Let Slip the Dogs of War: A Bard's Bed & Breakfast Mystery #1 (10 page)

Oh, you’re probably thinking that I’ve got
too much confidence in going up against men chasing me in a black
SUV. The truth is I was absolutely terrified that they might catch
me. All I could think of was the story of Uncle Edward and
Hortense. I did not want to disappear for two years, any more than
I wished to be tied to railroad tracks. And I was damned if I was
going to put myself in the position of being a pawn. As much as I
trusted Ben with my life, I knew the truth. When it comes to
national security, the CIA tends to focus on the most advantageous
outcome. I mattered about as much as a mere barnicle on that Moby
Dick behemoth -- the only way I would survive this wild ride is if
I could hold on tight while the great whale swam the mighty ocean
blue, or in this particular case, Lake Champlain.

Chapter Ten --

Before I decided on a place to pull over on
the bumpy trail, I made a mental checklist of the things to grab
the second the wheels rolled to a stop. My cell phone and
pocketbook were at the ready. In the glove compartment, I had a map
of local hiking trails, and I flipped open the door and grabbed it.
That would come in handy because I didn’t want to use the phone, in
case those bastards were locating my GPS. At the very least, the
map would help me stay attenuated to my location. The last thing I
wanted to do was pull a Hansel and Gretel. I gazed down at the cup
holder, where Ben had left his half-empty bottle of spring water.
For all the arguments we had had about buying water in plastic
bottles when we had perfectly good water coming out of the sink
faucet, I was grateful that at this moment I could throw it in my
bag. I also spied a granola bar, and again thanked heaven for my
husband’s habit of grabbing a couple whenever we got into the car.
Last, but not least, I grabbed the little Tinker Swiss Army knife
with the bottle opener, screwdriver, and blades Ben had tucked into
my stocking two Christmases ago. As a weapon, it wasn’t all that
promising, but you never know when you’re going to need to pop a
top. Moving through the woods, I studied the terrain. What I needed
was the thickest cover by the side of the road. I could park the
Subaru in the middle of the dirt trail, effectively preventing them
from driving any further. But I would have to get out of sight as
quickly as possible, and that meant getting away from established
trails and into the brush. As I drove past a little stretch of
stream, I noticed the break in the trees. I could pull the car
forward and, instead of running ahead, retrace my route back to
civilization. My pursuers would probably assume I was heading
deeper into the woods. For that reason, I grabbed my sunglasses,
hoping to convince them they were right.

When I was certain they had not yet figured
out I had left the winding highway, that I still had some time
before they caught up with me, I found the narrowest part of the
trail, parked the car, and made my escape. Tossing the sunglasses
ahead of the wagon, I watched them land about fifteen feet from the
car. Then I ran as fast as I could back down the dirt road,
splaying pebbles as I scrambled to get to that little break in the
foliage by the stream. It couldn’t have been much more than about a
hundred yards. No sooner had I splashed across to a grove of
ancient pine trees and hit the ground when I heard the sound of
tires rumbling along. I squeezed myself behind the largest trunk I
could find and held my breath.

As soon as they pulled up behind the silver
wagon, the two men were out of their SUV and hot on my false trail.
I watched as one picked up the pair of sunglasses and the other
encouraged him forward. They clearly expected me to simply run on
the road. Perhaps they assumed I had run out of fuel or had
panicked. That was fine with me. It would give me the time I needed
to escape. And I would have used it to flee, except a very Ben-like
thought occurred to me. Why couldn’t I remove their tire valve
caps, and give myself a little more time? Better still, I should
puncture their tires, to keep them there. Creeping back down the
road, my heart lodged in my throat and wailing away like Bob
Marley’s Rastafarian ghost, surely loud enough to reverberate
though the forest, I crawled on my way to the SUV. With great
deliberation, I shoved the screwdriver into the side wall of the
driver’s side rear tire as hard as I could. The little sizzling
sound of escaping air gave me great satisfaction, so I moved around
the back of the beast to do the same to the other rear tire. I
considered doing the front two, but decided that was probably not
the wisest course of action, since it would take me longer and
those two goons might not be as dumb as I hoped. I scrambled back
to my nest in the pines to regroup. As I hurried, I felt the little
knife fall from my grip, bouncing down into the shrubbery. Exposed
and vulnerable, I decided not to take any time to search for it,
but I made a mental note of the approximate area, and if there was
time and opportunity, I would return. In the meantime, I wanted to
study my map and figure out how far off the blue trail I was. No
sooner had I ducked down when the bad boys returned, frustration
clearly written all over their faces. I could see them studying the
terrain, looking for the slightest movement from me. Judging from
the looks of things, it was time for them to split up and go their
separate ways. The taller of the two was headed in my direction,
and Mr. Cranky Pants did not look like a happy camper. His partner,
Mr. Boxers in a Bunch, was headed up road.

A terrible thought occurred to me. I had been
on the run now for the better part of twenty minutes, and in all
that time, my cell phone had not chirped. Not only did Ben not know
I was being chased by bad guys, the bastard didn’t even know I was
no longer waiting patiently on the side of the road. Boy, was he
going to hear about this the next time I got a hold of his sorry
ass. But in the meantime, I decided to silence my ringtone. The
last thing I wanted to hear right now was a chorus of “Crazy Little
Thing Called Love”.

No sooner had I done that than my phone
vibrated, startling me into an upright position as I scrambled to
answer it. The number was unfamiliar to me, making me hesitant to
pick up. What if it was the bad guys, trying to track me? Mr.
Cranky Pants was now standing about thirty feet from me, watching
the tiny screen of his phone. Maybe he thought he would hear my
cell phone in the woods. Or I would be dumb enough to think it was
Ben calling. I let it go to voicemail. When I didn’t answer, he
became even more aggravated. Seconds later, he was dialing again,
and again my cell phone vibrated. He began walking in my direction
and I involuntarily gasped. Luckily for me, he was frustrated and
his histrionics were loud enough to cover my panic.

“Damn!” He dialed again, talking quickly to
his partner, Mr. Boxers in a Bunch. “Call her cell phone and then
listen for it. I tried it here and got nothing.”

Again my cell phone shook in my hand. Two
minutes later, I heard a chirping sound. Mr. Cranky Pants put his
phone to his ear, listening. He gave a disgusted groan before
dialing yet again. At this rate, his cell phone would run out of
battery power quickly. In this area, reception was poor, and
without an antenna booster, that meant battery drain.

“Pick up, you silly wanker!” he snorted into
the phone. A moment later, he went on full alert, drawing himself
up to his full height, taking a deep breath, and huffing like the
Big, Bad Wolf.

“Jones, I’ve got your wife. You want her
back?” I was stunned, listening to the biggest liar on this side of
Lake Champlain. “Let’s make a deal. No, you can’t talk to her, not
without an agreement.”

My fingers fumbled as I texted a message to
Ben. “Not captured.” I hit the “send” button, waited to see that it
went through, and then shut off my phone completely, not wanting to
waste my battery. It was only a couple of words, but it was enough
to disrupt the conversation. That’s the beauty of call waiting. I
could see that Ben had gone silent on Mr. Cranky Pants and that
frazzled the guy. Just as suddenly, Ben was back on the line to the
tall man, demanding proof of life before he would agree to
anything.

“I’ll have to call you back. Don’t go far
from your phone, because if we don’t make this deal in the next
hour, Jones, I’m going to personally kill the bitch in the most
painful way possible and it will all be your fault.”

Even as he said that, I found myself
believing him. This was a man who seemed like he relished torture
as a tool to achieve his ends. His feud was with Ben, and he would
do whatever he had to do to win. That made me collateral damage,
and no amount of charm on my part would deter the killer. Mr.
Cranky Pants hung up the phone and dialed again. This time, the
phone was answered almost immediately.

“No, no. I haven’t found her yet. Listen,
I’ve got a plan. I told Jones we have his wife and that if he wants
to do an exchange, it has to happen in the next hour. Now he wants
proof of life. I am going to convince him that we’ve got her, but
it will take some doing.”

While the two of them were talking, I checked
the hiking map, turned on my phone, and sent Ben my best guess of
the coordinates, before turning the phone off again. If nothing
else, Ben now would know where to find me.

A loud thump behind me sent my pulse racing.
Something was coming through the woods, straight in my direction. I
blinked a couple of times, thinking that I must be mistaken. It
surely wasn’t possible. And yet, there it was -- a black bear,
small as black bears go, but definitely capable of winning a
smackdown with me. Normally when I came across a bear in the woods,
I made a big point of putting on a show. I made a lot of noise,
waved my arms, talked loudly, all while carefully walking
backwards. If I did that now, I would give myself away. If I
didn’t, I ran the risk of being mauled by a three-hundred pound
ball of fur with very real teeth and serious claws. The only thing
that could make this situation worse was if this was a mother and
she had a couple of cubs with her.

“Anas, look!” said Mr. Boxers in a Bunch,
returning to the SUV. “Little bears!”

“Where?” Anasi now had his handgun out and he
was searching the horizon.

“What are you going to do?”

“Get out of my way, Nizar!”

“Are you going to shoot the bears? That is
unnecessary, Anas.”

“Do not tell me what is or is not necessary,”
replied Mr. Cranky Pants, waving the gun in Nizar’s direction. “Or
I’ll kill you, too!”

Two shots rang out in succession, and they
echoed through the stillness of the woods.

“Take these and dip them in the bear’s
blood!” Anas thrust my sunglasses into his partner’s reluctant
arms.

“What are you going to do with these?” Mr.
Boxers in a Bunch was clearly a worrier.

“Just shut up and do it!”

Five minutes later, as I continued clinging
to the largest pine tree in the bunch, Anas snapped a photo of my
bloodied glasses and sent it to Ben.

“That should work. Now when we call him, he
will be ready to cooperate,” Anas insisted.

“You think this will work, even though she is
still out there somewhere?”

“It will do for now. We still have to find
her. Philippe wants Jones’ wife dead.”

“Did he say why?”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s part of the
assignment.”

“I say screw the assignment. We should get
the hell out before Philippe turns on us.”

“Oh, you do, do you?” There was a dangerous
tone in Anas’s voice, but Nizar didn’t seem to notice it. He kept
up his end of the conversation.

“I do. What’s the point? He’s probably
working for the French anyway.”

“Actually, Nizar, you are wrong.” Anas took
out his gun again and shot his partner, point blank. “He is working
for me.”

Nizar’s knees folded up and he crumbled to
the ground, his face a death mask of shock and dismay. Anas shook
his head.

“You should have just shut up, but no. You
had to keep talking. That’s what you get, Nizar, for running at the
mouth.” He reached into Nizar’s pocket and removed his wallet, cell
phone, and weapon, transferring them to his own. Then he dragged
his partner into the thick brush, doing his best to avoid the blood
now seeping from Nizar’s head. As soon as he was done, he pulled
out his cell phone again. I assumed he was calling Ben again, but
that proved to be wrong.

“Afarin, it’s me. I ran into a little trouble
up here.”

Did I hear him right? Was he really calling
the little Persian tart who had ruined my bookstore? This was all
about Marbury books?

“No, it failed. Fatima’s body was found
before it burned. Ben ended up screwing Philippe over, so he
actually helped us. We chased the wife into the woods. It’s just a
matter of locating her. We’ll use her as leverage, to get Jones
onboard. Because.” I couldn’t hear the conversation on the other
end, but it didn’t sound like Afarin was in agreement. “If you want
to use Jones for the Damascus penetration, I have to eliminate her.
As long as she is alive, he will be focused on saving her. Once she
is dead, he will be easier to manipulate, especially when it looks
like the CIA hired Grapon to burn him.”

Anas listened for a while, occasionally
adding a “yes” here and a “no” there. Finally, Afarin gave him a
chance to respond.

“Only if your guy at the FBI can deliver.
Jones has to believe the CIA tried to force him out of retirement
by killing his wife. He’ll deliver the package to Syria, especially
if he believes it will give him a chance to screw over the guy that
is responsible. That will eliminate the CIA station chief and
secure Aleppo for us. No, that’s what your father planned and we
will stick to it. We cannot change it without his authority. No,I
will not be swayed. It is up to the Admiral to contact me with his
decision. I do not answer to a woman!” I could tell Anas thought
little of Afarin’s skills as a strategic planner of intelligence
operations. She, on the other hand, continued arguing across the
miles. Anas still wasn’t buying it.