The Cyclops Revenge Read online

  The cop had to wait for the cars to part before he could get through. Peter ran two more lights before taking the ramp for the interstate, heading east. They hadn’t seen the cop since.

  “See anything?” Peter asked, studying the headlight beams cutting through the early morning darkness.

  “All clear,” Jason replied, looking back.

  His lips had not stopped moving when a gray and black blur appeared, lights ablaze, from the ramp at LaSalle Avenue.

  “A statie just showed up. He’s a mile back … and coming fast.”

  Peter pressed the petal harder, despite it being on the floorboard.

  “This five-cylinder engine ain’t gonna outrun him,” he complained, jerking the wheel to pass a stray Volkswagen.

  “Where are we?” Jason asked.

  “Passing Pembroke Ave. We’re about a mile and a half from the tunnel.”

  “He’s gaining …”

  Peter eased his foot off the accelerator. The engine’s pitch slowed. The vehicle slowed.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “The only thing I can do.”

  Hussein’s two soldats, Pierre and Charlie, sat on either side of the heavy wooden door in the warm early morning Caribbean air. The taller man, Pierre, puffed a thick cigar. The breeze carried away each plume of smoke. Much to Pierre’s chagrin, Charlie had changed the guard assignments. They were now on the midnight watch and had pulled sixteen consecutive hours.

  “Why are we stuck on the night shift?” Pierre asked. “We are the most senior soldats. Let the young ones lose sleep.”

  Pierre simply smiled. “What’s the difference? Besides, because we are working at night, we avoid the daytime duties.”

  “I still don’t like it.” Pierre knew what Charlie was up to.

  “C’est ta tourne se charge du garçon, Pierre,” Charlie, the larger man said. It’s your turn to handle the boy.

  Pierre, sitting on a thick round stump of wood and leaning against the wall of the building, removed the thick cigar from his mouth. He lifted the Panama hat and peeked at his partner.

  “Charlie, tu es trop tôt, mon ami. Nous avons un autre trentes minutes,” Pierre replied. You’re too early, my friend. We have another thirty minutes. “I took care of the boy last time.”

  “Arrêtes se plaindre,” Charlie retorted. Stop complaining. “Make sure you take the kid out of ze cellar and keep him out. Cette garce down there is going to learn what a real man is. I owe her that much.” As he uttered these words, he stroked his still throbbing testicles

  “Pas une bonne idée, Charlie.” Not a good idea. “Madame will not be pleased.”

  Before Pierre could react, Charlie was upon him, moving with a lithe, smooth motion belying his girth and size. Charlie grasped Pierre’s shirt, balling it in his fist. Pierre looked into a pair of wide, wild green eyes. His throat seemed to slam shut. He tried to swallow. The moisture in his mouth evaporated, and it felt like he was trying force sandpaper down his esophagus. Suddenly, he was transported back to the one time before that he’d seen Charlie unleash his anger.

  The incident had occurred in western Africa as they trained for this mission. The Boss Lady was in the Middle East. Their bunking quarters were open, barrack-style facilities, with no privacy. Charlie was a man who harbored no embarrassment about pleasing himself at night in the darkened barracks. His fellow soldiers often heard the stifled groans of pleasure coming from Charlie’s bunk as he masturbated. He bunked in a secluded area of the space, away from the others. Nonetheless, Charlie pleased himself at night and did so loud enough for the others to hear.

  One day, Charlie discovered someone had removed one of his porn magazines from under his mattress. Charlie confronted the suspect. The soldat lied, hoping to quell Charlie’s anger and avoid the consequences. Everyone knew how much Charlie treasured his skin mags.

  Charlie rifled through his compatriot’s belongings and found the dog-eared monthly. The Frenchman became apoplectic, dragging the culprit outside. First, he flogged him with his fists. After the second blow, the man went down. Charlie lifted him up, holding him upright with one hand as he pounded him about the head and face with the other like a rag doll. He did not stop until the eyes had closed behind swollen, red tissue. Blood coated every inch of his face. When Charlie realized he was unconscious, he let the body fall to the ground.

  Charlie roused him by grabbing a handful of skin under his chin and twisting it until the man coughed and gagged on his own crimson-tinged saliva. The near-comatose man blinked his eyes, unaware of where he was or what was going at that moment. Charlie removed a switchblade. He cut away his trousers and underwear and proceeded to cut off the man’s penis.

  As the blood-soaked man screamed in agony, Charlie stuffed the severed appendage into his mouth. The witnesses had covered for Charlie, fearful they might be his next victim. The man was buried alive in a shallow grave.

  These images replayed themselves in Pierre’s mind now as Charlie picked up the Russian-made MP-443 Grach pistol. He lifted the brim of Pierre’s hat with the barrel and peered into the guard’s eyes. “She will never know. She will not be back to check on them or us for another eight hours. That is, unless you plan on telling her.”

  Pierre’s eyes widened at the sight of the gun inches from his face. “Mes lèvres sont scellées,” he declared, making a motion of closing his lips with an invisible key. “Mais, why do you get the woman?” he continued, feigning injustice.

  “I’m the senior man. And it was my idea. You can have a go next time.” Charlie removed a hundred euro note from his shirt pocket. “Voici, un petit quelque chose pour vous récompenser!” A little something for your trouble.

  He then placed the barrel of the weapon against Pierre’s temple. “And here’s my insurance. Ve are going back down zere. When we do, keep the boy out until you see me return from the cellar. That’s when you will know I am done.”

  “Hello,” came the whisper.

  Chrissie’s chin rested on her chest. She tried to ignore her aching muscles and her legs were cramping. Her arms felt like molten tubes of lead, sending searing blasts of pain to her shoulders.

  “Hello?”

  Had she fallen asleep? Was she dreaming or hallucinating?

  There it was again, barely audible, a throaty whisper cracking on the second syllable.

  “Mom? Is that you?”

  Chrissie lifted her head. She struggled against the chains, rattling them behind her. She recognized Michael’s weak, teenage voice.

  “Mfcwaeg!” she grunted, trying to speak through the gags.

  “It’s Michael,” he whispered again. “If you’re gagged the way I was, use your tongue to push against the cloth over your mouth. It will come loose, just keep pushing.”

  Chrissie grunted an agreement.

  Michael was here! Jason’s Michael was here!

  Her hopes soared. A bolus of adrenaline coursed through her, numbing the pain. She worked her tongue against the cloth. She realized how frightened he must be. Chrissie desperately wanted to reach out to him, to speak to him. Then she thought about the implications.

  Did that mean Jason was here as well?

  There was panic in the young man’s voice. The words were querulous and filled with trepidation.

  She worked her tongue up and down, back and forth. As she did this, she began to think about what she would say to him.

  How would he react?

  How would he take learning that she was not his mother?

  How would he handle the fact that it was the woman he didn’t want becoming his stepmother?

  The Hummer maintained a parallel course alongside a large eighteen-wheeled semi. The rig was one of two other vehicles nearby on the interstate. In the distance, they could see another car, a sedan, a mile ahead. The driver glanced over at Jason in the passenger seat of the Hummer, and gave a half-salute.

  Jason watched the driver’s eyes shift to the large side-view mirror. The truck slowed
when he spotted the trooper’s light and heard the siren. Peter decelerated along with him, keeping the cop blocked. The driver eased the truck onto the emergency lane.

  The cop swerved into the lane filling the space once occupied by the semi. Peter gunned the engine. The Hummer lurched forward with more power than Jason anticipated. His head bounced off the head rest. Peter wrenched the wheel hard right, cutting off the trooper. The cop hit the brake. He swerved to the right, into the shoulder, missing the now stopped truck by inches.

  In a few seconds, Peter put a hundred yards between the cop and the Hummer. They jockeyed back and forth this way for a mile and a half. As they passed under the North Mallory Street Bridge, Peter slowed, pulling alongside a slower Nissan Ultra, once again, boxing the cruiser in.

  “Traffic’s getting thicker,” Jason observed.

  “At this hour?”

  Jason played lookout, peering through the rear windshield. Peter’s eyes seesawed between the road and the rearview mirror.

  “That’s not good,” Peter declared.

  Jason turned to look. “Dammit!”

  Both lanes of Interstate 64 were backed up three hundred yards from the entrance before dipping into the tube of the Hampton Roads Bridge-Tunnel. After a second look, Jason realized the problem.

  “They’re doing road work. The right lane is closed.”

  With the former Chamberlin Hotel across the water to left, Jason pointed. The cop was pulling alongside. The trooper’s front bumper was even with the rear door of the Hummer.

  “Get in the left emergency lane!” Jason shouted. “There’s a work truck on the right, blocking the way!”

  Both sides of the bridge possessed a breakdown lane. The right breakdown lane was the width of a normal travel lane. The left, however, the one Peter was turning the Hummer into, was half as wide as its right-handed counterpart. Peter braked hard and slipped into the narrow left emergency lane, zipping by the mirrors and doors of the unsuspecting, slowed traffic rolling toward the tunnel. The cop closed the distance again, siren wailing. He fell in behind the Hummer, squeezing beside the single line of traffic.

  Peter pressed the accelerator, speeding up again.

  “What are you going to do?” Jason asked, a tremor in his voice.

  “Take a huge chance,” Peter shot back.

  Chapter 33

  Michael listened, filled with anticipation. His mother grunted and groaned in response to his urging. It was taking her forever to undo her gag.

  As he waited, Michael wasn’t satisfied with being able to speak and breathe. He needed to see.

  He’d maneuvered himself backward, attempting to lean against the wall to which he was chained. The chain was too short and he could not continue keeping his butt in the air. The chain pulled up on the handcuffs. His weight hung from the wall. Enjoying the limberness and flexibility of youth and ignoring the pain in his wrists and forearms, he arched his back like a gymnast and was able to touch his head to the rough brick of the wall.

  Turning his head sideways, he rubbed the blindfold against the brick. The cloth moved, oscillating against his skin. As he did this, he continued to urge his mother to free herself from her gag.

  “Don’t stop, Mom!”

  He could hear his mother breathing and grunting somewhere in front of him.

  The skin on his temple began to abrade and tear. A warm trickle of blood snaked down outside his left eye. He continued, dragging his face in longer, more effective strokes. All his weight was pressed down now on the shackles. His arms felt like they would burn up. Michael ignored it, pushing himself.

  Finally, a sliver of dim, silver light penetrated the top of his field of vision. A few more millimeters and he would be able to see.

  “We have eyes on Rodgers, Agent,” the agent at the screen said.

  “Put it on the big screen.”

  The image on the massive wall screens loaded a moment later, flashing the car chase on Interstate 64.

  “Explain what’s going on.”

  “They’re on I-64, headed east. They are on the western bridge section of the Hampton Roads Bridge-Tunnel, being pursued by a state trooper.”

  The image on the screen wavered and moved in and out. In the left emergency breakdown lane, a large square Hummer was being followed by a Virginia State Trooper with his blue lights angrily flashing.

  “What the hell is wrong with the picture?”

  “It’s a private drone. Our agent is in a car following about a half mile behind. The high winds coming from the water are buffeting the machine.”

  “A private drone? Where are the Bureau’s UAVs or Cessnas?”

  It was not a well-known fact that government agencies were using surveillance drones and other aircraft, mostly Cessna’s, to observe tactical situations inside the continental United States. The FBI had a small fleet of unmanned vehicles hangered at various locations, as well as a larger fleet of piloted Cessnas.

  “These events developed too fast to retask our current UAVs or surveillance planes. They are either in for service or on assignment. We looked into borrowing one from the Border Patrol. But there are none in the area. This whole thing will be over before it could arrive. The agent on the ground took it upon himself to purchase a camera drone in a local hobby shop earlier today. We’ll switch to our drones when one arrives. We’ve patched the image into his phone and are uploading it here.”

  “Is this a government operation or what?” Broadhurst thought for a moment. “I’m glad someone is thinking on their feet.”

  “Whatever you say, sir.”

  “Do we know where they are going?” The acid in his stomach had become a bubbling cauldron. Broadhurst removed a plastic bottle of Tums from his suit coat, shook two tablets from it, and began crunching. He swallowed and repeated the procedure with two more.

  “I think they’re about to be caught, sir. Nowhere to go,” another agent instructed.

  Fifty feet from the entrance to the tunnel, the state trooper’s Dodge Charger hugged the Hummer’s rear bumper. A Chrysler minivan in the fast lane, to the right and ahead of the Hummer, its driver confused by the sound of the siren, started to creep into the left-side emergency breakdown lane, cutting off Peter and Jason.

  Peter laid on the horn. Instead of hitting the brake, he slammed the pedal to the floor. The bass-toned engine whined higher two seconds before the Hummer’s front bumper crumpled the front quarter panel. Peter stayed hard on the gas and, using the Hummer’s momentum, pushed the van out of the way and into the rear of the car in front of it. The Hummer squeezed between the Ford and the guard rail. Scraping metal tore down both sides of the vehicle.

  Another driver began to pull in front of Peter, this one a tiny, low-to-the-ground Smart car. Peter gunned it again and the Hummer walked over the engine compartment of the subcompact like a monster truck.

  “Almost there,” Peter hollered, once they were over the mangled car.

  The state trooper, now stuck behind the crumpled insect of a car, was blocked.

  Peter reached the entrance to the island as traffic inched into the eastbound tube. There was no way to break into the line of cars. He turned off onto the island.

  “Now what?” Jason said.

  “Start praying.”

  Peter drove to the opposite side of the island. He checked for traffic and turned right, heading eastbound in the westbound tunnel.

  Chapter 34

  “Shit,” the FBI agent in the rental Chevy Malibu exclaimed to his counterpart behind the wheel.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “We’re losing battery power. I didn’t have much time to charge the battery pack after I bought the damned thing.”

  “How long?”

  “Three minutes.”

  “It’s me, Mom. It’s Michael.”

  “Michael?”

  “Yes.” Michael paused. Something was wrong. His mother’s voice was a weak whisper. Higher than normal. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m sore.
But, I’ll live.” The voice paused.

  The timbre of the words registered with his brain.

  “You’re not my mother.”

  “No, Michael. I’m not. It’s Chrissie. Your father’s … friend.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I have no idea. Are you hurt?”

  “No,” Michael sighed. “I mean I have a cut over my eye. But I’m fine.”

  “How did that happen?”

  “I did it. I rubbed my head against the wall. I can see over the blindfold with one eye.”

  “You can see?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you didn’t recognize that I wasn’t your mother.”

  “It’s dark in here. Only some moonlight through a window.”

  “What do you see?”

  “Where’s my picture?”

  “The drone went down short of the Bridge-Tunnel, sir. The agents are stuck in traffic now.”

  “Can they see the Hummer?”

  “No, sir. The brothers went up the left-hand emergency lane, followed by the staties. Lost sight of them five minutes ago. They eluded the police. They traveled the wrong way through one of the tunnels.”

  “Keep searching. We have his and the brother’s cell phone numbers. Get the NSA tech in here now! Track the numbers. Find them. Now!”

  “What do you see, Michael?” Chrissie repeated.

  There was nothing but silence and Michael’s heavy, frustrated breathing.

  “Michael,” Chrissie began, “I know you wanted me to be your mother. It’s a good thing she’s not here. You wouldn’t want her here, would you? I’m scared. Are you scared?”

  Chrissie could hear the boy suck in a long, deep breath. “No, I’m not scared,” he said. His words wavered.

  “That’s good,” Chrissie replied. “Do you see anything that will help us?”

  “It’s pretty dark,” Michael began. “That’s why I didn’t recognize you. We’re in a basement. It smells.”