Worst Case Scenario, page 24
Mobley looked at him with a concerned gaze. “You feeling okay, Doc?”
Cole slumped in the chair; his eyes were slits, and his stomach bubbled with the sensation of sickness. “I’m having some stomach problems this morning.”
The FBI man frowned. “You know the rules, Doc. Think we should reschedule, or do you feel like going through with it today?”
This is my chance. I must appear willing to take the test. He crossed his legs and interlaced his fingers in his lap. “I’m busy and don’t want to reschedule—let’s just get this over with.”
“All right, if you’re sure, we’ll start with the pre-test.” Mobley consulted his notes and looked up as Cole retched a long stream of vomit on the floor.
“What the…?” The agent grabbed a small metal garbage can and pushed it in front of Cole in time to catch the next stream.
Cole gagged and held his head with both hands, leaning over the can. His shoulders heaved, and another round of vomit sprayed into the can and surrounding floor. Mobley stood over him and handed him his handkerchief. Cole wiped his mouth, cleared his throat, and spit.
“You okay?” the FBI man steadied him with his hands on both shoulders. The concern in his voice genuine.
Cole took a couple of deep breaths and nodded. “I think so.”
The agent skipped over the vomit on the floor and sat behind his desk. “I’m sorry, but you know I can’t test you in this condition—we’ll have to reschedule.”
Cole steadied himself and showed what he hoped was a disappointed look. “Sorry for the mess—must be stomach flu.”
“Don’t worry about it. We can get together sometime in the next week or two. Go home and get some rest.”
Cole struggled to his feet and wobbled to the door. “I’ll see you later.” The sliver of a smile showed as he left the office. He fingered the empty bottle of diluted Ipecac syrup in his pocket. By diluting it, he delayed the effects for a couple of minutes. This little performance gave him the excuse he needed to get out of the lab early and have the weekend off. Checking his watch, Cole saw he had two hours until he met McFadden.
McFadden stuffed the shaving kit into the small carry-on before zipping it closed. Newman Smith stood at the bedroom door, leaning against the frame. “What time will you meet up with Monk?”
“A little after one o’clock.” McFadden looked at his watch. “You all clear on what to do?”
Smith shifted to the other side of the frame. “Lock the place down and coordinate your arrival in DC with Piedmont.”
McFadden took the Walther .380 from the nightstand and dropped it into his pants pocket. “Right, keep us informed about anything you learn from Bishop. He’s connected with the government—I know it. I don’t think he could have contacted anyone, or else the FBI would be crashing through the front gate by now. I’m having Piedmont look into it from his end.”
Smith stood erect. “I’ll have Ochoa work him over after Sampson and Sheba get his attention. If he has anything, we’ll get it.”
McFadden looked up. “Bishop just being here means someone somewhere suspects something. Be ready for anything on this end.” He swung the bag off the bed and stood in front of Smith. “Have a couple of the boys fetch Cora. Bishop might be more likely to talk if he watched Ochoa worked on her.”
“Okay, I’ll take care of it.”
McFadden’s eyes widened. “Newman, this is the day we’ve been waiting for. We’re going to take back our country from the assholes who’ve subverted the Constitution.” He put his hand on Smith’s shoulder and gave him a little shake. “Don’t let me down on this end.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll do our part.”
McFadden grinned. “I know you will. Let’s have lunch before I have to go.”
Minerva remained silent as the two men left. Hidden in the closet, she’d been afraid of discovery. What would he have done if he’d found her? She let out a breath and gazed into the empty room. Tears formed in her eyes and a lump formed in her throat at the thought of Ochoa questioning Bishop and Cora. She might have the power to stop it, but that would put her in terrible jeopardy. She didn’t know if she could afford to cross Clark, even if he was gone.
Carpenter stared at his computer in the Albuquerque FBI office. He didn’t feel like working and considered just skipping out and not coming back. But that wasn’t what the Special Agent in Charge told him to do. The SAC had listened to his story a few hours ago and examined the list of names. The boss didn’t give much away. After their meeting, Carpenter couldn’t decide whether the old man believed him or not. Since the FBI SWAT team hadn’t arrested him yet, he took this as a good sign.
The SAC instructed him to return to work, say nothing about this to anyone, and stand by until he could look into it. Carpenter wanted to jump out of his skin. He couldn’t sit still and had no appetite. His phone rang three times before he bothered picking it up. The caller ID showed a 202 area code—headquarters wanted something.
“This is Carpenter.”
A chipper voice followed. “Hi, Daniel Piedmont, Domestic Terrorism Division. You have time to talk for a minute?”
Carpenter’s jaw dropped; Daniel Piedmont was one of the FBI names on the list. Carpenter gripped the phone tighter. “Sure, what do you need?”
“I’m the new supervisor heading up the EMPTY QUIVER investigation from headquarters, trying to catch up on what’s happened,” Piedmont said. “Any new developments on your end?”
EMPTY QUIVER was the case title the FBI had assigned to the case. It was a US military euphemistic term that indicated the loss, theft, or seizure of a nuclear weapon. This stuff should only be discussed over a secure line. Before Carpenter could object to talking about it, Piedmont got down to business. “I’ve been looking over a report that mentions you meeting with someone from military intelligence named Bishop.”
Carpenter’s stomach flipped, and he lowered his voice while covering the phone with his hand. “Oh, that guy. Yeah, some kind of nut, I expect.” Carpenter tried sounding natural, but his anxiety was off the chart.
Piedmont didn’t answer at first but then asked, “So, what did you guys do with him? Have you been working together on some lead?”
Carpenter swallowed hard and forced a convincing laugh. “No, we’re too busy to fool with the likes of him. He went off on some tangent and said he’d call if he turned up anything.”
Another pause on the other end. Did Piedmont believe the lie?
“So have you heard back from him?”
Carpenter unclenched his fist and exhaled. “No, not a word.”
“Okay, just wanted to clear this up. Don’t have anything else, thanks.”
“Sure, anytime.” Carpenter dropped the phone back into its cradle and pushed back from the desk. Strangely, he was more relaxed and confident. If Bishop called tonight, everything would be perfect. But what if he didn’t?
Bishop braced himself against the cage, waiting for the next attacks. The big cats had him surrounded, and his strength would give out soon. No food, water, or sleep, plus the exhaustion of fighting off the deadly pair, would make him easy prey to Ochoa’s interrogation.
Laughter drifted down the deep pit. Both cats looked up, and their eyes showed fear. They bolted for the cover of the hole in the side of the pit, and Bishop strained his neck to look up. Ochoa looked over the edge. Bishop readied himself for the torture and interrogation to come. How long could he hold out? There was silence from above, but nothing else happened. He sat in the cage another hour—still nothing.
Sampson and Sheba again slinked out of the hole in the pit’s wall, keeping their wary gaze fixed to the rim of the crater. Sampson circled the cage a couple of times and dropped to the ground, watching Bishop with those frightening yellow eyes. The cats always kept him between them. As if to emphasize the point, Sheba strolled to the body of Samuel and began to feed off him. Bishop turned his head in disgust. Long shadows began drifting over the hole. Evening was approaching, and Ochoa would be back soon for his fun.
Bishop waited another hour or so before the cage moved, and the hum of a motor from above drifted into the pit. As it slowly rose from the dirt floor, Bishop understood what he had to do. Before Ochoa could get any information out of him, he had to either kill the man or force Ochoa to kill him.
Bishop looked up to the pit’s rim as the cage slowly rose. He couldn’t see anything. The last few feet before cresting the top of the hole, Bishop put on his war face. He intended to kill the bastard or die trying.
Cora rubbed her eyes with her index finger and thumb. She’d been looking through the telescope all day, hoping to catch a glimpse of Bishop. She found the blind he’d built the day before on the flat area above McFadden’s house, but there had been no movement. Was he still in there? She took a swallow of water and ate a few crackers before going back to the telescope. Bishop told her he expected to be back tonight. She hung on to that promise, knowing to think otherwise would drive her insane.
General Cook checked his email one last time before logging off. Bishop’s IR signature disappeared from satellite view at 4:03 AM Mountain Time. There had been no further indication he was still alive. Cook needed rest—the exhaustion had begun clouding his mind and thoughts. He’d leave things in the hands of the duty officer and be back in early tomorrow. Working on Saturdays made his wife crazy, but often it couldn’t be helped. He stood and stretched, grabbed his jacket off the rack, then turned for the door. As his hand touched the handle, the secure phone rang. He swung back and answered it.
The short, clipped voice of Fuller said, “Hello, General.”
“Good afternoon, sir.”
“How goes the investigation?”
Cook wiped his face with his free hand before answering. “Everything’s fine—still waiting,” he lied. He had no intention of telling Fuller about his suspicions until Maxwell confirmed if Bishop was still alive.
“I wonder if you could drop by my office tomorrow morning, say, ten o’clock?”
Fuller’s voice had that sound Cook didn’t like. It oozed with the implication, I know something you don’t.
“Certainly, be glad to. Mind telling me what it’s about?”
Fuller cleared his throat. “We’ll be meeting with the director of the FBI. We’ll need to explain how his agency’s been infiltrated and compromised.”
Cook grimaced. Yup, better get a good night’s sleep.
As the cage rose past the rim of the pit, Minerva’s panicked expression showed she had no idea how the remote control worked. Her frantic eyes scanned the remote’s buttons as she gnawed her lower lip. The cage stopped with a jerk. She pushed another button, and the cage swung to the right over solid ground. She looked up and smiled before pressing another button; it began to rise once more. More panic swept her expression, and she pushed another button. The cage stopped moving.
“The other button,” Bishop shouted.
The cage slowly moved down and came to rest on terra firma. She rushed to him—a look of horror at his bloodied condition. “What has he done to you?”
“Hand me the remote,” Bishop whispered, reaching his bloody hand through the bars. She passed it to him, and he sat back in the cage with a sigh. Studying the thing for a moment, he pushed a button, and the cage door slowly rose. Once it locked in place, he rolled onto the ground and released a long breath. Bishop lay on his back for a few seconds and stared at her. She leaned over him and stroked his hair.
“I couldn’t let them hurt you anymore, Troy.”
He took her hand and squeezed it. “Thanks.”
Looking up for the first time outside the cage and pit, he couldn’t believe what he saw. The whole skyline was blocked with a gigantic, camouflage net. The thing had to be half as big as a football field. It covered the pit and small log cabin near it, which backed up to the woods. It hung thirty to forty feet above ground level, attached to the lowest limbs of the ancient pine trees. The shading gave the area a tranquil appearance.
He slid the remote into his pocket. Rising, he winced from the pain of the cougar attacks. His eyes met hers. “Where’s your husband?”
“Don’t worry, he’s gone—won’t be back for days.”
“Where did he go?”
Minerva shrugged. “Don’t know, but I heard Newman Smith saying something about Washington—maybe there.”
Bishop held out his hand. “Let me use your cell phone.”
“Clark took it.”
Bishop looked at the small cabin. “Is there a phone in there?”
“That’s Ochoa’s place—I don’t know, doubt it.”
He struggled to his feet, and his legs were stiff and weak from his cramped confinement. His shirt and pants were a shredded, bloody mess. Weakness set in as he rested a hand on her shoulder.
She embraced him, trying to take his whole weight. “Oh, Troy, take me with you. Don’t leave me here with Clark.”
He pushed her to arm’s length. “Why do you want to leave?”
Her eyes shifted from side to side in a confused gaze. “Because Clark said he’d have to put me away. Some place people could take care of me.” She began to sob and dropped her head on Bishop’s shoulder. “Don’t let him do that.”
Bishop held her. McFadden might have even worse plans for her after the attack on Washington—she would probably disappear like the others. “Okay, you can go with me, but how do we get out of here?”
She looked up and wiped her eyes. “I don’t know. Newman closed the ranch after Clark left. The patrols have been tripled, front gate’s barricaded, and all phone and internet service cut.”
“How did you get here?”
She turned and pointed at a saddled horse tied to a tree. Bishop thought for a second. Getting himself out would be difficult. Taking her with him—impossible. “Okay, go back to your house and meet me behind the cattle pens after dark. I’ll have something figured out by then. And whatever you do, don’t let anyone see you tonight around the pens.”
She nodded and smiled, wiping her face again. “I’ll be ready.”
She jumped on the horse and rode away. Bishop had to find a working phone or some way to contact Cook. No way could he afford to fall into their hands again. Looking around the area, a sense of foreboding swept over him. A human-size cross stood near the small cabin. Leather straps were bolted to it, and fresh blood covered the ground beneath. Bishop’s thoughts raced back to Samuel and the screams he’d heard the night before. He studied the cabin, and something inside him said, stay clear. He couldn’t explain it, but he knew evil dwelled there.
The door opened to his touch, and the dark, gloomy interior made his skin crawl. The place had a stench, smelled like a combination of spoiled food, human waste, and body odor. Bishop knew he needed a weapon before anything else. Strolling around the cluttered room, his eye fell on the kitchen table. Under a pile of wadded-up paper, he spied the handgrip of a pistol. He slid the Sig Sauer .357 from the pile of trash and checked it. It was the one taken from him while he was unconscious. Thirteen rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber—just the way he liked it. He stuck it into his back waistband.
The place looked like a garbage dump. Empty candy and chip wrappers, soda cans, and popcorn bags littered the floor. No one had cleaned it for months. A two-foot stack of comic books tilted against one wall, and an empty mayonnaise jar on the floor almost tripped him as he made his way through the dark living area. When Bishop’s eyes finally adjusted to the low light, he noticed the skulls—there were dozens of them. They lined the wall just below the ceiling on long shelves. He recognized some, but they were from so many different animals he couldn’t begin to guess. Each had a decoration. A feather stuck into an eye socket, horns and teeth painted different colors, pieces of colored paper glued to the bone. Everything from mouse to cow hung from the wall. The last few skulls were human, their death grins watching his every move.
Bishop crept into the bedroom and flipped on the light switch. The oversized four-poster bed sat against the far wall. More trash covered every square inch of the nasty floor. Dirty underwear, mud-clad pants, and shoes were scattered everywhere—the room of a teenager who never grew up. A very dangerous teenager. The outline of Ochoa’s large frame dented the bare mattress, and the smell of urine permeated the place. The nightstand beside the bed told the story of his sickness. Two stacks of old Polaroid pictures lay side by side. Bishop scanned the first group. Women—some young, some middle-aged, all stripped naked and beaten, waiting to be raped and murdered—hung from the cross outside. Terror in their eyes, some were hysterically weeping and begging for mercy. But there would be no mercy for them.
Bishop thumbed through the second stack—the men. Again, secured to the outside cross and mutilated, their lifeless bodies hung limp. McFadden had to know and approve of everything that had gone on here. The victims in these photos now lay at the bottom of the pit, their remains guarded by Sampson and Sheba.
Bishop dropped the pictures in his pocket. If he managed to get out, perhaps the next of kin could at least be notified. Bishop had seen a case of bottled water in the kitchen, so he headed back there. Three bottles later, his thirst quenched, he drifted into the bathroom.
The place had a fetid odor. How could a human live in such conditions? Piles of musty and moldy wet towels lined the floor. The sink was filthy with dirt and traces of what looked like blood. The leaky faucet dripped a constant beat. Bishop found a halfway clean face cloth folded on a shelf and soaked it in hydrogen peroxide he discovered in the medicine cabinet. He cleaned the wounds the best he could, but they were already infected. He needed a good injection of antibiotics but settled for two azithromycin capsules he also found in the medicine cabinet. The box showed they had expired almost three months ago, but they were better than nothing.
