Cybernarc (6 page)

So they’d decided that their celebration would be tonight, Friday night.

The traffic was moving faster now as he emerged from the depths of the Roads Tunnel and onto the broad ribbon of highway spanning the southern half of Hampton Roads. Below him, the late afternoon sun danced and sparkled on the water. Twenty more minutes and he’d be home.

Meagan.
His thoughts turned again to his wife. He’d been so tired last night he scarcely remembered their time in bed, but it seemed that he could still feel her caresses as she’d drawn him close.

Lovely, raven-haired Meagan Drake had put up with a hell of a lot as a Navy wife. As they both were fond of saying, it was a damn good thing she loved him. A bumper sticker seen frequently on automobiles in the Norfolk area told it all: "Navy Wife—It’s the toughest job in the Navy!”

The separations were the worst, especially the unexpected ones that began with a phone call in the night. More often than not, he hadn’t even been able to tell Meagan where he was going, and only rarely could he say when he’d be coming home.

Somehow, though, she always seemed to know. Combat vets weren’t the only ones to know and use that sixth-sense instinct.

Off the bridge now, he took the Northampton Boulevard exit, escaping the slow-moving base traffic on 64 and swinging into the suburban arrays of neat homes and small yards along Cape Henry Street not far from the spires of Virginia Wesleyan College. He turned the Alliance into his driveway, set the brake, and got out.

A C&P van was parked across the street. He wondered if the neighbors were having phone problems. Nearby were several motorcycles he didn’t remember seeing before.

Curious. This was a quiet neighborhood, usually— quiet if you discounted the fact that it lay under the traffic approach lanes to Norfolk International. Pocketing his car keys, he strode up the flagstone walkway, opened the front door, and stepped inside.

"Hey, Meg!” he called, walking into the living room. "Where’s my lover?”

Then something smashed against the base of his neck, catapulting him forward onto the carpet, red-shot blackness exploding inside his skull.

Somewhere, very far away, someone was screaming.

Drake blinked through waves
of pain, trying to clear his head, trying to
see.
He knew he’d been unconscious, but he had no way of knowing how long. He was lying
face down
on the living room carpet, the nap of the rug pressed uncomfortably against his cheek and nose. He tried to move and felt the cold pinch of steel against his wrists. His hands were handcuffed behind his back, and his ankles were pinned by something tough, rope or tape of some sort.

"Well, well,” a voice said from above and behind him. "Our SEAL friend is alive after all!”

The voice was familiar . . . and a growing, surprised horror gnawed its way up from the pit of Drake’s stomach. Ignoring the pain in his head, he rolled to the side until he could prop himself up on one elbow, and found himself looking up into a well-known face.

"Esposito!” The last time he’d seen the DEA man had been in the jungle clearing, seconds before the helicopter opened fire on the
snowdrop
SEAL team. "You’re . . . dead!”

He realized as soon as the words were out how silly that sounded. If Esposito was alive, here, it could only
mean that he had been in on the Colombian ambush. Drake had not, after all, actually
seen
the man killed.

"As they say, my friend, the reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated,” Esposito said, rubbing his mustache. "Unfortunately, I’m afraid that yours will not be.”

"Chris!”

Meagan’s voice!

He wrenched himself around, horror mounting. There were four other men there, seedy, gutter-slime types in biker jackets and gang colors. Two, at least, had MAC-10 subguns. They were standing in the archway that connected the dining room with the living room. One held Meagan from behind, one arm pressed across her chest. Another held Stacy. Both mother and daughter had their hands tied behind them and were struggling against their captors.

"Meagan!” he gasped. "Stacy!” He twisted around to face Esposito. "You bastard! Let them go! Whatever your problem is, it’s with me, not them!”

Esposito continued smiling, his handsome Latin face maddeningly out of reach. "It’s a shame to have to involve your wife and daughter, I know. I’m truly sorry it has to be this way. But we have to make your death look accidental, you know.” He chuckled.
“‘Accidental’
may be the wrong word. Let’s say . . . 'misleading.’ ”

The thug holding Stacy reached around and began kneading her breasts through her T-shirt. She screamed and tried to pull away. "Hey, boss,” he said, laughing. "When does the fun start?”

"Patience, Julio. We’re waiting for a friend of mine.

You’ll get your fun after we’ve tended to business. Why don’t you put them down over there, then give the rest of us a hand?”

Roughly, the invaders shoved Meagan and Stacy onto the living room couch. One of them stood guard with a MAC-10 Ingram while the others vanished into other parts of the house. Drake could hear them moving about, and once he heard the metallic clang of a metal grate.

To Drake, it sounded like the grillwork over the forced-air heating ducts in the hall. Were they looking for something? What?

The sounds grew more violent, and once there was a crash that sounded like a ceiling lighting fixture being broken, followed by the dry, crumbling noise of broken plaster.

"God, Chris!” Meagan said. Her face betrayed her terror. "Oh God, Chris! Who are these people? You ... you know one of them?”

"Yeah, I know him.”

He hitched himself up to a sitting position, his eyes on the thug they’d left standing guard in the living room. The guy was in his early twenties, Drake guessed, wearing blue jeans and a tank top, with his long black hair pulled back in a ponytail. He was ponderously overweight, his beer belly hanging over the belt of his jeans. Brand-new cowboy boots graced his feet, and he held his MAC-10 with studied nonchalance.

"But who
is
he?” Meagan asked. "Where did
you—”

"Look, honey,” Drake said. He was terribly aware of what Esposito had said about a
misleading
death. "If you don’t know, maybe I can convince them to let you go. So no questions, okay? Just stay calm. It’ll be all right.”

But he knew it was not going to be all right. Why had Esposito shown himself? Drake had thought the man was dead, and if the DEA man had stayed out of sight, the SEAL would have kept on believing that.

So there was more to it than that, something important enough to make Esposito try to murder not only Drake, but Meagan and Stacy as well.

There was another loud crash from one of the bedrooms, then another. It sounded like they were using something heavy as a sledgehammer, to open up the wall.

"Daddy!” Stacy called from the couch. He could tell from her voice that she was on the ragged edge of panic. "Daddy, they’re in my room! What do they
want?”

"I don’t know, sweetheart,” he said. He kept his eyes on the guard.

The man took no notice of the destructive sounds coming from elsewhere in the house, but he leered at Stacy when she spoke, then walked over until he was standing over her. "I want you, little
puta
!
”
he said. He grabbed his crotch with his free hand and pumped his hips back and forth, brutally suggestive. "I’m going to have you, too!”

"Cool it, King Kong!” Drake barked. "Your argument is with me!”

The fat thug only laughed and reached for Stacy’s leg. She was wearing cutoff shorts, and his hand grabbed her bare thigh, eliciting a scream of pure horror.

"Get your hands off her!”
Meagan yelled.
"You bastard! Leave her alone!”

The guard whipped his hand around and struck Meagan across the mouth. "Silence, woman! I’ve got something for you, too, don’t worry!”

Driven by pure, burning rage, Drake lunged forward. With his hands and feet bound, he only managed an uncontrolled crash into the man’s leg, making their tormentor stagger back a step. Drake caught a blurred impression of one of the man’s cowboy boots snapping up toward his head. The blow caught him in the side of the face, stunning him, leaving him lying on his back with a roaring sound in his ears, his vision blurred, the pain in his head hammering away like naval gunfire.

"Enough, Ramon. Enough!” Esposito’s voice said. "Now, now, Lieutenant Drake. You should have saved your heroics for the jungle.”

Drake blinked his eyes open and looked up into Esposito’s cold eyes. "Listen,” he said. His voice, his breath rasped in his throat. He licked his lips, trying to bring moisture to them. "Listen, please,” he said again. He was desperate now, desperate for the lives of his girls. He knew in that moment that he would do anything,
anything
to save them.
Anything . . .

"The girls don’t know you,” he said. "They don’t know anything about you. They can’t hurt you! Let them go . . .
please.
...”

Esposito sighed and slowly shook his head. "You know, if only you’d had the grace to die in Colombia, none of this would have been necessary.” He spread his hands, as though helpless. "As it is, we do what we have to do.”

The three other intruders were back, methodically wrecking the house. They turned each large piece of upholstered furniture over, slashing with knives, pulling out the stuffing. They didn’t seem to be looking for anything. The destruction itself appeared to be all that mattered.

Esposito vanished for a moment into another room, then returned carrying a brick-size plastic bag filled with white powder and wrapped in tape. He was wearing leather gloves, concerned, apparently, about leaving fingerprints. Fumbling with the package a moment, he broke it open. White powder as fine as baking soda spilled on the carpet, misted the air. Cocaine, Drake thought. It can’t be anything else. . . .

"Hey, man!” one of the thugs, a lanky kid with one earring and a Grateful Dead T-shirt, protested. "That’s prime jam, man! Why you throwin’ it away?”

"Here.” Esposito tossed the half-empty bag at the kid. "Knock yourself out.”

"Outta sight, man.” The kid unslung his MAC, then dumped the remaining powder on the glass top of the dining room table.

Drake heard the sound of a car pulling up outside. Moments later, the front door banged open, and another man walked into the living room carrying a gym bag. Drake did not recognize him, a stocky man with blond hair. Like Esposito he was wearing gloves. "Got it,” the newcomer said.

"Any problems?”

"No sweat, Luis.” He opened the gym bag and extracted another MAC-10, handing it to Esposito. "It was hidden away in that little old storehouse, just like you said.”

Drake’s mind was racing, horror and revelation pursuing one another in tightening circles of madness. The newcomer spoke with an easy drawl, a Texan accent. . . .

Like the voice he’d heard on the radio while waiting for a dust-off in a Colombian field.

And he’d called Esposito Luis.

But the name was Emilio. Emilio Esposito of the DEA.

Esposito checked the weapon. "Okay, Chaco,” he said, addressing an evil-looking thug with a heavy beard. "Time to go. You have it all straight?”

"Sure, boss.” He grinned through the beard. "Thirty minutes, then let ’em all have it.”

"Bueno.
” He handed Chaco the MAC-10. "Be certain you use
this
weapon. Kill them all at the same time, drop the gun, and run before the neighbors can call the police.”

Chaco squinted at Esposito suspiciously. "You sure the cops won’t trace this to us, man?”

"Hey, Chaco!” Esposito said. "You’re my main man! We wouldn’t let any shit happen to you!”

"How come the special chatterbox, then?”

"That subgun,” Esposito said, "was used to pop a crack dealer in Richmond last week. When the cops find it here, they’ll figure the same guys did it.” "What about fingerprints, man?” He didn’t sound convinced.

"So wipe it off when you’re done! We just want the ballistics to match, man, okay? Cops’ll call it a gangland drug killing and let it go.” He reached out and patted Chaco’s face. "Don’t sweat it!”

"Piece a cake,” the fat guy, Ramon, said. "The Feds won’t have a thing oh us, hombre. We’ll be long gone!” "Yeah . . .”

"So finish up here. When you’re done, meet us at the usual place and you’ll get the rest of the money.” Esposito clapped Chaco’s shoulder, then handed him another packet of white powder, a smaller one this time, containing at best a few ounces. "Meanwhile, enjoy yourselves. Have a blast.”

Chaco grinned, pocketing the coke. "Okay, man. Pleasure doin’ business with you.”

Esposito paused, then walked over to where Drake was lying on the floor, still recovering from the kick in the head. He squatted and patted Drake’s shoulder. "Listen, guy. Nothing personal, okay?”

"You son-of-a-bitch bastard!” Drake lunged, trying to strike him, to
hurt
him. . . .

"Hey!” the blond man called from the doorway. "C’mon, Luis! Let’s haul ass, for Chrissakes! Diamond doesn’t want us anywhere around when this goes down, okay?”

"Go on, then!” Esposito stood again. "Anyway, Lieutenant, sorry it had to be like this. Just business, you know?” He turned and walked away. Drake heard the front door slam, followed a few moments later by the sound of engines starting up outside.

"Time for some fun now, eh, Chaco?”

"Keep your fly zipped, Ramon. We gotta slice up the
couch. You and Julio take the bitches into the bedroom. Arturo and me . . . hey, Arturo!”

The skinny guy looked up from the dining room table. He’d already emptied the powder onto the glass and was using his knife to create lines of the stuff.

"Get the fuck over here, Arturo,” Chaco ordered. "Do that shit later. Help me with the sofa.”

Julio and Ramon dragged Meagan and Stacy out of the room as Drake struggled into an upright position against the wall. Arturo and Chaco ignored him, concentrating on overturning the sofa. Using pocketknives, they began slitting the bottom, revealing the springs.

Breathing hard now with fear and exertion, Drake took stock of the situation. His hands were secured in handcuffs. That wouldn’t be a large problem; he was in excellent physical shape, lean and agile. The chain on the cuffs was long enough that he would have no problem working his hips through the circle of his arms, then drawing his knees and feet through. That would get his hands in front of his body where he could use them.

His feet were another matter. They’d strapped them together with a heavy gray tape . . . duct tape, he thought. He’d need a knife to cut it.