Crusader's Gold

TWELVE

The Gold Team left Istanbul in a hurry, their haste fueled by Michael Crouch who walked and talked and helped make their travel plans like a deep sea diver who’s suddenly realized he’s being tracked back to the surface by a great white shark. Through the hustle and bustle of Istanbul’s streets and the whirlwind packing at their hotel room, the chaos that was Ataturk Airport and their ferrying out to a private jet, Alicia remained calm, almost silent, giving Crouch the time he needed to better apprise his team of the impending threat.

Riley.

She wondered if this meant the treasure hunt was off. More importantly — would Crouch disband the team? She knew how his mind worked. Experienced, military trained soldiers or not he would think first about keeping them safe when the slaughterer they faced sought only him. In addition, there was the potential civilian collateral to consider. If Riley was actually the madman he appeared to be then moms and dads and children would not be allowed to stand in his way. Crouch needed time to assimilate all the specifics.

Once aboard the private jet, seated and knowing its destination was Venice, she cracked open a small bottle of water.

“We have less than two hours before we land.” She faced Crouch. “Best start talking, boss.”

Crouch sighed loudly as he made a point of addressing them all. “First, there’s nothing underhand going on. Everything between Riley and I is a matter of record. The man’s a certifiable maniac, born without a glimmer of conscience and perfectly capable of destroying half the world to get what he wants.”

“Which is you,” Alicia put in helpfully.

“Ah, yes. So it seems. I had hoped the bastard was stone cold dead.”

Alicia didn’t have to look for any animosity in Crouch’s tone, it was there undisguised for all to hear. “I’m guessing he kept tabs on you from whatever cesspool he’s been hiding in.”

“Riley holds grudges like an elected official holds the purse strings. Very tightly and close to his heart. No doubt he has known my every movement for years.”

“Why hasn’t he tried to kill you before?” Russo wanted to know.

Alicia glared at the rough-edged soldier. “Steady on, Rambo.”

Crouch reached for a miniature whiskey, one of half-a-dozen he had carefully placed in a line before him. “Riley is hands-on. Yes, he needs men to make an opportunity but he’ll want to do this himself.”

“So the big question,” Caitlyn said. “Is why?”

“Riley was SAS.” Crouch launched into the explanation as if from an often-revisited memory. “We trained together. He was good. We were good.” Crouch shook his head. “I underestimated him badly. More than once. Riley excelled right up until the last week of training…” He knocked back a neat shot. “When he disappeared. Now that just doesn’t happen, not when a man’s training for the Regiment. I was twenty three at the time and my friend had just caused one of the great mysteries within the SAS. Riley simply vanished out of sight, the promising career gone, his entire life gone. Left behind.”

“So what happened?” Russo asked.

Crouch spread his hands. “It’s still unexplained.”

Alicia tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “I still don’t get why he wants to kill you so… intensely.”

“Well, that’s because you don’t know the whole story yet. Riley was essentially dead to us for five years. You wonder about someone for that long, believe me, the reasons and scenarios you come up with would make for a fantasy novel. It became so bad I used to revisit the places I knew he’d frequented, make a nuisance of myself at his old haunts. No way could I believe a man like Riley could just disappear off the face of the fucking earth.” Crouch took a few moments and polished off a second miniature.

“Grief changes you,” Caitlyn said matter-of-factly. “Turns you into a different person. There’s no way you can be the person you were ever again.”

Alicia found her glance flicking momentarily toward the young girl. Caitlyn had experienced an immense upheaval recently in her life, something that had affected her entire way of existing. Alicia had been meaning to broach the subject but, as usual, incident and adventure had taken her away.

Crouch continued. “Indeed. As for Daniel Riley, my fears were not only unjustified but hugely wayward. Riley turned up five years later as a ruthless criminal, a tyrant with his filthy little fingers into just about everything. Some said he’d used the British Army to get his training, with a plan in mind all along. Others said he’d been recruited along the way and later killed his boss to take his place. The myths around Riley are numerous and relentless. I tend to think he was always bad, which is why I always believe that I intensely underestimated him.” Crouch shook his head, finishing the third whiskey. “It never happened again.”

Alicia noted that an hour had passed since they departed Istanbul. Soon, they would be descending toward Venice’s Marco Polo airport. “I’m guessing you two locked horns later?”

“The SAS were informed of Riley’s re-emergence days after it happened, but didn’t actually encounter him until 1997, some twelve years later. I was thirty five then and no longer a new recruit. I was a captain. Riley popped back up our radar simply because he’d gotten himself into a fix by meeting a client in a hotel lobby in India. This client was a notorious bomb maker, a known killer, and we were already on the scene, having no knowledge that Riley would be there. Seeing an opportunity I walked into the lobby, alone, to reason with them…”

Crouch felt himself growing distant, remembering the events of that day with a memory too clear, a conscience too bruised. It had been more than an awakening; beyond even a grueling rite of passage. As he entered a lobby packed with unwitting bystanders he thought about all that the reports said Riley had done. The murders. The tortures. The kidnappings. Deals with the Devil. It couldn’t be true, not totally. Riley had to have some ulterior motive. Perhaps he was working for one of the more covert government agencies. Undercover. Perhaps Crouch could now find out the truth.

The first person he saw was the bomb maker — tall, wrapped in silk, and sporting a thick beard. Beady little flashing eyes that could have belonged to either a rodent or one of Dante’s demons. Crouch knew instantly that this man’s slaying days would end today. Then, almost against their will his eyes found Riley. Was it really him? Would he be recognizable? What if—

But Riley had already seen him. It was as if an arrow shot between them — its trail a burning streak lined with old memories, old promises and a thousand unanswered questions. The intensity was so strong it stopped Crouch in his tracks and made Riley lose concentration, suddenly ignoring his client. The bomb maker caught on and turned, more prone to jumpiness than a kangaroo in mating season.

Riley rose quickly, surveying the entire scene as Crouch watched. In the next second he reacted in contradiction of Crouch’s expectations and smiled widely, waving the Captain over.

“Michael! Michael! So good to see you. How long’s it been? Ten years?”

“More.” Crouch, caught in the spotlight, walked over, now even more conscious of the many people milling all about. The bomb maker in particular would have a contingency plan and might even now have a finger close to the proverbial trigger.

“I wondered when we would meet again,” Riley said, in a tone implying absolute truth.

“I thought you might be dead. Buried in a ditch. Abducted and never found. I searched for you for many years.”

Riley clearly read and understood the pain and outrage in Crouch’s voice. “I never asked anyone to mourn me.”

“And what? You’re a terrorist now?”

Riley laughed, turning toward the bomb maker. “You’ll have to forgive my friend here. He’s a member of the SAS and not quite the stylish diplomat.”

The bomb maker took that as a sign to flee, hopping over the back of the chair and showing Crouch, for the first time, that he held a number of small tubes in his right hand. Crouch stared first at them and then back at Riley.

“What have you done? Can you not see all these people?”

“You just cost me fifteen mill, asswipe. Now you’ll be shoveling the remains of tourists up whilst I escape in my plane.”

Crouch lunged, shocked but unable to let it pass. “Did you sell him those bombs?”

“The mixing ingredients, yes.” Riley laughed, not an ounce of morality evident. “Now get the fuck outta—”

Crouch smashed him on the bridge of the nose, breaking it, then caught him under the chin. Riley flinched and grunted, shocked and reeling aside. Seeing that Riley left a small disc-like object on the low table, Crouch swept it out of reach. Riley stared at it.

“You don’t know what you’re doing, Michael.”

“I know you let the Regiment down. Let the Army down. I trusted you. Believed in you. And this… this!” Crouch attacked again, unable to help himself, dealing a blow that audibly snapped Riley’s jawbone. The ex-soldier buckled.

“Let… let them down?” he babbled, wincing from the new pain. “Get down on the floor, man, because I really want you to live through this. Live and prosper. Because one day… one day I’m going to make you pay.”

Crouch took Riley’s advice immediately, surprised as he reacted without thought. The explosion shook the lobby, sending chunks of debris through the air. The first noise Crouch heard an instant after the explosion was the bump next to him and then he set eyes on the first casualty.

A flight attendant, stopping in the city for the night, living and breathing and feeling but a moment ago, rendered a lifeless carcass through Riley’s actions.

Crouch turned away from the blank stare and the blood flow, saw Riley standing at the far end of the devastated room.

“One day,” Riley mouthed, making a gun of his hand and pulling the trigger. “One… fucking… day.”