Spectrum Page 7
Chapter 16
August Burke hated meeting new people. Maybe hate was too strong of a word. It was more that, in his experiences, new people didn’t offer enough reward to justify their risk. New people frightened him. Not physically. He actually wasn’t afraid of anyone physically. It was from an emotional perspective that he feared those unknown variables. With time, he could quantify people. He could mentally calculate their reactions to most situations. But spending any amount of time in the company of strangers was both emotionally and mentally exhausting.
And, unfortunately, ASAC Samuel Carter—his companion? boss? slave master?—was little more than a stranger to him. More unknown than known. And that made August Burke very uncomfortable.
To compound his exasperation, he would now be forced to interact with people who were entirely unknown quantities. Burke felt his pulse rate rising, his breathing becoming more and more labored, the closer Carter and he came to the crowd of people.
Carter showed his credentials to the officer holding back the throngs of onlookers. The guard radioed ahead, and a moment later they were greeted by three men and one woman. Normally, Burke would have quantified and cataloged all four people as they approached, but once he laid eyes on the blonde, Burke lost his concentration.
He stuck out his hand to her as soon as they were within appropriate range. He had made the mistake in the past of sticking out his arm too soon, at too great of a range, which made the gesture feel awkward and strange. After some experimentation, he had learned to better gauge, from the walking speed of the involved parties, the appropriate moment.
With the blonde, he nailed the approach. He met her gaze with his piercing blue eyes. He found direct eye contact very uncomfortable. But that didn’t mean that he couldn’t force himself, if the situation warranted it. And the courtship of a potential mate definitely held the potential for a reward that was worth the cost.
“I’m Dr. August Burke,” he said. “And you are exquisitely beautiful. I once drove my ’67 Firebird up into the mountains, and I camped out by this small lake and watched the sun rise. As I was walking up to you, just now, I felt the same emotions as I did that morning. You’re breathtaking.”
As was usually the case, her features indicated shock at first, but then her cheeks turned red. She diverted her gaze and smiled. All good indicators that his social maneuvering had achieved the desired effect.
The short Hispanic man beside him said, “Wow, I’m a little hurt. You didn’t find me breathtaking, Don Juan?”
“No,” Burke said. Then to the blonde woman, he said, “What’s your name?”
She met his eyes and said, “Bristol Whelan. I’m here representing the city council.”
The short man, dressed in green tactical body armor, said, “Gee, buddy, you’re always on point, huh?”
Then the SWAT officer laid a hand on Burke’s shoulder.
He instantly redirected his attention and recoiled. He slapped the hand away and said, “I don’t like to be touched.”
The SWAT officer raised his hands and said, “Hey, no problem. My ex-wife was the same way, so I totally understand that sort of thing. I’m Sergeant Ortiz, by the way.”
Burke narrowed his eyes at the man, unsure of whether the crack about his ex-wife was factual, meant to diffuse the tension, or if Sergeant Ortiz was making a joke at his expense. “Dr. August Burke,” he said.
At Burke’s side, Carter introduced himself and said, “Please excuse my associate. He can sometimes be a little too direct. Dr. Burke is a Criminal Patterns Analysis Consultant for the FBI, and so everyone is aware, he has Asperger’s syndrome.”
Burke’s eyes went wide, and he gave Carter a dirty look. Now, Ms. Whelan would probably think he was some kind of contagious freak. He made a mental note that Samuel Carter was not a good wingman when approaching a future Mrs. Burke.
Attempting to salvage the moment, he said to her, “It’s a neurological disorder. I was born with it. It’s not like an STD or anything.”
Bristol laughed and said, “I know what Asperger’s is. I have a cousin who’s on the spectrum.”
“They say that if you’ve met one person on the spectrum, then you’ve only met one person on the spectrum.”
She winked at him and said, “I’m sure.”
The thin man at the end introduced himself as Deputy Chief Edgar and the man beside him as Officer Juliano. Burke tore his gaze from Bristol long enough to look down at the two men. Chief Edgar shook hands with Carter and thanked him for coming so quickly.
But Officer Juliano wasn’t looking at Carter. The officer’s eyes were narrowed at him. He fought to maintain his composure, but he suddenly wanted nothing more than to turn and head back to the car. He had no clue what he had done to offend the intimidating officer, but that was usually the case when someone looked at him with such anger.
“Why would an ASAC come down from on high for this?” Officer Juliano said.
In his peripheral vision, Burke saw that the cop’s gaze didn’t wander until he punctuated the sentence. With an unfaltering smile and a soft but commanding voice, one that brought to mind a PBS grandfather reading stories to adoring grandchildren, Carter said, “Full disclosure. I’m a field agent at heart. I would get bored as hell if all I did was sit behind a desk and write my name on shit.”
All three cops laughed and nodded. Burke made a mental note: ASAC Carter disarmed people I had previously offended with only a few words. His mannerisms and techniques may be worth further study.
Still reeling them in with his charming smile and calming voice, Carter said, “How about you gentlemen, and lady, show us the inside of that fancy RV of yours, and we get those hostages out of there safely.”
Burke wanted to add that long-term data suggested that eighty-five to ninety percent of hostage situations resolved nonviolently, but he kept his mouth shut for fear of sounding and feeling stupid.
Chapter 17
As they approached the comm center, Nic Juliano tried to nail down his feelings on August Burke. What the hell kind of a guy walked up to a total stranger, especially one who looked like Bristol, and said something like that?
Nic opened the door to the massive RV and held it for the others. Bristol and Dr. Burke had fallen to the rear.
Nic found Burke’s eyes and said, “After you, Mr. Burke.”
“It’s Dr. Burke actually, and I insist, after you.”
“What exactly are you a doctor of?”
“Criminal Psychology.”
“You look pretty young to have a doctorate?”
“I’m old enough. Getting older by the minute. After you.”
“I insist.”
“Fine, but then you’re going to have to wait while I smoke,” Burke said.
He pulled out a pack, shook one to the top, and pulled it out with his lips. Then he lit the cigarette with a tarnished old Zippo lighter.
“I could use one of those too,” Bristol said.
Burke shook another to the top, and Bristol made a show of wrapping her lips around the offered cigarette.
Nic gritted his teeth and said, “Can I talk to you over here for one sec, Ms. Whelan?”
She batted her eyes at him and said, “You’ll have to wait until I finish my cigarette. I know my smoking offends your sensitive nostrils.”
“It’s not my nostrils I’m worried about. It’s your lungs. Can we please not do this now? I need to focus in there.”
“What’s stopping you?”
“Fine. Just try to remember why we’re here, please.”
“You’re the one making something out of nothing.”
“Did the two of you date?” Burke asked.
“Briefly,” Bristol said. “Thankfully, it was over before it began.”
Nic bit back a harsh reply and said, “What is it that a ‘Criminal Patterns Analysis Consultant’ does exactly?”
Burke seemed to consider that a moment, and replied, “Beats the shit out of me, but I guess we’re ab
out to find out.”
Chapter 18
Kruger removed the hidden Colt 1911 from the drawer of Quentin Yarborough’s obsidian-colored desk. He examined the weapon, stuck it into the back of his belt, and slid his large frame down into one of the visitor’s chairs. He gestured toward the manager’s chair and said, “Please, have a seat. This is your office, after all.”
Quentin Yarborough walked over and sat down. Every movement dripped with a smug sense of superiority. He knew that Quentin had no trouble with people of other races. Many of the manager’s clientele on the gold bullion side of GoBox were Nigerian warlords and Saudi princes. His lack of respect was because Quentin still felt he was dealing with common thugs. As was most often the case, a demonstration would be required.
Kruger leaned back in the chair and looked around the office. The colors were bright blues, one whole wall was blue with a large mirror in a silver frame in its center. It was behind Kruger, positioned so that Quentin could observe without looking directly. The floor was tile but had a black and white bull’s-eye design that gave the impression you were falling. Everything was leather and intricately carved wood. All very modern and elegant.
“Are those cigars on your desk?” he said.
“Yes.”
“Cuban?”
“No, that would be illegal.”
“Please, let’s not play games. I’ll take one from your private stock.”
Quentin curled up his lip but then opened a cabinet and removed a small humidor. He produced a long Maduro cigar and held it out for Kruger.
He took it and said, “Do you have a light?”
Quentin gritted his teeth and replied, “If you’re going to smoke in here, may I at least turn on the exhaust fan?”
“Of course.”
Quentin flipped on a switch and a tiny click and whir was all the sound the fan made.
Kruger laughed. “You had them put in a whisper exhaust fan in your office so that you could smoke cigars with your rich clients?”
Quentin sat back down and slid a gold and black butane torch lighter across to Kruger. The GoBox manager said, “Or marijuana or hashish or whatever they desire. Do you have a problem with my clientele?”
“Not at all. We may even know some of the same people.”
“Then why are you doing this?”
“People worry too much about the almighty Why. You don’t need to know why I’m here. All you need to know is what I want from you.”
Quentin leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “Then what do you want from me?”
“I need your code, Quentin. The door code sequence for your back room.”
“I have no idea to what you are referring.”
Kruger looked at his cigar and said, “Am I supposed to just bite the end off this beautiful cigar?”
Quentin rolled his eyes and reached for his cutter, but Kruger raised a hand and said, “Never mind, I have something that will work even better.”
He reached into a pocket of his long black coat and produced a pair of black pruning shears, the small handheld version often used by gardeners. He said, “I love these things. It’s a pair of pruning shears, but they have a ratchet drive system, so that you can cut through almost anything without exerting much effort.”
He held the shears up to the end of his Cuban cigar and easily lopped off the end. The blades were sharp and maintained. It slid through the tightly packed, handcrafted cigar like it was made of warm butter with barely any pressure applied.
Quentin Yarborough said, “If you’re trying to intimidate me, you’re doing a poor job. I am a former—”
“SAS. British special forces. Yes, I know. I know all about you and this place and all of those people out there. We are not common criminals. I know your service record in the first Gulf War. I know when you went to work as a bodyguard and then eventually worked your way up to a management position. And then, eventually, you were chosen as regional manager for GoBox. Don’t act like you’re royal blood. You were born in the same kind of trash bin I was. Yours was just a little farther north. So don’t act like you’re better than me.”
“Sir, I never judge anyone by where or to whom they were born. I judge people by their actions. And you have shown yourself to be a man of low moral fiber and display a total disregard for human life. That is why I’m better than you.”
Kruger laughed. “I always try to give people a chance without things getting messy. But for some reason, everyone always needs a demonstration.”
As he spoke, Kruger squeezed the handle of the shears in rhythm with his heartbeat, so that as he spoke the shears made a constant whish-whish sound of two blades crossing one another.
“When I was seven years old, my mother decided that we would flee from Mozambique, with the hope that she could find work in Jo’burg and that we could escape the famine and death of our civil war. The only way she knew to do this was to travel through Kruger National Park into South Africa. The borders there were sporadically patrolled by humans, but that didn’t mean that they were unguarded. The group of refugees we came with started out at fifteen. Only myself and one other—my future wife, Zarina—survived the crossing. And only by a miracle did we make it out alive. The lions ate the rest of our group. It’s a bit of a dirty little secret actually, since some estimate that more than 13,000 men, women, and children have been attacked and killed by lions in and around Kruger National Park in the last fifty years. Which is not a headline that’s great for tourism. My personal story did make some of the local papers however, since only myself and a small girl survived the crossing and were picked up by one of the patrols near the Timbavati reserve. They called us the Ghosts of Timbavati because we didn’t speak for days, and some felt that we had actually died in the park and were but mere spirits unable to find our way to the next world.”
“I don’t see how this is—”
“I begged my mother not to take us. I was so scared of the lions. I had seen one once when I was a boy playing on the outskirts of the village. Luckily, it had better things to hunt than a scrawny human child. It took down a gazelle right in front of me. I’ll never forget the power of the beast. It’s breath. It was like it owned the air all around us … The point is that I had seen a demonstration of what a lion could do up close. My mother had not. She had heard the stories and the warnings, but she ignored them. I hid in a termite mound while they devoured her. Lions like to eat your intestines first. While you’re still alive. But you see, she didn’t fear the lion. She didn’t respect the beasts as she should have, and the mistake cost her life. She needed a demonstration.”
Kruger stood and stepped around the desk toward Quentin Yarborough, the pruning shears still slicing rhythmically in his right hand. “I think that you also need a demonstration,” he said. “And with time, you’ll learn to fear the lion as well.”
He dropped the pruning shears on the desk in front of Yarborough. Then Kruger said, “You may want to take off your belt.”
“Pardon me?”
He shrugged. “It’s your choice, but I’ve heard that it helps.”
“Helps with what?”
“The pain, of course.” Kruger leaned down into Yarborough’s face, placing a hand on each armrest. “I’m going to give you a choice, Quentin. You know what I’ll need from you to access the real prize that your facility is protecting. The choice is simple. You can cut off one of your thumbs with the pruning shears. They’re sharp, and with the ratcheting system, it should go quickly. I’ll even let you take the left thumb.”
Yarborough’s eyes remained defiant and proud. “And if I refuse?”
Kruger slipped a massive, bone-handled knife from a sheath on his back and stabbed it into the surface of Yarborough’s desk. “If you make me do it, I’ll take your whole hand, and then I’ll cauterize the wound using your lovely torch lighter. I wouldn’t want you to die on me.”
“You’re insane. I will do no such thing, and if you lay a hand on me, I’ll—”
Yarborough’s eyes showed fear for the first time.
“I’ll make you a deal, Quentin. If you cut off the thumb, I’ll let your eye stay where it is until I need your scan. It’s nasty business anyway. But if you try to defy me, I’ll take your hand, and then I’ll take your eye.”
Yarborough’s gaze traveled to the bone-handled knife stuck in his desk and then to the pair of shears. He started to reach for the shears, but Kruger knew what the old soldier was thinking: Grab the knife quickly and slash up for the throat.
It wouldn’t have been a bad plan, if Yarborough had been thirty years younger, and Kruger had not trained with the knife for hours on end.
With a quick lunge, Yarborough made his move, but Kruger had already pulled the blade free, grasped the manager by the arm, and hacked down onto the man’s wrist with all of his force. The bone-handled knife was razor sharp, and Kruger was a powerful man. The hand came off easily, falling to the tile floor as Quentin Yarborough issued a shrill cry of anguish.
As promised, Kruger snatched up the torch lighter and put the flame to the stump where Yarborough’s hand had once been. The manager’s pain sensors were on overload, and his brain shut the man down like flipping a switch. He passed out and fell back into the leather chair.
Kruger finished burning the wound, which would likely lead to infection but would also keep the man from bleeding to death. He wiped the knife clean on Yarborough’s suit, took a deep breath, and saw flashes of women and children with their extremities removed. He pressed his palms to his eyes to block out the visions.
When he looked back at Yarborough, Kruger was relieved that the old soldier had passed out on him. He didn’t think he could have handled the enucleation if the man was wide awake and kicking.