Chapter 44
CHARLIE
I open my eyes to more darkness. Not complete total pitch black but a hazy gray.
There are thin lines of light in the distance, sliding under whatever doorways or windows it can.
It is enough to tease me with the promise of outside – of freedom.
The air here is stale, like it has been trapped and left to rot for years.
I know it isn’t the tunnels because it smells metallic with a hint of diesel.
I move my sore muscles slowly, but I can’t budge more than a half-inch.
The unmistakable scratch of rope digs into my wrists and ankles.
I suspect whatever is keeping me in place is another rope against my chest. Thankfully, these clothes from the safehouse are thick and protect my skin.
Cold hard metal against my bare arms tells me I am, in fact, tied to a chair. How fucking clichéd is Xander Caruso?
I fidget more, hoping to find a weak spot in the knots. I don’t find any give. Then I remember both X.C. and Blaed are ex-navy. Sailors are good at knots. I grunt in frustration. My head hurts and my stomach is queasy. Does chloroform make you feel sick too?
My motion must have caught someone’s attention. Footsteps echo off whatever space we are in. Intuitively, I know that whoever is coming will not help me. There is no point calling out and asking who is there. It’s X.C. or Ian or Blaed or someone else I want nothing to do with.
With a resounding thunk, harsh light pours over me. My eyes, accustomed to the dark, beg for relief behind my eyelids. I hear the distinct shutter click of a smartphone. Cool. Whatever else this creep is into, they now have a photo of me bound.
I hazard to open my eyes. More lights have been engaged. They look like those construction-site lights: bare bulbs in a metal cage.
“Charlie Ross,” says the man I ran into in Ybor, taunting me. The man who I thought, stupidly, might be able to help. Xander Caruso. The jerk who betrayed Declan, Oliver, FIRE, and his own morals.
I grunt, not willing to give him any satisfaction. He is outlined in light, his figure a shadow.
A second set of footsteps approaches. I’m outnumbered.
A familiar figure steps into the light. Blaed. He mutters something to Xander, their voices so low I can’t make anything out. They conclude their brief exchange and Blaed turns and gives me a wink before walking off. If looks could kill, he would be vapor right now. X.C. would be next.
“Is this where you tell me your evil plan before you kill me?” I say, putting on my bravest voice as I test the ropes again.
The rope keeping me to the chair isn’t as tight as the others.
If I stand, I could probably get up. But my ankles being tied would ensure a faceplant.
Honestly, I wouldn’t mind an explanation.
X.C. is alive, so clearly his “death” in Osaka was faked.
But why? And was it necessary to almost kill Declan as well?
Or was that his goal all along? I highly doubt he’s about to tell me that he’s so deep undercover that he has to “play” the bad guy.
I’m bound and restrained after being kidnapped. He’s the bad guy, alright.
X.C. laughs. “You’re clever. I can see why Oliver hired you. But you’re much more valuable alive. For now, at least.”
I’m not relieved by these words. “What do you want?” Why would he tell me? And would I actually trust anything he said? Still, I want to know.
“To complete the job I’ve been tasked with by some very powerful friends,” X.C. says as if this should be obvious. The Order, he’s been working for them all along.
I correct him. “To let a massive cache of black-market arms loose and watch as innocent people die?”
X.C. laughs again. “Oliver wants to play James Bond. Let him. But developing the underdeveloped world takes money and resources. It’s done by businesses, not charities.”
“So why the weapons?” I ask, since I’m pretty sure weapons destroy; they don’t build anything.
X.C. stalks closer to me, a smirk on his face. “Underdeveloped countries are easily overthrown by the warlord with the biggest hoard. He who provides the arms to the one in power gets the contract. Are you keeping up with me, Ms. Ross?”
His patronizing tone makes me want to spit in his face. But he has a gun in his hip holster, so I decide to not antagonize him.
“All of the weapons are being used to buy off politicians?” I clarify.
“Warlords, not politicians,” X.C. says. “But, really, a suit and tie are the only difference between the two. And no, not everything is for exchanges. We have one special set ready to make a big impact.” He sounds almost giddy about this.
I want to ask him about the oaths he swore, about his duty to America, to the world.
Did he forget all of that when he retired from the navy?
But I don’t think I’m in any place to psychoanalyze him.
“At the World Games?” I try to confirm. At least I’ll have intel if I ever get out of here.
My stomach clenches. I have no idea how late it is, or if this is a side effect of the chloroform.
X.C. examines the dirt under his fingernails, as if speaking to me is lower than this on his priority list. “Oh, we’ve got something planned for the Games, but not what you think.
Our little surprise is . . .” He leans closer to me, his fetid breath finding my nostrils.
“Well, let’s call it a fireworks show. Emphasis on FIRE. ”
I narrow my eyes at him, parsing out the meaning. FIRE is the target. Will it be our headquarters? An upcoming event? Exponential Endurance Championships? My mind races with the possibilities.
“FIRE may mean well, but the operations Declan is running for Oliver are starting to spoil the Order’s plans.
” X.C. purses his lips. “I respect Declan. I started to test the waters with him, to see if he might be persuaded to join me. But he loves playing superhero too much. I knew he’d only be a hindrance.
Poor timing on my part that the bomb didn’t finish him off.
” He tilts his head to the side before shaking it with disapproval.
There are so many layers of messed-up in the dynamic between Declan and X.C.
Commanding officer and soldier. Mentor and follower.
A pseudo-father figure and a young man eager to prove his worth.
Hearing X.C. speak of killing Declan as if it was another task on his list makes my heart hurt.
“Still, FIRE must be stopped,” X.C. continues as he begins to pace, proud to spell out his plans.
“And could you imagine if a charitable donation of leftover shirts going to innocent children was rigged with explosives?” He feigns shock and his features reveal a wicked smile.
“The outrage! The cry for accountability and answers. The company who caters to the wealthy, who has a perpetual problem of mostly serving rich white males, implicated in the deaths of innocent children, all clamoring for their free King Cool goodies.”
X.C. takes one of the hanging bulbs and shines it to my right. The locks on the shipping container next to us belong to FIRE.
The shirts! That’s what someone – likely Ian – was messing with in the storage unit. Locking me and Declan in there wasn’t about trapping us or even bugging our computers; it was about implicating us.
I realize where we are. I’m tied to a chair in a hallway created by stacks of shipping containers. That dank smell is the damp of the ship. The uneasy feeling in my stomach is from the imperceptible rocking of the vessel we’re on.
“What does Raj have to do with this?”
“Ah, I hear I have you to thank for that, Charlie,” X.C.
says, sneering like the Grinch with a wicked plan.
“Ian told me you were so happy to coordinate the leftover FIRE shirts to go to Raj’s charity.
Here I was wracking my brain for a way to eliminate him and you give me this gift.
Two problems, one explosion. Not only is his do-gooder nature making my clients, like Frank Castillo and the rest of the Order, look bad, but he’s building infrastructure with other local charities, helping ‘the people’ help themselves.
Which means the companies run by members of the Order aren’t getting the business.
They don’t get any exclusive contracts for power, internet, the works.
“With Raj and his charity in shreds, people will seek out established brands, like the ones my clients run. And then we’ll do a little reputation management by eliminating Raj.
If not in the actual explosion, then by the same PR nightmare FIRE will be facing.
When your shipment of donations kills the deserving children, there’ll be enquiries.
Raj will be ruined, if not actually killed.
Pity. FIRE will be under a microscope. Declan and Oliver and their little spy plans will have to be put on hold. ”
I glare at him, speechless at the depravity of his plan.
How does someone go from leading soldiers and being an exemplary officer to this?
What could possibly justify this? Then I remember Raj being delayed en route to Kalispell.
His medicine was stolen; his bags routed incorrectly.
Was X.C. unsuccessfully sabotaging him before?
“We can’t have FIRE ruining our plans,” X.C.
continues. “We’ll finalize payment for the arms deal in Rome when every world leader is present.
While the world is cheering for their favorite sports, the explosion in C?te d’Ivoire will draw international outrage.
We can’t have Raj helping to develop these nations without the Order’s resources and materials. ”
I am without words. The scale of this plan, the seamless nature of it. It’s truly that evil form of genius.
X.C. keeps elaborating. “And once Oliver and Declan know that the only way to prevent your untimely demise is to sit tight and not say a word to the authorities in Italy or C?te d’Ivoire, we expect full cooperation.”
X.C. and the Order are discrediting FIRE and eliminating Raj. It’s cruel but well thought-out.
X.C. stops his pacing when I say the only words I can form. “Damn, that’s a good plan.”