Code Name Antares

Chapter 18

Ambassador Vazov stood by the desk in the lobby, still unbelieving Kalinin was alive. He was more than curious, though, to hear the entire story.

Zelesky drove the Mercedes close to the entrance, trying to give Kalinin some cover, allowing him to stay in the shadow of trees. A black van was parked across the street, undoubtedly FBI.

Kalinin walked into the lobby, looking tired and obviously injured. Vazov reached for Kalinin’s extended hand, but immediately put a finger to his own lips, then pointed to the elevator.

Once the elevator motor started, Vazov said, “Nicolai, we thought you were dead!”

“I am sorry that I was unable to contact you.”

“You are hurt.”

“Nothing serious, sir.”

“We will go to my residence. I will give you food and drink.”

As they rode the elevator, Kalinin felt it strange to be inside the Russian Embassy. The closest he’d been was the morning he left the newspaper, the start of his mission, a mission that ended in failure. It was not easy for him to face the ambassador now, a man who had expressed such confidence in him, depended on him to get the weapons to their intended destinations. But Grant Stevens and his team of specialists derailed the entire plan.

Vazov interrupted Kalinin’s thoughts as he opened the door to the residence. “Go in, Nicolai.” Kalinin entered the apartment. The lavishness of the decor surprised him. Red velvet-covered sofas, chairs, expensive mirrors, paintings, crystal chandeliers, heavy red drapes. He remembered his parents telling him about the harsh conditions most Russians had to deal with, then seeing this… But perhaps that was part of what made Russians such a strong, proud people… the little they did have.

“Nicolai, sit over here,” Vazov said, indicating an ornate wooden chair by the ten-foot rectangular dining room table. “I am having hot food prepared.”

Kalinin pulled the chair from under the table, then sat down.

Vazov reached for a bottle of Stolis Vodka. He poured the clear liquid into his glass, then Kalinin’s. He raised his glass. “A toast, Nicolai, for your return to us.” Kalinin raised his glass, then drank a small mouthful.

Vazov sat at the head of the table. “Now, Nicolai, do you want to talk about what happened?”

Kalinin leaned back, and began. When he finished, Vazov asked, “And those men were the same who took the weapons from the cargo vessel?”

“While I am not positive, it seems to be the most logical.”

“And Comrade Vikulin. Was his body left at the airfield in Shannon?”

“No, sir. His body was put onboard. Oh, Mr. Ambassador, my American passport was on the aircraft, and the agents confiscated my Russian one. I… ”

“Do not worry. I will see that a new diplomatic passport is ready.” Vazov took another sip of his drink, wondering if it was the right time. He needed to know more. “Did the agents identify themselves when you landed?”

“No, sir. I didn’t see any badges, and they remained quiet during the whole trip.”

“Hmm. They must have been FBI. Do you know what airport?”

“The airport didn’t look familiar, and as soon as I was turned over to them, I was immediately put in a paneled van.”

“Do you remember where you were held?”

“Not specifically. I just remember the sound of traffic on the way. We stopped at, what I assume, were a lot of traffic lights. When we arrived at the destination, the van was parked in a garage, but it wasn’t a typical garage, more like a large, empty, concrete room. We took an elevator to a lower lever, then I was taken to a room and left there for hours.”

“Were you tortured, Nicolai?”

“No. Not at all, sir.”

Vazov sounded relieved, as he asked, “And what about interrogation?”

“Two agents questioned me, but they seemed to be pretty standard questions. I was fingerprinted, and had my picture taken.” He rubbed a hand over his face, then commented, “It was all very strange, Mr. Ambassador. It was as if they already knew… everything.”

“Do you know where they were taking you when you escaped?”

“No. They used the same type van. We had traveled perhaps twenty minutes when the accident happened. I remember seeing a road sign for Route 27 when I escaped.” Kalinin finally gave a very slight smile. “Is there a special place where they take ‘sleepers’ like me?”

Before Vazov could respond, a door from the kitchen opened, and two women, wearing housekeeper-type clothes, walked into the dining room carrying silver trays. Two serving plates each held shashlik, marinated lamb on skewers; pelmeni, dumplings with meat filling wrapped in thin pasta dough, and knish, a baked potato dumpling. For dessert, lymmonyk, a type of lemon pie.

A dinner plate was placed in front of Vazov who sniffed the aromas. “Ahh, Nicolai. Now you will experience good Russian food. How long has it been since you have eaten our food?”

“When my mother was alive, she would occasionally prepare my father’s favorite meals. But I have not eaten any since they died.” Kalinin glanced at the plate of food. His appetite was practically nil. The past couple of days had drained his mind and body. But, he ate slowly and what he could manage, if only to please the ambassador.

As they ate, Vazov continued asking Kalinin questions, and Kalinin answered as honestly as possible… for the most part.

“Nicolai, you are remarkable.”

“Sir?” Kalinin asked with eyebrows raised.

“Your escape from the Americans, then managing to come all the way into the city. Tell me how you managed to get here?”

“I rode with truckers. It was easy to stay out of sight riding with them. And with the possibility of the Americans watching the embassy, I felt the safest place to call from was the parking garage.”

“I see,” Vazov nodded, then pointed to the cuts on Kalinin’s face. “How did you manage to care for your wounds?”

“A trucker made a fuel stop at one of those large facilities. I was able to, uh, ‘lift’ a package of Band-Aids then cleaned up in the restroom.”

“Well, we will have our doctor check you over. You must relax, Nicolai. You are safe. Your country will protect you.”

“Sir, may I ask you something?” Vazov nodded. “Have you discovered the identity of the American traitor?”

Vazov wiped his mouth with a white linen napkin, then dropped it next to his plate. “As a matter of fact, we have.”

“Who? Who is he?”

“While we do not yet know his name, Misha followed him to his place of residence last night. Do you know, Nicolai, he actually demanded fifteen thousand American dollars for his information?”

“Am I to assume you refused?”

“Yes. Instead of money in the envelope, I left a note, telling him — as the Americans would say — to go to hell! We did not get our weapons, our brave comrades died. No! He would not get the money. And since we know where he lives, I am considering contacting him, making him aware we have damning information, with the threat of turning it over to the CIA or FBI, or maybe both.”

The two men continued talking throughout the meal, each surprising the other with news and information. Vazov leaned toward the table. “Nicolai, you are not looking well.”

“Just very tired. Is there a place in one of the offices where I could get some sleep?”

“Nonsense! There are four extra bedrooms here. Come. I will show you.” Vazov laid a hand on Kalinin’s back, noticing the soiled, blood-splattered clothes. “I will see that Comrade Yudin gets you new clothes tomorrow. Then perhaps we can discuss your ordeal further.”

Grant pulled his blue sweatshirt over his head, picked up his gym bag, then walked into the lobby of the Y. “Night, Charlie,” he waved to the manager.

“See ya, Mr. Stevens. I’ll lock up right behind you.”

Grant jogged down the steps then walked across the parking lot, digging his keys from his sweatpants. It wasn’t unusual for him to “help” close the facility. Friday and Saturday nights meant time for partying for thousands of D.C. workers, relieved the week was over. Tonight he had the entire pool to himself.

Lap after lap, his strong arms and legs had propelled him forward in the fifty meter pool. Clear, cool water streamed over his shoulders. His mind was free of worries. He wasn’t going for any record, and kept his breathing controlled, steady, as he swam thirty continuous laps. It wasn’t even close to his days in BUD/S, but he was a helluva lot younger then.

He tossed his gym bag on the passenger seat, then slid behind the wheel, glancing at his watch under the overhead light. He promised to call Adler when he got back, planning to discuss an upcoming meeting with President Carr. They wanted to be prepared for a serious G2.

He turned the key in the ignition, and the ‘big block’ engine roared to life. Shifting into first, he drove out of the parking lot and headed for his apartment. With the current traffic, it was going to take at least twenty-minutes. He reached for the radio dial, then put his hand back on the steering wheel, with the day’s events creeping back into his mind.

Twenty minutes later he pulled in front of the apartment garage gate, punched in a code on the box, then waited for the gate to lift. Parking was also available to non-residents, but they were required to deposit dollar bills into a slot, then park on the second level and above. Once parked, they had to leave through the entrance or back exit door. The elevator to the apartments required a code.

He drove slowly to the end slot, his assigned space, then turned in next to a Ford wagon, belonging to a family on the third floor. In his rearview mirror he saw the elevator doors closing.

Getting out, he stretched his arms high overhead, then reached for his gym bag. Slinging it over his shoulder, he walked to the elevator, and punched in the code. The elevator light showed floor number seven.

He heard footsteps and turned seeing a man hurrying toward the elevator. The man was middle aged, brown short hair, with streaks of gray.

“Evening,” Grant said.

“How are ya?”

“I’m good, thanks. How ’bout yourself?”

“Fine. Fine.” He glanced up at the lighted number, then turned again to Grant. “I’m visiting my daughter and grandkids. Got here from Ohio this morning.”

“Sounds like you’re going to have a busy stay. Hope you have a good visit,” Grant smiled. He looked up. The light showed “six.”

“Say, you don’t think my daughter will get in trouble for giving me the code to this place, do you?”

“It shouldn’t be a problem, sir.”

As Grant looked up at the lighted numbers, a blow to the back of his head knocked him unconscious. The “visitor” grabbed him before he hit the deck. Lifting Grant’s arm over a shoulder, he struggled walking to the exit door, as “Primex” held it open, carrying Grant’s gym bag. Keeping in the shadow of the alley, he backed up near the brick wall, trying to keep Grant upright, who was a good six inches taller.

“Primex” ran to the next street. Within a minute, he’d started the engine, then turned a corner, driving toward the alley. He threw the gearshift into park, then rushed to open the back passenger door, throwing the gym bag on the floor. Suddenly, a glare of headlights, and a sound of an engine made him duck. The other car kept moving toward Virginia Avenue.

When it was clear, he ran back to the alley, helping to get Grant to the car. They shoved him in the back seat, and working quickly, “Primex” removed a syringe from inside his jacket pocket, and took off the protective plastic cover. Pushing up Grant’s sleeve, he injected the solution.

“Let’s go!”

Doors slammed, and they drove away.

Adler punched in the code numbers, shoved the heavy glass door open, then walked through the brightly lit lobby, going directly to the elevator. It was already on ground level, but his impatience was obvious, as he stepped in then constantly kept pressing the button for the fifth floor. Keeping his eyes on the lighted numbers, he worried. He’d tried repeatedly to call Grant’s apartment and his car phone. Then, deciding enough was enough, he drove to the apartment building.

When the doors parted, he cautiously stepped into the hallway, glancing in both directions. Somewhere down the hall, he heard voices. Only a TV, he thought, letting out a breath.

As he went toward Grant’s door, he pulled a key from his pocket. Looking around one more time, he inserted the key in the lock, then turned it slowly, feeling the deadbolt beginning to give. Grabbing hold of the doorknob with one hand, he pulled his weapon from the holster, then he opened the door just wide enough to slide around. He immediately closed it. Just enough light filtered through slats in the blinds, but still, he waited as a precaution.

The apartment was eerily quiet. The only sound came from the steady drone of the refrigerator in the galley-style kitchen. Holding his weapon close, he began walking toward the living room, then stopped, turning his head to peer down a hallway leading to the only bedroom and bath. He went just beyond it, swiveling his head, trying to see any telltale signs of a struggle — or body. Nothing. Nobody. His mind was telling him Grant wasn’t here, but he needed to check the bedroom anyway. Again, nothing. He put the weapon back in the holster, then flipped on the hall overhead light.

Standing near the front door, he scanned the room again. Nothing was out of place, but there was definitely something wrong. “Goddammit,” he said through clenched teeth.

He shut off the light, locked the door, then took the elevator to the garage. Pulling his jacket down over his holster, he kept watching the lighted floor numbers above the doors. The elevator lurched to a stop. “C’mon!” he said, impatiently waiting for the doors to open. He rushed off, taking a quick look around. Nobody was in sight, no engines running. He spotted the Vette, parked in its usual space. “Oh fuck!” he said quietly. In a way he’d hoped the car hadn’t been there, but this reinforced the fact — something had happened to Grant.

He made a visual inspection around the car. No signs of forced entry. He rubbed a hand over his head. “Maybe his keys, or maybe he dropped something,” he said quietly. Getting on his hands and knees, he started crawling on filthy concrete, looking around the tires, feeling behind them. Nothing. He rolled on his back, frustrated and extremely worried. A sound of a car coming into the garage made him scoot sideways under the Vette. Tires screeched as the unknown vehicle rounded the curve going to the second level. It grew quiet again.

Suddenly, a thought hit him. “Can’t be!” He squirmed under the frame, then began reaching, feeling along and behind door sills. His fingers touched something just behind the passenger door sill. He yanked it off. A homing device. He sat up, staring at the small black box. “What the fuck?”

It didn’t answer the question where Grant was, but now it confirmed the fact that whatever happened to him, he didn’t go voluntarily. It also brought up another disturbing question? Who and why was someone following him? The Russians were a real possibility. But why?

He got up slowly, checked it was clear, then he ran down the ramp, heading for the Mustang. Tires squealed as he pulled away from the curb. He had to get to his apartment and contact the whole Team, maybe even Mullins. There wasn’t any use to call the cops. They’d just tell him he’d have to wait twenty-four hours to report Grant missing. He wasn’t about to wait. But where the hell would he start?

“C’mon, Adler, get your fuckin’ brain working!”

A traffic light turned red, and he hit the brakes. The car skidded on the blacktop, coming to a stop in the crosswalk. He squeezed the steering wheel, then started talking to himself. “Is it possible?! Did ‘Primex’ have something to do with it?” No matter who was involved, there wasn’t a fucking clue to go on. Grant was out there somewhere. How the hell were they going to find him?

The light turned green. He stomped on the gas. The Mustang’s tires smoked and screeched, before grabbing hold of blacktop, leaving a black trail of rubber.

He hadn’t experienced it often, but the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach was not a good sign.

Grant started regaining consciousness, unaware of the cold, hard, rough concrete under him. His head throbbed. His body ached. He felt nauseous, dizzy. Just trying to open his eyes was difficult, and when he did, the room would spin wildly. Keeping them closed didn’t help much. Somewhere in the distance a horn blared, the sound penetrating his brain like a knife, and he clamped his hands over his ears, waiting for the sound and pain to stop.

Just as it subsided, he let out a moan, crossing his arms over his stomach, as sudden, excruciating pains made him ball up and roll on his side. He couldn’t prevent the vomit creeping up into his throat, then spewing out his mouth. Gagging, choking, he swiped a hand over his mouth and rolled on his back again. Sprawled out, he looked through half-opened eyes, trying to focus on the overhead, but dizziness prevented that. Even with his sweatsuit, low blood pressure caused chills to shake his weakened body.

Pure instinct made him attempt to get up, to move. Struggling, he rolled on his side again, then using every ounce of strength he could muster, he managed to get on his hands and knees. He wasn’t able to focus through the dizziness, but he thought he detected something ahead. A wall. He started crawling, barely able to stay in a straight line. But he had to get close, needing it for support, or else he’d never be able to stand. Beginning to feel nauseous again, he stopped and took some breaths.

The crawl seemed to take hours, but finally he reached out and touched the damp, rough, cinder block surface. He swallowed hard, trying to prevent puking. Pressing both palms against the wall, with his head hanging and eyes closed, he slowly, unsteadily started to stand, but his legs wanted to buckle. He leaned his forehead against the blocks, waited, then rolled on his back, spreading his legs apart for balance. Resting his head back, and keeping his eyes closed, he took short, slow breaths. Between the dizziness, constant puking, and low blood pressure, he wasn’t able to think clearly.

Then the pain picked up where it left off. He held his head with his hands, trying to stop the throbbing. Nauseousness struck, and he vomited again. His legs started giving way. Even before his body hit the floor, his world went dark.

Off and on during the next two hours he’d become semi-consciousness. The vomiting had all but stopped, when bouts of dry heaves picked up where they left off. With each attempt to stand, his legs would give out. He was weak, dehydrated, but at least the dizziness wasn’t as intense.

His conscious moments were brief, hardly long enough for him to figure out where he was. His brain captured distorted snapshots of pipes, ductwork, and wires hanging high above. Lights came and went, shining through an overhead window. Gradually, those lights no longer caused eye pain.

But he was still too disoriented to question, nor did he understand that everything he was going through was from the drugs wreaking havoc on his mind and body.

Slowly, he started coming around. The dizziness and nauseousness had begun to subside. He took long, deep breaths, trying to clear his brain, but instead, he inhaled a sickening, acrid odor. Dried vomit on his sweatshirt, on the concrete. He immediately rolled on his back, but his arms were caught under him. Struggling was getting him nowhere. Then his brain finally registered… his wrists were tied.

“What the…?!” His voice was hoarse, his throat raw, both caused by the vomiting and dehydration. He laid still, running his tongue over dried, cracked lips. Swallowing was nearly impossible due to lack of saliva.

A noise off to his left. Then a small light came on, nearly blinding him. He squeezed his eyes shut, when he heard a voice. “Well, finally awake, I see.”

Squinting, he turned his head left then right, but he couldn’t see anyone. A moment of dizziness, and he went still. Then, he tried sitting up, without success. A sound of footsteps coming closer, then something scraping against the floor.

“Need some help?”

Grant blinked, trying to clear his vision. When he looked to the side, who he saw left him dumbfounded. “Jack?!”

Without responding, Jack Henley reached under Grant’s arm, helped him up, then held onto him until he sat unsteadily in the wooden chair. Immediately getting down on a knee, Henley picked up a piece of rope, then quickly lashed Grant’s legs to the chair.

Henley came around to the front, staring down at Grant. “Yeah, it’s me.”

Dizziness overtook Grant, and his head rolled back. He opened his eyes wide, and he looked again at Henley, trying to understand. “What …?”

“Here. You look like you need a drink.” Henley unhooked a canteen from his belt, then unscrewed the top, letting it hang from a small chain. He held the canteen to Grant’s mouth.

Grant swallowed enough water, then coughed, but even plain water sent his stomach churning. His brain started functioning better, but it didn’t clear his total confusion or answer the question: why the hell didn’t Henley untie him?

Henley screwed the top back on the canteen, then dropped it on the concrete. Grant flinched from the sound.

“Jack, what… what’s goin’ on?!” His voice sounded gravely, but he answered his own question when his eyes fell on a Beretta tucked in Henley’s waistband. “Jesus Christ, Jack! You’re… ‘Primex’?!” He nodded to himself, as he understood the code name: Primary explosive. EOD. Henley was in charge of the EOD team at St. Mawgan, England.

Henley drew the weapon from his waistband, then held it behind his back. “Finally pulled one over on the ‘great’ Grant Stevens.”

Grant was beyond surprised, trying to understand Jack Henley. When they met in England, after all the years that had passed since they graduated from the Naval Academy, Henley made some statements to Grant with a hint of jealousy attached. But this… this was beyond reason. There had to be more to it. “Why, Jack?!”

Henley started his story. After resigning his commission, he returned to the States from England. Even though he was angry, lonely, and discontented, he took a job with the Department of the Navy as a paper-pusher, but a job. He had access to top secret information and was responsible for signing off on paperwork for the development of new weapons.

After a few months on the job, someone in his office approached him, probably from hearing his disgruntled comments on procedures, the Navy, and government in general. The two met several times before his new “friend” made a proposal: help provide information to the Russians on the upcoming delivery of top secret rifles.

Grant found it difficult to take in what Henley was telling him, part from the drugs and part from total disbelief. Apparently, Henley hadn’t even questioned the motives of the individual, nor did he even wonder if it could be a setup. The guy could’ve been FBI, CIA, Naval Intelligence. Instead, Henley jumped at the offer.

Then Henley added more to the unbelievable story. “Rumors started circulating about an ‘off the books’ team who made a daring rescue of two SEALs captured by the ChiComs. And you know what? Your name kept cropping up.” He waited, expecting some kind of response or reaction from Grant. Nothing. “I’ve been waiting for this moment for a long time.”

Grant tried focusing on Henley through squinted eyes. “You must’ve had a million chances. Why not sooner, Jack? Just me! Four… four good men died because of this fuckin’ deal you made!” He coughed, and forced a swallow.

“You’re so fuckin’ right! And if it wasn’t for my ‘associate,’ I would’ve. Believe me. But he insisted I wait until the operation was completed.”

“Who… who was the asshole?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Yeah. I would. What difference does it make? I have a feeling it won’t matter.”

Henley didn’t answer immediately. Grant was correct in his assumption. It wouldn’t matter, not for what he had planned. “Easton. Fred Easton.”

Grant had a blurry picture of someone in his mind. A man. “The little bastard by the elevator?”

“Correct.”

A moment of dizziness caught Grant by surprise. He squeezed his eyes shut, tilting his head back, waiting for it to stop, as nauseousness crept over him. “What the …?”

“Still not feeling so hot?”

Only then did Grant make the connection. Drugs. “Jesus! What the. hell. did you… give me?”

“Couldn’t pronounce them if I tried.”

The dizziness slowly subsided. He kept trying to untie the rope, but his fingers just wouldn’t work. “How’d you manage to find me tonight? How’d you know where I’d be? You couldn’t have posted surveill … ” His eyes narrowed as he answered his own question. “A homing device.”

Henley nodded. “Even that didn’t make it easy. You kept ‘disappearing,’ sometimes for days at a time. Your precious Vette would stay parked in the garage. Of course, with my full-time job, I couldn’t always track you. I’m assuming that’s when you got most of your ‘work’ done.”

Grant still couldn’t imagine why the hell Jack Henley had become a traitor, and why he wanted him dead. “Why, Jack? A big fucking why’d you do it?”

“Doesn’t your current situation remind you of anything?”

“My current… situation?”

“The night you and Joe found me and Vicky at the old airfield in England. Isn’t this how you found us? Tied, beaten?”

Grant’s shoulders went slack. “This is about your wife?”

Henley waved the gun in front of him. “You’re goddamned right it’s about Vicky! Isn’t that reason enough?! She died because of you!”

Grant was stunned. He was still weak from low blood pressure, and his voice kept giving out. But he couldn’t let it go, and he verbally struck back. “Vicky took her life because she couldn’t come to terms with what she did! She betrayed you, Brits, Americans, and herself! And you know that’s the… fucking truth, Jack!”

Henley stepped directly in front of him, leaning close. “No!” he shouted. “You and Joe took your fuckin’ time trying to find her even when I asked you to! All you could think about was tracking down that sonofabitch Labeaux or talking to Torrinson, when you could’ve been looking for her!”

Grant suddenly realized Henley had “gone off the deep end” months ago. If he could only convince him he needed help… before he pulled the trigger.

“Jack, look, right now we both need to calm down. C’mon. Untie me. Once we’re outta here, we’ll find… ”

“Bullshit!”

Grant took a deep breath. Okay. Different approach. “Listen, Joe and I made our decision to retire in part because of what happened to Vicky.”

Henley slowly lowered the Beretta, trying to make sense of Grant’s statement. “You… ”

“That’s right! Don’t you think for one goddamn minute her death didn’t weigh heavy on us, too, Jack! Why do you feel so goddamn sorry for yourself?”

“What the fuck do you mean?”

Grant closed his eyes, as dizziness swept over him again. His voice was getting more hoarse. “What?”

“I said, what the fuck do you mean?!”

“Oh, yeah. Do you believe you’re the only one who’s lost somebody close?”

“What does that have to do with you and me?!”

Grant took a deep breath. His brain was telling him to keep talking, bide for extra time. But he didn’t know why. “I lost my wife, too.” Henley’s eyes narrowed, and he shook his head. Grant continued, “I’m… I’m pretty sure I told you… that night we ran into each other at that pub. My wife Jenny died while I was in Nam. I couldn’t get home in time to be with her. She died, all alone. I never forgave myself,” he added quietly. A longer moment of coherency and Grant struck back. “But you were the only one who could’ve stopped your wife, gotten her help. Why didn’t you, Jack? Because you’re nothin’ but a weak ‘dick!’” Uh-oh, Grant thought.

“You sonofabitch!” Henley lunged forward, swinging his weapon, the barrel striking just above Grant’s temple.

Grant’s body rocked sideways, the chair nearly tipped over. Dazed, he felt warm blood dripping down the side of his head. His vision blurred, but he could tell Henley was backing up with his Beretta held at arm’s length. Even if he could somehow move out of the line of fire, turn, fall over, anything, Henley would take more than one shot.

Grant lowered his head. He pushed too far. He had to face the fact — he was a dead man. He exhaled almost all the breath left in him. After all the combat missions, Vietnam, the death traps, hell holes, all the risks taken, yet here he was about to die in a dark, damp basement, at the hands of a former Navy commander.

Henley kept backing up until he was ten to twelve feet away, making sure he had an easy, accurate shot.

Grant was powerless to do anything. “Jack, don’t. do. this.” But he knew it was going to happen. “Jack!!”

Henley took aim, and pulled the trigger.

Two bullets found their mark. One struck Grant in the right shoulder, just missing his collarbone, the jolt sending him and the chair backwards. His head hit hard on the concrete, knocking him out.

The second round penetrated Henley’s chest. The impact from the hollow point slammed his body against the wall, with the round fragmenting, maximizing tissue damage, causing rapid blood loss. He fell forward. His body landed on the concrete with a sickening thud.

Fred Easton walked past Grant, verifying he was unconscious, then he stood over Henley’s body. He knelt on one knee, with his S&W .357 Magnum held tightly. With the size of the wound, and the amount of blood loss, Henley should’ve been dead, but Easton checked for a pulse anyway, surprised to find one, weak, but still beating. Standing up, he kept looking at the man who had mentally lost it.

In the beginning, he was confident they could pull it off. He also believed he would never come under suspicion for the theft of top secret documents. Henley had assumed full control. But then Henley found his chance to turn the theft into a personal vendetta, telling him he planned to kidnap, then kill Grant.

They could have ended it right after they drove away from the garage, in some deserted field, or alley, or even the river. Instead, they brought Stevens here, to suffer, as Henley put it. Easton saw there was only one way to end it, to protect himself. He’d get rid of Henley.

He checked for a pulse again. Nothing. Turning away, he walked back toward Grant. He debated. Should he finish what Henley started? Stevens not only knew his face, but his name as well. He’d just answered his own question. He moved his arm forward, aiming the weapon at Grant’s head.

An explosion of sound erupted within the confined space, as Adler and Novak came rushing in, firing simultaneously. Rounds struck Easton in center mass, with more penetrating the upper chest. His body spasmed as each round hit him. He stumbled backwards, falling against the cinder block. Staring down, unbelieving at blood pouring from his chest, he slowly slid down the wall, his body crumbling.

Adler and Novak cautiously moved forward, keeping their weapons aimed. Adler knelt near Grant, but kept his eyes on Easton.

Novak moved closer, kicked away the .357, then got down on a knee, and checked the carotid artery. “Deceased,” he said as he crawled over to Henley’s body. “Ditto.”

They holstered their weapons. Novak crawled next to Grant, as Adler’s knife sliced through the ropes binding his wrists and legs. Then they lifted him off the chair and laid him on the floor.

Adler crawled behind him, then sat on his own haunches before gently lifting Grant’s upper body off the concrete. He scooted closer, enough for Grant to rest against him, keeping his shoulders above his heart. Novak pressed his hand over the wound. Blood flowed more swiftly then they expected.

“Mike, I’ll take over,” Adler said, trying to quell the amount of blood flowing. “You call for an ambulance. And bring in that medical bag!” Novak ran from the basement. As he got outside, in the distance he heard a faint sound of sirens — cops! Someone had called 911.

Grant started coming around, beginning to feel the pain in his shoulder, and again in his head. Somewhere in his subconscious he heard a voice.

“Skipper! Come on! Look at me.” Adler was really worried. Grant’s face was drained of all color. Then, his eyelids started opening, and he blinked a couple of times. He was feeling pressure against his shoulder, then the voice called again, “Come on! Open your eyes!”

He slowly rolled his eyes toward the sound. The person wasn’t quite in focus. He closed his eyes, thinking he was hallucinating again.

Adler unscrewed the canteen top, then held it close to Grant’s mouth. “See if you can drink.”

Cool water dripped on his dried, cracked lips, and he managed a small mouthful. He opened his eyes and looked overhead as the face finally came into focus. “Joe?”

Adler smiled. “None other.” Grant tried sitting up, but Adler gently pulled him back. “Stay where you are.”

Novak came rushing in. “Ambulance is on the way.” He knelt down, pulled out a battle dressing, then tore it open. He took over for Adler and pressed it against Grant’s shoulder. “How ya doin’, boss?”

“Bastards shot me full of… something.”

“You mean other than a bullet?” Novak chuckled.

Grant managed a nod, then focused on Adler. “I thought I was dead, Joe.”

“You came pretty damn close.”

Confused, Grant asked with a raspy voice, “What happened?”

“Don’t you remember?”

Grant forced his brain to work. “Jack. Where’s… Jack?”

“He’s dead.”

“You?”

Adler shook his head. “Don’t know who the guy was, but I assume Jack was shot by his ‘associate.’ And, yes. He’s pretty much dead, too.”

“Easton.”

“What?”

“I… I think his name’s Easton.” Grant let out a short grunt. “I’m gonna puke.”

Adler immediately reacted. “Mike, keep holding that dressing. I wanna get him on his side.” He succeeded just in time. He poured some water in his palm, then washed around Grant’s mouth. “Feeling better?”

“Not much.”

“Here. Rinse your mouth, then spit.”

Two different sounds of sirens started growing louder. Ambulance and cops. “Mike, go wait for them. I’ll take over. And Mike! Call Scott!” Novak took off.

Adler kept a hand on the battle dressing. “Help’s here, Skipper. Hang in there.”

As he waited, Adler started worrying, and not just about Grant. Two dead men, one with multiple bullet holes in him, all fired from his and Novak’s weapons. Overkill? Maybe. But not in Adler’s mind, not when the bastard had a .357 pointed at his friend’s head, who was unconscious. One saving grace was that forensics would determine the caliber bullet that killed Henley was from the Magnum. Eventually, the cops would get their answers.

“And then there’s the President,” he said under his breath. “It just keeps getting better and better.”