Rogue Faction Part 2: A Cyrus Cooper Thriller: Book Three Read online

  Talbet shrugged. He scratched a nonexistent itch behind his ear, never taking his eyes off Cyrus. He was clearly hesitant to continue. “If you were as sharp as I’d been told, I knew half measures wouldn’t sell it. It was that or shoot myself. But at that point, you might hear the gunshot and…well, who’s actually willing to shoot themselves to cover a lie? That crap only works in the movies.”

  Cyrus grinned and took a quick look at Talbet. “Well, I have to admit you don’t half-ass it. Drugging yourself is what I call going the distance.”

  “Going the distance…” Talbet mumbled. “I almost killed myself with that shit. Did you know it’s dangerous if you breathe too much of it? Well, hell! One whiff of that stuff and down I went. But I must’ve knocked the rag off the desk when I dropped because I kept breathing it. If you hadn’t come along when you did, I would’ve offed myself and never been the wiser.”

  Cyrus laughed. Not a chuckle, but an outright laugh at the idea. It would’ve been fitting. “I think that’s what you call karma.”

  “Karma?” Talbet’s expression showed he didn’t understand the implication.

  Cyrus shrugged. “You slashed the tires on all but one of the four-wheel drives,” he said as if it explained everything.

  “So?”

  Cyrus took a long look at him, but said nothing until his eyes returned to the road. “You were planning to leave there with Voss and his girls. That means you, them, and the rest of your team would never fit into a single truck. Obviously, you weren’t planning on bringing your team along at the end of the op.”

  Sitting silently for a moment, Cyrus gave Talbet time to respond. When he didn’t, Cyrus continued.

  “So what kind of unfortunate fate awaited your friends? Were they going to die of acute lead poisoning, or did you have something more creative in store?”

  When Talbet didn’t react, Cyrus stole a look at him. He didn’t appear well. While he’d been planning to bushwhack his confederates, the idea clearly didn’t sit well with him.

  “It wasn’t your idea, was it?” Cyrus quietly urged. “Did your employer put you up to that, too? You weren’t just getting greedy, were you? Your boss wanted you to tie up loose ends. Even if that included your own guys?”

  If it weren’t for his need to keep the gun leveled at Cyrus, there was a good chance that Talbet wouldn’t have been able to look at him. Cyrus could tell as much—it was written on his face.

  “What did he offer you,” Cyrus urged. He kept his voice quiet and comforting, as if he were speaking to a small, frightened child. “What could be worth all of the bloodshed?”

  A long silence stretched between the two men, and Cyrus started to become nervous. He didn’t know if Talbet was about to break down and start sobbing, or snap and start shooting.

  “People do stupid things for money,” Talbet uttered in a dry cracking voice, at last.

  Cyrus nodded. “Who put you up to this? Tell me who’s behind this and I’ll put an end to it.”

  Talbet had lowered the gun at some point; not putting it away, but resting it on the console between the two seats. The barrel was still pointed directly at Cyrus, and in a position that didn’t offer him any defensive options.

  “Not a chance,” Talbet said. His voice was drawing on some steely reserve that was still very threatening. “I know how this works. My contact was a cutout. Giving him to you won’t do you any good—it’ll just get me killed.”

  “Tell me what I need to know. I can fix this,” Cyrus pushed.

  “Putting you in a body bag is the only way to fix this,” Talbet concluded.

  “Then putting you in an interrogation room is my only option,” Cyrus countered. He turned to Talbet with a fire in his eyes. “I’ve asked nice. Make me ask again and I won’t be so kind.”

  A wide grin spanned Talbet’s face. He raised the gun, placing it in Cyrus’s eye line once more. “I’m the one with the gun, kid. Don’t forget that.”

  The enamored gleam in Talbet’s eyes suddenly lost its fire. He heard the clicking of a pistol hammer as the barrel of a .357 revolver was place against the back of his neck. “Huh. Mine’s bigger than yours,” croaked a gravelly voice from the back seat.

  Cyrus saw the cocky look vanish from Talbet’s face. His eyes went big and round; Wagner had caught him completely off guard.

  “Pass the gun to my friend, nice and easy,” Wagner ordered.

  Talbet hesitated for a moment, unsure what to do. For a second, Cyrus thought he might actually do as instructed. But when a coldness passed over Talbet’s eyes, it was obvious he’d decided to go the other way.

  “I still have the winning hand,” Talbet countered. “Drop your gun or I’ll kill the kid, right here and now.”

  “Come on,” Cyrus needled. “How stupid are you? You would shoot the guy who’s driving the car? Wait a minute—it’s all becoming clear now. I see why you were picked to head this operation. There’s not a lot of free thinking going on between your ears, is there?”

  Talbet raised the gun, pointing in squarely in Cyrus’s face. Cyrus looked down the barrel of the gun, making a show of sizing it up. But his expressed level of concern was on par with what you would expect from someone having a breadstick pointed at his nose.

  Cyrus reached across his body with his left hand and stuck the tip of his index finger into the muzzle. Holding it there, he turned back to the road and continued driving as if his finger in the bore had neutralized the weapon.

  In his peripheral vision, he could see Talbet’s incredulous expression. The man was thunderstruck. He didn’t know how to respond to the cartoonish action.

  “I didn’t know who you were or what you’d done when I found you in the garage,” Cyrus explained. His eyes remained on the road; his finger still stuck in the barrel of the gun. “But I had you figured before we left the compound. Why do you think I couldn’t leave you behind? Do you really think I needed your help driving Wagner to the ER? Do you think I would’ve left the family unguarded if you were on the level?”

  Talbet didn’t respond.

  “While I was sweeping the facility, I noticed a few interesting facts. Not the least of which was how all of the crooked guards were armed with armor piercing ammunition.” Cyrus stole an accusing glance at Talbet. “Every single one of them,” he clarified.

  “But every other guard was packing standard issue hollow points,” he continued. His eyes shifted to settle on the gun that was pointed at him. “You might as well have been holding a sign that said you were with the other turncoats.”

  As Cyrus watched, Talbet’s eyes moved to the handgun and then shifted to the grip where the magazine was housed. “That’s right,” Cyrus confirmed. “I checked it. While I was at it, I switched your ammo for some training blanks I found in the weapons locker. All of the bang—none of the bullet.

  “Did you think I’d let you sit beside me with a loaded weapon?”

  For a moment it looked like Talbet was going to test the theory and pull the trigger. Wagner intervened, persuading him that the effort would be foolish when he applied greater pressure to the gun still buried in his neck.

  Working visibly to swallow his pride, Talbet’s eyes finally dropped. He lowered the gun and handed it to Cyrus. It was just in time, too. Turning the corner, Cyrus entered the hospital parking lot. One more turn and they were about a hundred yards from the doors to the emergency room. Cyrus spun the newly acquired weapon around in his hand and clubbed Talbet across the head with it. With a sickening smash, he collapsed against the passenger side window.

  Startled by the sudden violent strike, Wagner sagged backward in his seat. He glared at Cyrus in the darkness as they pulled into the well-lit portico outside the emergency room entrance. “What was that for?” Wagner grunted.

  Glancing into the rearview mirror, Cyrus met the man’s eyes. “The sonofabitch nearly shot me,” Cyrus grumbled in frustration.

  “Yeah? So? He only had blanks. What’s the worst that could happen?”
<
br />   Cyrus shook his head. “I never thought to check his gun,” he admitted. “Let alone swap out the ammunition.”

  For all of his pain and injuries, a new pallor whitewashed Wagner’s face. He glared at Cyrus’s eyes in the rearview mirror; his jaw moved with the stammer of silent words, his voice clearly failing him.

  “Plus, he really hurt my finger,” Cyrus added with a grin. He shook his hand in the air as he worked the circulation back into the tip. Without another word, he popped the release on his door and slid out in search of a wheelchair to haul Wagner inside.

  Chapter 17

  The Voss Compound

  9:14 am

  Blinking the sleep from his eyes, the ceiling above him came into view. Cyrus was immediately struck by the dozens of aches and pains that had settled into his body while he slept. The events of the last several days had taken their toll. He never suffered them as strongly as he did in his first waking hour. After the events of the previous night, he’d crashed out hard.

  The room’s lighting was designed to simulate daylight, which was a neat trick first thing in the morning. Since the building was a compound and each of the massive bedrooms had been designed without windows looking out into the world, the rooms were equipped with recessed lights that simulated the ambient light from traditional windows. It allowed the Voss family to live in the underground bunker-like conditions without suffering the negative effects commonly associated with such a situation.

  It seemed Voss truly had thought of everything.

  Rolling onto his side, Cyrus was surprised to find Natasha missing. She’d been waiting in his room when he returned from Casper General Hospital, what seemed like only a few short hours earlier. In fact, after speaking with Voss and shackling Talbet, pushing him into a secure utility closet for safe keeping, Cyrus had returned to his room to find Natasha asleep in his bed.

  It was a relief for him on multiple levels. First, it was a sign that she hadn’t been unduly traumatized by the events of the last several days. Second, because by all accounts she seemed content to put their past behind them, if only for the time being. That was particularly satisfying for Cyrus. The last week had served to remind him just how much guilt he felt for the way he’d left things when he left school and ultimately ended up working for the Coalition. And lastly, her presence shattered any doubt as to whether they would still connect the way they had before everything had fallen apart.

  They’d spent hours making love, wrapped in each other’s arms talking about everything, and nothing at all. Every emotion he carried for her remained alive and well. It was mirrored, a fire buried—but still burning—and evident in the woman he loved.

  Still, he was surprised and disappointed to find her missing after such a night so long overdue. Though, to be fair, this was her home and currently a disaster area. Voss’s security detail had been decimated and the facility was a shambles in the most literal sense.

  It was a moment before Cyrus noticed that a mobile phone had been left on the pillow beside him—Natasha’s pillow. Rolling onto his elbow, he grabbed the device and activated the touchscreen display. The photo app had been left running; an image of Natasha filled the screen. She’d used the phone’s front facing camera to snap several shots of herself, recreating a similar situation from their past. The first photo was a tight frame of her face, her blond hair a mess and covering the right half. What was visible of the left half was telling: her eyes burned bright, charged with excitement, a playful, sexy grin tugged at the corner of her mouth. Swiping the screen to the next photo, Cyrus found a wider framed shot. One where she’d pulled the hair back from her face. She clutched a bed sheet low against her breasts as she smiled into the camera lens. Her bare shoulders hinted at so much more. In the last shot, there was no bed sheet but she’d turned away from the camera slightly and blocked a portion of the frame with an outstretched hand making for a provocative, though well staged and disappointingly PG-13 photo.

  All together, the three images were a recreation of three photos she’d left for him years earlier after a night they’d shared in her dorm room. Similarly, she had left early that morning, abandoning him in her bed. She was off to attend an early class, something Cyrus had been careful to avoid while planning his schedule. Before she had left, and while he slept, she’d shot three images with an old Polaroid instant camera and left the photos on the pillow beside him. She was taking a photography course at the time, so the photos had been both intimate and charming. Now, her attempt to recreate such a moment from their highlight reel struck him much more deeply. He flipped back to the first image and stared at it for a long while, considering their past and wondering where their future would take them. He didn’t know what was in store for them, but he wouldn’t let her slip through his fingers a second time.

  Chapter 18

  The Voss Compound

  9:39 am

  Sitting at the end of the long dining table, Dargo was glad to be back. Even the hardboiled, ex-Spetsnaz soldier had softened just enough to consider the compound his home. Following the crash of the private jet and the subsequent rescue of him and his team, he was relieved to return. Though he had feared the worst in his absence, he found the story of all that had happened difficult to fathom. Not only the mutiny perpetrated by members of his trusted team, but that it had been the newcomer, Cyrus, who had protected the Voss family.

  In spite of all that he’d been told, Dargo still didn’t trust the young man. It was clear that he’d made a believer of Voss, but the events of the previous twenty-four hours—in truth, the past several days—only proved that he wasn’t who he originally claimed to be. Still, it was clear that Voss now considered the young man beyond reproach. On one hand, Dargo could understand Voss’s rationale, attributing it to foolish sentiment following the trauma of what had clearly been an extremely trying ordeal. But on the other, Dargo knew that Voss lacked his field experience and situational awareness. He was blind to the potential dangers the young man still represented.

  Sitting at the end of the table, Dargo found himself awestruck as the Voss family sat at positions around the table. Each was contributing what they knew of the events from the previous night. Voss sat opposite Dargo at the head of the table, with Natasha to his left and Anna to his right. It seemed that none of them had a clear understanding of everything that had happened. Still, one theme ran consistent through each tale. Had it not been for Cyrus, the night would have come to a decidedly different conclusion.

  There was no question Dargo was as suspicious of Cyrus as ever. His actions and capabilities belayed the circumstances that had supposedly brought him to their doorstep. It was a fact that was now conveniently overlooked by Voss. Though, as Voss had hinted, there was more to the story—details better discussed in private.

  Dargo eyed Gretchen who sat quietly at his left. She had arrived back on the island well ahead of him, returning on Voss’s jet. While Dargo was on his way to the United States, primed to deal with the security nightmare that had been at the core of her trip, she had been airborne and heading in the opposite direction. Once back on the island, Dargo ordered her to book a room at a nearby hotel under an anonymous name. At the time, he didn’t yet understand what had happened or who was after her, but he considered it prudent to keep her away from the Voss family until he had things sorted out. Accordingly, he’d sent three of his men to the hotel to watch over her. He now realized he’d been lucky to send the correct three men. Had he chosen differently, she might not be alive.

  But the Gulfstream G450 had been a miracle. Dargo’s insistence on outfitting the aircraft with a pair of eight-foot inflatable life rafts and flotation vests had proven a wise precaution. Though he’d never expected the jet to make an emergency water landing, the transport had most definitely been outfitted properly and prepared for any worst case scenario. And, thankfully, when King Borden purchased a duplicate of Voss’s jet, he duplicated it right down to those same safety measures.

  Dargo had never be
en so happy for a wealthy man’s lack of originality. It had literally saved their lives.

  Still, Dargo didn’t understand the cause of the crash. The plane had lost altitude so quickly that there’d been no time to gather the necessary intelligence. The fact that any of them survived at all was a testament to the skill of the flight crew. They’d given their lives while making a heroic attempt to bring the craft down with a minimum of damage.

  The actual impact was still a blur. Though he’d been strapped into a seat, loose debris had stuck Dargo in the head. His first memory was of retching sea water as he clung to the outside of an inflated life raft. Moments later, two of his security detail struggled to pull him onboard.

  The second raft was lost in the plane’s wreckage as it slipped beneath the rolling waves. Once Dargo was pulled into the inflatable, they managed to locate two more members of the team. The remaining members of his force were lost. To his surprise, one of his men explained that it had been Dargo who pulled the inflatable raft from the crushed wreckage of the jet’s tail section only seconds before it slipped from sight beneath the waves. Though he had no recollection of those events, apparently he’d pulled the ripcord and inflated the raft in time to give each of the survivors the buoyancy needed to stay afloat in the rough ocean until help arrived.

  The pilot and copilot were killed on impact. It was another portion of the crash Dargo couldn’t recall; one the surviving members of his detail had been seated with his back to the forward bulkhead when the plane impacted. He explained that the cockpit was crushed and twisted like an empty beer can, only inches from where they’d been seated. And, despite their heroic effort, the flight crew never stood a chance.

  One of Dargo’s last memories was of his abbreviated conversation with Wagner back at base over the encrypted sat-phone. He’d given Wagner the same instructions he’d provided the pilot and copilot. No SOS calls over any open frequency. While he didn’t know what treachery had befallen their aircraft, he had no doubt that it was thanks to careful design. He wouldn’t let a radio transmission alert the responsible party of their success. Even then, Dargo had realized what was happening to the aircraft was only one part of a multi-pronged attack against the Voss compound.