Bodyguard Lockdown(23)
“Why is Trygg afraid of you, Booker?”
“Trygg decided to let me live. He sent me on a wild-goose chase. I know him. There isn’t a day that goes by that he doesn’t regret that decision.” Booker shoved the water back into the backpack. “And when I catch up with him, he’s not going back to prison. I’m sending him straight to hell.”
Chapter Fourteen
Pitman followed Jim down the circular stairway to the main floor of the lab. “Is everything satisfactory, Doctor?”
“Almost,” Lewis replied, pleased.
The lab ran the length of the plane. Hundreds of square feet of fitted steel and white tile, Plexiglas and state-of-the-art technology.
“The only thing missing are the cylinders,” Pitman advised him. “Have you located Sandra Haddad?”
“Not yet.”
“Do you know where she is at least?”
“We know who she’s with,” Jim answered.
“Who?”
“Booker McKnight.”
Pitman stopped at the base of the stairs, blocking Jim. “Senator Harper’s son-in-law?”
“Yes,” Jim acknowledged. “But he will be taken care of soon.”
“You realize it is harder dealing with a man bent on revenge than one who just wants more money?”
“I understand the man more than you think, Lewis. Booker McKnight was more than just military, or loyal. Those men trusted Booker and he let them down. They were his responsibility, his family,” Jim replied. “I’d be surprised if Booker didn’t go after Trygg. Hell, I’d do the same in his shoes.”
“I’m not talking about his men, Colonel. I’m talking about his wife, Emily,” Pitman stated bluntly. “I told Trygg killing Harper’s daughter along with his men was an unnecessary risk.”
“The general always weighs the options,” Jim prodded, keeping his voice even, his expression blank. “Emily Harper’s death was unavoidable. She snuck on the base to see Booker without authorization.”
“Unavoidable? Trygg knew that Emily was on the base,” Pitman scoffed. “How long have you served under General Trygg? That man doesn’t do anything without a purpose.”
“What do you mean?” Jim turned, backed Pitman up against the stairs.
Pitman’s eyes widened. “I understand that circumstance made Emily’s death a last-minute decision, but it wasn’t unavoidable.” Fear made his voice shake. “When Trygg received the call up in the airplane that Emily crashed the gates, we hadn’t dropped the cylinder yet. I told him he needed more time to think it through. That killing Harper’s daughter would bring attention to our operation. He disagreed.”
Jim’s jaw tightened. The trouble was he couldn’t trust Pitman. The man was a rat; he’d kill his own children to save his skin.
“General Trygg understood the importance of the situation,” Jim said flatly, but was unable to dismiss the doctor’s theory. He stepped back, giving them both room—and Jim time to think over this new information.
Pitman cleared his throat, used the moment to gain his composure. “Don’t get me wrong, Colonel. I agree with Trygg’s reasoning. Those who died did so for a good cause whether they knew it or not. Harper’s daughter was just another casualty of war,” Pitman acknowledged. “I’d just prefer it if Booker McKnight wasn’t lurking somewhere in the shadows.”
* * *
RIORDEN TRYGG STOOD at the opening of his tent and sipped his coffee, enjoying the bite against his tongue.
It didn’t matter, jungle humidity or desert heat, Trygg drank his coffee strong and hot.
Harper had pulled some strings on the Hill, managed to acquire a mobile electromagnetic pulse emitter. Or what the higher-ups called an EMP Transportable.
The senator said it would be delivered today, Trygg thought. He glanced at the sun at the top of the sky. Today was half-over.
Rivet guns punched the air, shaking the earth, sending a lizard scurrying over his feet.
In less than twenty-four hours, the airbus would be a fully operational mobile laboratory for the CIRCADIAN.
Trygg wanted the plane secure, the army tank secure. They’d gutted the inside, filled it with the necessary equipment, but it was not worth the effort or the money if all it would take was one missile to bring her down.
The EMP, while limited in range, would emit enough electromagnetic pulse to fry most electronic instruments in a five-mile radius. Including surface-to-air missiles or fighter jets.
Trygg took another sip of coffee. From his position, he watched the men maneuver on the scaffolds beneath the netting. He’d wait a few hours, until the heat from the sun had worn off, before he inspected the day’s results. A necessary duty, with pleasing results.
Trygg was more than satisfied with the progress on the airplane. But then again, he expected nothing less than top results from those he hired.
Jim had recruited the best. Promised them money beyond their dreams.
The fact they’d never live to see their payoff lay easy on Trygg’s conscience.
Sacrifices had to be made for the greater good.
Lewis stepped down from the plane, giving orders. Two men followed him to the plane’s underbelly, where the bay door stood open.
Trygg didn’t trust Pitman. But one didn’t have to trust a man to appreciate his usefulness.
The wind picked up, making the walls of the tent shudder. Trygg caught the scent of hamburger and grease from the mess tents a few hundred yards away.
Lunchtime soon.
He had forty men supporting him in this campaign. More than enough.
“From the satisfied look on your face, the mission is going as planned.” The voice spoke from outside the tent, just beyond his shoulder, catching Trygg off guard.
“Minos,” he greeted casually. But the hair bristled at the base of Trygg’s neck, and irritation pulled between his shoulders. The Al Asheera leader moved like a ghost. “This is an unexpected surprise.”
“Thought I’d see how the project was coming along.”
“We’re on schedule,” Trygg answered, his annoyance barely contained. He took in the other man’s scarf-covered features, the desert garb.
“And the cylinders?”
“All aspects of this mission are being handled,” Trygg replied stiffly. “To your satisfaction, I believe.”
Trygg turned on his heel and walked back into his tent.
“I have no complaints.” Minos followed, chuckling. He took in the massive desk, the leather straight-back chairs, the dining table complete with china and a fruit bowl, brimming with red apples, ripe oranges. “You live well, General.”
“I live civilized,” Trygg corrected. He placed his coffee on his desk and took his hat from a nearby coat stand. “You should try it sometime.”
“It’s not easy for me. I’m nothing more than a paid killer most times,” Minos replied slyly. “In fact, I was just paid one million dollars by Senator Harper to kill you.”
Trygg froze for a moment, his hat never making it to his head. “May I ask why?”
“I don’t care,” Minos replied. “So I didn’t ask. Not many men can manage three million dollars in bearer bonds as payment.”
He acknowledged Minos’s statement with a short nod before settling the hat on his head. “The amount doesn’t mean anything to Keith. He’s from old money.”
“It means quite a bit to me.” Minos tsk-tsked. “Did you two have a fight, General?”
“He might not have agreed with some of my past decisions,” Trygg acknowledged with deliberate vagueness. “Did you agree to take the contract?”
“I took his money. But we didn’t shake on it.” Minos shrugged. “I’ll take care of Harper so he stays out of your way. That was our deal.”
“Not all of it. You have the EMP?”
“Yes. My men left it just beyond the East Ridge. I didn’t want them accidentally mistaken for the enemy and shot during the transfer.”
“You don’t trust me.”
“Trusting you wasn’t part of our deal,” Minos replied. He grabbed a red apple from the fruit bowl, tossed it in his hand. “Do you have McKnight contained?”
“I’ll tell my men to move the emitter.” Trygg stepped out into the open, caught the scent of moisture in the air. “We’re in for a storm.”
“Sahara storms are more common than most think.” Minos glanced up at the sky. Dark clouds swirled over the hilltops; electricity charged the air. “A hint of what is to come maybe?”
“For whom?”
“Depends on where a person is at the time,” Minos quipped. “One thing for sure, Harper may have stopped Cain MacAlister from sending men over here the other day.”