Page 42 of Sam to the Rescue

“…No, I didn’t admit to anything. Huh? …How the hell do I know? … Yeah. Well, tell that to the driver. I did what you asked. We’re done.”

Someone paid Riley? Damn it. The closer I get, the more I spin my wheels.

Chapter 27

Suds

The Cadillac containing me, Edge, and Fangs pulls off Route 4 in Hackensack. In an abandoned deli, the clown boys ask me to strip, Then, they check me for wires.

Wearing only my skivvies, I cross my arms and jut out my chin. “My fee just went up. I charge a thousand bucks for body searches.”

My focus stays diverted from my belt buckle. Those FBI geeks better have hidden the GPS device well. Otherwise, my chances of survival hover around fifty-fifty. With only one door, boarded up windows, and two armed enemies, this mission could easily end with a bullet to the back of my head.

“Get dressed.” When the wanna-be vampire slaps me on the back, my back teeth connect.

“Yeah, whatever. When do I get my gun back?”

He grunts something noncommittal which worries me more than the search. Who the fuck hires a gunman and takes away their weapon?

Edge slides behind the wheel and drives north until we hit the New York state border. In Tuxedo, we veer west onto old Route Seventeen, staying off the interstate. That’s not odd, in and of itself, but when I ask to take a piss, the driver pulls to the curb near some trees, avoiding gas stations.

The degree to which we avoid main roads says much. When they do stop, they use high power binoculars to search the skies for drones. Who the hell are these guys and what the fuck are they hiding?

Back in the car, the leader insists I drive and slides next to me. As farmland rolls by, he breaks the silence. “Who are you, really, Sebastian Sutcliffe?”

Wanting for weapons, I picture how this could go down. If they believe me, we continue on our merry way. If not, I may have to kill him and his buddies, thus losing my chances of finding the explosives.

I summon my inner teenager, a sullen son of a gun. “I’m the guy you hired to do the job. Nothing more, nothing less.”When lying, stick to the truth as much as possible.

“Why were you dishonorably discharged?”

I repeat the backstory the Feds put in my record. “Because the brass-holes in charge got my pals killed in Afghanistan.

That, is also partially true. The reconnaissance on my last mission was lacking. We were supposed to be driving through friendly territory. No one knew the Taliban had taken over the small town where we were ambushed.

The vehemence in my tone is so real, there’s no way Fangs will think I’m lying. That shit pisses me off something fierce.

“Can you shoot?” His brows raise.

Glancing off the road, I snort out a laugh. “I know you saw my bullseyes from the range. I was lethal before I was potty trained.”

My answer should set him at ease but instead it makes him shift in his seat so I poke the bear. “Does this mission have something to do with the barrels I saw in the ladies room?”

“No one asks questions. Understood?” His sharp tone makes me wonder if the vehicle is bugged.

“Just one more. You agreed to half upfront and the other half after the job was finished. I figure I’m due my first installment.” When I hold out my hand, he reaches into a bag at his feet and places a bundle of money in my palm.

I stick the wad inside my jacket near my empty holster. “I’m gonna want my weapon back, too.”

“All in good time.”

Hours later, I still haven’t learned jack shit. We exit the vehicle near a white building with a wraparound porch just north of Ithaca College, in the middle of DairyLand. I’m supposed to sleep with twelve other mercenaries in a barn while Fangs and Edge populate the turn-of-the-century farmhouse.

My frustration rises come nightfall. Halpern said the terrorism event was imminent. I need to find something that will stop it, and soon. So, when everyone falls asleep, I take a stroll. Other than a tractor, a bailer, and a few attachments, the barn is empty.

The stalls indicate the farm housed cows. Rusted metal pipes lead to a sterile room where a stainless-steel vat would’ve stood. Outside, I climb a rickety ladder into the hay loft. Maybe from a higher vantage point, I can get a better layout of the land.

A lit cigarette end shines from the porch of the main house. I have to assume he’s the guard and has access to night vision goggles. From the number of bedroom windows with the lights on, I’m guessing they have four, maybe five guys staying there.