” Ben squeaked as his fingers white knuckled the three-foot rock ledge. No need to face him—it was Heinrich.

“Having your back toward real men is what got you butt fucked in Vegas,” Heinrich taunted. “Have you lost your skill?”

Ben wiggled his toes when emotion overcame him. It was an odd habit, but one his mother couldn’t detect as he grew up. It allowed him to express his anxiety without her discipline. His eyes pressed tight, he felt the sunlight begging to come in. That comment hurt Ben’s heart. He’d worked so hard to become the best at what he did for his country, and now to be accused of growing soft was insulting. He would remain a gentleman and not allow his anger to show.

“To the contrary, I’ve refined my skills.”

Heinrich stalked the exterior of Ben’s car. His long, narrow nose crinkled with a whiff of air. He wagged his ringed finger and waggled his Arian-sharp features in disapproval.

“You’d better be sharp. They’re not these bums you prey upon.”

Ben strutted forward, tugging on the tail of his cardigan sweater. “This was no bum. He was a police officer just doing his duty.” Ben snapped to attention with a ridge-fisted salute. “Until I took his booty.” He snickered like a junior high girl as he folded at the waist in delight.

“Sick fucker,” Heinrich cursed. Spit sprayed from between his thin lips. His steel-blue eyes looked as cold and threatening. “Just get this job done.”

“And if I don’t?”

“The next shot won’t chip the paint on your porch.” Heinrich’s mouth tightened, underscoring the severity of his threat. His well-manicured fingers ran through his slicked-back blond waves lightened by early graying.

“You almost ruined my appetite with that stunt. Almost I said.” Ben whirled his finger above his head before he rubbed his tummy with a delicious memory.

“You’ll receive instructions.” Heinrich glowered at the demented spectacle Ben Ford had become.

Ben folded and unfolded his arms across his stomach in a sudden fit of self-consciousness. “What?”

Heinrich sneered. “Just wondering how much Marco enjoyed taking your ass.”

Ben felt blood drain from his face and chest. It seemed to pool around his toes. “How’d you know his…? You son of a bitch, you set that up.”

“You are my project, and yes. I’m sure Marco enjoyed it.” Heinrich licked his top lip with a snake-like dart.

Ben’s pinky slithered between his lips. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”?

“Yes.”

“And you’ll die the way that pig, Marco did.”

“The stench from you car is starting to sicken me,” Heinrich said with a flick of his wrist. “Hit the road, Gray Man.”

*     *     *

“Hello mother.” Ben
balanced the phone between his shoulder and chin. He struggled with a rubber gas hose, but didn’t want to stand in the Louisiana sun any longer than he had to. He turned his back to the dirty breeze that washed over a trash-strewn parking lot.

“Benjamin, where are you?”

“Mother, I’ve missed you.” Ben watched the nozzle lurch in the gas tank opening each time the handle holder clicked and the flow stopped. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?”

“Where are you?”

Her voice recalled the childhood diet of admonishment and condemnation force fed to him by his mother. As deep as her words wounded him, her approvals, although rare, brought elation. Ben had realized the destructive pattern as a young teenager, but it was too late at that point—she’d broken him of ever being independent.

Ben swatted at a swarm of bayou country mosquitoes. They seemed to dance between him and the overstuffed garbage can.

“Mother, I’m on an unsecured line.” He scanned the flat terrain. “Honestly, I’ve no idea where I am. There’s water all around me.”

“Are you doing what I think you’re doing?”

“Pumping gas? Yes, ma’am. I’m pumping gas. Is that what you were thinking too?” Ben’s face lit up with the sensation of an exaggerated smile. He peered into the side view mirror of the rented Ford SUV to enjoy the positive image of his attempt at passive-aggressive sarcasm.

“Are you being a smart ass, Benjamin? I’m trying to speak to you as an adult, and you snicker like a queen? I’m not sure why I bothered trying to help you.”

Ben’s eyes flicked away from the mirror. He’d seen enough sad faces caused by mother’s cutting words. He shoved the gas nozzle back onto the hook then yanked cash from his wallet and hurried across the concrete to pay the cashier.

“Why did you call me, mother?”

“You need to know the consequences of what you are about to do. Heinrich has been discharged from his duties. It seems your handler has been associated with a subversive neo-Nazi subculture for decades. Your killing Batya will only serve as a victory for his anti-Semitic theology. He’s using you to ignite a holy war.”

Back in his SUV, Ben snuggled against the leather seat and set the phone call to hands-free. He looked back over his shoulder before he pulled back onto Louisiana Highway 90 in Lafourche Parish toward Boutte. His shoulders rolled and his belly twitched in a snort about the name of the town—Boutte.

“Mother, Heinrich is not a Nazi. He just wants to get back at the woman who tried to kill me. He’s my handler and he cares about me.”

“Benjamin, you fucking idiot. He’s using you as his bitch boy again. Just like he’s always done. Boyd is permanently missing, and Dunnigan is dead. It’s Justice and Batya. We know this. Any idiot can see that Heinrich is next. He had the Agency’s protection until his images popped up in a Southern Poverty Law magazine. Now he’s out on his ass and shit out of luck.”

“How do you know they killed them?” Ben didn’t care for Boyd or Dunnigan, so news of their demise had zero effect on him.

“Because we’re the fucking CIA, you moron.”

Ben’s chest jerked with a sob. He glanced back into the rearview and watched his bottom lip begin to quiver. He hated his mother—sometimes. But always, she was his mother—all the time.

“That stung, mother.”

“Justice Boudreaux’s dick is going to sting more than Marco’s if you don’t listen to me.”

Ben shoved a giant clutch of air from his lungs. “Does everybody know?”

“Just about everyone. We had a good laugh. You gotta admit, Marco turned the tables on you.”

“Goodbye, mother. I can handle Justice Boudreaux just fine.”

“Hold onto your panties.” Her voice twanged with a snark of sarcasm. “Justice has amassed himself an army. He’s more dangerous than ever. Crazy bastard seized control of the Savage Souls Outlaw Motorcycle Club.”

“Sounds frightening. A club you say?”

“Don’t be stupid, Benjamin. These are ruthless assholes. They stalked and assassinated Carl Dunnigan and his wife, Vickie. The Savage Nation is more powerful than you know. He’s also started actively recruiting his real brothers into the club. You know the dossier on the Boudreaux brothers—bad ass motherfuckers.”

“Mother, you really should watch your potty mouth.” Ben gripped the steering wheel more carefully as he arrived at the narrow lanes and slow moving traffic just outside the New Orleans CBD.

“Benjamin, listen up. I’m your mother, but it doesn’t mean I love you. I’ve done the best I could raising you from birth, but to be honest, you were a burden. I’m not going to pretend this call is an attempt to save you. I am, however, trying to prevent an international crisis with the execution of a former Mossad operative by a CIA contract killer sent on the mission by a terminated Nazi sympathizer.”

“I see your dilemma.”

“Really?”

“No.” Ben mashed the “end call” button and fixed his eyes toward Biloxi’s Imperial Palace resort.

Strategy-think dulled Ben’s thoughts over the next two hours. He knew what had to be done, but was unsure how to do it. Intel showed Batya and Justice occasionally traveled to reunite with their young daughter. Heinrich’s brief report showed Justice’s brother and sister-in-law continued to serve as surrogates for Grace. Ben had assumed he’d kill Justice separately then snatch Batya for Heinrich. Of course, Ben never assumed.

Ben secured a room with cash and meandered through the smoky lobby until he stood exposed in a gaudily decorated corridor. A slight whistle squeezed through his lips as the elevator lights lit up as the car descended. His gaze bounced around the open area. He used the mirrors and reflective surfaces to look for targets or threats. Ben’s heart stuttered. He tried to swallow but a lump jammed the effort.

He froze. The wall-length mirror was filled with Justice Boudreaux—all six feet six inches of that killing machine. Ben’s gut twisted. Armed only with a knife strapped to his ankle, he began to run scenarios of close quarter combat tactics. For once, Ben suspected that he’d experienced fear.

His heartbeat ratcheted so intensely in his chest, it was a matter of moments until Justice detected the thuds or his quivering chest. They were both trained to detect people’s most subtle of clues as a way to interpret their intentions. It usually worked before the person even realized their body’s micro-behaviors had betrayed them.

Get hold of yourself, Benjamin.

He’d wait until they were in the enclosed elevator car. Ben planned to drop an item and when he bent down to pick it up, he’d zip the blade from its ankle sheath and plunge it in Justice’s throat.

Ding—door opened. He couldn’t make his feet move. The image in the mirror didn’t move either. Besides the sheer size, Ben detected the leather cut. For what seemed like an eternity, neither budged.

“Yo, dude. You taking this car?”

Ben dropped his chin against his chest in a sigh of relief. A slight puff of air popped between his pursed lips—it wasn’t Justice Boudreaux after all. He nodded and crept through the sliding doors. He was soon boxed in by two menacing beasts. Both sported Savage Souls insignia on their leather vests. Ben cautiously pinched his nose—they reeked of highway grime and motor oil.

Rage. That’s his oldest brother, Rage. That fucker looks just like Justice. They all do. Damn, he’s delicious.

Ben’s skin was electrified with excitement and apprehension as he exited the elevator, his back turned to the two bikers. Only Justice would recognize him, but with the others here, his mission would have to change drastically.

He swiped his way into his room and rushed a sweep for bugs, microphones or cameras. Ben jerked the thick window shades together and rolled a heavy table to the windows until it pinned the slight gap in the curtains together. He spun the shower nozzle to high-pressure volume, and locked himself in the toilet’s small space.