Internal Threat
Authors: Ben Sussman
By
Ben Sussman
Contents
CHAPTERS
© 2011 by Ben Sussman
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced
C
aptain Matt Weatherly stepped off the curb, unaware that his life was about to be shattered in less than thirty seconds.
He glanced over his shoulder, casting another look at the commissary’s doorway he had just exited. Matt smiled to himself, knowing the woman who worked the bakery counter had cut her price for Luke’s cake by at least twenty percent. His wife usually did not appreciate it when he effortlessly turned on his innate charm, but he knew she would not mind in this case.
He peeked through the top of the white box in his hands, pulling at the red string that bound it. The cake was perfect – just as his son had wanted. Chocolate with chocolate icing and a layer of chocolate sprinkles. “It’s the kid’s birthday,” Matt told the imaginary Katie, the one smiling and shaking her head at him in his imagination. “And you’re not even here,” he sighed. Katie merely shrugged.
A colonel stepped in Matt’s path, causing him to halt and snap a salute with a crisp, “Sir.” The older man gave a perfunctory return salute before moving away. Matt watched him go, taking in the hive of activity that the base had now become. A few months ago, it was as sleepy as he had seen since the Iraq War had started. Then the troops had been called back to duty, including his wife Katie.
As his foot lifted to take the next step, his pocket shifted and chirped. Gently maneuvering the cake box beneath one shoulder, he withdrew his cell phone and glanced at the screen. Unknown, it read. He clicked it on, answering in his automatic monotone.
“Captain Weatherly.”
A burst of static assaulted his ear. He pulled the phone back.
“Hello,” he said, bending his head to concentrate.
The static faded slightly and Matt thought he must be imagining things because he could have sworn he had just heard Katie’s voice say his name.
“Matt,” the person said, stronger this time.
“Katie?” he asked incredulously. There was no mistaking her voice. He felt a wave of irritation rise up inside him. “Why are you calling now? You said it would be six o’clock our time. Luke’s going to be waiting for the call and-”
“Matt, please,” Katie interrupted.
Something was not right. There was a tinny hollowness in her voice that he had never heard there before. Something that sounded like weakness. “What is it? What’s wrong?” Matt asked.
“We were hit,” she answered.
His mind whirled. Katie had been ordered to Afghanistan only a few weeks ago. She was devastated that she was going to miss Luke’s second birthday and Matt spent much of the time before she left consoling her. It was going to be her second tour and, since Matt had just returned from his own, she knew it was her turn and duty to go back. She had called him the previous week, informing him that she had been assigned guard duty on the numerous caravans that traverse the deserts.
Matt’s mind switched into professional soldier mode. “Where are you? Tell me where you are so we can get someone to you.”
“It’s too late. I-”she paused, breathing heavily. “I’m hit, Matt. Everyone else is dead. They came out of nowhere.”
“Listen to me. You’re going to be fine. Just keep talking. I’ll find someone to help you.” How many times had he uttered similar words to men beneath his command that had then slipped away? He pushed the thought out of his mind. His eyes desperately raked the grounds but the base suddenly seemed empty. Far in the distance, a group of new recruits went through a training exercise.
“Help!” he shouted. His voice echoed out, bringing no response.
“Matt, it’s too late,” her voice came again. “I just wanted to call to tell you,” a cough hacked through her sentence. Matt’s heart sank at the sound of it – racking and wet. The bullet must have pierced a lung.
“Don’t tell me anything,” he whispered fiercely. “You can tell me when I see you again, when you get home.” He felt a hot stinging tear course its way down his cheek.
“I love you, Matt. And Luke. Oh God, how I’m going to miss Luke.”
Matt cupped the mouthpiece, calling out again for help. The door of a barracks down the street swung open and a young soldier popped his head out. Matt frantically waved at him to come closer.
“Take good care of him,” Katie was saying, the words slurring a bit. “Never let him…” She was drifting away, Matt knew.
“Never let him what, Katie?” He needed her to keep talking. The soldier was running towards him now, bringing an MP with him.
“Never let him get hurt,” his wife said. “You need to take care of him now. Need to-” Sounds echoed in Matt’s ear.
A burst of garbled foreign language.
The sharp report of gunfire. Then silence.
The soldier and MP had reached Matt, who had dropped the phone and was cradling his head in his hands.
“Sir,” the young soldier knelt down next to him. “Are you hurt?” The MP was at his side, looming over Matt with authority.
“Sir, what’s wrong?” the MP demanded. “How can we help you?”
Somewhere between the tears, the MP heard, “You can’t.”
One
C
olin Nemec was about to die. He had come to accept that fact in these past few moments. In fleeting instances of his twenty-seven years on this earth, he had tried to imagine where, when and how the end would come. Now he had the answers.
Where? The sleek high-rise condo in downtown Los Angeles that he had overpaid for two years ago.
When? Judging by the digital clock embedded in his stainless steel microwave, somewhere around 11:55pm.
How? Clearly, at the hands of the man currently in his kitchen, calmly pouring himself a glass of Evian from the chilled bottle in Colin’s refrigerator.
All those questions had been accounted for. Yet, one more still nagged at Colin.
Why?
The man entered back into Colin’s living room, heels clicking across the bamboo floor as he crossed to the chair where he had tied him. Colin noted the black leather gloves on the man’s hands, slightly flexing beneath the taut fabric as if in anticipation of their upcoming job.
How is this happening?
The night had begun promisingly enough. Colin ended a busy work day at the Edison bar, slipping the doorman a hundred dollar bill as he entered. The bribe earned him a prime booth upstairs in the VIP lounge where he ordered his customary bottle of Belvedere vodka. As it arrived, a pair of young ladies caught his eye and made their way over to his table.
“Mind if we join you?” the blonde one asked.
“Not at all,” Colin replied, motioning for them to take a seat.
As they did, a waiter unscrewed the bottle and poured three chilled glasses. The newly formed trio clinked them together and sipped in unison.
“What do you do?” the other girl, a dye-job redhead, inquired.
“Real estate,” he answered.
Colin noticed the subtle shift in their attitude. Both of them slid a bit further away from him on the leather seat. A few years ago, when he had first begun in the business, that answer had earned appreciative looks from prospective dates. They knew that the money flowed easily in the profession and that the future was a rosy glow of ever-increasing property values and high commissions. Once the bubble popped, though, these new responses became the norm, much more guarded than Colin could ever remember.
“I’m one of the few that still earn a living,” he assured them. He raised the glass of pricey vodka again, “A good one.”
“How’s that?” the blonde, whose name he learned was Brie, asked with a skeptically arched eyebrow.
Colin started to explain but the girls lost interest only a few sentences in.
By the time the Belvedere was half gone, Brie and her friend had departed for more deep-pocketed prey and Colin was consoling himself by making sure he got his money’s worth out of the bottle. So what if he went home alone tonight? One thing his boss had taught him was that a failure today does not necessarily equal one tomorrow.
As he placed the key in the lock of his apartment door, he was focused on the possibility of lighting up one of the Cohiba cigars he had bought for himself the previous week. Maybe he would call one of the regular girls that would visit him for the right price. He had enjoyed the curly-haired blonde last time and tried to recall her name as his pulse quickened.
If it had not been for that mental distraction, and the effect of the vodka still pumping through his blood, he may have noticed that the door was not locked at all, even though he had been sure to click its tumblers before leaving.
When Colin entered, he crossed into the living room where a single lamp was shining on his leather and chrome side chair. In it sat the intruder. Fair hair, closely cropped, a friendly and open face. There was a gun casually resting on his right knee that was pointed at Colin’s chest.
“Welcome home,” the man said.
Colin’s veins shot through with ice, immediately shattering the buzz he had walked home with. “What do you want?” he stuttered. “I’ve got some cash in that drawer over there. Other than that, just electronics. Take it all.”
The man ignored him, standing up with the gun still firmly trained. “Sit down,” he ordered Colin, motioning at the chair he had just vacated.
Colin hesitated.
“Sit down before I shatter your kneecaps and you will not have a choice.” The command was stated in such a calm manner that Colin would almost mistake it for friendly if not for the fact that he did not believe for a second that the man was bluffing.
Once in the chair, the robber (
if he is that
, thought Colin) removed a slim coil of silver wire from the back pocket of his black pants. He swiftly bound Colin’s hands and legs to the chair. Straightening, he began a series of questions that only served to further confuse Colin as to his presence.
“You work for Server Solutions, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Here is what I need,” the man began.
Colin listened with rapt attention, eager to help. He occasionally could close a sale with what he liked to call his “Ernie” face, short for “earnest.” Gently creasing his brows and nodding, he made it appear as if he truly cared about what the client was saying. He made sure to use the illusion now. Unfortunately, once the man described what he sought, his heart sank.
“I don’t have it,” Colin told him.
“You are sure about that?”
“Absolutely. I wish I could help you, believe me. But I can’t.”
That was when the man sighed and ran a hand through his short hair in frustration.
“But I know who
can
help you,” Colin added. “My boss, Matt Weatherly.”
Upon hearing the name, his captor nodded slowly. It was then that he had walked to Colin’s kitchen to get himself a drink. Now, standing before him again, the man studied Colin carefully. The hands flexed at his side.
“I am going to need to torture you to make sure you are telling the truth,” he said with unnerving politeness.
“Wh-what? What do you mean? I am telling the truth. I just said-” Colin howled in agony as the man swiftly moved forward and yanked his forefinger up. A sickening crack echoed through the gleaming apartment.
“Who has it?” the man asked.
Colin uttered Matt’s name again, fumbling with the syllables through tears.
Another bolt of pain as the next finger was broken.
“Who has it?” the captor repeated.