Veil of Civility: A Black Shuck Thriller (Declan McIver Series) (64 page)

Declan ran furiously trying to intercept the dirt bike. Thirty yards from the cargo van, its rider jumped the slight incline at the edge of the trail and landed the bike on the road a few feet away. Declan jumped forward as the rear tire slid on the fine gravel and wrapped his arms around the rider's waist, bringing him and the bike to the ground, the shotgun sliding off his shoulder as they landed.

With a bellow of surprise, the man struggled to free himself from Declan's grip, throwing his elbow behind him and connecting twice with the side of Declan's head. Declan rolled away from the man and stood, the rider of the bike doing the same and turning to face his attacker with a threatening growl.

In the low light, Declan easily recognized the man in front of him as the same man he'd seen a week earlier when Abaddon Kafni had been murdered at the Briton-Adams Mansion. "Hello, Ruslan," he said, breathing heavily and assuming a fighting stance as he looked at the Chechen.

The Chechen narrowed his eyes as he pulled a long, serrated knife from inside his camouflage coat. "Who the hell are you?"

"Crossing guard," Declan quipped. "No motorbikes allowed in school zones."

The Chechen growled and launched forward with the knife. Declan blocked the attack with a sweep of his arm and thrust his fist into the side of Baktayev's jaw as the man stumbled past him. Baktayev absorbed the impact by turning with the strike and again attacked, this time stabbing downward. Declan grabbed the hand that held the knife as it came down and propelled the heel of his boot into the Chechen's stomach, rolling onto his back and allowing the man's momentum to carry him over. Baktayev landed on his back and the air rushed from his lungs in a painful gasp.

Declan raised himself to his feet and watched as the Chechen did the same, but with more difficulty. The man's crude fighting skills were clearly no match for him. "C'mon, Ruslan, I was expecting so much more from you."

"Arghh!" yelled the Chechen, advancing again, swinging the knife wildly from side to side. Declan stepped backwards methodically, allowing the blade to narrowly miss him each time. On the Chechen's fifth attempt, he blocked the attack and drove his heel into the man's side, causing him to double over and stumble backwards at the same time. As Baktayev tripped on the loose gravel and fell onto his back, Declan heard the sound of another twin cycle motor.

A single headlight washed over the area and Declan dived out of the way as another rider on a dirt bike sped past, attempting to run him down. The rider braked hard and spun the bike around. Declan stood as the rider revved the engine and sped forward, pulling a pistol. Shots sounded and he ducked low, running into the trees for cover as the rider stopped at the fallen Baktayev and continued firing. From a prone position out of the rider's line of fire, Declan watched as Baktayev got slowly to his feet and mounted the bike behind its rider, who continued to aim the pistol into the trees and fire the occasional shot. The rider revved the engine again, stowed the pistol and the bike shot forward, churning gravel behind it as it tore down the trail.

Declan jumped to his feet and ran for the dirt bike that he'd knocked Baktayev from and that was still lying on the ground, its engine idling. He quickly scooped up the shotgun and slung it over his shoulder as he stood the bike up, mounted it and gripped the accelerator. The bike shot forward, its front wheel lifting off the ground momentarily. Declan stood from the seat and shifted his weight forward to bring the bike back onto two wheels. Ahead he could see a tiny flicker of red light and knew it was the fleeing terrorist several hundred yards down the trail. Where was the man going and who was the other rider who had appeared from nowhere? Was it part of a backup team with a second target in mind? Declan couldn't risk that, he knew he had to catch them. He pulled the accelerator tighter and leaned forward, the air slapping him in the face and bringing tears to his eyes as the bike sped up.

With the bike ahead of him carrying two, Declan was lighter and able to travel faster. He gained ground steadily as he crossed underneath an overpass and rounded a curve. Ahead he could see that the trail was beginning to open up, the forest on one side coming to an end. Baktayev's bike was a hundred yards from him when the trail opened into a vast field containing three large metal buildings and a long, flat stretch of pavement. From the flashing lights near the buildings and along the pavement, Declan knew it was an airport. Quickly, he scanned the runway and saw a single engine plane near the far end, the lights on its wings blinking. Was this Baktayev's destination?

A gunshot sounded ahead of him and he swerved the bike to the noticing that Baktayev had turned in the seat and had a gun aimed. Declan pulled the accelerator as far in as it would go and the bike shot forward closing the distance between him and Baktayev to fifty yards. Baktayev fired several more times, but couldn't get a decent shot. The terrorist leader turned forward, giving up as the rider of the bike slowed and pulled off of the trail, riding down an embankment towards the airport's runway and the waiting plane.

Knowing that he was taking a big risk and could be riding into an ambush, Declan steered his bike to the right and jumped the incline at the edge of the trail, landing on the rough terrain thirty yards from the runway. Gunning the engine, he bumped hard over the ground, racing towards the other bike and attempting to intercept it. As he crossed onto the smoother grass twenty yards from the runway, he reached up and drew the shotgun from around his back.

Fifteen—ten—five. He held the end of the shotgun out, striking Baktayev in the head as he raced past and skidded to a stop, the back wheel of the bike sliding around. He leapt off it and brought the shotgun up, aiming it towards the plane and anyone that might be standing near it. He could see through the windows of the small craft that there was only one person inside. The pilot stared out the window at the scene.

Ten yards in front of Declan, between him and the plane, the bike Baktayev had been riding was lying on the ground, both rider and pillion struggling to get out from underneath it and off the ground. The rider was the first to find his feet. The man stumbled for a second and finally rested his eyes on Declan, reaching hastily into his camouflage coat. Declan fired once, pumped in another round and fired again. Two large holes opened up in the man's chest and he flew backwards, tripping over the downed motorbike and landing on his back, where he lay still.

Baktayev struggled upright as Declan pumped a third round into the shotgun. Blood ran down the side of the Chechen's face as he stared at Declan with beady, coal black eyes and slowly raised his hands in surrender.

"Your ride's leaving without you, Ruslan!"

The Chechen glanced over his shoulder as the plane taxied forward, heading away from the scene.

"This was your plan all along, wasn't it? Get your men entrenched in the school and then make a run for it just before the siege started! That's why this plane is here, isn't it? An escape route. Is this how you survived Beslan? What would your damn Allah say to such cowardice?"

The plane's engine grew louder and its speed increased. As it passed the last of the metal buildings, it lifted into the air and cleared the tree line at the end of the airport, the two blinking lights on its wings the only evidence left of its presence as it faded into the distance.

Baktayev turned his head back towards Declan and spat on the ground. "You know nothing about the greatness of Allah! His vengeance is patient and his actions are—"

Declan pulled the trigger of the shotgun. A jagged hole appeared in Baktayev's stomach as his eyes opened wide. Declan pumped the weapon and fired again. The second round struck the Chechen in the left temple as he stood doubled over, blood spilling from the first wound. The impact of the slug with his head drove him backwards. He landed on his back next to the rider of the motorbike, his arms spread wide. Declan lowered the shotgun and walked over. Standing at Baktayev's feet and looking at the man's blank stare he said, "That's for Abaddon Kafni."

This was one set of dead eyes that wouldn't haunt him when he lay down at night.

Two Days Later

Lee Highway

Gainesville, Virginia

David Kemiss sat down on the edge of the bed inside the room he had rented the night before and lit a cigarette. He had quit smoking years ago, but with the events of the last forty-eight hours anyone who begrudged him a smoke could go straight to hell. A tentative knock sounded on the door and he stood. After adjusting his tie and collar, he walked over the badly worn carpet and opened the door.

"She's here, Senator," Colin Bellanger said.

"Show her in, show her in."

Bellanger stood aside.

"Senator Kemiss," a blonde haired woman in a dark red skirt suit said.

Kemiss nodded. "Ms. Courtney. Come in, please."

The woman stepped into the small room, followed by a camera man who set up a tripod in the corner. Both looked around with an expression of amazement bordering on disgust. Bellanger closed the door behind them and moved to the opposite side of the room, where he took a seat on the bed.

"Sorry about the accommodations," Kemiss said, "but I'm sure you can understand my need to be discreet."

The Manassas Gap Motor Lodge was a far cry from the kind of place he would normally stay in, but the anonymity it provided in a time like this was a necessity. Twenty four hours ago, after finally being let out of his own house, which he had been held in for over twelve hours by some masked men linked to Declan McIver, he had emerged back into the world to learn that a gunfight had occurred at a school in Victoria, Virginia and that twenty dead Chechens had been found at or near the scene.

At first the media had showed only a passing interest as the town and its surrounding areas were common sites of drug related violence, but hours later, when the police had finally cleared the building, it became evident that something far more sinister had gone on. In the possession of one of the dead men had been letters making demands for the release of hostages, as well as maps and blueprints of the school. The police, and soon after the media, quickly and rightly surmised that what had been planned was nothing short of a hostage situation by terrorists linked to Islamic jihadists. Who had stopped the attack and killed the men found around the school was a mystery and rumors were already beginning to spread that the United States Army or some highly trained unit of the FBI had been involved, and that things had gone very wrong. Now every major television network from across the globe was descending on the town which was normally home to less than two thousand people.

"I appreciate you inviting me, Senator, and being willing to sit down for an exclusive. I must say, I'm a bit shocked that such a small affiliate as WSET was your first call."

"In times like this, Ms. Courtney, it can be hard even for someone in my position to rise above the noise. I've found in the past that smaller outlets can be the best bet. I understand that you have a working relationship with both a local radio station and a newspaper as well?"

"Yes, sir."

"And my comments will be featured in all three venues?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then let's get started."

The reporter took out a spiral notebook and a digital tape recorder and set them on a table near the room's picture window. She straightened her skirt and took a seat in one of the mismatched chairs as Kemiss took a drag from his cigarette and sat down in the opposite chair.

"Don't tell my wife," he said with a smile, as he exhaled and crushed the cigarette out in an ashtray.

The reporter gave a courtesy laugh and quickly flipped open her notebook and pressed a button on the tape recorder. "Go ahead, Kenny," she said, giving a slight wave to the cameraman.

"This is WSET's Stacey Courtney," she said, as the red light on the front of the camera came on, "and I'm seated here in an undisclosed location with United States Senator David Kemiss, who has agreed to answer questions about the troubling events in Victoria, Virginia that were discovered thirty-six hours ago. Senator, the comments you made to me last week in Lynchburg after the death of Dr. Kafni, which you have repeated to the press gathered in Washington, were that you were deeply saddened by the death of Dr. Kafni and that you were being assured by federal law enforcement authorities that everything was being done to find his killers. Now, in light of the alleged terror attack in Victoria, a town that is located in your former congressional district before you were elected to the senate, you claim that you have information that links the two events, is that correct?"

Kemiss cleared his throat and straightened up in his seat. At first he hadn't known exactly how to react to the news that Declan McIver had managed to stop Ruslan Baktayev and in so doing had stopped the plans he and Lukas Kreft had put in motion, but he'd quickly shocked himself into campaign mode and decided that going on the offensive was his best shot. If he was honest, he was relieved that the attack had been stopped and, as a bonus, if he spun things the right way, he could actually come out of the entire situation better off. Kreft's vague promises of being able to spin the deaths of so many innocent Americans into a political victory could be damned. By the time this interview was over and the subsequent ones that Kemiss was sure would follow, he'd be a hero with the story that he'd cooked up.