Hostage Zero

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The jungle had grown progressively thicker during the four-hour ride from Evan’s first prison compound. Mile after mile, the foliage pressed ever closer to their SUV as the road disappeared to little more than a trail. All the jungle had to do was take a deep breath, and the road would disappear completely.

Evan rode in the backseat next to a white man who seemed nearly as out of place as Evan did. He didn’t say anything, but he kept casting glances to the boy and then returning his eyes to the front as soon as Evan caught him looking. Stare away, Evan thought. No harm in that. But if he even thought about touching him, he’d wish he hadn’t.

As Evan had told Father Dom in the past, there wasn’t much good to come out of a shitty childhood, but you learned how to take care of yourself. If those assholes back at the school had attacked when he was awake instead of sound asleep, he wouldn’t be here right now.

He might not be alive, but he sure as hell wouldn’t be here-wherever here was. And the people who took him would be blind and walking funny.

“I am Mitch,” his seatmate said, extending a friendly hand. “And you are Evan, no?” The English was fine, but he had a different kind of accent. Sort of a cross between Mel Gibson (when he was being Aussie) and Michael Caine being Alfred the butler.

Evan looked at the hand, but didn’t move to shake it.

“So, you are fourteen?” Mitch pressed.

“Don’t talk to me, you fuckin’ perv,” Evan spat. He turned away to look out the window. He’d seen guys like this before. If you let them believe for even a second that you were an easy mark, they’d think they could do whatever they wanted.

The hand remained outstretched, unmoving. “Believe it or not, Evan, I am your friend.”

Evan tried ignoring him, but when the words wouldn’t dissolve into the air, he turned back around to face the man. “My friend, huh? Well, Friend Mitch, how ’bout you take me home?”

Mitch rolled his hand closed and replaced it on his lap. “I know that is what you would like me to do,” he said, “but for the moment that is not possible.”

The SUV hit a huge rut, jarring all of them, and making Evan feel good about putting his seat belt on. He kind of hoped that the bump might have knocked the others out, but was disappointed that they’d been wearing their seat belts, too.

“If you wanted it, it would be possible,” Evan said.

“Actually, no,” Mitch corrected. “I’m sure it’s difficult for you to understand, but even I could not make that happen.”

“ Even I could not make that happen,” Evan parroted, mocking the accent. “It really sucks to be a victim, doesn’t it? Just you and me, sharing a jail cell.”

Mitch looked amused as he folded his arms and legs and nestled himself into the corner near the door. “Has anyone put you in a jail cell?” he asked.

The sudden change in demeanor made the boy uncomfortable. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but Mitch was projecting a new air of menace.

“It’s a real question, Evan. Have you seen the inside of a cell here?”

“I’ve seen my share,” Evan grumbled.

“I mean since you’ve been a guest with us. Have you seen a cell?”

“Yeah. That shitty little room where I woke up.”

Mitch raised a forefinger and wagged it slowly, duplicating the movement of his head. “That was a hut,” he said. “Every bit as nice as all the other huts in the camp. Only, unlike the others who live there, you had accommodations to yourself. You were being treated not as a prisoner, but as a guest.”

“Bullshit.”

“Such foul language from such a little boy.”

“I’m not as little as you think I am,” Evan said.

The smile returned. “Indeed. Have you been bound and gagged? On this trip, I mean.”

“Worse. I’ve been drugged.”

Mitch acknowledged the point with a twitch of his head. “But since you’ve awakened. No ropes? No handcuffs?”

“Doesn’t mean I’m not a prisoner,” Evan said. He genuinely didn’t like this man.

Mitch held his gaze for a few seconds, then turned to the men in the front seat. “Tito,” he said, drawing the driver’s eyes to the rearview mirror. He said something in Spanish.

The driver looked surprised, and Mitch repeated himself.

The driver spoke to the guy in the shotgun seat, and then brought the vehicle to a stop, right in the middle of the trail.

Mitch gave another command, and the electric lock on Evan’s door popped up. “Okay, go,” Mitch said.

Evan looked at the door, and then at Mitch, unsure what to do.

“Go ahead,” Mitch said, making a shooing motion toward the door. “You say you’re a prisoner, and I say you are free to go. So go.”

It had to be a scam, Evan thought. He’d open the door, and they’d shoot him. Or maybe they’d just drag him back inside and punish him for having failed some half-assed loyalty test.

“Go on,” Mitch said again, shooing more energetically this time. “Get out. Be free.”

Evan shifted his eyes back and forth again. What was he supposed to do? If he stepped out, then what? He was in a goddamn jungle, for God’s sake, nowhere near the top of the food chain anymore. He didn’t move.

“It’s no longer your choice,” Mitch said. His tone had turned harsh. “Get out of my fucking car.”

Evan felt the panic building. If he stepped out of the car now, and if they drove off, he’d be dead in days-sooner if the snakes and cougars and whatever the hell other creatures out here had anything to say about it.

Mitch unclasped his seat belt and leaned across Evan’s chest to pull the latch on the door and push it open. “If you make me physically throw you out, it will hurt you. Badly.” He popped the latch on the boy’s seat belt and pushed him toward the open door.

Evan shot his arms out to the side, bracing himself against the doorjamb with one hand while the fingers of the other tried to find something to grab onto in the leather seat. But his fingernails weren’t long enough. “No!” he yelled.

Mitch pushed harder. “I said get out of my car!”

The man turned in his seat and used the sole of his shoe to push him. Evan tried to hold on, but he could feel his butt slipping. One cheek cleared the seat, and he kicked out with his foot, snagging the map pocket behind the shotgun seat with his toes.

But it wasn’t enough. After three more inches, it was all about gravity. He felt himself slipping toward the ground. His right elbow and hip rebounded off the filthy chrome running board, and then he was surrounded by weeds. It was like drowning in green. For a moment, there was no up or down; leaves were everywhere.

He heard the door slam and felt the percussive thump that went with it. They gunned the engine. Not knowing where the tires were, Evan dropped to his side and curled up, trying to make himself the smallest possible target so that he would not get hit by the heavy vehicle. In his mind, he imagined his legs being slowly crushed under the tires. For the first time since he awakened in that shack, he felt real fear. Paralyzing fear.

“Don’t leave me!” he yelled, still curled in a fetal ball. His feet found the ground, and he stood. He could barely see the top of the truck above the high foliage. “Please don’t leave me!” He shrieked it this time. To his own ear, his voice sounded high and squeaky, like a girl’s.

He had to find the road. Without that, he knew he’d be lost forever. And once he found it, he could run after the truck and convince them not to leave him behind.

The road-the path, really-couldn’t be but a few yards away, but as he took his first step toward where he thought it was, a vine or some damn thing snagged his ankle and made him fall. Everything here was wet. The whole world smelled of mildew and rot.

Of dead things.

Of dead boys.

“Don’t leave me!” he shrieked.

A second attempt to run made him fall again, so he decided to crawl. Sticks scraped the bare flesh of his back and belly as God only knew what stabbed at his hands and knees. Effectively blind in the foliage, he pressed forward. They were driving away, for God’s sake. He had to press forward. If he stopped-if he even slowed-they’d be too far away, and he’d never be able to catch up.

His head broke into the clearing first. Actually, it wasn’t a clearing as much as it was the absence of jungle. Leafy shit stopped brushing his face and shoulders, and all at once it felt as if there was more air to breathe.

It was the roadway. It had to be. It had wheel ruts. What else could it be?

But there was no truck.

“Hey!” he yelled. In return, he got only the sounds of a million insects and other creatures that he wanted nothing to do with. He had no intention of being something’s dinner tonight.

He turned to his right, the direction where the truck had driven off and started walking-a slow, dejected gait at first, burdened with the knowledge that he’d been left to die. A horrible daytime nightmare image of his body being ripped apart by vultures invaded his mind. He saw the stringy cords of his flesh and his intestines being pulled free of his carcass-just the way he’d seen buzzards and crows consume roadkill at home-and he picked up his pace.

Maybe there was still a chance that he could catch the SUV. Maybe they hit a rut in the road or they had to cross a stream so they’d have to slow way down. That would give him time to catch up.

But he had to move faster. He started to jog, and then to run. Rocks and sticks dug at his bare feet, but he didn’t feel any pain. There wasn’t room for pain today.

He picked up his pace even more, pumping his arms the way that Mr. Jackson, the PE teacher at the RezHouse and taught him. Evan had always been a good runner-a good athlete in general-and Mr. Jackson had taken a special interest in him. He said that he might be good enough to get a scholarship one day, but that when you get to that level of competition, all the little things mattered. Like pumping your arms just-so to get a little more out of every stride.

God, it was hot! As Evan rounded the first turn in the road, he felt the soaked, greasy tendrils of his hair bouncing against the back of his neck, and he swiped them away from his eyes. A hill loomed ahead, not steep but long.

Don’t stop, he told himself. Stopping was too easy. That meant that dying was too easy. If he was going to die, it was going to be from exhaustion or dehydration. It wasn’t going to be for his nutritional value. He lowered his head and forced himself on. He watched his feet instead of the terrain because the terrain was too depressing.

How could people live in this heat?

After eighty-five steps, it became easier. He hadn’t even realized that he’d been counting. When he looked up, he saw that he’d crested the hill.

And there was the SUV, a hundred feet away. He could hear the engine idling above the noise of the insects.

Mitch stood at the back bumper. He wore all khaki, long pants with a short-sleeved shirt open at the neck. He’d assumed an expectant posture, leaning against the spare tire, his arms folded and his feet slightly extended and crossed.

Evan stopped at the sight of the man. He froze in his tracks, his chest heaving, his eyes stinging from sweat. He swiped at them with the palms of his hands, but that only made them sting more. Gasping for air, and his heart pounding, his body wanted to collapse onto the ground, but his brain wouldn’t let him-wouldn’t give Mitch the satisfaction.

Seeing the smirk on the man’s face, Evan understood right away that he’d been played. Just like with most grownups, this was all about power. You need me, kid was the message. Without me, you’ve got nothing.

“Yeah, well you need me, too,” Evan mumbled aloud. He was done running. He kept his stride as casual as his trembling legs would allow as he closed the distance to the truck.

“Took you long enough,” Mitch said with a mocking smile.

Evan said nothing as he headed for his door. As he passed within range, Mitch reached out for him, but Evan twisted out of the way. “Don’t touch me,” he said.

He was vaguely aware that both the driver and the shotgun guy were also out of the car, watching with amusement.

Mitch seemed startled by Evan’s speed. He folded his arms again. “You don’t learn so good, do you, kid?”

Evan said nothing.

“Now, you need to ask permission to get back into my truck.”

Evan didn’t fully understand the look in the guy’s eyes. The way he kept shooting quick glances to the other men, he almost looked embarrassed.

Evan started for the door again, and again Mitch tried to grab his arm.

“Don’t fucking touch me!” Evan shrieked. The fierceness of his tone startled the henchmen.

“Don’t fucking tell me what to do!” Mitch shouted back. “Now, either you ask permission to get back into that vehicle-either you show some respect-or I swear to God I’ll leave you out here to die.”

Evan had never felt his heart hammer so hard. In the past, on the few occasions when he’d found himself in this kind of blustering power play, the worst that would come from the ensuing fight might be a busted nose or a loosened tooth. Here, the penalty for being wrong was the biggest one there was.

But the rules don’t change with the size of the bully. You can’t ever afford to show weakness. What was it that Father Dom always said? Victory can be claimed, but surrender has to be offered. To Evan, it was a fancy way of saying, Die trying.

“ You kidnapped me, remember?” Evan shouted. “You can’t let me die.”

This time, as he walked toward the car door, he noticed that the henchmen seemed amused, even as Mitch clearly could think of nothing to say.

Evan planted himself back in his seat, closed the door, and fastened his seat belt.

Apparently, in the world of killers and spies, it was never allowable to meet in the same place twice, at least not within too short a time. Thus, the food court at Pentagon City was out, and Founders Park in Old Town Alexandria was in.

If Jerry Sjogren had had his way, they would have met in an underground parking garage a la All the President’s Men, but Brandy Giddings had aborted that idea before it could even take a breath. If she was going to be killed by some whack job, she wanted the murder to be witnessed by as many people as possible.

She’d followed Sjogren’s orders to the tee. Metro from the Pentagon to the Braddock Road Station, and then two taxis just in case: the first one to Reagan National Airport and then a second to the Torpedo Factory-a trendy artists’ colony located in a building on the Potomac River that had in fact manufactured torpedoes through the end of World War II. From there, it was an easy stroll to the park.

Brandy had promised herself that Sjogren would be the one made to wait this time; yet even though she arrived ten minutes late, the man was nowhere to be seen. She considered the possibility that her tardiness had pissed him off and he’d left, but then she remembered that this was his meeting, not hers.

She randomly chose an empty bench and waited to be found.

She never heard him approaching from behind.

“We playing power games now, Missy?” Sjogren boomed from a few feet away on her blind side.

“Jesus!”

Sjogren walked around to her side of the bench and sat next to her. “Being late never gives you the upper hand,” he scolded. “Just so you know. I’ve been here for forty-five minutes. I can tell you everything about everyone we can see, and I watched you arrive. You looked right at me, you know.”

She’d had no idea.

“They call it tradecraft, and if you’re going to play these spooky kinds of games, you’d do well to learn some of it.”

She looked away, stung by the rebuke. It was a little like disappointing your grandfather. Your burly homicidal grandfather.

“Besides, it’s rude to keep people waiting,” he said.

“I’ll keep it all in mind for the future,” Brandy said, struggling to recover face. “I thought you were supposed to be hunting for a homeless guy.”

“In due time. But first I thought you should know that things have gone even further to hell since last time we spoke.”

The familiar fist returned to Brandy’s stomach. She didn’t realize that it was possible to sink farther than dead bottom.

“A private investigator visited Frank Schuler today,” Sjogren went on. “They’ve connected the dots to Sammy Bell’s organization, and they know that Bruce Navarro is involved.” He recounted the details of the conversation he’d heard in the digital audio file he’d received from a contact in the Virginia Department of Corrections.

Indeed, the bottom was only the beginning. “This is unbelievable,” Brandy said. “We go through all of this, only to be taken down by some Lincoln Rhyme wannabe?”

Sjogren clearly understood the reference to the star of Jeffery Deaver’s novels. “I don’t believe I used the phrase, ‘taken down,’” he said. “I’m just reporting facts as I know them.”

He reached into his shirt pocket and produced a folded piece of paper. “I have a research project for you,” he said, handing it to Brandy. “Give me everything you can dig up on this guy.”

Brandy read the name. “Who is Jonathan Grave? Is this the investigator who visited Schuler?”

Sjogren shook his head. “No. That was a lady named Gail Bonneville, an up-and-comer in the Indiana Democratic Party until a shoot-out caused her to resign as sheriff in a little town called Samson. She left that gig to join on with that guy Grave.”

Brandy tried to give back the piece of paper. “Find out for yourself,” she said. “You seem to be doing just fine on your own.”

Sjogren let the note hover between them. “Not this guy,” he said. “I can tell you that he grew up as Jonathan Gravenow in Fisherman’s Cove, and I can tell you that he runs a company called Security Solutions, which in turn employs Ms. Bonneville.”

He paused, and when Brandy tried to repeat her suggestion, he raised his hand for silence.

“I know that he joined the Army,” he continued, “sometime after changing his name from Gravenow to Grave. His father is Simon Gravenow, a mobster now pulling a life stretch in federal prison.”

Another pause. “Sounds like you’re doing just fine,” Brandy said. “I don’t want to have anything to do with this. Our office cannot be linked in any way to-”

“Yours is the only office that can do it,” Sjogren interrupted. “After he entered the Army, he disappeared. I’ve got him through basic training and Ranger school, but then he’s gone. Nothing. Then I find out that he doesn’t even have a set of fingerprints on file. Call me crazy, but that sounds like a guy who learned special enough skills in the military that Uncle Sam made him invisible.”

Brandy chose to say nothing.

“That means, Missy, that your office is the only one that can do the research I need done.”

Brandy understood the implications-that this Grave guy was some kind of a spook-but she didn’t understand the urgency. “I can’t do this sort of data mining on my own,” she said. “I’ll have to involve others. It seems to me that the risks posed by expanding the universe of knowledgeable parties outstrips the benefit of gaining a couple more data points.”

Sjogren’s face morphed to a patronizing sneer. “Please tell me you’re faking right now. Tell me that you’re not really that dense.”

Brandy felt heat in her cheeks.

“We’re talking about a man with ties to the mob who also has commando training. On the day when two of my best men disappear, an associate of G.I. Joe goes right to the heart of everything in a Virginia prison. Given all of that, you only see data points? Again, please tell me you’re faking.”

Now I wish I was, she thought.