Brett Battles - The Destroyed

The pilot proved to be more than capable, getting them on the ground in thirty-eight minutes instead of forty-five.

As Peter had promised, a sedan and a white panel van were waiting for them. Logos on both sides of the van proclaimed that it belonged to KFR Catering, but the decals, along with the actual color of the van, could be removed in just a couple of minutes, changing the van to an unmarked dark blue.

As the prisoners were hustled out of the plane and into the van, Orlando sent Peter copies of Mila’s secret video footage of Thomas Gorman, and the three men’s confessions, which he would then distribute to the appropriate channels. These same channels would also receive the additional information Peter’s inside source had been able to unearth.

“You guys are released,” Quinn said to Howard and Larson.

“Easiest gig I’ve had all year,” Howard said as they shook. “You guys be careful.”

The two men walked over to the waiting sedan, and left.

Though the plane had been in the air for several hours, they had actually landed just a few hundred miles to the northeast from where they had taken off. That, of course, was information they did not share with their captives.

To ensure that Mygatt and company didn’t figure that out, Quinn slipped one of the CDs that had come with the van into the vehicle’s old stereo, and turned up the volume in the back. Each disk was labeled with the name of a different country, and contained recorded radio broadcasts from that particular nation. The one Quinn selected was from Kazakhstan.

As soon as everyone else was in, Quinn glanced at Nate. “Let’s go.”

Dewayne Beetner was not in a good mood. Why the hell he and his cameraman, Zach Yates, were in some Romanian backwater town, hiding out in a car outside what looked like a deserted factory, he didn’t know. But the assignment had come from high-up PCN management, so here they were, before the sun was even up, waiting for…something.

“Gotta take a leak,” Yates said.

Beetner grunted his indifference as Yates climbed out of the car. It wouldn’t be long before he had to do the same thing.

This wasn’t the first time Beetner and Yates had been sent on an assignment without adequate information. Occasionally tips would come in that their bosses back in New York would deem worthy of checking out. More times than not, they turned out to be nothing more than PR stunts that were a complete waste of time.

Beetner was beginning to wonder if this was even going to reach that level. He had the distinct feeling that absolutely nothing was going to happen.

His gaze drifted up to the stars above the town. Out here, away from the big city, they glowed with an intensity he seldom had a chance to see anymore. When he’d been younger, he would have been able to pick out most of the constellations, but he’d lost that knack long ago.

At least it wasn’t raining, he thought. That would have truly sucked.

Light flickered at the bottom of his vision. He tilted his head back down. A high, solid wall ran the length of the block, broken only by the closed gate they were told to keep an eye on. On the wall next to the gate, a rusty-looking lamp had just come on.

Beetner reached across the car and opened the passenger door. “Zach!” he whispered loudly. “Get back here!”

Yates ran back and climbed in.

“What is it?” the cameraman asked.

“That light. It wasn’t on before.”

“Okay. Is this it?”

“Hell if I know, but be ready just in case.”

Yates grabbed his camera from the backseat and aimed it toward the gate.

For a full five minutes nothing happened. Beetner had all but written it off as another meaningless moment in a night full of them, when, without any warning, a small door that was built into the gate opened.

“Get this. Get this,” Beetner said, still doubting whatever was going to happen would be newsworthy.

For another several seconds, nothing more occurred.

Then a foot hesitantly stepped over the threshold.

The man it belonged to emerged a moment later. His thin frame made him look small, but in height, he was probably the same as Beetner, around five foot ten. His face was gaunt and incredibly pale.

He took several tentative steps away from the gate, and looked back. Though the door remained open, no one else emerged. He then looked both ways down the road as if he were unsure where to go.

“Is he why we’re here?” Yates asked.

“I…I don’t know.” Beetner thought for a moment. “Come on. We might as well talk to him.”

As the two men climbed out of the car, the thin man turned to look at them. For a moment he did nothing, then his eyes widened in fear. He twisted back in the other direction and started walking away at a pace Beetner guessed was as fast as he could go.

“Hold on!” Beetner yelled, hoping the man understood English. “We don’t want to hurt you. We just want to ask you a question.”

The man glanced back but kept moving.

Beetner might have given up right then, but there was something about the guy that was familiar. He started jogging, and could hear Yates grunting along behind him.

“Sir, please. We’re not going to hurt you or anything.”

This time there was no response at all.

As he passed the gate, Beetner glanced over at the open doorway. He’d assumed from the way the other man had looked back that there were others with him, but the reporter saw no one on the other side, just a starlit courtyard and a decrepit building beyond.

“Sir,” he called out. “I’m not sure if you can understand me, but we just want to talk. We’re from PCN. The news network?”

At the mention of PCN, the thin man’s steps faltered.

Beetner thought he heard the man say something, but he wasn’t sure. “Sorry. I didn’t catch that,” he said.

“Trick,” the man grunted as he kept walking.

He’d spoken English.

“No, sir. No trick.”

“Trick,” the man repeated. “Not real. Leave me. Leave me.”

Not only had he spoken English, but his accent was American.

“We’re not going to hurt you,” Beetner said. He jogged the final few feet between them and put a hand on the man’s shoulder to stop him. “We just want to-”

The man jerked away, twisting as he did so that he ended up facing the PCN reporter. “Leave me! Leave me!” He stumbled backward a few steps, then whipped around and continued walking away.

Beetner stared after the man, unable to move his feet.

“Oh, shit,” Yates said from behind him.

“You saw that, right? I’m not crazy.”

“I saw,” Yates said, his tone of disbelief matching his colleague’s.

Beetner remained rooted where he was for another second. Finally, he broke free and began chasing after the biggest story he would ever have.

Quinn checked his watch.

They would be cutting it close, but even at eleven p.m., it had been too much to hope that they wouldn’t run into any traffic as they drove into New York City. Their timing had to be perfect, otherwise they risked getting detained and questioned themselves. Something that was out of the question.

“Seven minutes out,” Nate said.

Quinn nodded, and glanced at Daeng. “Let’s get them ready.”

Mygatt, Green, and Olsen sat on the floor of the van, tied and hooded as before. Speakers in back blasted the prerecorded radio station directly at them. Quinn lowered the volume then said, “How’s everyone doing?”

“We did what you asked,” Mygatt said. “Now let us go like you promised.”

“I think I promised to give you to people who wouldn’t necessarily kill you.”

“What does that mean?”

Quinn didn’t respond.