Running Dark Part 19

32.

BANNER'S PHONE RANG THE MINUTE THEY WERE GONE. STROMEYER had followed the men out, probably to ensure that they vacated the premises. He punched the speaker b.u.t.ton on the base. Might as well use the feature, he thought, since the whole world was listening to his conversations anyway.

"Mr. Banner, Senator Cooley calling, please hold while I connect you?" Cooley's secretary sounded impersonal, professional, but Banner was still irritated. As far as he was concerned, Cooley should place his own calls, like the rest of the business world. He made a mental note to have Alicia place the next call to Cooley.

Cooley's supercilious voice came over the line. "Mr. Banner, I'd like to meet with you at my offices. New information concerning the pipeline has come to light. Oh, and I've signed a subpoena in which we demand that you provide the committee with every piece of paper related to Darkview's contract in the Colombian matter."

For a brief moment, Banner considered demanding that Cooley tell him about the pipeline over the phone, but the tap held him back. Depending upon what the information was, he might want to hear it directly from Cooley in a safe environment.

"When?" Banner said.

"Thirty minutes from now."

"I'll be there." Banner clicked off the speaker. He grabbed his motorcycle helmet on the way out.

He drove into the underground parking lot attached to Cooley's office building. The minute he left the sunlight, cool, damp, grease-filled air hit his face. Fluorescent lights cast a harsh glow over the gray concrete. Banner had felt his anger growing ever since he'd hung up the phone. Cooley was gunning for Darkview and showed no signs of letting up. The subpoena sounded like yet another attempt to dig up dirt that Banner knew didn't exist. He wasn't concerned about what the subpoena would find-he knew that Stromeyer would never have a paper out of place-but he was concerned about the impact such a move would have on the company's reputation. Cooley knew that clients of security companies like Darkview relied on discretion and wouldn't like to do business with a company that government investigators were targeting. Likewise, the Department of Defense would eventually steer clear of a contractor that brought with it even a whiff of impropriety. Cooley had been unable to bring Darkview down in a legitimate fas.h.i.+on, and now it appeared he was going to try a smear campaign. Banner parked the cycle, removed his helmet, and headed for the elevators, brooding. At that moment he could have happily smashed something. He heard a noise from a corner of the lot but ignored it while he continued to fume.

Twenty seconds later three men appeared from behind a stone support. All three focused on Banner. Two were black guys, over six feet but slender. The third was white, about five-eight, with a basketball for a stomach and arms like a stevedore's. He carried a heavy Maglite flashlight. They were an incongruous bunch. Like a motley group of thugs brought together only by their love of destruction. Banner slowed to a stop. It was apparent they were focused on him. He began to make the calculations he'd been making his whole life when confronted with impending violence.

Banner stood six feet, weighed 170, and had the advantage of experience. As former Special Forces, he knew how to fight. Over the years he'd learned a little about many martial arts, cherry-picking the moves he liked and adding them to his repertoire. Still, three against one const.i.tuted formidable odds. He sized up the men and did some quick reckoning. The tall ones looked like a couple of inner-city g.a.n.g.b.a.n.gers accustomed to fighting dirty. Banner thought he caught the glint of some bra.s.s knuckles in the hand of one. The little guy was the oldest and meanest of the three, and once he got his hands on Banner, his strength would come into play, but his girth was going to slow him down. The short one must have known this-hence the Maglite. Despite the weapon, as long as no one pulled a gun, Banner thought he had a decent chance to survive. In fact, he thought they intended for him to survive. If killing him was on their agenda, they wouldn't have shown themselves so early but would instead have jumped him from behind. They were there to deliver a message and then beat the h.e.l.l out of him to drive the point home. Banner waited for one of them to speak. He focused on the short guy-who, sure enough, started talking.

"You're getting to be a pain in the a.s.s," the short one said. "Our s.h.i.+pping friends tell us that you've got guys running around the Indian Ocean firing on their fis.h.i.+ng boats. They don't like it." He slapped the Maglite on his palm.

Banner shrugged. "I'm sorry to hear that. Tell your friends to stop firing on legitimate trading vessels and we can all go back to living peacefully."

"Tell your guys to fly home. They don't belong there."

"No," Banner said.

"You've got thirty-six hours. We're here to show you what happens when people don't do what we want. We're gonna give you a little preview."

Banner stared down at him. "Listen, jerk. I don't have anything you might need except maybe the instructions for a really good diet." The g.a.n.g.b.a.n.ger on the right laughed.

The short one's face flushed red. "You won't be so c.o.c.ky when you end up in the emergency room."

Banner shook his head again. "I'm not the one going to the emergency room. I'm only asking once for you three to move on. If not, I'm going to have to hurt you, and I'd hate to do that." Banner freed up his hands by dropping his helmet on the ground.

The skinny one on the left came at him so fast that Banner was impressed. He had his hand c.o.c.ked back, ready to deliver a blow. There was steel on his knuckles, and he covered the ground between them in a couple of seconds, but the move was a straightforward attack, which made it easy to avoid.

Banner dodged the punch on the inside. He opened his hand wide and used the s.p.a.ce between his thumb and index finger. He hammered this spot into the man's Adam's apple, keeping his arm slightly bent to absorb the blow but moving forward into the attacker. As he did, he closed the rest of his fingers around the guy's neck and squeezed.

The skinny one made a strange gargling noise from his windpipe. He arched backward, as if he were doing the limbo, while Banner followed him down, trying his best to crush the man's throat. The other two came at him at the same time. The short one grabbed Banner around the waist, trapping his left arm to his body and holding him in place while the second one aimed a fist at his temple. Banner avoided the main force of the punch, but the hit still whipped his head to the side, making him see stars. Pain radiated through the bones of his face along with the sc.r.a.pe of a dull point ripping his skin open. The temple shot forced him sideways. He dragged the short one with him, like a load of ballast. Banner felt his own blood pouring down his cheek. He lost his grip on the first guy's neck, but he was down anyway, rolling around on the cement, holding his throat and making wheezing noises.

Banner stumbled over the first one's body while he wrestled to free himself from the short one's grasp. The man was like a pit bull with its jaws clamped down. He held on to Banner so tightly that Banner was finding it hard to breathe. Number Two had a grip on the sleeve of Banner's leather jacket and was using him like a speed bag, raining a series of short punches on him. The jacket softened the blows, but each one created a burst of pain. He quit with the rapid hits and aimed a jab straight for Banner's face, looking to drive Banner's nose into his forehead. This time Banner saw the bra.s.s knuckles with spikes on top as they came at him. He managed to twist his upper body to the side, getting his face out of range. Instead he felt the fist with its metal-tipped payload piston into his rotator cuff. The same rotator cuff that had taken shrapnel fifteen years before and still ached at the slightest change in the weather. Even with the leather as protection, Banner knew that the blow might take him down. The g.a.n.g.b.a.n.ger had found his Achilles' heel.

White-hot pain reverberated through his arm and into his chest. It felt like someone had driven a two-foot blade directly into half his body. Mixed with the pain came a surging volcano of anger. He turned toward the g.a.n.g.b.a.n.ger in a blinding rage, yanking his left arm out of the short one's grip. Now he had a better range of motion, despite lugging the short one around like an anchor. He drove his right fist into the guy's solar plexus with such force that odds were he wouldn't survive. As he folded forward, Banner raised his knee into his face. Number Two dropped like a stone.

The short one still had a vise grip on Banner's midsection. Banner catapulted himself backward, onto him. They fell together. Banner heard a loud crack as the man's head hit the pavement. His arms finally loosened. Banner wrenched himself out of the other man's grasp, rolled himself sideways, and rose up to his knees. The short one was already on all fours. His hands scrabbled around on the floor. Banner watched his fingers close over the Maglite. He jerked, as if attempting to stand.

Banner's left arm was useless, his temple wound dripped blood onto the concrete, and he had no weapon. All he had left were his feet. He staggered to his cycle. He heard the last guy behind him but forced himself to keep his eyes on the ignition. Even raising his left arm enough to hold the handlebar sent waves of pain through it. He jammed the key into the ignition. The cycle started on a roar. Banner drove it off its kickstand and raised his boots into position while he skidded around a turn.

Twenty minutes later he pulled into his garage. His face still bled, and his left arm shook with pain. He watched the electric garage door close while he sat on the cycle, unable to move. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket to call Stromeyer and tried to raise it to his ear, but the upward motion, even from his uninjured shoulder, sent a twinge of pain across his chest. He ended up holding the device at waist level while he sent a text requesting that she meet him at his house.

He dragged himself into the kitchen, headed toward the ibuprofen that he kept in a cabinet above the sink. But when he contemplated the pain level that reaching up for it would create, he decided against the maneuver. Instead he opened a nearby drawer, fished out a long wooden spoon, and knocked the bottle off the high shelf into the sink. He swore under his breath at the childproof cap. The pain wasn't letting up, the blood from the cut on his face was congealing, and he felt a swelling beginning at his shoulder. He would need to ice it quickly, or the rest of the week was going to be all about agony.

The doorbell rang. Banner took it as a good sign that whoever wanted to see him had the decency to actually ring the bell. The three in the garage would simply have smashed in a window. He walked to the door, still clutching the recalcitrant ibuprofen bottle. He checked out the newcomer through the peephole. It was Stromeyer. He opened the door.

Her eyes widened at the sight of him.

He thrust the bottle at her. "Can you open this?"

She nodded and stepped inside. He closed the door, throwing the dead bolts before waving her into the kitchen. Stromeyer had the bottle open by the time they got there. She didn't say a word, and he was too busy clenching his teeth against the pain to engage in any conversation. She shook out two pills, took another look at him, and shook out two more. She filled a gla.s.s with water and handed it all to him. He downed them in one gulp and put the gla.s.s in the sink before extracting a Ziploc bag from a nearby drawer. He filled it with ice, wrapped it in a thin dishcloth, and placed it on the counter. Now came the hard part.

"Can you help me take off the jacket? I got hit in the shoulder."

She sucked in her breath. "The bad one?"

"Yes."

Stromeyer took off her own coat, threw it over the back of a nearby chair, and stepped toward him. She peeled the leather back from his chest in a careful motion. At the left shoulder, she took care to raise the fabric enough that she could hold it open while he eased his arm out. Every move, no matter how subtle, sent fresh waves of pain through him.

"The s.h.i.+rt, too," he said.

She unb.u.t.toned his s.h.i.+rt and repeated the careful motion. They both gasped at what was revealed. The spiked bra.s.s knuckles had left deep indentations on the tip of his shoulder. Several purple swellings were set in a precise row where the spikes had punctured the flesh. The whole mess was a mottled red heading to black. He went over to the counter to retrieve the ice.

"You'd better wait to put that on until after you're lying flat." Stromeyer sounded matter-of-fact, but when he looked at her, he could see strain around her eyes.

"Afraid I'll faint?" Banner said.

"Yes."

He nodded. "You may be right." He turned to go.

"Let me wipe the blood off your face first," she said.

"I'll lie down. You can do it then."

He made it to the bedroom and sat on the bed. He stared at his booted feet. He didn't think he had the energy to remove them. Stromeyer appeared and knelt before him. She eased off his boots, and he swung his legs onto the bed. Once he was flat, he put the ice on his naked shoulder. Just the weight of the bag made him want to shriek in pain, but he knew that if he could stick it out, the ice would work wonders.

"Your jeans are covered in blood. Let me get them off," Stromeyer said.

Banner said nothing. She eased them down. Normally he would have been embarra.s.sed to have her perform the ch.o.r.e for him, but he found that he didn't really care just then. She unfolded the blanket from the foot of his bed and covered him with it.

"I'll keep watch and call the police. You have a gun?"

Banner went to reach for it but decided against moving. "Under the pillow."

Stromeyer slid her hand beneath his head.

"Other pillow."

She leaned over him to reach under the second pillow. He smelled her perfume, a happy citrus scent that seemed incongruous given the circ.u.mstances. She removed his nine-millimeter. He watched her check it.

"I'll hold on to this. Try to sleep."

Banner fell into unconsciousness. He never heard her leave.

33.

EMMA WATCHED AS A BLACK FOUR-WHEEL-DRIVE VEHICLE OF AN indeterminate make drove out of the shrubbery lining the beach. It came toward them, its wheels churning through the sand. It pulled within five feet of the jeep and stopped. A white man swung out of it wearing khaki-colored cargo pants, a Guns N' Roses T-s.h.i.+rt, and a pistol in a holder attached to his waistband.

"What's up, Nick?" Ha.s.sim sounded concerned.

Nick glanced at Emma and back at Ha.s.sim without replying. He had s.h.a.ggy black hair that was hacked off at his collar in a choppy fas.h.i.+on, as if someone had taken a knife to it rather than scissors. His skin was tanned a honey color.

Ha.s.sim grabbed the top of the winds.h.i.+eld, hauled himself upright, and jumped over the door. "She's okay. She works for Banner."

Nick looked visibly relieved. He gave Emma a curt nod before directing his attention back to Ha.s.sim. "We've got a problem. Our contact, the one who promised us the boat, wants another two days. He claims he's got something he needs to do."

Ha.s.sim snorted. "You know what that means. He's got a couple of hostages that he wants to transport first."

"Yeah, but who? They haven't taken a s.h.i.+p that I'm aware of."

Ha.s.sim looked thoughtful. "Last kidnapping I heard about was a Turkish freighter."

"That crew's long gone. Their company paid up a month ago."

"Where's he now? Or, more important, where's the boat?"

Nick waved back toward the beach behind him. "Anch.o.r.ed two miles down. I just saw it as I drove in."

"Anyone on it?" Ha.s.sim reached into a small area directly behind the seats. Emma watched him as he fished around under a green tarp. He withdrew an a.s.sault rifle.

"Not that I saw."

Ha.s.sim checked his weapon. "Then let's go. I've already paid that guy. If I let him get away with taking the money and not delivering the boat, I'll never be dealt with straight again." He turned to Emma. "Do you want to come?"

She was up and over her door in a flash. "I don't want to be left here, if that's what you mean. Do you have a gun for me?"

Ha.s.sim stopped in midstride. "Didn't I just give you one?"

"I mean a semiautomatic."

Nick looked amused.

Ha.s.sim stood still. Then he shrugged in apparent resignation and headed back to the jeep. He extracted another AK-47 out from under the tarp and handed it across to Emma, over the jeep's seats. She hefted it, feeling its weight. It appeared in fine working condition. Oiled, with a carrying strap that was relatively clean, it was set to automatic. Emma switched it to semiautomatic.

"Sure you want to do that?" Ha.s.sim asked.

You have no idea how sure, Emma thought. "I don't want to autofire indiscriminately. I'm a terrible shot and likely to kill one or both of you in a bout of friendly fire. I've had a sum total of three lessons on how to use a gun."

Ha.s.sim's eyebrows. .h.i.t his hairline. "In that case by all means."

Nick laughed. "Glad that's settled. Climb into the car. I'll take you to the boat."

They piled the rest of the duffels and chemistry equipment into the Land Rover. When they were finished, Nick hit the gas. The car dug in even further as a result of the added weight. Emma watched sprays of sand fly out from under the wheels, but the four-wheel drive managed to propel the vehicle forward. They drove for ten minutes before coming to a dirt road cut between the palms. It led away from the beach. Nick turned onto it. Here they moved quicker, although potholes filled the road. Emma held on to a handle above the door as they bounced along. The path turned to parallel the beach. After a few minutes, it became gravel, then curved back in the direction of the ocean. When it appeared as though they'd drive straight onto the sand again, Nick took a sharp left and killed the engine.

"The boat sits in a small cove up ahead. I think we should finish the trip on foot. We'll need to move as quietly as possible." Nick whispered the instructions before he carefully opened the driver's door. Emma eased out of the car as well. She shut the door not by swinging it closed but by placing it against the side of the car and pressing it.

Nick went first, Ha.s.sim followed, and Emma brought up the rear. Her heart took on a crazy rhythm, and beads of sweat popped out on her forehead. She did all she could to walk softly. The only sounds she heard were the cras.h.i.+ng of the waves on sh.o.r.e and the cry of seagulls, but these were so loud that she was concerned they'd miss the telltale step of a prowler behind them.

After five minutes of skulking through the trees, Emma could see the prow of a boat bobbing up and down. It was anch.o.r.ed ten feet from the sand's edge. Nick waved them into cover. Ha.s.sim moved behind a tree. Emma followed his lead. Now she had a view of the entire vessel, and she was underwhelmed. It was a small cabin cruiser. So small, in fact, that she wouldn't have been confident taking it out on a local lake, much less the ocean. From what she could see, there was a little cabin up front, and enough seating on each side of the open back to seat six, three on each side.

"That's the boat we're taking on the ocean?" Emma said.

Ha.s.sim turned his dark eyes on her. "It's seaworthy. The Kaiser Franz was only about seventy-five miles out at its last known location, so we don't have far to go." He looked at Nick. "So we know the boat's here. Where's the owner?"

At that moment two men came out of the trees, a.s.sault rifles slung over their backs. They scanned the area before waving behind them. Three Somali women emerged. All three balanced large bundles on their heads. After them came two more men with guns. They carried a large crate. Once their feet hit the sand, they staggered with its weight. The entire entourage headed to the boat.

"They're provisioning," Nick said, "but I don't see any hostages."

Ha.s.sim shrugged. "Maybe they're carrying arms to the mother s.h.i.+p. That box looks heavy enough. Whatever they're doing, they're not taking my boat. Let's make a circle around and check out the road they used. I'll bet Ali's there."

Nick gave Ha.s.sim an incredulous look. "You're using Ali?"

Ha.s.sim nodded. "Why does that surprise you?"

"Ali always delivers. He's the most reliable thief in Puntland. He'd never leave you high and dry if he could help it. Whatever's up, he must really need that boat."

Emma didn't like the sound of that. The change of plans could very easily be born of desperation or coercion. Ha.s.sim, though, seemed unimpressed.

"I really need that boat. And this is the first time I've ever used Ali. Somalia isn't my usual stomping ground. Perhaps this guy thinks he can mess with me."

Nick shook his head back and forth. "No way. Ali may not know you personally, but everyone knows that you work for Banner and that Banner doesn't allow anyone to mess with his people. If they did, there would be a small army of former Special Forces guys crawling up their a.s.s within days."