Search and Destroy (16 page)

Andrea turned the portable flash drive over and over in her hand. Then a sudden thought sent her almost running back to the computer. She typed “Jeremy Seeber” into Google. She ignored the first five results for an artist who specialised in driftwood animal sculptures. The sixth result made bile rise in her throat.

British journalist in double sex suicide shock!
The link was to a British tabloid website, the story told in sensationalist style. Jeremy Seeber and his wife of eight years had been found dead at their Kensington home. Their cleaner had discovered the bodies in the main bedroom. The police had been summoned but had ruled out foul play. A preliminary pathologist’s report stated that both Seebers had died as the result of autoerotic asphyxiation.

Andrea skimmed the rest of the article, but there was no other real information, just the predictable lurid description of what the practice involved: a ligature around the neck; restricted blood flow to the brain; feelings of euphoria.

“They killed Jeremy and Tess.”

Danny took her arm. “Come on. We need to watch that video.”

Tansen Tibrikot sat bound to a kitchen chair, his hands tied behind his back with electrical cord. He tilted his head in an attempt to divert a stream of blood that trickled into his eye. Two of his four captors were in his living room. One of them had turned on the television, was watching the rolling news station he and Danny had watched together a few short hours earlier. The leader, a man they addressed as “Lincoln”, stood in front of Tansen, arms crossed.

“Linc,” said the man watching the television.

Lincoln turned. “What is it, Washington?”

“Check it out.”

Tansen craned his head. It was familiar footage of the burned-out Winnebago, bodies under sheets. Then another shot of a different stretch of road. And two more bodies. So all four of the dead operatives had been found. How long before the Gunn brothers were linked to the carnage? He twisted against the cord that cut into his wrists.

“Four bodies, plus a cop, all on the 375. That tallies with past data points for the last team’s satellite phone. They definitely never made it this far.”

Lincoln cocked his head. “But the sat-phone did. That confirms that the target must have it. Probably doesn’t realise it’s active even when powered off. Good to know. But I don’t want to be playing catch-up, tracking them. We need to know their plans. Where they’re going.”

Beside Lincoln, the man called “Bush” was rubbing his knuckles. He turned to Lincoln, who gave him a nod. He rolled his fingers before snapping another punch into Tansen’s face.

“Tansen, I want the names of the men helping Andrea Chambers. I want to know where they are headed. I want to know whether they have passed on the intel to a third party.” Lincoln’s voice held no animosity. Bush pulled his arm back. Another punch. He drew a black-bladed knife from his belt. “Let me start peeling this Chink motherfucker and he’ll be talkin’ soon enough.”

Lincoln held up a finger. “We’ll get to that. I’ll ask again, one last time, who are the men with Chambers?”

Tansen allowed his head to sag, then answered after careful consideration. “They’re called John Wayne and Richard Widmark. I hear they’re hoping to cause a spot of trouble at some place called the Alamo.” Tansen gave Bush the widest grin he could muster. Bush stepped in close and delivered three brain-numbing slaps to Tansen’s left ear. The open-handed blows were savage and hurt more than the punches.

Tansen closed his eyes involuntarily as Bush held the tip of his knife a quarter-inch away from his right orbit. Then he reopened both eyes and stared directly at Bush.

Bush grinned. “Now that’s more like it. I think Charlie Chan here wants to cause me harm.”

The other men in the room laughed. All except Lincoln, who studied the prisoner intently.

Bush spoke again. “Look Kwai Chang, I really don’t care how long this takes. I want you to play the tough guy. Let’s see how much of a samurai you are when I cut off your balls and put them on that God-awful table over there.”

Tansen silently recited a prayer to the Hindu Lord Ganesh. Then he raised his head. “Look you ignorant shit. I’m not Chinese. I’m not Japanese. I’m Nepalese. Do you even know where that is? NEPAL! Home to eight of the world’s tallest mountains.” He paused to shake blood from his face. “I’ll tell you nothing about the men you are seeking, only that they are far better men than the ones who pursue them.”

Bush slapped him hard again, then bent down so their faces were level. “I don’t give a shit if you’re from Middle Earth. You will talk. I promise you that.”

Tansen shifted his gaze to the picture of Raj. She smiled back at him. He allowed himself a brief genuine smile, then addressed Lincoln, ignoring Bush entirely. “No. I will be dying today, but I will not be talking.”

“You Gurkhas are stubborn little bastards aren’t you?” Lincoln said matter-of-factly. He replaced his Calico in its hip sling, then nodded at Bush.

* * *

Bush rolled his neck. He was going to enjoy this. Then he stabbed down savagely into the muscle of Tansen’s right leg. The resulting scream was more a roar of animal rage than pain.

Washington levelled his weapon. “If this fucker starts to turn green I’m outta here.”

“I’ll bet this against the Hulk any day.” Roosevelt shouldered his Saiga assault shotgun.

Bush looked down at the two inches of blade that protruded from his prisoner’s lower thigh. He looked theatrically around the room, then strode over to a side table and picked up a bronze statuette of a Native American on horseback. He weighed it in his hands, then nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Do you have ‘knock-knock’ jokes in the high and mighty kingdom of Nepal?”

Tansen said nothing.

“Knock knock!” Bush brought the statuette down in two sharp taps on the hilt of the knife. The blade sunk in deeper. Tansen ground his teeth but stayed silent.

Roosevelt joined in. “Who’s there?”

“Bette.”

“Bette who?”

“Bet this fucker is talking within two minutes.” The two men laughed.

Bush was enjoying the interrogation. It had been years since he’d been let off the leash. Few assignments required the questioning of subjects and if they did, the government had their own specialists for the job. He knew from experience that a tortured man would say anything in order to survive, if only for a few extra minutes. The information was usually useless. But getting it was fun. Another two taps drove the knife in to the hilt. “Knock knock.”

This time Washington answered. “Who’s there?”

“Dan.”

“Dan who?”

“Dancin’s out! I can’t feel my legs!” Bush grabbed the handle of the combat knife and ripped it free. Another defiant roar.

Lincoln spoke again, his voice calm. “Who are the men with Chambers? How are they linked to the package?”

Tansen gave him a look that was half fury, half contempt. “By Ganesh, remover of obstacles, and Kali, goddess of time and death, I will see you all dead—in this life or the next!”

Bush smirked. He’d heard it all before. Another few minutes and the noodle-eater would be singing. He allowed a couple of drops of blood to fall from the tip of the Teflon-coated blade. He swung the knife like a pendulum in front of Tansen’s face, making soft tick-tock sounds with his tongue. “Ready for some more? Good.”

Lincoln’s voice was as slow as melting ice. “The names of the men?”

Bush counted to three, then stabbed the blade deep into Tansen’s right thigh muscle, careful to avoid the femoral artery. He didn’t want him bleeding out.

“Now you’re ready for some more.” He raised the statuette. “Knock knock.”

Lincoln’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He answered after glancing at the display, raising a hand to Bush to wait. “Kennedy? Go ahead.” A brief pause. “Negative. Let him come.” He ended the call. “We’ve got a police cruiser heading our way. ETA three minutes.” He turned to Tansen. “Anything you’d like to share?”

Tansen swallowed. “It’ll be Jimmy Walsh, the sheriff. It won’t be police business. He comes by regular.” For the first time, Tansen’s voice broke. “Don’t you hurt him.”

Lincoln’s expression didn’t change. He turned to Roosevelt and motioned towards the bathroom. “Take him in there and keep him quiet.”

Roosevelt moved behind the chair, tipped it onto its rear legs and dragged Tansen away.

“Let’s have some music,” said Lincoln.

Bush nodded and picked up the television remote. He found a music channel playing James Brown’s “Living in America” and cranked up the volume.

“Open the door an inch or two.”

Bush took up a position to the left of the door. He peered through the gap, and saw a man in a sheriff’s uniform climb out of the cruiser and make his way towards the entrance. He braced.

“Afternoon buddy, it’s Jimm—”

The greeting was cut mid-sentence as Bush pressed the barrel of his Kel-Tec PMR-30 to the man’s temple, then pulled the sheriff’s service weapon from its holster.

“Did you call in your location?” Bush asked.

The sheriff shook his head.

“Good.” Bush reversed his PMR-30 and slammed the stock of the gun into the nape of the man’s neck. Walsh went down onto all fours with a grunt. Another blow sent him fully to the ground.

“Hard-headed old goat, aintcha,” said Bush as Walsh tried to climb his way back up the furniture. “Stay down.” Another hit laid the man flat.

“Cuff him and tie his feet.” Lincoln nodded to the bathroom. “And bring
him
back out. We need to finish this quick.”

They stopped off at a shopping mall on the outskirts of Vegas. Clay purchased a basic laptop from a Walmart, and another half-hour drive south found them at the Aces High Motel. Danny affected a Texan accent as he paid for the room in cash.

“Do you have a credit card?” asked the young man behind the check-in desk.

“I’d rather not. I’m here with my—” Danny made a show of thinking about his next word “—secretary. My wife goes through my statements. You know how it is.”

The clerk, whose T-shirt declared
Chet Rocks!
, nodded as if he indeed knew how it was.

Danny straightened an imaginary tie, giving Chet a conspiring wink. “We’re stopping off to go through some sales figures.”

Chet smiled knowingly, and handed Danny a key. “Enjoy your sales figures.”

Danny made double finger pistols. “You know I will.”

Danny left the reception building and made his way back outside, to where the motel rooms were housed in bungalows around a central parking lot. He walked to the door of room 25, turned the key in the lock, and with a hand on the butt of his pistol, entered.

The room proved to be a clone of every other motel he’d ever seen. A queen-sized bed and a small bedside cabinet with a telephone perched on top. A television with a finger-smudged screen faced the bed, and a small circular table with two chairs sat in the corner furthest from the door. The room smelled of old food, stale smoke and pine disinfectant. The bathroom was a simple three-piece in white porcelain. A nest of old hair sat in the shower trap.

“Clear.”

Clay shouldered past him to get to the bathroom, dumping the duffle bag of looted weaponry on the bed. “Gotta go.”

Danny and Andrea shared a look of brief amusement. “Doesn’t do to get in the way of a charging Texan,” said Danny.

Andrea moved to the table. She unpacked the laptop, letting the plastic packaging fall to the floor. She turned the main unit upside down, snapped the oddly shaped battery into the rear and after turning it back to its proper position, opened the screen. She handed Danny the power cord without looking at him.

Danny smiled. He remembered learning to field strip his rifle in his days with the Green Jackets. First with eyes open, trying each time to perform the actions faster without error. Then with eyes closed, feeling the components of the weapon with dexterity and purpose. Andrea had assembled the laptop with the same determination. He unwrapped the power cord from its twist tie and poly bag and handed it back to her.

She plugged the cord in the wall and then into the laptop. “It’ll take a little while for the battery to take enough charge so we can power up.”

Clay emerged from the bathroom. He winked at his brother. “Well, that’s lightened the load a bit.”

“Too much information,” said Andrea under her breath.

“I’ll go down the street and pick up some food and drinks.” Danny slipped his pistol into his waistband and moved to the door.

“See if they’ve got any Cheetos,” said Clay.

Andrea glanced up from the USB flash drive she was inspecting. “Toothbrush and paste?”

Danny made his way back to the grocery store he’d spotted on the way to the motel. As he picked up various items from the aisles, his attention was drawn to the wall-mounted television behind the cashier’s desk. It was set to mute but the news report images were unmistakable.

The screen was filled with Clay’s burned out RV. CSIs in dark jackets with the famous three letters blocked in bright yellow moved amidst the carnage. The ground was covered with yellow evidence markers. Officer Ryback’s picture sat in the top left of the screen as a suited detective gave his professional “no comment at this time” routine. Another scene, more CSIs, two more sheet-covered bodies. The police had connected two of the crime scenes, found all four hitmen. There were no shots of the rental Jeep that Andrea had described, so it appeared that her brother and his partner hadn’t been found yet. That was good—the police wouldn’t be looking for her. A new image flashed up along with a BREAKING NEWS banner and Danny stopped in his tracks. His brother’s driver’s licence photograph, then a shot of Clay in his Rangers uniform.

Danny paid for the supplies. The cashier was an elderly Asian woman dressed in an old-fashioned floral jumpsuit. He nodded at the television. “Helluva thing. I don’t know what this country is coming to.”

The old woman gave him a smile and nodded. Danny pointed to the screen. “You ever seen anything like it?”

The woman gave him a blank stare. “
Rambo 3
?”

Danny didn’t know what else to say.