ADX Praxis (The Red Lake Series Book 3) Page 15

  A red light flashed on Van de Meer's desk. It was a number very few people had.

  “Just a minute Kurt, I have a call.”

  The caller id told him it was Charlie Chan. Claus pressed a button. A voice altering function changed the sound of his words when he answered.

  Chan was nervous, scared, and excited. Claus talked him down. His voice was calm and reassuring. The incident was unfortunate and should have been avoidable. No it would not happen again, but perhaps Chan should take a trip to Lake Tahoe until they could apprehend the men who so brazenly threatened him in his own house. Claus gave Chan the address of a safe house where he could stay, until the threat was eliminated.

  Claus switched phones. “Get it done Kurt. I’m not going to tell you again.”

  He hung up the phone. Two small men were causing havoc with his operation. It left him with a headache, a fire in his belly and malice in his heart.. He lay his glasses on the desk top and began to massaged his temples.

  Chapter 43

  Barton walked alone from Marie’s to Harry’s boat in Cody’s Marina. Harry was in a mood to drink. He wasn’t. Crowds made Dirk nervous. There was too much action to watch. He preferred the silence of waiting alone in the shadows of a remote forest or jungle. When he drank someone often ended up hurt or dead. Dark forces roiled beneath his inscrutable surface, booze sometimes let the demons out.

  He drank a beer on the aft deck and watched the colors. Then the sun was gone. The ruddy red clouds were bled of color. All that remained was a dull glow in the evening sky. Overhead the first bright stars glimmered in the darkening void. A chill breeze breathed on him as cool air on the mountainsides slid down the slopes and across the lake.

  Barton jogged up the dock and across the street for a pack of smokes. It was an old vice he still indulged infrequently. He lit up a Marlboro on the street and sucked down the smoke. The action reminded him of times on watch, or killing hours in transport planes. Patrolling in Hummers or simply walking patrol.

  Barton scanned the parking lot for the out of place. Nothing stirred his internal alarms. He walked lightly onto the floating dock. Halfway to Harry’s boat a lone figure flared a match, then another and another. As he drew close he heard a feminine voice softly swear, “Damn!’

  The girl’s hands fell to her sides. She held an unlit cigarette in one and a book of matches in the other. Hearing him the girl spun around. “Oh my god, you scared me.”

  Barton shrugged, “Sorry.” He moved to walk pass.

  “Do you have a lighter? I can’t seem to keep a match lit?”

  Barton reached into his pocket. He sensed, rather than felt the sap as it swung toward him from the shadows of the boat behind him. Then his world went black.

  He was bouncing. Up and down, up and down. His head banged against course, un-padded carpeting. When he tried to move he found his wrists were restrained. He worked at it but it dug at his skin. Not handcuffs, probably electrical strap ties. He had used them himself on Chan and also insurgents in Afghanistan.

  He became aware of the throaty roar of a motor. Near his face he saw a pair of pants cuffs. Barton tried to move. An unseen foot rewarded his efforts by kicking him in the ribs. Gradually he realized he was in a boat pounding across the chop of the lake. Cautiously he moved his elbow under his side, chaffing it against the holster on his belt. It was empty.

  Barton figured if they only tied an anchor to him he might still escape. A bullet in the back of the head was more problematic. But most people were reluctant to fire inside a boat. Besides, why risk getting blood everywhere when the water was both quieter and neater.

  The engine rpm’s dropped. The pounding of the boat eased back until he felt the hull come off its plane and settle into the water. The boat idled forward. Dirk lie still feigning unconsciousness. The pants cuffs turned toward him. A hand reached down and slapped his face. Another hand grabbed the scruff of his neck pulling him upright.

  Barton staggered to his feet, shaking his head as if still in confusion. He could dive into the water but that would only get him a bullet in the back. The boat idled in a slow circle. The silhouette of a floatplane emerged from the gloom. It was an old DeHavilland Beaver.

  “You’re late.” The pilot complained from his side window.

  “We’re here now, so shut up.”

  It was the tall thin one who spoke.

  “I don’t like taking off in the dark. You can’t see the chop or floating logs.”

  Speers shrugged. He opened the cargo door then stepped back and shoved Barton towards it. Dirk stepped up on the gunwale of the boat, caught his balance and then onto the pontoon. Getting into the plane was more difficult. Speers clambered in ahead of him and pulled him upward by his coat collar. Barton was beginning to really dislike the guy.

  “Take him north.” The man remaining in the boat said. Then he idled away from the plane, opened up the engine and left a rooster tail of white foam in his wake.

  With his hands behind his back, Dirk was forced to lean forward, his face pressed into the seat back of the pilot in front of him.

  “Lets go.” Speers said, squeezed into the seat next to him.

  Alone in front, the pilot nodded. He started the engine. The pilot taxied the plane in a half circle to aim into the wind and oncoming wave crests. The engine began to wind up. The plane moved. Barton pressed his face against the glass and watched the water sweep past. The sap left his head aching and nausea churning in his stomach. He focused upon feeling sick. Then he turned his head towards Speers and forced himself to vomit.

  His recent dinner sprayed across Speers lap, who desperately tried to press himself out of the line of fire. In one even move Dirk pushed his wrists down under his butt, past the edge of the seat and to his ankles. Doing a hard abdominal crunch his feet popped through and Dirk’s bound wrists were in front of him. Over the roar of the motor the pilot could not hear them but the stench filled the plane.

  “Who the hell got sick back there?” he yelled. The plane raced across the water nearing liftoff speed.

  Speers remained distracted by the vomit in his lap when Dirk brought his elbow back hard into the man’s windpipe. Speers tried to gasp air but his windpipe was crushed. From instinct at times of trouble he reached for the gun in his shoulder holster. As it came out, Barton wrapped his fingers around the barrel, and forced it down and away from him. In his last moments of consciousness Speers struggled to bring the gun up. In front of them the pilot pulled back on the stick and the plane broke free of the water.

  Barton jerked the gun and Speers finger contracted on the trigger. An explosive roar and muzzle flash filled the cockpit. The bullet tore through the seat back in front of Dirk and slammed into the pilot. The man slumped against the side of the plane. The weight of his hand pulled the yoke to port and the craft began to slowly tilt. Speers no longer fought instead he twitched as anoxia overcame him.

  Barton pulled the latch on the plane door and pushed it open. They were off the water and still climbing in a wide arc. In the dark he was uncertain how high they were off the water but he had no chance of getting into the front where he could fly the aircraft. He threw himself out the open hatch.

  It was a long fall, he counted two one thousand before he hit. In the dark someone hit him with a 2 x 6, it turned out to be the water. Fortunately, it was a broken chop. Slack water would have been like concrete.

  He broke the surface and tread water looking for the shore. Not far off he saw the plane silhouetted by its take off lights. The plane continued to curve toward the west until the nose began to dip. The port wing tip dipped and the plane spiraled down. It wasn’t far. Barton felt the thump of the explosion as the concussion rolled across the water. A column of fire marked the not distant shore.

  He began a slow breast stoke toward the flames. It was slow going with his wrists tied but he was a patient and disciplined man. One stroke and one kick at a time Dirk moved closer to the shore. Forty minutes later he waded out of the wat
er onto the sandy beach that abutted a wooded shore. To the south the flames in the field were gone, replaced by the flashing red lights of the fire trucks.

  A shiver ran through his body. He sat down and worked the electrical strap on a sharp rock until it split. Fifty degrees and wet was a perfect combination for hypothermia. To keep warm Dirk set out jogging along the highway heading toward town. It was a five-mile run. By the time he reached the marina he was warm, even breaking a light sweat. His sodden clothes merely damp.

  Barton cautiously approached Harry’s boat, in case someone still lay in wait for his friend. Methodically he scanned the parking lot, searching the shadows for the signs of movement or danger. He moved down the dock and passed Harry’s boat, stepping aboard a houseboat, two slips further out. He feigned fussing with a dock line while he watched. Finally, he was satisfied Harry was not on the boat.

  He went up to Marie’s but Harry was not at the bar. Marie recalled him talking to a new face in the crowd, but whether or not they left together she could not say. Barton wondered if they grabbed Harry, too. It seemed unlikely. It would make more sense to take them out together. In that Harry was not on the plane he was likely safe, somewhere else.

  Chapter 44

  Earlier that evening, once Barton left, Harry turned to drinking. He let himself feel the conviviality of the bar. People without troubles, who drank and smoked, bumped and ground on the dance floor, and came together and hooked-up for the evening.

  A brunette came in. By big city standards she was good. In Red Lake she was hot, hot, hot. Her long straight hair swayed as she walked, moving in counterpoint to hips that were hard to ignore. Her red dress showed a lot of back and in the front dipped to a point that tantalized without saying, “I’m trash.”

  Harry watched as the locals made their play. One at a time she shot them down. On a rare occasion she took to the floor but after one dance she’d lose her partner.

  Harry ordered another drink. He was riding the edge where there is no pain, no fear, and little caution.

  “Got a light?” a sultry voice said close to his ear, barely rising over the noise of the band.

  Harry picked up a book of matches. The sulfur flared. Up close, in it’s yellow light she looked even better. Her dark eyes sparkled with seduction. The woman held the cigarette with one hand and with the other touched his hand holding the match. It implied intimacy. He snapped the match out.

  “Thanks,” she said with a smile that invited conversation.

  “No problem.” Harry turned back to his drink. She was going to have to work for it. He suspected her overt friendliness; he doubted it was his irresistible charm. However, if she was just a tourist broad in town he wasn’t going to cross Paula for a roll in the hay. If the brunette was something else she would not be easily deterred.

  Two sips of his drink latter the voice purred in his ear again. “Want to dance?”

  Harry turned around. The woman was all curves that any man might be tempted to hold.

  “Sure.” He slid off the stool, put his hand under the brunette's elbow and guided her out onto the floor. They danced. Her moves were hypnotic; she had to be a pro. When the beat slowed she nuzzled up against him like a cat curling around his legs and sliding into his lap.

  Someone tried to cut in. She looked to Harry, “Tell him to get lost.” Her voice was breathy and seductive, her lips a scarlet slash that spelled danger.

  Maybe she wanted to start a fight. He knew girls like that; men beating each other up aroused them. Harry played along.

  “Get lost!” He dutifully said. The guy muttered something about a bitch as he slipped away.

  “Let’s get out of here,” she said, nodding toward the door. It was the siren call of temptation. Harry was alert to danger but he was losing a battle with his libido. Every move she made was seductive. She exuded desire.

  The door closed behind them and the band became a muffled thump in the night. She wrapped herself around him. Her lips pressed against his, her tongue darting at his mouth. Harry moved so his back was to the wall where it would be harder to get sapped. His eyes darted around, looking past the woman, but the parking lot was empty.

  “Let’s go to your place,” she whispered.

  He suspected someone might be waiting in the lot, but nothing happened. They sure weren’t being followed. He would have noticed a tail, especially late at night.

  In his car her hands were busy, moving and stroking, arousing his desire and numbing his defenses. Harry tried to focus on what the play might be. Occasionally he let out a small groan of pleasure to encourage her.

  His house was gone. If it was a set up the boat was a logical target. He took her to his office.

  “You live here?” She asked looking up at the Edison building.

  “I had a fire at my house, its being remodeled.”

  They made slow work of the trip up the stairs. They leaned into each other, rolled against the wall and groped with eager hands. Paula would not be happy if she knew, but Harry told himself it was in the line of duty.

  He pushed his key into the slot and the door swung open.

  “How quaint,” she said.

  Evidently, sex in an office on a cowhide sofa was not unacceptable to her. Harry smelled danger, but he was also feeling extremely horny and found himself rationalizing about mixing business and pleasure.

  She asked for a drink. Harry pulled a bottle of Scotch out from the desk.

  “All I’ve got.”

  “That’s okay, my granddaddy drank scotch, I learned to like it.”

  He opened the refrigerator and brought out a tray of ice. When he turned around the brunette’s dress was on the floor. She held two highball glasses out to him. The woman was not one to waste time, he thought, dropping a couple cubes in each. He poured. The scotch crackled as it hit the ice.

  They clinked the rims of their cheap glasses. She tilted the glass back and drank it off. Provocatively she wiped off her lips with the back of her hand. “Bottoms up honey,” she said with a giggle. Harry downed the drink as she wrapped her arms around him. He felt her breasts pressed against him, her tongue explored his ear.

  Then to his surprise she crumpled to the floor. Her eyes were rolled back when he pulled back her eyelids. Harry slipped his arms under her and lifted her up. Her body was slack. Halfway to the sofa the world began to spin, he became weak and he had to force himself to think about walking. He let her slide from his arms. A thump shook the floor, then his knees crumpled under him and he followed.

  Chapter 45

  They were married for six years. Paula told herself it was his wanting kids, or the hours he kept as a cop, or because they grew apart, that they divorced. She told herself he wanted out, too. She knew they were lies.

  It frightened her to be alone with him. He had wanted her so completely when they were married. Not at all like Harry who seemed almost indifferent at times. From the minute he opened the front door she wanted to grab a taxi back to the airport, hoping Harry was still there. Instead she smiled at his welcoming grin and walked in.

  For the first day it was awkward. Then a sense of the familiar overcame her. Over morning coffee the past caught up with her. Emotionally it might have been two years past, before she packed her bags, walked out and began driving, not stopping until she needed gas in Red Lake.

  After he left for work she wandered around the house. Paula found memories long repressed popping up, mental snap shots of better times and happier days.

  Oddly she found herself cooking dinner, waiting for Brad to walk in the side door. She knew from familiarity he would drape his jacket on the back of a chair and set his holstered gun and detective’s shield on the buffet top.

  He would kiss her and ask, “What’s for dinner?”

  When he arrived he did as she expected, except for the kiss. Somehow she wanted him to, without it something felt off. Instead she began serving up dinner.

  That night she called Harry. She needed to talk to him, to
hear his voice. She wanted to hear him say he missed her. The phone rang and rang. The number was for one of the throwaways he bought. It did not have voice mail. She tried the office. She tried Barton he did not answer either.

  Throughout the night she called and each time her anger grew greater at Harry’s apparent indifference. Internally she raged, men only stayed away all night for one thing.

  Chapter 46

  Barton intended to find the man called Kurt. The one who drove the boat, gave the orders, and was still alive unlike the one called Louis, who Barton killed, unless he gagged air, through his crushed windpipe, long enough to die in the crash.

  For now Dirk had an advantage over his target, Kurt thought he was dead. His edge would not last long; soon there would be a report on the crash.

  Dirk felt no animus toward Speers. The man was an enemy to be neutralized. There were no reasons to dwell on it. He saved his enmity for the living. He intended to find Kurt. When he did he would make him talk. Afterward, he would kill him with the same lack of compunction one might feel stepping on a poisonous spider. Payback was a matter of honor. When someone tried to kill him they had best succeed because if they failed he would hunt them down.

  There was also the woman on the dock, the one who set him up. Before being sapped, his view of her was fleeting. She was about five seven and with dark hair, pulled back. He had the impression of a petulant mouth and the sense that she was attractive, but given a police sketch artist, he would be at a loss to accurately describe her.

  Whoever sent the men to Red Lake must be nervous, Barton thought, then smiled thinking that they must also be pissed off, three dead, two players and a pilot. Not to mention the plane. Killing Eddie Ames was becoming expensive for someone. Barton knew the CIA was bifurcated into ops and intelligence. The set up in Red Lake seemed neither one nor the other. If Speers and Kurt were with the Agency it appeared to be a rouge action. But if not the CIA, it was someone with a deep and wide reach that felt unfettered by law.