Peak Oil Page 15

  The bitch blinked and shook her head. A slow smile spread across her face. She sucked in a raspy breath. “You do not have a clue who you are up against.” She swallowed painfully. And then the bitch chuckled.

  Fitch lifted his cane to put her out of her misery, but a powerful blow to the side of his head knocked him to the ground. He went down on his knees, supporting his body by sticking a hand to the ground. He looked up.

  Joseph stood hunched over him, clutching a brick in his hand.

  “Ryan, what the hell are you doing?” Fitch said, clasping the side of his face.

  Ryan slammed the brick straight into his face. He heard cartilage crack as the pain seared through his cheek and nose.

  “Why are you—” he groaned, and then everything went dark as he felt the brick slam over his head a final time.

  Interpol HQ,

  Lyon, France

  General Alain Laiveaux poured a thumb of cognac into the tumbler and quaffed it. He was not a nervous man by nature; it was the memories of the past that usually got to him. He hated the taste of the stuff, but a couple of glasses usually made him feel better. Self-medication.

  He filled the glass again, placed the bottle back on the silver serving tray, and then sauntered to the window, looking out on the open plan offices that the Interpol staff occupied. He inched open a blind and peered outside. The place was a hive of activity, something he still needed to get used to.

  The French Foreign Legion’s headquarters in Aubagne used to be an oasis of serene calm; you could hear the birds twitter outside as the troops marched by. Here, men and woman scurried by like ants, carrying classified documents containing classified information on top-secret people in even more secretive locations.

  His appointment had come as a surprise. The sign on his door said, “General Alain Laiveaux, Head: ISIU.”

  He guessed not many people, including most of the Interpol agents, knew exactly what he did. That privilege was bestowed on presidents and some high-placed military commanders. His little unit was probably one of the best-kept secrets in the modern world.

  He had direct access to all classified information on the Interpol database. He often used it.

  He smiled as he remembered his first day on the job. He had searched for all the information that Interpol could find on the JFK assassination, eagerly poring over the files. After reading the CIA’s final classified report, he had slumped back in his chair with a sigh and made up his mind: all the conspiracy theorists were wrong; the young snot-nose, Lee Harvey Oswald, had assassinated the President. He’d had no outside help, he was simply a disgruntled man with a strong craving for notoriety who happened to be at the right place at the right time.

  The general emptied his glass and poured another cognac. How different the world could have been.

  Laiveaux’s contract said he headed the Interpol Specialized Investigations Unit. The president of Interpol had another description for what his job entailed.

  DIA. Double India, Alpha.

  Infiltrate, Investigate, Annihilate.

  Interpol was seen as a toothless dog who used political persuasion and military intelligence to achieve their goals. It was left up to the individual governments to deal with their own scoundrels.

  Which was the perfect alibi for his unit. Who would ever believe that a death squad existed at Interpol HQ?

  It wasn’t the size of the bite that counted; all that mattered was where the enemy was bitten. Bite the balls off a terrorist organization, and they become a eunuch. Eunuchs very rarely commit crimes, but they make excellent castratos.

  His brief was to investigate the dealings of all nonmilitary, covert organizations and people that Interpol were keeping an eye on—the RFs, or red-flaggers, as they were commonly referred to. Smugglers, drug dealers, child traffickers, money launderers—people and organizations that posed a possible threat to world peace and global stability.

  He could use all resources at Interpol’s disposal, financial, political, and military. There was only one catch: his unit acted independently. There would be no oversight; he would report directly to the president of Interpol. And Interpol would always deny any involvement in any of their operations.

  Laiveaux had jumped at the opportunity.

  He had quickly assembled a crack team of agents: Alexa and Neil, Voelkner and Latorre, and Bruce Bryden. Major Sal Frydman from Mossad handled intel and digital espionage. They were a small team, able to move quickly and get the job done, whatever that entailed.

  He frowned and fumbled in his pocket as his phone rang for the first time that week.

  He glanced at the screen but didn’t recognize the number; then he flipped it open. “Laiveaux,” he answered curtly.

  “Neil is dead,” Alexa blurted out. “And I need some damn help down here.”

  Laiveaux put his glass on the table, spilling some of his drink. “Alexa? What happened?” His hand trembled against his ear. “Where are you?”

  “In the Refatex refinery,” she said and then went quiet for a while as if assessing her options. “I’m going to try to get out of here. I’ll head toward the main road.”

  She disconnected the call. He redialed the number, but it went straight to voice mail.

  He punched in Bruce’s number; he answered after three rings. “Alain. Good of you to phone, you old fox.”

  Laiveaux didn’t smile. “Bruce, we have a situation up in Dabbort.”

  Bruce went quiet. “What do you mean? Is Alexa okay?”

  “Alexa just phoned me. Neil is dead.”

  He heard Bryden suck in a sharp breath. “Oh shit, no.”

  “How far are you?” Laiveaux asked.

  “I’m driving into town as we speak,” Bruce said, his voice trembling with pent-up emotions.

  Laiveaux nodded. “Okay, I’m sending reinforcements. Get our girl back here.”

  “Affirmative,” Bruce said, and Laiveaux heard him swallow. “Permission to use force?”

  “Excessive,” Laiveaux answered. He gulped the liquid, grabbed his jacket and kepi from a coat hanger, and headed for the door. “I’m coming down there as well.”

  The two Hummers zipped over the wet blacktop, their lights piercing the fog that had settled like a blanket on the road. The sky was dark and ominous, and Bruce urged the vehicle forward as he fought the steering wheel around the twisting bends.

  He had made a call to Sal Frydman, requesting backup from Mossad special services soldiers. At first Frydman seemed hesitant, mainly since Bruce asked for the four senior field veterans by name. Valuable men. But he eventually gave the green light when he found out Alexa had a strong lead in the case.

  Frydman was fond of Alexa. Her biological father, Zachary Cohen, had taught Frydman everything that he knew about software programming and covert network infiltration techniques.

  The Mossad operatives had met Bruce at O’Hare, and they then took a chartered flight to George Bush Intercontinental. Laiveaux had organized for their kit to be delivered to the airport. The vehicles were ready for collection at the Ellington Joint Reserve Base outside of Houston when they arrived.

  Major Joel Rosh occupied the passenger seat next to Bruce. Colonel Max Porter sat behind him. Sergeant Lev Simkin and Lieutenant Seth Lipner followed in the vehicle behind them. All of the men had served with Bruce in Mossad at one time or another. They were Bruce’s age, battle-hardened vets, and he knew that they would follow him to hell and back.

  After Laiveaux’s call, Bruce had briefed the men in the vehicle behind him on the two-way radio as they rushed toward Dabbort Creek. They now sat in silence, deep in thought, preparing for the mission ahead.

  Bruce glanced at his watch and floored the gas. He yanked the wheel to the left, the engine growling as he sped past a tanker truck.

  “Do you know the girl?” Rosh asked, holding on to the grab handle above his head.

  Bruce nodded. “She’s my daughter. I adopted her when she was four.”

  Rosh turned to look
at Bruce, the instrumentation panel casting a soft green light on the man’s face. His eyes were hidden by the shadows, but Bruce guessed he was surprised.

  “Guerra?” Rosh asked.

  Bruce nodded. “Her name used to be Natalie Cohen.” He glanced sideways at Rosh. “Her family was being hunted by double agents that her father, Zachary Cohen, had exposed.”

  “Captain Zachary Cohen, the computer genius from Shin Bet?”

  Bruce nodded. “Those guys took it personally. They murdered Zachary. Her mom and Natalie were sitting ducks. They came close to killing Alexa once.” Bruce shrugged. “I took them in and hid them on my game farm in South Africa.”

  “Why did she join the military?” Porter asked from the back.

  Bruce glanced at the rearview. “The guys were closing in on us, getting closer every day. Laiveaux suggested she join the Legion. She would be safe there during her five-year stint, and the French government gave her a new identity.”

  Rosh chuckled. “Laiveaux, the old fox. Always has a plan, right?” He shook his head. “What about Allen?”

  Bruce sighed. “US Marine. He was assigned as a bodyguard to one of the double agents. He didn’t have a clue what they were up to.” Bruce rammed the stick shift into a lower gear and accelerated up the hill. “We once had a hand-to-hand and he broke my finger.”

  Rosh chuckled, shook his head, and then looked up. “Former Marine, right?”

  Bruce nodded slowly. “Dishonorable discharge. All bullshit.” He looked in the rearview and then glanced sideways at Rosh. “We’ll give him a formal burial, he deserves it.” He rolled his shoulders and said, “I think Alexa liked him a lot. She was smitten. She’s going to take this hard.”

  “Long-term relationships in our game are difficult to pull off, Major,” Rosh said.

  “Tell me about it,” Bruce said and pushed the accelerator into the floor.

  Alexa had seen Ryan come in. Fitch was so infatuated with his sick little game that he hadn’t noticed the man behind him. But why would Ryan do this? Alexa tried to clear her thoughts by shaking her head, but all that happened was another unbearable pain jolted through her entire body. She ground her teeth.

  Ryan was kneeling, bent over Fitch. He had his hand on the bastard’s neck. “He’s still alive,” Ryan said and stood up, seemingly relieved.

  “Tie him up.” Alexa winced, waiting for the pain to subside.

  Ryan hurried over to Alexa. “Are you okay?”

  Alexa pursed her lips. “Please get me out of here; I need to get to a doctor.”

  Ryan’s face tightened. He scanned the room and then walked to Fitch and sifted through the bastard’s pockets. He found what he was looking for and dug out a bunch of keys on a keychain from Fitch’s trouser pocket. He opened a small Swiss Army knife on the chain and proceeded to slash at the rope above Alexa's head. After an infuriating minute, it broke loose and Alexa slumped to the floor.

  Ryan put his arm under her shoulder and then gently lifted her up, helping her to pull up her pants.

  “My belt,” she said and pointed to Fitch.

  Ryan nodded and pulled it from Fitch’s hand while Alexa buttoned her bloodied shirt. Ryan handed her the belt and put his arm back around her shoulder for some support.

  She pushed him away. “I’m okay, thanks,” she said, repulsed by his touch.

  She stood steady, testing the weight on her legs and rubbing her wrists, willing the feeling back into her hands. “Do you have a phone?”

  Ryan nodded and patted his pockets. He dug an old-fashioned Nokia out and handed it to Alexa. She glanced at the screen, shook her head in frustration, and handed it back to Ryan. “Please unlock it.”

  He pushed his glasses higher onto his nose, pressed some buttons, and then handed the phone back to her.

  Alexa punched the number into the phone as she crouched, steadying herself with a hand on the floor, and looked up. “Why are you helping me?”

  Ryan shrugged. “I’ve let this go on for too long. No money in the world is enough to justify killing people.”

  She nodded and held her hand up in the air. She had a curt conversation with Laiveaux and then hung up. “We need to get out of here,” she said and hobbled toward the door. She grimaced; it felt as if her insides were on fire.

  “What about Fitch?”

  Alexa growled in frustration, looking around for something to tie him up with. “Leave him. We’ll come get him later.”

  Dr. Ryan offered his hand to help her up the stairs, but she refused. She limped up, one foot at a time, scanned the area, and painfully made her way up the next flight.

  “The coast is clear,” Ryan said from behind. “The guards have been called to a debriefing. They only have a skeleton crew stationed at the perimeters.”

  Alexa glanced over her shoulder and nodded, grateful for small mercies. She struggled to the doorway and peered outside. She saw the tall silhouettes of the guard towers, the refinery grounds enveloped in a dense fog. The foreboding guard towers were silent and looked empty. She staggered to the hole in the fence and almost ran into a guard stationed at the hole. She jabbed a palm into his nose and then rotated her hip and swept his feet from beneath him, slamming his head into the ground. She ducked through the hole, Ryan following close behind.

  They plodded over the fairway of the golf course, a sense of dread filling Alexa as she headed for the dark cover of the forest. Rifle fire sputtered from one of the guard towers, and chunks of grass and earth exploded into the air around them. Déjà vu. She didn’t care anymore and continued running, her limbs screaming in agonizing protest. Her left leg didn’t work properly; she had to drag it in a stiff lope as she ran.

  She winced at each shuddering footstep, and the wound in her shoulder ached as if she was repeatedly being stabbed by a red-hot poker. But the worst was her insides. A searing heat was working its way to her lower back; it felt like she was being cut up from the inside. She knew that inflammation was setting in; she probably had internal bleeding from the blows to her stomach and back.

  Alexa burst through the shrubs and foliage, heading toward the fence. She slowed down and then dropped to the ground, sucking in lungfuls of painful breaths. She couldn’t shake the feeling of dread she felt. Ryan placed his hand on Alexa's shoulder. “We need to go,” he said urgently.

  She nodded and stood up uncomfortably; then she spun around as she heard a guard shout behind them. She tugged Ryan’s sleeve and started running.

  An excruciating half a mile later, Ryan slowed down, his breaths coming in heavy rasps. He stood bent over, clutching his chest. “I can’t go on. I think I’m having a heart attack.”

  Alexa gave him the once over. “No, you’re not.”

  She glanced back. The guards were gaining on them. She heard branches breaking and the sound of heavy boots through the mist, and then she made a quick decision and pulled Ryan into the forest. They would take the direct route to the main road.

  Two hundred yards later, the canopy of leaves and branches thinned out, and she noticed a hazy full moon in the sky. The voices of the guards faded into the distance behind them. Her face hurt from the branches and twigs that had swatted her, but she didn’t care. Each painful breath was agony, her body screaming in protest. It had had enough and was shutting down like an overworked piece of machinery.

  She plodded forward, unable to think coherently. Sweat and the fine mist ran into her eyes, blurring her vision. She hardly noticed. She was so tired she could barely raise her arm. All she wanted to do was lie down next to the road and fall asleep.

  They stumbled through the foliage, and she looked back as Ryan staggered behind her. The road was less than fifty yards away, but Alexa knew that they were still in mortal danger. Ryan collapsed onto the ground behind her, crouching on all fours, wheezing, coughing, and panting like a sick dog.

  He held his hand in the air. “I cannot go on, I’m dying.”

  Alexa pursed her lips, wiping her feverish brow with the back
of her hand. “You’ll die if you stay here. C’mon,” she said, trying to drag him by his collar, closer to the road, hoping someone friendly would come looking for her. She couldn’t, she simply didn’t have the strength. “If we ever get out of here,” she said, panting, “remind me to drag your ass to the gym.”

  Alexa glanced up as she heard the car, its faint lights bouncing up and down as it came closer. She didn’t care anymore. She would risk anything to get out of there.

  She stumbled into the road, holding up a hand. She leaned forward, her hands on her knees, unable to stand up straight, sucking in deep lungfuls of clammy breaths. She shielded her eyes from the blinding light as the Humvee careened toward her and swung out at the last moment. She whimpered and slumped to her knees; then she collapsed in the road.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Neil lay on his back, listening intently, trying to control his shallow breathing. He heard Fitch bark an order; then a car door slammed and the car roared away. He had blacked out for a minute, and he felt a front tooth give way as he licked his lip. He must have slammed his face into a rock as Fitch shot him in the back.

  He assessed himself for any damage and felt a couple of bruises, no broken bones. He only had a superficial graze on his throat, which wouldn’t be a problem. He had been lucky. Thank God for Kevlar vests.

  He heard Alexa moan and the crunch of footsteps on gravel. It receded as she was dragged away by someone. Then he heard the sound of rubber tires rolling on gravel. He opened his eyes a fraction and rolled his head to the side.

  A red Chevy hatch was being pushed toward the edge of the cliff by a tall guy wearing a Stetson and cowboy boots. Two dead men were propped up in the front seats. He recognized one of the men from the photo in the passport—Jackson, the Canadian. The guy pushing the car was the same man in one of Mary-Lou’s drawings—the mortician.