Dark Vessel (COIL Book 4), page 8
Like a squirrel trying to right itself, I squirmed around until I was on my back. I dropped my shoulders low, one at a time, and shifted my bound wrists from under my back, below my legs, and to the front of me. My wrists were bleeding and the knife had cut me twice along the thigh and calf, but I didn't care about anything but getting free now.
Again, I paused. Now what? Was I willing to kill this man who'd so conspired against me? I truly wanted him to pay, but I resisted lunging over the seat and attacking him. Not only was I a Christian called for a higher purpose, I also needed answers from this murderer. Why such covert action against me and my family? For what purpose did the TaTD need the alias Muhammad ibn Affal? Who else was involved?
From my suit pocket, I drew the tranquilizer pen, the one with the needle tip. Coleman hadn't searched me at all to detect my other resources. Underestimating me had led to the demise of many enemies.
With the knife in one hand and the pen in the other, I took a deep breath and planted my knee on the floor to surge up and over the seat. Coleman was already driving recklessly. It wouldn't take much to push his panic to my advantage. All I had to do was tranquilize him, as I'd done a hundred times to others since designing the little weapon.
The SUV was suddenly smashed broadside. The impact threw me into the door nearest my head. My feet were nearly crushed by the crowding metal. For an instant, I saw the grill of another vehicle through the twisted body of our SUV.
We were spinning. I couldn't focus my eyes even when the SUV seemed to be still an instant later; my head was too rattled.
"Get out of the car!" a voice screamed from somewhere outside. I knew that voice. Chloe! She'd found me!
A moment later, I heard the pelting of tranquilizer pellets on the side of the SUV.
"Chloe!" I yelled frantically. Wedged between both seats now, I could only kick one heel at the twisted metal below me, trying to make as much noise as possible. If she heard I was trapped, maybe she could rescue me from my metal coffin.
The vehicle lurched forward, then we zoomed away. How could the SUV still be operable? It didn't matter. Chloe was on the case. My transmitter was obviously working. She'd track me down. I just had to stay alive!
The knife and pen were no longer in my hands but somewhere below me. Still bound, I couldn't search the floor.
The SUV swerved left, roared ahead, then veered right. By the shadow on the seat, we were headed west. Ten minutes later, we slowed and entered an enclosure. The sunlight was blocked out and the engine echoed strangely off solid walls. Then we stopped. My wife and daughter were dead. This man was responsible! I wouldn't go calmly; he'd have his hands full.
The door at my head opened. The silenced pistol tapped me on the forehead. I looked up to meet Coleman's eyes. Were they the last eyes my wife had seen? The same eyes that had watched my blind daughter shrink in fear and confusion before he—
"Get out."
"I can't. I'm stuck. You'll have to—"
Holstering his gun, he grabbed me by my blazer shoulders. I slid out and fell hard on the ground. It wasn't pavement, but weeds and earth. Some sort of forgotten, underground bunker, it seemed. Once again, I dismissed hope of my transmitter broadcasting through these walls.
Coleman tugged me to my feet. I glimpsed my knife and pen in the SUV, but they were left behind as I was pulled by the arm toward a metal door with graffiti painted all over it. After stumbling through darkness and beer bottles underfoot, I ran face first into another door. Keys jingled in Coleman's hand, and the heavy door opened.
We entered a room that was illuminated automatically. Metal desks and outdated computer consoles spanned from wall to wall. Passing these and a dusty room that looked like a conference room, we stopped in a hallway with linoleum flooring. Coleman looked up and down the dark corridor that had doors lining the walls in both distant directions.
"Seems like a good place." He kicked at the back of my knee and swept my feet from under me. I fell painfully onto my bruised shoulder. "Years ago I came here. It's an old presidential bunker. A White House staffer leaked its location to a reporter, so it was abandoned. What a waste, huh?"
He stepped away from me and drew from his pocket my pen that had malfunctioned in his office.
"What's this?" He unscrewed the shell. "Ah. Here's your problem. A piece of plastic blocked your trigger mechanism."
Kneeling next to me, he pressed it against my neck.
"Tell me who you are or you die." He seemed calmer now, but I shivered fearfully under his cold gaze and grip. "Talk! I doubt your name is really Eric Lando. Your boss had a special crew of us selected for different tasks. What was your job? To take me out if something went wrong? Then you go after the general? Huh?"
"You get an answer for an answer," I said, nervously eyeing the injector held against my neck. "Just don't shoot me up with that stuff!"
"Talk, or I will!"
"Kill me and you get nothing!" My boldness grew, my mind delving into survival mode. Lies and tactics came naturally at that point. Deception and counteraccusations. In truth, the pen held only a mild sedative with a truth serum, nothing fatal or too incapacitating. "You'll kill me anyway. Just give me some answers to questions of my own."
"Fine." He relaxed. "But if you don't talk, I'll give you everything in this vial. You get three questions. Make them count."
I nodded fearfully, but he was threatening me with a weapon he didn't fully understand. For one, it wasn't a syringe, but a six-shot tube with water-soluble projectiles.
"Where is Corban Dowler's family? You said you killed them."
"The landfill outside Paterson. My turn." He lowered his face until it was even with mine, perhaps to see my eyes to confirm the validity of my answers. If he looked too closely, he'd see the makeup that covered the seams of my disguise. "When were you brought into the operation?"
"From the start, I've been involved," I said. "We're all puppets, Coleman."
"Then how didn't you know that—"
"My turn." I set my jaw stubbornly as he shook his head. He was enjoying himself more than me, and he seemed to sense no threat.
"Why make Dowler think he needed to stay underground? I never understood that."
"Ah, that was the genius part—my part of the plan." Coleman smiled. "Flight 524."
"Flight 524? The airliner?"
"That's what it was all about, anyway. See? You didn't even know that? Dowler was retired. It would've been easy to pin the explosion on some terrorist group. But he and his Muhammad ibn Affal cover was a better patsy, more believable, setting him up as a traitor to his country—an embittered, Christian extremist. He was already on my list of Agency liabilities, and we had to take down Flight 524. Two birds, one stone. Clever, I must say."
"It would've worked," I said, "if Dowler would've cooperated."
"Yes, there was that. Now, my turn. Do you know how to find Dowler? Maybe I can't salvage this op, but he's the kind of guy I need to find before he comes for me. Or any of us, if you live."
"Sure, I know where he's hiding. I can show you right to his doorstep. I know everything about him."
"Where is he?" he growled. "Tell me! No more games!"
"My turn!" I said. "Who else besides General Forglade is involved?"
"Forglade, me, you, and your people."
"Who do you think my people are?"
Swallowing, I held my breath. A name! I needed a name!
"What are you playing? Do you know where Dowler is or not? It's the only thing that'll keep you alive." He threatened with the pen again, and I jerked away like it was the most deadly thing imaginable. At the same time, I shifted my right foot slightly to kick him away if needed. My hands were bound, but if I could keep him from using his gun . . .
"Get me out of here, and I'll take you to Dowler."
"Nah, I don't think so. That's all the questions. Now, Dowler, or you die."
"The only way you'll ever find him before he finds you is if I take you to him."
"That's not happening." He smiled. "I'm allergic to ambushes, and thanks to you, I'm already on the run. Oh, I'll just find him myself, before or after I go after the general. There might be some truth to him trying to pin the whole op on me. But I'll clear my name with your people, no problem. And you won't be around to put a sniper bullet in me in the meantime."
"Killing me and the general won't be enough," I said, stalling. "You took all the risks when you showed your face to Dowler, posing as a Christian paroled convict."
"How'd you know that? Who told you that? Tell me!"
"I told you I was close to Dowler. Let me take you to him." I prayed as he considered the idea. If I could just get above ground again, so Chloe could track me . . . "Don't do this, Coleman. Not that way."
"No, you obviously know too much. Time's up, old man. Can't trust you to leave you alive any longer. It could be months before anyone finds you here."
He pressed the tab. The projectile shot into my neck with enough force to feel like I'd been jabbed hard with a pencil tip. For an instant, I panicked, afraid the injection would cause shock, and my throat would close. That pen was meant to shoot its projectiles from a distance, not to be placed against the neck where the force could inflict actual internal tissue damage to a target.
But a moment later, the warmth of the serum seeped into my bloodstream. It was meant to cause severe apathy and have some cognitive effects, but I remained lucid enough to fake several convulsions and seize rigidly. I then breathed a long exhale as I stared at him, my consciousness fading slowly.
Coleman checked my neck for a pulse. I was partially paralyzed, so I knew my heartbeat had slowed considerably, and my breathing was nearly nonexistent. The poison swirled through my brain and I struggled to focus.
And then he was gone, leaving me for dead. Since I was unable to move enough to keep the motion-activated lights on, the fluorescents above me blinked off to leave me in darkness. My family's killer had escaped, and I had achieved nothing, except to create more questions. Knowing I'd been set up to take down Flight 524 helped me little since I didn't know for whom Coleman and the general were working in the first place.
When I was able to move again after an hour, I rose to my knees and the lights clicked on. With some effort, I tugged my belt out of my pants and threw it on the floor. When I surfaced, I decided I didn't want Chloe tracking me. I was back in operative mode, covert status. Karl Coleman and General Forglade would pay. Then, I'd go after whoever had set me up and killed my family. I wanted them dead.
PART II – Luigi
*~*
Chapter 14
Some animals fight to the death for others in their herd, and it's this protective nature that I, Luigi Putelli, felt rising within me. It's animalistic, even predatory.
That autumn when it was rumored that Corban Dowler might've been killed by a car bomb, I didn't fail his family. Though I'd been in Italy seeing to personal matters when the bombing took place, my heart told me I needed to be back in New York to watch over his family, so I'd flown there the next morning. Failing Corban again wasn't an option.
Though I've never told Corban Dowler, I'm his most loyal friend. I've not always succeeded in my attempts to be loyal, but I've tried to show him the honor I believe he is due. The failures of my past to care for Corban's family have haunted me for months, and I have exercised extreme measures to ensure their safety even more than my own.
While searching Corban's past, in the wake of his supposed death by bombing, I followed a trail from a Serbian covert operation that led me to Dr. Mick Rhogtill's New York City apartment one block east of the High Line. After accessing the small apartment from the fire escape, it took ten minutes to confirm my suspicions: not only had Corban been at that apartment recently, but it was so recent, he had to still be alive!
During the three years since he'd brought me into his inner circle, I had time to discover truths about his years in the CIA that I wished were lies. Corban had been a spy hunter and a mole "cleaner," though many of those details were hidden from even my eyes. I'd uncovered enough, however, to find some of the men and women whom Corban had helped before and after he'd come to follow his God. But the years since he'd started to follow his God were of particular interest to me. No longer did he sacrifice himself for his country, as he had with the CIA; now he sacrificed for his God. In fact, he no longer seemed like the same man today. Such dedication to his morality and spirituality had saved my life, as he'd helped me depart from my own misguided existence as an assassin for hire. I was inclined to follow Corban to learn from this selflessness.
Though confirming that Corban was still alive had been my objective, when I heard the key turn in the door, I hesitated to flee through the apartment window for the sake of uncovering more of Corban's current status. Perhaps I would see Corban himself in the flesh? I preferred to work unnoticed at night, but there were moments when I had to show my face and actually speak to people.
Standing next to the kitchen counter, I slid a knife stand farther away against the wall as the door swung wide open and Dr. Rhogtill stepped in. His arms were loaded with a grocery bag and a briefcase. From years of practice, my thumb went to my waistline where I could whip off my belt. The buckle had shards attached that had been dipped in a knockout toxin called falaco. Yes, I was indeed tempted to subdue him, tie him up, and proceed with my usual methods of information extraction. But being so close to Corban, and now hot on his trail, I was compelled to reform my usual methods.
Rhogtill closed his door, then turned and saw me. He paused with a calmness only expressed by confident men who've faced and survived countless hostilities. I recognized the doctor from photos uncovered from Corban's past. The doctor was a wanted man—in Serbia. There were still questions about his involvement during the war, but I wouldn't betray him. It would dishonor Corban. And because of this man's past, I knew he was no stranger to aggression or threat, and I found myself admiring him for this—besides my draw to him as a friend of Corban. Corban must've come to him for help.
His eyes, under a shaggy brow, glanced left and right, perhaps to confirm I was alone. He was short and firmly built, probably more firmly built than I was since I was struggling with health complications from a lifetime of violence.
"I am a friend." I held my palms open, though it was merely a gesture. Men such as us have no need of weapons in hand to cause harm.
"Friends wait on the doorstep." His accent was Serbian, and I considered how flawless his new identity must be to hide in the States when his Balkans accent seemed so obvious. "An enemy is more likely to wait inside after breaking in."
"You are a doctor. Corban Dowler came to you." The man's expression—one of confidence—didn't change at the mention of the name. "He was injured from the bombing, I believe. I have information for him. It is information for his ears only. I know he was here."
"Crumpon? I do not know the name."
"Corban!" I fumed, then smiled. Of course, he was playing with me. "You know him well, if he came to you first. Everyone else thinks he is dead."
"This man is not familiar to me, my friend." He set down his grocery bag and briefcase on the floor. I wasn't about to underestimate his capabilities; I hoped he didn't underestimate mine, because I didn't want to hurt him. "I live here alone. No one has been a guest here since I moved in six years ago."
"A hanger in the closet is bowed and empty. I suspect a heavy coat was on it until recently. The sofa cushions were cleaned and turned over, but I found speckles of bloodstains consistent with a man who has received multiple shrapnel injuries from a bomb. You or he swept the floor, but in your broom, I found brown hair inconsistent with your own color. Shall I continue?"
"Who are you?" There was no bewilderment in his voice. He was a dangerous man—I would know, since I was one, too.
"Luigi." I gestured to a kitchen stool ten feet away from him. As I leaned on the kitchen counter, hoping he would sit down on the stool, I continued introductions. "Corban and I met three years ago. He changed my life, but not so much that I follow his God, though I am drawn to the power that surrounds Corban's life. Because of him, I try to live in ways that honor him."
"Of course." He walked cautiously to the stool and set a hand on it. "God Almighty is worthy of attention."
Faster than seemed possible, he flipped the stool at me. I had time only to raise my arms and bat it aside, but Rhogtill's attack had only begun. He followed the stool with a kick to my abdomen that threw me against the brick wall next to the fire escape window. As I fell forward, he was on me again, this time with his hands, rigid and unclenched, like an expert hand-to-hand fighter.
Desperately, I blocked a few blows aimed at my neck and face, then moved to my left. He followed, but now I was prepared. Taller with a longer reach, I employed a dozen lightning strikes with my feet and hands that sent him backing up to the kitchen counter. His bushy brow was bleeding, but I was only winded and a little bruised.
"Doctor, I'm not here to hurt you." I whipped off my belt. "But I will if I have to."
"Not the words of a friend." He reached back and took hold of two steak knives from the stand on the counter. Apparently, I'd not moved them far enough away. "The door is to your left and the window is to your right. You can leave without injury."
He reversed his grip on one knife while keeping the other pointed upward. One for defense, both for offense. This doctor hiding from Serbian antagonists knew how to knife fight. But my belt was forty inches long. He didn't have a chance.
If we made too much noise, which a prolonged fight would cause, neighbors would surely call the police. I had to end the conflict before that happened—or before I was killed.
I swung the belt in great vertical loops, a vibrating rhythm that he studied in a calculating fashion. When I stepped forward, so did he. He held up one knife to take a belt strike while he stabbed at me with the other blade. However, I whipped the belt buckle horizontally and slashed its needle-like shards across his shoulder.
