28. Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter twenty-eight
The scrapyard smelled like rusting metal and grease.
Rats squeaked and chittered among the towering piles of compacted trash.
Noble was pulled from the car. Two men held his arms at the wrist, while a third man gripped his hair tight.
They dragged him across the muddy ground and he found himself in front of Captain Valmir Zeqiri, formerly of the Kosovo Liberation Army.
Zeqiri stood with his hands clasped in front of him and his head cocked to the left. He had streaks of grey in his beard and tired eyes that seemed to sag at the corners. He considered Noble and fetched a heavy sigh, as if Noble were just one more problem to deal with in an already packed schedule.
Sideburns liberated Noble’s wallet from his back pocket and passed it to Zeqiri. The captain searched the wallet, found the lock picks, then studied the fake ID. “Mr. Jacob Goodman from San Diego, California. No doubt, a cover identity,” Zeqiri said. “Who are you really?”
“Okay, I’ll come clean. Name’s Bob Barker,” Noble said. “I’m collecting for the Shriners. Can we rely on you for a donation this summer? There are a lot of needy kids.”
“Obviously American,” Zeqiri said. He directed his comment at Sideburns. “Only Americans crack jokes when their very lives are on the line.”
Sideburns nodded agreement.
Zeqiri stepped forward and drove a fist into Noble’s midsection.
Despite his age, and his bulging gut, Zeqiri moved with the speed of a much younger man.
Noble didn’t even have time to tense his muscles.
His feet came off the ground and he doubled over.
He would have collapsed in the dirt if not for Zeqiri’s men holding him up.
A long moan escaped his throat. Hot bile crept up his esophagus.
He felt hairs yanked from his skull as Zeqiri’s goons hauled him back upright.
Noble said, “You’ll have to do better than that, Zeqiri.”
The captain’s bushy black brows crept up his forehead at the mention of his name.
Noble’s only hope was to put Captain Zeqiri and his men off balance.
Right now they thought they had the upper hand.
Noble needed to change the equation, make them think they were playing chess, when in fact it was only checkers.
He said, “You’re Captain Valmir Zeqiri. You served under Major Hoxha during the Kosovo war.
” Noble did his best to glance around at the other men present, but he could only move his eyes.
“You all served under Hoxha. No sense denying it. We know you did. We’ve been keeping tabs on you. ”
Comb-over started to speak in rapid-fire Albanian. Zeqiri cut him short with an angry gesture.
“Who are you?” Zeqiri demanded. “Who do you work for? FBI? CIA? Homeland Security?”
“I told you. I’m with the Shriners. Collecting for burn victims.”
This time Zeqiri cocked his fist back first. His knuckles drove into Noble’s stomach with the force of a steam-powered sledge hammer.
The pain ripped a short bark from Noble, who started to collapse.
Zeqiri’s men jerked him upright. Noble felt hairs separate from his scalp but it was a distant pain compared to the throbbing in his belly.
Zeqiri followed up with another short jab to Noble’s ribs and a hard crack against his jaw that rocked Noble’s head to the side. Little fairy lights capered in his vision. The scrapyard seemed to spin on a tilt-a-whirl. The taste of hot copper filled his mouth. Zeqiri pulled back for another punch.
“Keep swinging Zeqiri,” Noble managed to croak. “I’ve got time. Have you?”
The comment stopped Zeqiri’s fist. The former Captain stood, elbow pulled back, ready for another devastating blow. His eyes narrowed.
One of Zeqiri’s men looked around the dark piles of wrecked cars and mangled appliances, like he expected American commandos to materialize from the shadows. Sideburns muttered something in Albanian. Comb-over agreed.
Noble grinned despite the pain. He needed Zeqiri and his men to think a fast reaction team was on their way.
It was a Hail Mary pass, but it was Noble’s only hope for getting out of this alive.
If they thought he was part of a larger network, and that backup might even now be closing in, they might let him go in favor of making a fast getaway.
At the very least, they might make a mistake that would give Noble a chance to break free.
Somewhere in the piles of junk, a feral cat let out a long shriek. Metal clattered. Probably a cat chasing a nice fat mouse, but Zeqiri and his men spun around in alarm.
Zeqiri bared his teeth. “This is your last chance, Mr. Goodman.”
“No, this is your last chance Zeqiri,” Noble snapped. “You and your men give yourselves up and I’ll see if I can get you a sweetheart deal. Maybe you won’t die in prison like Major Hoxha.”
Zeqiri’s men were trading glances now, clearly nervous. The captain studied Noble a moment then spoke in Albanian.
This was it. Noble tensed, his leg muscles ready to spring.
Zeqiri and his goons had decided discretion was the better part of valor.
Only question was, would they execute him on the spot with a gun to the back of the head, or did they have something else in mind?
Noble was betting on the later. So far they hadn’t been leaving bodies.
They were trying to clean up after themselves and keep their operation—whatever that operation might be—quiet. That just might work in his favor.
Sideburns and Comb-over hurried Noble to the large industrial compactor where a four-door sedan waited.
A sign carried warnings in three different languages, but Noble didn’t need to read the sign to understand the meaning.
Caution. Danger. Serious threat to life and limb.
He tried unsuccessfully to break free. Sideburns gave him a short hard punch to the lower back that took the fight out of him.
Then he was being pushed into the driver’s seat of the sedan.
Noble’s heart kicked at the wall of his chest. He needed to come up with an escape plan. Only what could he do? They had the guns. The minute he tried to make a break, they’d simply shoot him. His knees suddenly felt like they’d been replaced with slippery rubber. Breathing was difficult.
Comb-over produced a pair of handcuffs. He fastened one bracelet onto the steering wheel and the other onto Noble’s left wrist. They kicked Noble’s legs into the car, threw the door shut with a bang and Sideburns waved. “So long, American.”
Comb-over threw a switch on the control panel, thumbed a button and the machine let out a series of long warning beeps that echoed across the quiet scrapyard.
Captain Zeqiri whistled. His crew hurried to their cars, piled into the vehicles and roared out of the dump, leaving Noble cuffed to the steering wheel of a sedan that was about to be pressed into a dinner plate.
The industrial compactor gave another long series of warning beeps, letting workers know to get clear.
A second later the big machine whirred to life.
Noble cursed.