Stratagems Page 2

  They rode the rest of the way in silence; Jenny drifting in and out of a disturbed sleep while Susan kept her gaze out the window. Gary never looked back, not even once, and that suited Drew just fine. Drew looked out the passenger window on occasion, the dark tint obscuring most everything. Often, he looked straight ahead, beyond the windshield, as they drove through a seemingly endless gauntlet of trees, broken occasionally by a small grocery store or farmhouse. The engine was quiet enough that he could hear the night sounds drifting into the car, a chorus of life singing from the forest that was quite soothing. Even so, his thoughts remained on his father.

  The SUV slowed, turning right down a dark, narrow road. The headlights cut through the blackness of night, but it didn't help much. The trees seemed taller and denser than those on the main road, like the car was being smothered by the forest. Soon lights emerged on the horizon. Faint at first, small specks of high-watt bulbs breaking through the trees, appearing and then disappearing as they got closer. It reminded Drew of the lights at Yankee Stadium at night, just not as bright. Then, almost like a magician's trick, a massive complex appeared from nowhere, the lights of the parking lot dotted all around it. A tall, chain-link fence topped with rolled razor wire paralleled them as they travelled farther down the road, the driver finally making a left and stopping at a small guard station. The driver rolled his window down as a guard stepped away from the warmth of his little office to check IDs. After a few moments the gate opened and they moved forward, the main complex about a quarter-mile into the compound.

  They pulled in front of the largest building, the SUVs parking side by side, as there was plenty of parking at three in the morning. Jenny had dozed off and Drew hated to wake her, but he did. They stepped out into the chill of the night once again, and this time it was noticeably colder than before, a slight wind coming through a grove of trees just beyond the fence line.

  "Leave the bags," Sims said, starting up the steps to the main entrance.

  There were about a half-dozen buildings in all, the largest running four stories high, which was the one directly in front of them. With the exception of the lobby and a few scattered offices with lights glowing from within, the place was dark and deserted. They slowly made their way up the steps and followed Sims into the building, stopping at a desk where two security guards sat, staring at a row of monitors just behind the counter. Sims signed everyone in and then headed for the elevators toward the center of the building. The only noise was the hum of exit signs and the shuffling of their feet across the marble floor.

  Sims hit the up button on the elevator and Drew got a glimpse of the nametag he had picked up at the desk. Perry Sims.

  "We're going to the second floor for a short debriefing," Sims said. "We'll explain everything there, okay?"

  No one said a word; just a few tired nods of agreement.

  They rode quietly to the second floor where they got off, took a right, then a left down a long corridor, then another right which eventually spilled into a large conference room. The family scattered around the conference table, dropping themselves into large, plush chairs as several FBI agents, who had arrived earlier, flipped through files, folders and stacks of papers. There was a flurry of activity as agents left and quickly returned, adding more papers and manila folders to the growing stack. After a few minutes all but two agents left, Sims and another agent remaining behind to face Drew and his family.

  "I'm Agent Chris Newman. I know this has been a long and stressful night, and I'm sorry about your loss."

  "So, what happened?" Drew blurted out.

  Chris glanced over at Drew, and then turned his attention to his mother. "I understand you were in the witness protection program before."

  Drew's mother nodded.

  "Basically, Douglas Meyers, your father, and your husband," Chris said, looking at Drew's mom, "was murdered."

  Jenny started to cry once more, Susan and Cindy joining in. Drew's other two sisters, Monica and Lisa, just sat together quietly, tears filling their eyes.

  "How?" Drew managed to ask, his voice shaky.

  "His identity was compromised. He was shot."

  Drew shook his head slowly. "Then I don't understand. Why are we here? It was our father who had been involved in things, not us. So, why do we…"

  "Because," Chris explained, "it's not just about your father. We have reason to believe that your lives are in danger. Sometimes people like to make examples of others. Going after family members of a would-be traitor to organized crime sends a strong message. It's happened before."

  "What's the bottom line?" Drew's mom asked, pulling a tissue from her purse and dabbing at her eyes.

  "Okay, fair enough." Chris took the stack of folders and passed them around. Drew looked down at his. It was blue and quite thick, much like the others, with a name stenciled across the tab. Kyle Randall.

  "New identities," Chris continued. "You've been through this once before, so I won't go into details. In front of you is your new life, new names. The standard paperwork is there as well. Social security card with a new number to match the new name, dental records, school transcripts, the works."

  Drew's mother sighed, dropping her head. "Not again."

  "This will be the last time," Chris assured them.

  "My name's now Eva," Susan said. "Yuck."

  Jenny managed a smile for the first time that night. "I'm now Jacqueline. I guess that's not so bad."

  Cindy held up her folder up. "You can call me Claudia, I guess."

  "Who are you now, Drew?" Lisa asked, not even looking at her own identity kit.

  "Kyle."

  "You can talk about this later," Chris continued, sliding a manila folder over to Drew's mother. "In there are plane tickets. Your flight leaves in the morning."

  "To where?" Monica asked, perusing through her new life history.

  "Albuquerque."

  Monica looked up at him. "Alba-what?"

  "Albuquerque. You know, out West, in New Mexico."

  "You're sending us to the dust-bowl of the west," Susan, a.k.a. Eva, said.

  Chris managed a faint smile. "It's not that bad."

  "Don't we need passports or something?" Lisa asked.

  This time Chris grinned, trying not to laugh. "No. Not at all."

  Drew couldn't help but grin as well. It was a question that could have only come from Lisa.

  "Where's the bathroom?" Drew asked, getting up.

  Chris nodded to the agent standing guard by the door, looking over at Drew. "Roger will show you."

  Drew walked out, following Agent Roger something-or-other down a maze of corridors until he reached the men's room. He went to the first urinal and let out a sigh as he relieved himself, his head spinning. Two hours before he had been Drew Meyers, sleeping quietly in his bed, much like the neighbors they had left behind. Not a care in the world. Now his name was Kyle and life was suddenly upside down and he just wanted to run. Take off and not look back. But he knew he couldn't. His mother would now look to him.

  He splashed water on his face and looked into the mirror. "Kyle Randall," he said to his reflection. "Kyle. Not bad, actually, and still a four-letter word." He smiled to himself as he dried his face.

  He walked back out into the hall.

  Roger was gone.

  "Hello?"

  Nothing.

  He started to retrace his steps back to the conference room when it caught his eye – a Coke machine at the far end of the adjacent corridor. He reached deep in his pocket and fished out some change, heading for the bright red and white Coca-Cola sign that dimly lit the hall. Still no sign of the agent, of no one else either. The place was disturbingly quiet, the halls empty and the offices vacant for the night. The Coke machine was nestled in an alcove near a large open kitchenette which included a candy machine, refrigerator, microwave and small stainless-steel sink sporting a tall gooseneck faucet. Next to the sink was a long counter and beyond that a row of floor-length windows extending into the far
end of the corridor, the view looking out to the parking lot below.

  Drew dropped in four quarters and pressed the large red button, motors and gears coming to life as the can clunked its way down into the tray. As he reached for it, something else captured his attention. Farther down the hall to the left, two men were walking away from Drew, although he didn’t see from where they emerged. He noticed something about one of them in particular. The man on the right, walking next to the windows, was wearing a red baseball cap, much like the one his father owned. Drew’s dad had always been a diehard Minnesota Twins fan, especially since they won their first World Championship last October, and his dad wore the cap most of the time.

  They turned a corner and were out of sight.

  “Dad?” Drew said, but not too loud. “Dad?”

  Everything remained quiet.

  He stood frozen for a second, wondering if it could really be his father. Perhaps there had been a mistake and the FBI brought his father to reunite them. It could have been his father – about the same height, the same build.

  “Dad!” he yelled, and started down the hall.

  “Hey! You!”

  Drew turned. Roger was walking toward him, yelling.

  Drew hesitated for a second, then ran down the hall where he had seen the two men, quickly making it to the corner where they had turned, his Coke still gripped in his hand. Down another hall he caught a glimpse of a jacket turning another corner. He ran fast, knowing an agent was on his heels. But if it was his father, then everything would be all right. Dad would take care of everything. He made it to the corner and stopped, looking down a long, wide passage with doors on either side. Neither man was in sight, and there was no other way out except the way he had come. Stenciled on each door was the word “Conf. Room” followed by a number. He went to the first door on the right and jiggled the knob. It was locked. He moved across the hall to the next room and the door opened. A light flickered on as he stepped into the dark room. There was nothing but a round table surrounded by four empty chairs. He closed the door and went to the adjacent room. It was locked. He quickly crossed the hall again and opened the door to room 203.

  “What’s going on?”

  The voice came from a large man sitting at the table with several others. Drew stood in the entrance, not sure what to do. Three men and a woman were seated at the far end of a large conference table, coffee cups, paper lunch sacks, three ring binders, stacks of paper and colored file folders scattered everywhere.

  “Excuse me,” Drew said. “I saw a man come in here wearing a red cap.”

  The large man stood. “You don’t have a badge, and this is a secure area.”

  Drew looked around the room. Aside from those seated at the table, there was no one else present, and no sign of the red cap. There were no windows and the only other door was at the far end of the room near a large dry-erase board. Drew had interrupted what looked like a meeting combined with a late dinner.

  “A red ball cap,” Drew repeated. “I think he came in here.”

  Drew felt a hand squeeze tightly around his arm. “I’m sorry about this,” Roger explained to the man who was now near them, his grip around Drew’s arm contracting even more. “I stepped away for a second and he was gone.”

  Drew saw the man’s nametag. Mark Jernigan, SAC.

  “Son, you can get into a lot of trouble running off on your own.”

  Drew tried to shake his arm free, passed Roger a dirty look, then turned his attention to Mark. “I thought it was my father. He wears a red ball cap. I thought maybe...”

  “Son?”

  Drew looked over to the table. Sitting there was another agent, producing a red cap from his lap and holding it up. “Is this what you saw?”

  Drew’s heart sank. The man wasn’t his father, but that was the cap.

  Mark turned toward Roger. “You should know better than to leave an escorted visitor.”

  “I had to get...”

  “I don’t want to hear it,” Mark interrupted. “There’s no excuse. We’ll talk about this later.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Drew’s arm throbbed as Roger’s fingers dug deeper into his flesh. Drew tried to pull free, but Roger’s hold was too tight. Roger assured Mark he would return Drew to the main conference room and closed the door, pulling Drew down the hall.

  “Let go of me,” Drew yelled, yanking his arm away.

  “I don’t think so,” Roger said, firming his grip around Drew’s skin. “You caused me a lot of trouble tonight.”

  Drew stopped, using his free hand to pry Roger’s fingers from his arm, but it wasn’t any use. He considerably outweighed Drew and his forearms had definitely seen many barbells in their day. Drew still held tight to the Coke even though his arm was starting to feel numb.

  Roger pulled Drew into the empty conference room he had gone into before, closed the door and threw Drew on the table. Drew landed face down against the wood, lost his balance and rolled onto the floor.

  “Get up,” Roger demanded, regaining his grip on Drew’s arm and pulling him to his feet. “I’m in the crapper thanks to you.”

  Roger pulled back his open palm, striking Drew across the face, sending him to the floor once more. Drew got to his knees and staggered to his feet, facing Roger, who was slowly making his way toward him. Drew quickly raised the Coke can with one hand and pulled the tab with the other, aiming it toward Roger. With a loud hiss, Coke spewed everywhere, the bulk of it catching Roger right in the face and chest, drenching him in seconds. Drew half-ran, half-stumbled around the conference table and to the door, threw it open and darted into the hall. Roger bolted out the door and tackled Drew, sending him against the far wall, both of them falling to the floor.

  “What the hell is going on?”

  It was Mark, rushing out of conference room 203 as Roger grabbed Drew by the hair, pulled him backward and swung him into a headlock. Mark seized Roger by the neck of his shirt sticking out just above his jacket, yanking him off, sounds of cloth tearing as he shoved Roger against the opposite wall.

  “I said, what the hell is going on?”

  “He tried running away again and splattered me with Coke,” Roger said, catching his breath. “I had to stop him.”

  Drew lay silent for a second, his head spinning, his arm throbbing and a headache starting to form at the base of his neck.

  “He’s lying,” Drew said, his voice low and weak.

  Drew sat up and leaned against the wall, his breathing hard and labored. Roger rose to his feet and stood next to Mark, both of them looking down at Drew.

  “Who are you gonna believe?” Roger asked. “A fellow agent or some snotty kid who’s no better than his father?”

  Mark seemed to ponder the thought for a second when Roger lunged toward Drew. Mark pulled Roger backward by his jacket, Roger’s head hitting the wall with a dull thud, leaving small spatters of Coke against the white paint. Roger quickly put his hand against his head with a low moan, looking up but not saying a word.

  “You were mad at me and you took it out on him. That’s the way I see it.”

  “Bullshit,” Roger said, then added, “sir.”

  Mark turned to his associate standing near the doorway. “Call Security.”

  Drew started to get to his feet when he felt an arm under him, helping him up. It was Mark.

  “Thanks,” Drew said.

  “It’s okay. Let’s get you back.”

  Mark escorted Drew down the maze of halls, slowing his pace to accommodate Drew. Drew’s cheek felt hot, like it was on fire, the headache now in full bloom with each step shooting pain to his temples. The walk took twice as long as the first time, and when they entered the conference room his mother rose quickly and went to his side, asking what had happened. As Mark explained the situation to Chris, Drew sat in a chair, his mother next to him while his sisters sat around the table, blank expressions etched on their faces.

  “Are you okay?” Chris asked, leaning down near Drew�
�s face.

  Drew nodded.

  “Good. Let’s get this over with, all right?”

  Drew’s mother stood. “The sooner the better.”

  “Okay,” Chris agreed, and returned to his seat, Mark staying in the room near the door, leaning against the wall.

  “Here’s the deal,” Chris continued. “In a few minutes you will be taken to a hotel near the airport. Your flight leaves at ten in the morning for Boston. From there you will be driven to Chicago and stay the night. The next morning you will take a flight to Memphis, where you will connect with another flight into Dallas and then on into Albuquerque. A house has already been set up, along with a car, a bank account and a job for you Mrs. Meyers, or should I say Mrs. Randall now.”

  Mrs. Randall spoke up. “Wait a minute. If my husband is really...gone, then why do we need to move at all?”

  Drew looked up at Chris, who was looking over to Mark.

  “We have certain information that leads us to believe the entire family is in danger,” Mark explained. “Similar to the last time.”

  “But my husband is dead,” Mrs. Randall said.

  “Yes, that’s true. But sometimes, in certain circles, they like to make an example so others don’t follow the same path, regardless if your husband is alive or not.”

  “That was long ago. My husband is out of...of the business,” she said as politely as she could.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Mark said. “They don’t forgive and they don’t forget. Ever.”

  Mark glanced at Chris, who took his cue and continued. “I’m sure you have a lot of questions, but we can go over that in the morning. There is one other thing. This move is the last one. We are basically planting you in Albuquerque, then walking away. There’s no reason they should ever find you there.”