16. Cole

16

COLE

" E mory, what the Hell are you thinking?"

I fight the impulse to crumple up the note I found on my pillow. Emory's script is precise and artistic. A lot like her dancing.

Cole,

Please don't hate me. I just can't live with myself if someone else gets hurt because of me.

I really want to see you again. I hope I get the chance. You're a good man, even if you don't always believe it. Believe in yourself, Cole. I do.

P.S. Don't worry, I have a plan. I'm going to make sure Julian gets caught. His fugitive status makes him more vulnerable than he thinks.

Love,

Emory

I asked my PO what made a good SEAL before I applied to be one. He told me something that's stuck with me to this day.

He said most people run from trouble. SEALs run toward it. Jake, of course, said that probably means that SEALs aren't the sharpest rocks in the box. Which, of course, made the two of us perfect for the role.

In another lifetime, Emory would have made an incredible SEAL. Here she is, running right into danger so that others don't have to suffer. How can I hate her? It makes me admire her more than ever.

But damn it, I'm pissed at Emory. I'm pissed because she tricked me, and I'm pissed that she's risking her life because I'm a selfish bastard who doesn't want to lose her.

Jake sacrificed himself so I could live. Emory is sacrificing herself so that her family can live.

I lost my best friend. I don't want to lose Emory, too.

There are a half dozen airports in the area. I don't think she'd go to LAX, because that's the first place most people would think to look for her. But I don't have time to check all the others.

Not sure what else to do, I drive to the Platinum Security office. I find Ryker and Jax standing in the reception room, a Dragunov sniper rifle disassembled into a hundred parts on the coffee table between them. They're in the middle of a discussion that has nothing to do with the breakdown of the powerful gun.

"I'm just saying, he'd be a perfect fit for the firm," Ryker says.

"Yeah, but he keeps turning down a job here," Jax replies. "I know Harlowe is worried about her big brother, but I can't force Dane to take a job with us."

I clear my throat. Jax looks up, and the second he gets a look at my expression his smile fades. He rises to his feet quickly, his face a mask of concern.

"What's wrong?" he asks.

"Emory gave me the slip and now I can't find her."

Ryker and Jax exchange glances.

"What can we do to help?" Jax asks.

I show him the note Emory left for me. He scans it and then grabs his cell phone off the table.

"We're calling in reinforcements. We can cover every single airport in the area if we spread ourselves out enough."

Ryker jumps into action too.

"Let me call Avery. She still has some friends in the intelligence department. You might want to talk to Harlowe, too."

"Right."

While the two of them play phone tag, I venture into the darkness of Harlowe's office at the Platinum Security office. The only light comes from her multiple screens.

"Harlowe, I need your help."

She listens while I explain the situation. But she balks when I give her my idea.

"Hacking into the airlines to find out who's bought a ticket is easier said than done, unless you want Homeland Security to throw you in a dark cell somewhere. Which I don't. Besides, don't you think Julian Lovejoy would buy the tickets under assumed names or something?"

I grimace, because I hadn't thought of that. I am starting to lose my shit.

"I'll try to work my magic, but figuring out where she's gone seems like it'll be a lot faster."

Jax gets the boys to cover the airports, which makes me feel a little bit better. Ryker says Avery is trying to call in favors to help, but I'm going stir crazy. Jax seems to realize this and sends me out.

"You should head back to Emory's place, just in case she shows up there."

"Why would she do that?"

"She might grow common sense and change her mind. Or maybe you'll run into Lovejoy or one of his accomplices."

I don't have any better ideas. But fortunately, I get a lucky break. Diego calls me while I'm checking the house for any clues I missed.

"Hello, Cole," he says. His voice sounds tight, unlike his usual jovial self.

"Diego. Tell me you have something for me."

A long pause, and then he speaks, in the same tight voice.

"I have something for you. I'm sending you an address of a private airstrip outside of the Basin. There's a ‘cargo' plane there which I have good authority to believe Lovejoy has chartered."

"It's going to Colombia?"

A long pause, again.

"Indeed."

"Diego, you sound funny. You're not fucking me over, are you?"

"No, of course not. Have I not always been your very best of friends? From the first time we met at Trapper's Fishery, to that time you fought off those Nihilists at the bowling alley. I would never screw you over."

I stiffen up, and set my jaw hard.

"All right, Diego. Sorry I questioned your loyalty. Stay safe. I'll be visiting soon."

"If you could make that very soon, I'd–"

The call ends. A moment later, I get a text with the purported address.

I have no choice but to check it out. I run down the steps and jump the last landing, hitting the floor with a thud.

Then I'm out the door, not bothering to set the alarm. Everything worth protecting is gone, anyway.

Pretty soon, two things become clear. One, the private airstrip isn't just private, it's unregistered. There are no signs, no billboards, no website for the airfield. When I put the address in my GPS, it comes back as a logging camp.

Two, once I hit the deep valley where the airstrip is hidden, I lose all bars on my cell phone. At least I have the map on my screen, even if the icon representing my truck is frozen in place. I can still follow the path.

Or can I? It's a good thing I have four-wheel drive, because the potholed ridden gravel path I take can hardly be called a road. I don't even know if it would pass as a hiking trail. Branches thump against my cab and grill as I plow down the rough forest path.

There are signs that other, smaller vehicles have been down this path, and recently at that. Some of the branches are already broken, with fresh white inner flesh on display. A cheap plastic hubcap sits on the side of what laughably passes for the road.

There's only one way in to this place, and one way out. So when I estimate I'm less than a half mile from the airfield, I park the truck and leave it on the trail. Then I continue on foot.

SEAL stands for sea, air, and land. I've been trained for this. Looks like I'm on another hunt, but this time the prey might shoot back.

I break away from the trail, and move through the forest instead. This slows me to a crawl, but I don't want to walk into an ambush. Out here, away from the bustle of the big city, sounds carry a long way. I step on hard upthrust roots, bare rock, and anywhere else stable enough to make no noise.

At last, I see a break coming up in the trees. The airfield appears before me. I'm surprised at how professional the paving on the runway looks. Somebody paid a real contractor to come out here and build this. Probably paid them twice as much as normal for their silence.

The runway is impressive, but the Hangar looks like something out of a horror movie. A multitude of branches, foliage, and camo netting covers the roof. Probably not enough to stop a close inspection, but enough to fool satellite imagery for certain.

The hangar itself looks to be constructed of cast off junk from other structures. The majority of the walls are corrugated metal with generous amounts of rust. A side panel from a shipping container forms a patch on the north end. I even see some plywood tacked up in places.

One thing I don't see? Any airplanes. Or people for that matter. I was already on guard. Now I'm straight up paranoid. No guards, no patrols, nothing. I don't even see any security cameras.

Literally nothing seems to prevent me from just walking across the open meadow to the hangar. And that's exactly why I don't want to do it. Land mines? Maybe. Booby traps of some sort could be present.

Even though it costs me nearly another half hour, I circle around the tree line until I reach the hangar entrance. It stands open about three feet, showing only a patch of blackness inside. Is nobody home? I find that unlikely.

"Cole Drake!"

I drop into a crouch and draw my 9 mil, taking cover by the side of the entrance. The voice came from inside, and it wasn't Lovejoy. It wasn't Emory, either.

So who does that leave? The Surgeon, or the Poisoner? Maybe both?

"Cole, Cole, Cole," the voice comes again. "Can I call you Cole? I like to get on a first name basis with all of my prey."

It has to be Blumbert, the Surgeon. At least if he's here, he can't threaten Emory's family.

"You can call me anything but rude. I would never dream of turning down your invitation to play," I call out through the open door. "If you're smart, you'll send Emory out. If you do that, and she's unharmed, we'll be on our way. Should be plenty of time for you to run–"

"Cole Drake. It's not like it was in the Navy, is it? You don't have an army behind you anymore. Now it's just you, and me."

"You're making a big mistake, Blumbert. The only way this ends–"

"Oh, Cole. I so rarely get to work with such a magnificent canvas. I love your tattoos. I plan to carefully carve them from your still living body and preserve them. Perhaps I'll hang them on my wall down in Colombia. I have a lot of space to decorate."

Something isn't right. I creep inside the door, staying low and keeping my eyes peeled. No tripwires, or motion sensors that I can see. My eyes adjust to the gloom. Some shafts of sunlight make it through the uneven ceiling camo, but it's not much light to see by.

"Cole, oh Cole," Blumbert says again, this time from much closer. I come up to a small office area, with a desk and an old rotary phone. I try to turn on the lights, but the switch just clicks with no response.

"I bet you can't find me, Cole."

That was damn close. In fact, it was under the desk.

I keep the gun pointed at the desk as I grab the edge. With a grunt, I flip it up into the air and slap my now free hand onto the pistol. Aiming with two hands, I see no one on the concrete floor. Just a small, rectangular object.

"Come and get me, Sailor Boy. I bet you were a big fan of that don't ask, don't tell policy, right? Everyone knows that sailors are basically just–"

I turn off the tape recorder. The fuck did he even find an analog device like this? Then again, it's LA. It's possibly a movie prop.

The groan of metal from above is my only warning. Something whisks through the air, creating a slight whistle. I throw myself on the ground and roll to the side a split second before I hear a tremendous crash.

Looking up, I see an engine block on a chain swinging back heavily from the hole it just made in the hangar wall. If I had still been standing there, I would be out of commission, if not dead outright.

A trap. Just like Diego tried to warn me about. We actually met behind a one-percenter biker bar in Fresno, and the whole carjacking thing was totally fabricated bullshit. They must have got to Diego. Damn it, Lovejoy was at the same party we were. He probably saw me talking to Diego and planned accordingly.

Emory said not to underestimate Lovejoy, even if he is crazy and off his rocker. I made a mistake and nearly paid for it with my life.

Now I wonder if Emory is even here at all. If this is a trap, I could just turn around and leave. Nothing in the Surgeon's background suggests he has skills at land navigation or tracking. I could make it back to the truck.

But then what? Emory could still be inside, somewhere. If I leave now, I might lose her forever. My best bet is to stay, and try to find Blumbert and question him. That means I need to take him alive.

While he's free to try and kill me. Great.

I examine the tape for clues. It says sixty minutes per side. There doesn't appear to be any blank tape before Blumbert's voice kicks in.

So that means he must have pressed play and then hoofed it. He could be anywhere inside the hangar by now.

Sweat stands out on my body as I move through the office toward a set of doors. I expect them to lead into the hangar proper, a vast chamber for storing aircraft. Instead, I find the doors take me into a hallway. Again, I believe that a storage container has been repurposed as part of this structure.

It's almost pitch black inside the hallway. I move in a low crouch, silently as possible. My fear for Emory, not to mention the ever present risk of death, threaten to give my limbs a tremble.

I spark up the flame in my mind, and feed it all of my emotions. All of my turmoil, even all of my affection for Emory. Right now, feeling anything is a liability. I need to be completely focused.

When the flame burns bright, fueled by my fear, I creep into the hallway fully. My hand feels for the wall. Something sharp jabs the tip of my middle finger. If I hadn't fed the flame, I might have cried out and recoiled, giving away my position.

Instead, I calmly draw my finger back and examine it in the feeble light. Blood trickles from a small cut. It's not deep or serious. Taking out my cell phone, I use the screen to reflect a little sunlight on the wall I just touched.

At first, I think there are a swarm of insects on the wall. But it soon becomes clear that something else is afoot. Razor blades, hundreds, maybe thousands of them, cover the walls of the storage container.

If I hadn't been so careful, I could have maimed my hand. There's no point in continuing this way–

The doors slam shut behind me. I spin around and fire off two rounds. The retort still echoes in my ears as holes appear in the doors. Retreating footsteps dwindle in the darkness. Blumbert, or maybe one of the others, running away after trapping me in here.

I try the doors. They give a little, but I can make out a stout chain holding them shut. I could try to shoot the chain off, but that's more a movie trick than something reliable to do in the field. I'd probably waste my remaining ammo, and might still end up trapped.

Nothing to do but try and navigate the razor blade hallway. In total darkness. Piece of cake.

I use the pistol to "feel" my way through. It's going well, until a wall I'm not expecting rears up. I can't suppress a hiss as hot pain explodes in my forearm.

Now I understand. This isn't just a hallway. It's a damn maze with walls that cut. Jesus Christ, Blumbert must have spent hours upon hours attaching all of those to the walls. That's dedication. If he weren't a psychopath, I might be impressed.

I navigate the maze, and the cuts accumulate. My shoes slip in my own blood. I don't want to think what this has done to my tats. I can always get them touched up.

But when I find Blumbert, I'm taking the fees out of his ass.

At last, I find my way out of the maze, and into the hangar itself. A single engine Cessna that's seen better days sits with chocks behind its wheels. Not enough fuel to make it all the way to Colombia, but if the pilot "hops" from one private airfield to the next…it could work.

"Cole Drake! You're bleeding, Cole Drake."

The voice seems to come from everywhere. A speaker system? I can't trust my ears, it seems. Just like I couldn't trust my eyes in the hallway.

But speakers require electricity. I feel around the walls until I find a mass of wires. I give them a hard yank, and a shower of sparks heralds the voice distorting, then fading altogether.

I gave away my position with that lightshow. I throw myself on the floor an instant before gunfire splits the air. Blumbert is apparently not afraid to use a gun instead of a knife. Or, there are more accomplices.

Or maybe Blumbert was never even here to begin with.

I belly crawl like a worm under a stack of wooden pallets. Not the best cover, but it will break up the visual line. The shots seem to have come from the west end of the hangar. I focus my attention there.

I spot a figure against the wall. Arms over its head, slumped as if unconscious. Emory! They chained her up like a dog. I will make them suffer.

I circle around the Cessna and approach carefully, using a stack of tires as cover. It's hard to make out many details. Emory's body is largely covered with some kind of drapery, and a potato sack covers her head. It should be easy to come up and free her.

Too easy.

My gaze turns away from Emory, instead watching the hangar. The closer I get to her, the more dangerous it is for both of us. Expecting renewed gunfire at any moment, I reach out for the drapes shrouding her body.

"Emory, can you hear me?"

I pull the curtain back, and find myself staring into blank, lifeless eyes.

Because it's a mannequin.

I spin around, leveling my gun at chest level…and stare right into the eyes of Blumbert. He has a gun drawn on me, as well. Why didn't he fire?

"I'm sure you're wondering why I didn't just shoot you in the back," he says, lips peeled back in a sinister smile. "The truth is, I believe in giving my prey a sporting chance. Not too sporting, though. Lost a lot of blood, haven't you? Getting weak? You can barely hold that gun."

"You willing to gamble your life on that?" I snap, trying to keep my arm steady. I think I have lost a lot of blood.

"Hmm. As a matter of fact, I will take that bet."

Two gunshots ring out in the hangar. Then silence.