Mortal Dilemma Page 29

  “More,” I said.

  “No. Now I want information.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Your name.”

  “You already know that.”

  He was quick. In my addled state, I didn’t see it coming. He reached out and struck me across the face with the back of his hand. I tasted blood. He hit me again, this time with the back of the other hand and across the other side of my face.

  “Give me your name,” he said, his voice calm.

  “Matt Royal.”

  “You are a friend of Jock Algren?”

  “Yes.”

  “And of the woman called J. D. Duncan?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where are they?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He hit me again, this time with his closed fist to the right side of my face. The pain merged with the headache, and I tasted more blood. The man bent down, his face close to mine. “Don’t lie to me,” he said, his voice low and raspy. I used the blood in my mouth and what saliva I could generate and spit onto his face mask. I had tried for his eyes, the only part of his face that was exposed. I missed, but he apparently got the message.

  He paused, drew back quickly, and hit me again in the middle of my face. I saw the punch coming, but could do nothing to deflect it. I felt the cartilage in my nose give way and felt blood running down my upper lip. The pain caused my eyes to tear. I blinked them away, tried to gather enough blood and saliva to spit again. It didn’t work. My mouth was dry.

  The man turned and walked out of the room. He returned a few minutes later with another man, also masked and carrying what appeared to be an AK-47 rifle. The second man stood behind me, and I could feel the rifle’s muzzle against the back of my head. I thought I was about to die, and I was helpless to do anything about it. I focused on a vision of J.D. on the beach at Egmont Key. She was wearing a red bikini and looking at me with a smile that conveyed all kind of wonderful emotions, all directed at me. That was the moment when I knew without question that she loved me, the moment when my life changed forever. It was my favorite memory of her, and I wanted to leave this life with that snapshot imprinted on my brain.

  Maybe two seconds had elapsed when I realized that the first man was standing in front of me with a cell phone held up and pointed directly at me. He was about to take a picture. I barely had time to smile before the flash went off.

  The man with the phone stepped over to me and hit me in the stomach, a sharp, short blow that doubled me over. He stepped back and said something to the man with the rifle. I felt him grab a handful of my hair and snap my head back. The photo flash lit up the room.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 7

  J.D. WAS STANDING in Matt’s front yard as the various law enforcement people rolled in. First came Chief Bill Lester, then Officer Steve Carey, followed by a phalanx of forensic investigators. Her phone rang. She looked at the caller ID, tapped the answer button, relief flooding through her. “Matt, where are you?”

  “You’ve got a text,” a strange voice said in accented English. The phone went dead.

  J.D. touched the icon for text messages. One had come in from Matt seconds before the call. She opened it and saw a picture of Matt restrained in a chair, a man wearing a ski mask standing behind him, his hand holding a clump of Matt’s hair, pulling his head back at an awkward angle. He held a rifle butt under his other arm, the muzzle pointed at Matt’s head. She saw blood dripping from Matt’s nose and a look of pain and surprise on his face. She felt sick, swallowed hard, trying to keep the bile down. It was no good. She bent forward and vomited.

  Steve Carey was coming out the front door and rushed over to J.D. “You okay?” he asked. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. “It’s clean,” he said.

  J.D. wiped her mouth with the handkerchief. “Thanks, Steve. I’ll wash it and get it back to you.”

  “Don’t worry about the handkerchief. Are you sick?”

  She handed him her phone. “Take a look.”

  Steve studied the picture for a moment. “Oh, shit. This is bad. I’m so sorry, J.D. Reuben is in the house. Can I give this to him? Maybe he can get something out of your phone that’ll give us a lead on where the bastards are.”

  “Give me a minute. I’m going to need your phone while Reuben’s looking at mine. Okay?”

  “Not a problem.” Steve pulled his phone from the holster on his equipment belt and handed it to her.

  J.D. manipulated her phone, forwarded the picture to Jock’s and Dave Kendall’s cell phones along with a message to call her at Steve’s number. She handed her phone to Carey and he disappeared into the house.

  J.D. sat on the front step of the house, trying to focus, trying to think like a cop, not a woman who’d just seen her lover tied up in a room located God knows where. Steve returned, adjusted his equipment belt, and sat down beside her. He put his arm around her, tentatively, waiting for her to react. She surprised him by laying her head on his shoulder. He tightened his hold on her.

  “J.D.,” he said, “we’re going to find Matt and we’re going to bring him home. We need to talk, to get ahead of this thing. I need to know everything you know. You know how this goes. I need to know even the tiniest little bit of what you know, even if it seems irrelevant to you.”

  “Steve, this is really complicated. It has national security implications, and I’m not sure what I can tell you. I’ll get a call in the next couple of minutes and I’ll find out what I can say and what I can’t.”

  “Jock,” Steve said.

  J.D. nodded. Steve’s phone rang. She answered. “What the hell’s going on?” Jock asked.

  “It’s bad, Jock. I think Youssef has Matt.”

  “I can see that. When did they take him?”

  “We don’t know. I came over to his house about twenty minutes ago and he was gone. I’ll tell you more about it later, but I was pretty sure he hadn’t left on his own accord. About five minutes ago I got a call from a man with an accent telling me to check my texts. I found the picture and sent it to you and Dave.”

  “Are you alone?”

  “No. The police are here. I called them when I realized Matt was missing. Steve Carey is here with me, and I don’t know how much I can tell him.”

  “Sit tight. I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’ll get Dave to send a plane for me.” Jock’s voice sounded businesslike, assured, focused. Like the old Jock.

  “Are you okay?” J.D. asked.

  “I don’t know. We’ll see. I’ve got to call Dave.” He cut the connection.

  Steve’s phone rang immediately. J.D. clicked the answer button. It was Dave Kendall.

  “I got the picture, J.D. It’s got to be Youssef and his bunch. I’ll call Jock as soon as we hang up. One of our jets was on its way to Miami. I just diverted it to the Naval Air Station on Boca Chica. It’ll be landing in about twenty minutes. It’ll take Jock to Sarasota. Can you have a patrol car pick him up there?”

  “Yes. Thanks, Dave. I’ve got another little problem here. I need to tell my people all I know about this, but I don’t know how much I can tell them.”

  “J.D., Matt’s life is more important than any secrets we have on this. You tell them anything they need to know. Jock should be there within an hour or so.”

  “Thanks, Dave. Have your plane go to Dolphin Aviation at the airport. I’ll have the car meet them there.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 7

  JOCK WAS RUMBLING around in Paul Galis’ kitchen. He had awoken when he heard Paul leaving for work. There was a bag of pastries on the counter and the coffee maker was set up so that all Jock had to do was push a button to start the brewing process. He found a plate in the cabinet above the sink, placed a cinnamon bun on it and stuck it in the microwave. His cell phone dinged, the sign of an incoming text.

  He looked at the message and saw that it was from J.D. A photograph was attached. He opened the
picture and stared at it for a moment as the full realization of what he was seeing took hold. Matt was tied to a chair, battered and bloody, and a man in a ski mask held an AK-47 rifle pointed at Matt’s head. It was a picture Jock had seen many times before. Some poor hostage taken by the sadists who believed the world should return to the seventh century, was about to be executed, or murdered, to be more exact.

  But they wouldn’t have sent a picture of Matt alive unless they wanted something. That gave Jock a glimmer of hope. He had to find out more and get to Longboat Key. Was he ready to take on the bastards? He didn’t know. He thought he was done with that part of his life, but now the only person in the whole world that had stood with him for most of his life was in danger. Not because of anything Matt had done, but because of what he himself had done. He couldn’t let this stand. He should have killed Youssef when he had the chance. His good intentions had bad consequences. He knew that possibility when he didn’t kill Youssef, but it never occurred to him that his act of charity would put his only family in jeopardy.

  He hadn’t had a drink of alcohol since Friday. He was a little sluggish from sitting around doing nothing, but he was sober. The alcohol was out of his system. His mind was clear of the cobwebs that had infested it since he’d found the al Bashar brothers in Aleppo. His arm had healed from the grazing gunshot wound. It was a little stiff, but some vigorous exercise would limber it up enough that he wouldn’t be impaired. He dialed the number J.D. had given him.

  * * *

  After talking to J.D., Jock called Galis. “Paul, we’ve got trouble in Longboat Key. I need to get there as soon as possible. I’ll call and charter a plane, but I need to get to the airport now. Can you get a car out here to pick me up?”

  “I stopped for breakfast, Jock. I can be at my house in five minutes.”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  Jock called the charter service he’d used on Friday to get to Key West from Miami. They only had one plane in Key West and that was a small Cessna 172. It’d take a couple of hours to get to Sarasota. Jock thought it was the best he could do on short notice and told them to hold it for him. He’d be at the airport in about thirty minutes.

  He hung up and was putting a couple of pistols in his carryall when his phone rang. His boss. “Jock,” Kendall said, “I just talked to J.D. I’ve got a jet on its way to you. It’s on final approach to the Naval Air Station at Boca Chica. How far are you from there?”

  “About fifteen minutes, I think. I’ve got transportation on the way.”

  “We’ll have you in Sarasota in about thirty minutes after takeoff. A police car will be waiting for you at the airport. Are you in a condition to handle all this?”

  “I’m pretty good, Dave. No booze since Friday, and I know what I have to do. Even if I don’t like it. I’ll handle this.”

  “This isn’t a suicide mission, you know.”

  “I know. But if it comes to that, better me dead than Matt.”

  “Jock?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Take care of yourself.” The line went dead.

  * * *

  Jock got into Paul’s car and said, “Let’s go to Boca Chica. Lights and siren. I’ve got an agency plane waiting for me.” He told Paul what he’d learned from J.D. and Dave.

  “Are you okay to take this on, Jock?”

  “I’m fine, Paul. Everybody keeps asking me that. Understandable, I guess, but I’m sober and in reasonably good shape. I’ll be okay. I chartered a plane before I knew the agency jet was coming for me. Will you call and cancel it?”

  The gate guard at the Naval Air Station waved them through, and Paul drove toward the ramp where a Gulfstream 150 idled, its stairway deployed. Paul pulled right up to the plane and stopped. Jock shook his hand and thanked him for his hospitality. He jumped out of the car, jogged to the jet, and climbed the stairs. The copilot introduced himself, raised the gangway, and locked the door. The jet started to move.

  “We’re cleared for immediate takeoff and ascent to twenty-one thousand feet,” the copilot said. “We should be in Sarasota in less than half an hour. Buckle up. This baby climbs like a fighter.”

  * * *

  As the jet approached Sarasota, the copilot came back to the passenger section and told Jock that a Manatee County sheriff’s office helicopter would meet them and take him to Longboat Key. A detective named Duncan would meet him there.

  The helicopter flight was a short hop across the bay. When it landed at Bayfront Park, J.D. was standing beside a marked Longboat Key police car, its blue lights flashing. He got out of the helicopter, waved a thank you to the pilot, and jogged over to J.D. He grabbed her in a bear hug and whispered, “We’ll get him back.”

  She stepped back and looked closely at him. “You’re really back, aren’t you, Jock?”

  “Partway, at least. Enough to help you bring Matt home. Tell me what you know.”

  J.D. motioned him into the car and they headed for Matt’s house. “I don’t know any more than I did an hour ago.” She told him what she’d found at Matt’s house. “It’s been about an hour since I got the picture I forwarded to you. We haven’t heard anything else, but our tech people have been trying to get some information out of the telephone company to help us find where the call came from.”

  “Any luck?”

  “A bureaucratic clusterfuck,” J.D. said.

  Jock chuckled. “My, my. I’ve never heard you use that kind of language before.”

  She smiled. “Sorry. Those are Matt’s words and they seemed to fit.”

  “Have you tried to track the phone? There are ways to do that.”

  “Our geek gave that a shot, but he says the phone has to be turned on in order for it to be tracked. Apparently, the man who called turned it off as soon as he finished his phone call to me. He’s running a program that will tell us immediately if the phone is turned on again.”

  “What’s going on with the phone company?”

  “Nobody can give us an answer. They keep talking about warrants and all kinds of things. Bill Lester has an assistant state attorney standing by to get with a judge when he comes in at nine o’clock this morning and see about getting a warrant.”

  “Screw it.” Jock picked up his cell phone and tapped in a number. “Dave, I’m on Longboat Key with J.D. I need to know the location of Matt’s phone when the bad guys sent the text to J.D. an hour or so ago. Thanks.” He recited Matt’s number from memory.

  He hung up and said, “We’ll have it in a few minutes.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 7

  JACKHAMMERS WERE TRYING to bull their way out of my head, their incessant pounding bringing another wave of nausea. My nose was probably broken and it hurt like hell. I tried to concentrate on my surroundings, hoping that I could will away the pain. Somewhere in the distance I heard the rumble of marine diesel engines. They were out of sync, and I could tell that there were two of them. Probably a twin-engine boat with an inexperienced captain at the helm who hadn’t synchronized the engines’ rpms. I was close to the water, but I had no idea about where or even when. I had no frame of reference. I didn’t know if I was still in the day of my capture, or a week later. All I knew was that I had been unconscious for an undetermined amount of time and had been taken to someplace on the water. I couldn’t even guess as to what continent I was on.

  I was puzzled about why they’d asked me about J.D.’s whereabouts. She was on Longboat and I was pretty sure they knew where she lived. Maybe they hadn’t been able to break into her condo. Or maybe she’d scared them off with her gun. Even so, they would have known where she was.

  The men left me after they took the picture. I sat for what I guessed to be thirty minutes before they came back in. They weren’t wearing their masks. One of the men was Youssef al Bashar and the other was a man whose picture Dave Kendall had sent me. Saif Jabbar was young, probably no more than sixteen or seventeen, and he was big and muscular and sported a face so ugly it looked like
it hurt.

  The fact that the men weren’t concerned about showing their faces was a bad sign. They weren’t worried about me being able to identify them because they expected me to be dead. That was probably a mistake on their part. Too many people would know who they were and Jock would hunt them down and kill them. Well, the old Jock would, and I thought my death would be the catalyst that brought the newly cautious Jock back into the hunt.

  I knew that as soon as I gave them what they wanted, they’d kill me. The longer I could drag this out, the more time J.D. would have to find me.

  One of the terrorists, the one whom I’d identified as Youssef, smacked me in the face again, not as hard this time and with an open hand. “Good morning to you, too,” I said.

  “Where is the woman?”

  “She’s probably just outside that door with an M-4 rifle that she’s about to stick up your ass and blow your dick off.”

  He hit me again. Harder this time. “I don’t have a lot of time to play with you. Either tell me where she is or I’ll kill you right now.”

  “Look, Youssef,” I said, “if I knew where she was, I’d tell you.”

  “You know who I am?”

  “Youssef al Bashar. And I know why you are here.”

  “Where is the one called Algren?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He hit me again. This time with a closed fist. On the right side of my jaw. I saw it coming and held my jaw loose and turned my head in the direction away from the blow, hoping nothing would break. It hurt like hell.

  “Where is he?”

  “The last I knew, he was in Key West. I think you know that. You drugged him and shot him and had a cab driver take him to the hospital. You wanted to lure Detective Duncan and me to Key West to kill us. How’d that work out for you?”