Patriots Betrayed (22 page)

“Fine, but why you are devoting so much of your staff’s time to a parallel and redundant investigation of this killing?” Becker asked, eyeing the others as he did so.

“I’ve been told to keep an eye on your efforts. Nothing more. No one is questioning your thoroughness or competence. You’re asking questions you shouldn’t be, and I’ve given you plenty of clues on that. In other words, stop it, and just do your job.” Fosilliow waved his gold pen at him. “Whatever the president is up to, it’s none of your business. I know you think he’s gone nuts since he shot Dulling, but the taxpayers don’t pay you to assess the president’s mental health or second-guess his decisions. I can happily report he has recovered from his stabbing wound and has been working long hours in the Oval Office, sending out orders to just about everyone on his staff and cabinet right and left.”

Becker raised his eyebrows and stretched his lips thin in a closed-mouthed smile. “Alright then. As I said, we’re actively working every angle. I’ll make certain you’re kept in the loop as we move forward. If you want to be buried in minutiae, fine. I’ll send you a copy of every report from my people as they come in.”

“Do that. I’m sure the big picture will start to congeal in time without me having to spell it out for you. After all, you’re a spook and should be able to see the hidden agendas as well as anyone here.” Fosilliow almost smiled again. Twice in one day was probably a new record.

Becker’s stomach churned as he made his way back to his office. The president was up to something, and it worried him he didn’t know what. The man had turned over a new leaf, that was for damn certain. But why in the world was he so interested in the Mitch Swanson murder? President Riley was once a predictable man, and Dulling ran the show, anyway. The fact Dulling was even more predictable, just wave a dollar bill in front of his face and you would see what motivated him, made life so simple back then. At least the soul-rotting corruption seemed to be over for the time being. Recently, though, the unpredictability of the president and those in the upper echelons of the CIA had turned his future into a dark road with unseen dangerous curves and hidden hazards. He was a long way from retirement and wanted to suck on the taxpayers’ tit the rest of his life. To do that, he had to get the years in and qualify for retirement and all the other benefits of slogging through at least twenty years with the ‘company.’ Exactly how scrupulous was he supposed to be about staying within the law now that the rules were changing so fast and no one was taking the time to explain those new rules? He saw a tightrope under him and no safety net below. Okay, Fosilliow wanted to be kept apprised, great, he would take the heat. The best way to cover his ass was to get an okay from him before making any move that could prove problematic if later investigated. Yep, load all the shit onto Fosilliow’s back.

Chapter 15

The little house was unexceptional, no different from many bungalows in the area, close enough to the edge of town to smell the mountains and still close enough to Doctor Ramirez’s office he didn’t have to drive far and cause unnecessary pollution burning gas on longer daily commutes. It was not the kind of place one would expect a doctor to live, but it did jive with what little Carla knew about Dr. Gordon Ramirez.

Raylan found a parking place on a side street, and she got out of the van to perform a stealthy scrutiny of the area to ensure there were no obvious threats. After walking fifty yards, she checked her communication equipment, which consisted of several throat mikes strapped on around her neck, hidden by her buttoned-up blouse collar. Moving her vocal cords and producing only a whisper not audible more than a few feet away and without moving her jaw or lips, she said, “Com check.”

Raylan came back with, “Loud and clear.”

She moved on.

This kind of area was a nightmare for counter-surveillance, and she was forced to rely on her disguise. She adjusted her big sun hat and strolled slowly down the sidewalk, past the bungalow and to the corner, where she took a sharp turn behind a house. From her hidden position in the shade of a wide oak, she took her time looking the neighborhood over, eyes methodically scoping out the block, searching for danger.

Not really satisfied that the area was clean, but seeing nothing and understanding she could look all day and still miss the danger that killed her, she approached the front door. Taking note of the security camera mounted under the eave, she reminded herself to destroy the tape later. After several knocks on the door, she listened for any sound, but heard nothing.

Then a voice came from inside, barely audible, but distinctive. “It’s open.”

Reaching down to twist the knob, she took a deep breath and decided to take a chance. She stepped into the dimly-lit entry foyer and locked the door behind her. Doctor Ramirez’s voice called to her from the living room. “He’s in here, and I would like for you to get him out as soon as possible. Next time find a place other than my home. It’s too dangerous to do this here.” She turned, moving toward the voice. Obviously, he was expecting someone and thought she was him or her.

Sunlight filtered in through the translucent curtain, framing Ramirez’s silhouette as he gave a man who was strapped to a chair an injection. Next to him was an IV bag stand that wasn’t being used. The man appeared to be dead or very close to it. Carla swept the room with her eyes, searching for more occupants of the house, but saw no one else. She raised the suppressed Glock and aimed just as Ramirez turned in shock, seeing for the first time she was not who he had expected.

He flung his hands in the air. “What is this?”

“On your stomach,” she demanded.

He dropped to the floor. “Are you with Viktor?” he asked, his voice cracking. “I did everything you told me to, and now this one also. What else do you want from me? Forget the money, if that’s the problem. I’ll give it back.”

“Is he still alive?” she asked.

He looked up at her. “Yes. I don’t kill them. It’s not my job.”

“I know what your job is,” she hissed. She kicked him in the ribs, causing him to grimace in pain, but he kept his hands clamped over the back of his head. “Is this one a cartel job?” She demanded.

“No.” He looked confused. “It’s one of Viktor’s, like the last one. Aren’t you with Viktor?”

Carla’s face became vivid hate. “The last one… You mean Mitch Swanson. The man you helped torture to death.”

“I didn’t know his name, but he was CIA.” Still confused but starting to comprehend what Carla was doing there, he added, “Viktor made me.”

“You just said you were paid.” She snatched up an oversized tie strap among a pile of them nearby and planted her knees between his shoulders, knocking breath from him and pinning him to the floor. After tying his hands behind his back, while keeping an eye on the hallway in case others were in the house, she stood and looked over a tray full of bottles. “I wonder what this does. I guess the best way to find out is pump some into you.” She picked up a used syringe. “If I don’t like the results of that one, I’ll try another. Then we can get to the dungeon and medieval shit. It’s Inquisition time.”

“No! Please! What do you want?”

“Who’s the guy in the chair?”

“CIA. Information from the man you call Mitch led them to him.”

Her interest perked up, and she looked at the unconscious man again, but didn’t recognize him as anyone she worked with in the CIA. “Who are ‘them?’”

“Viktor is the boss of the crew I saw, but he has a bigger boss he takes orders from. I don’t know Viktor’s last name. He calls the guy all the time to keep him up on current events. One of the other men is Karloff. There are about six or seven of them, and they’re all Russians, I think.”

“The boss… what’s the big boss’s name?”

“Viktor calls him Janowski.”

Raylan’s voice came over her communication equipment. “He’s expecting company. We don’t have all night. Hold the good doc, and I’ll back the van up to the front door and load him and the victim in the back. We need to get out of here.”

“Right,” Carla said. “Give me thirty more seconds while I cut the guy in the chair loose.”

Raylan’s voice came back. “Too late. A Beamer load of thugs just turned onto the street. Get out through the back and cut across the yard behind you. I’ll be waiting on that street. You better move fast; they’re pulling into the drive.”

“I hear you.” Carla rushed to Doctor Ramirez to cut his hands loose, so he could carry the man for her. “I’m not leaving the victim.”

Raylan’s voice came back. “There’s no time!”

“I’m not leaving a fellow operative to what’s waiting for him.”

“Shiiiit! Carla!” Raylan grabbed the M4. “I’ll snipe them from here and keep them off the front door and away from the windows, but I won’t be waiting when you get to the back street.”

“I understand.” Carla pointed with her Glock. “Carry him. Out the back door.”

Ramirez hesitated.

“Now!” She jabbed the suppressor into his ribs. “Or I’ll kill you here and now.”

Ramirez’s high level of physical conditioning came into play, and he had the man slung over his shoulder in two fast motions, wrapping his right arm around the man’s legs to keep him from sliding off. He rushed out the back door with Carla following, as someone knocked on the front door with ever increasing insistence.

Raylan waited for the men out front to get impatient. The longer he could wait before firing, the more time Carla would have to get away. He thumbed the safety to semi auto, worried about what might happen once bullets started flying in a crowded neighborhood. Those men would not care how many innocents got hurt.

When a tall man reared back to kick the door, Raylan fired. Raylan saw him fall but wasn’t sure he had connected solidly. The others jumped for cover before firing blindly in Raylan’s general direction. He kept up a slow but steady rate of suppression fire, concentrating mostly on the Mercedes, flattening both tires on the near side and drilling the engine area. He wanted to deprive them of transportation. A road race against them in the underpowered van would prove comical.

Two men sprinted around the corner of the house where he couldn’t get a shot, and Raylan decided he had delayed them all he could. Jumping back into the van, which he had parked out of the line of fire, he sped off, turning onto the back street where he hoped Carla was waiting.

He found them, of all places, crouched down behind an off-duty cop’s cruiser, parked in front of his home. Raylan slammed on the brakes and jumped out. While he was helping Ramirez dump the limp victim in the back, the city cop came out of his front door in T-shirt and shorts with a pistol in his hand.

Carla kept her pistol hid and screamed, “Home invasion! The house right behind yours! We have a wounded man here, and we’re taking him to the hospital.”

Viktor came running around the corner of the house with a bloody shoulder and started shooting at Raylan with a pistol, who ducked behind the van, pulling Carla with him. The startled cop fired at Viktor and missed.

One of Viktor’s men stepped around the corner of the house and cut the cop in two with a burst from a Krinkov. He doubled over and died before he hit the ground. A woman inside the home screamed. Raylan fired from under the van with his pistol, first taking out the shooter’s legs and then killing him when he hit the ground and sending Viktor diving for cover with more rapid fire. In the confusion, no one noticed Ramirez lying in the street near the van’s open cargo doors, holding his bloody leg and moaning in pain.

Carla jumped up, her Glock in her hand. “I’m driving. Get Ramirez and close the back doors.” She fired at the Russians, who had ducked behind the house next door, keeping their heads down as she ran around to the front of the van and climbed behind the wheel.

Raylan unceremoniously threw Ramirez into the back of the van and climbed in with him, pulling the doors shut as Carla floored it. She had the tires smoking at the next corner, heading out of the neighborhood. The Russians continued to fire wildly, hitting the van a few times before houses and parked cars blocked their fire.

In the back of the van, Raylan labored to keep Ramirez from bleeding to death. “You know where you’re hit, Doc.” Raylan tightened Ramirez’s belt around his leg. “And you know you have to get to a hospital.” He mopped sweat from his forehead. “We can drop you off at one in a few minutes. But first you must answer a few questions.”

Ramirez’s face was pale and drawn. Sweat beaded from every pore on his body. “I’ll talk fast and tell you everything I know, which isn’t any more than what I already told her.”

Raylan relaxed his grip on the belt, and blood spurted across the floorboard. “Better be more than that, Doc. Or you’ll never make it to that hospital.”

“Please!” His eyes grew wide. “I’m not shitting you. I know little, but I’ll tell it all.”

“Hurry.” Raylan braced himself as Carla navigated a sharp turn at high speed, tires screaming.

“This tall Russian by the name of Viktor came to me and demanded I provide my services. I called my contact with the cartel, and they said do what he says, so I did. They worked on this guy who turned out to be CIA, using methods I never dreamed of, and got a lot of info out of him.” Ramirez lost his breath when the pain was too much for a moment. He swallowed and continued to talk fast, with frantic excitement. “What they wanted most was info on a man and a woman. I guess that would be you two. The poor guy didn’t have much to give them about you, but he kept offering other info that they were not interested in. It was you two they wanted. That’s it.” He swallowed and licked his lips. “Except he gave up his partner. That’s him there.” He looked at the still unconscious man. “I hadn’t given him the drug to wake him yet when she came in. Viktor was going to put him through the same treatment he gave the other guy. He’ll be alright when the drug I gave him wears off.”

Raylan released the tension on the belt a little. “You’re holding out, and it’s going to cost you.”

Ramirez’s eyes rounded. He knew full well how close he was to bleeding to death. “No! I’m not! Oh, wait. When the guy started talking about what the CIA had on a Russian named Janowski, they perked up and wanted more. Other than Janowski, they only wanted info on you and her.”