The Controller Page 11

  He switched off the engine and lights and opened his door, squeezing himself through the tight gap. The door wedged against the bark of one of the acacia trees. He hadn’t anticipated the complete darkness. He switched on his flashlight in time to see some form of wildlife sprinting into the undergrowth. With his gun in one hand, the flashlight in the other, he edged back down the dirt track in time to see the lights of a car approaching him at speed. He killed the light, the car streaming past, oblivious to his presence. It moved too quickly for Lynch to recognize it but he was confident it was the blue sedan.

  He paused for breath noticing the tension ease from his body, his shoulders falling, his arms and legs looser as he let out a heavy breath. It wasn’t over yet. Whoever was following him would soon realize they’d been duped and would turn back checking for entrances such as this. He returned to the van and retrieved a rifle and ammunition from one of the holdall bags. Locking up, he moved back to the main road and crossed over, slipping behind a hedge on the other side and cursing as his foot slipped into a small puddle of water. He loaded the rifle and pitched it towards the road and waited.

  Lynch ignored the dampness seeping into his shoes. He’d been in similar positions many times before and was prepared to stay here until it was light. In the last forty minutes, he’d counted thirty-two vehicles, eighteen heading west and fourteen heading east. In the darkness it was difficult to ascertain the color or make of the vehicles, but he was sure the blue sedan had yet to pass him.

  Lynch was alone in the alien world of nocturnal sounds. He sensed the hive of activity behind him, scurrying creatures, and insects chirping into the night sky. He took a strange comfort in the fact that he was an intruder in their midst, enjoying their companionship as he waited.

  It was another twenty minutes before he saw them. They drove past him first of all, slower than the other vehicles. Ten minutes later they returned on the other side of the road and stopped by the turning.

  They parked fifty meters away from Lynch’s vantage point, close enough for him to fire off a shot if necessary. They sat for some time with the engine running, two people in the front, the passenger with a lit cigarette in his mouth. It was as if they knew he was in the hedge and were waiting for him to make his presence known. Lynch kept low, the rifle hidden behind the bushes but still pointed in the direction of the car.

  Five minutes later, the passenger left the car. Lynch fixed his arms into position, the rifle locked and ready to go. The driver opened his door and joined his companion at the back of the car. They exchanged words, neither of them withdrawing a firearm, and made their way across to the small side road where Lynch’s van was parked.

  Lynch eased himself out of the ditch and scrambled across a thin covering of grassland on his hands and knees, his eyes fixed on the shadowy figures across the road. A truck made its way up the hill and Lynch flattened himself as the two men froze. As the lorry drove passed, Lynch used the opportunity. Springing onto his feet he dashed across the road. He jumped onto the small landing of soft grass and rolled behind an acacia branch.

  It was tough going in the darkness. He used the light of his phone to guide him, concerned the torchlight displayed too much illumination. He’d always had a good sense of direction in these circumstances and moved from covering to covering until he was close to the side entrance where his followers had moved. They were heading down the dirt track towards the van.

  If he’d known for sure that they were the Railroad he’d have had no hesitation in taking them out. The figures were visible enough for him to make a clean hit without it resulting in a fatality but he couldn’t take such a risk yet. It was possible the two men were Agents and that Sandra Rose had lied to him.

  He peeled away from his hiding spot and tiptoed along the path until he was yards from the men. Lynch tensed before making his move, sprinting towards the men with as little noise as possible, knowing hesitation could be fatal. He lifted his rifle as he ran and crashed it down onto the skull of the shadowy figure to his left.

  The butt of the rifle made a satisfactory impact, the man’s legs giving way in an instant as he crumbled to a heap on the floor. The second man was quick to react but not as quick as Lynch. As he moved to reach something from his inside jacket, Lynch leapt forwards and aimed a short, sharp jab into the man’s throat. His collapse to the ground was less dramatic than his colleague’s but was significant enough for Lynch to take control. As the man bent to his knees, unable to breathe, Lynch brought the butt of his rifle up again and smashed it, with less force this time, into the back of the second man’s head.

  The man let out dry gasps as he fell face-forward into the ground. He was still conscious as Lynch jumped onto his back, his right knee pinning the man down as he cuffed him. Confident he was secure, Lynch turned his attention to his unconscious colleague. Cuffing him first, he rolled him onto his side pleased to hear the shallow breathing coming from the man’s chest. He secured a number of firearms from both men before standing back as the second man found voice.

  ‘They told me you’re a hard man, Lynch,’ said the man.

  Lynch didn’t respond. In situations like this it was often most prudent to listen.

  ‘You know who we are,’ continued the man. ‘Why haven’t you finished us off?’’

  Lynch wasn’t sure if it was an act but the man sounded genuinely perplexed by the situation. Lynch sensed something else in the man’s voice. He was clearly afraid but Lynch wasn’t sure he was afraid of him. Lynch hauled both men up into the back of the van, securing their legs and hands with flex cuffs before shutting the back doors. The largest of the pair was still unconscious and Lynch put him in the recovery position. His pulse was strong but there was a thick abrasion to the back of his head.

  ‘Who sent you?’ said Lynch, to the second man who sat slumped over in the back of the van his hand behind his back.

  The man’s face contorted into a grin, his eyes remaining cold.

  ‘I warn you now, boy,’ he said, his voice a thick Texan drawl, ‘that you’ll be getting no information from me.’

  ‘Well see about that,’ said Lynch, withdrawing his gun.

  The man smiled again and broke into a strangled laugh.

  ‘That’s the best you’ve got? Just do it, boy, I’d welcome the oblivion.’

  Lynch didn’t want to waste time. It was getting light and they risked being discovered. He needed information and there was only one language the man understood. Lynch shuffled across the back of the van, his gun in his left hand. He winced at the smell coming from the man’s fallen comrade.

  ‘What’s your name?’ said Lynch.

  The man snarled before clicking his throat and spitting in Lynch’s face. Lynch wiped the spit away and aimed his right elbow onto the side of the man’s head. The impact was significant. Spittle drooling from the man’s mouth as his head lolled onto his chest. Lynch grabbed his hair and pulled his head backwards. The man blinked, his eyes dotted with bloodlines, a thick bruise already spreading from his eye.

  ‘That wasn’t nice,’ said Lynch.

  The man shook his head a number of times, more spittle flying from his mouth. Lynch stood back and was about to continue the interrogation when he noticed something on the man’s forearm.

  Lynch retrieved his hunting knife as the man shifted in his confinement. He didn’t fight his binds but for the first time since encountering him Lynch sensed fear. Lynch moved back. He checked the sleeping man before getting closer to his friend. Sweat poured off the prisoner’s forehead, soaking his now closed eye before snaking down onto his chest. ‘Do you think that bothers me?’ he said, as Lynch moved the knife nearer.

  ‘You wouldn’t be pushing back if it didn’t,’ said Lynch, pressing the knife into the fabric of the man’s shirt, ripping it downwards until his chest was revealed. Lynch repeated the maneuver on both sleeves of the shirt until the garment fell away completely. Lynch waited, and the prisoner slowly lifted the lid of his good eye. When he sa
w what Lynch had done, he breathed out a sigh of relief.

  ‘Now you know,’ said the man.

  Lynch nodded. He’d seen the fake marks before but these were real. They matched Razinski’s.

  On the man’s chest were five identical tattoos: railroad lines, each with ten sleeper tracks crudely carved into the victim’s skin. Each tattoo was raised, like Razinski’s they more scar tissue than tattoos. On the man’s left arm were four more tracks, each longer than the ones on his chest.

  ‘What are those for?’ said Lynch.

  The man looked down, something akin to pride coming over him.

  ‘Those are the real deal,’ he said, ‘from the Big Man himself.’

  ‘The Big Man?’

  The man shook his head in regret.

  ‘You mean the Controller?’ said Lynch.

  ‘Listen, aren’t I supposed to have a lawyer?’

  It was Lynch’s turn to laugh.

  ‘I think we’ve passed that point. Why were you following me?’

  The man shook his head.

  Lynch was no expert in this form of interrogation. In his time with the FBI he’d occasionally crossed lines when he’d felt it necessary, usually with a modicum of regret. The same rules didn’t apply now. He wanted to find his son and nothing would stop him. He pushed the knife towards the man’s neck, his tendons standing to attention as if somehow he could protect himself from the weapon.

  ‘You’re going to tell me everything I need to know.’

  The man leant forward pushing the taut flesh of his neck into the blade. Through gritted teeth he said, ‘I’m not telling you shit,’ as a line of blood trickled down his skin.

  Lynch didn’t want to lose face but if the prisoner pushed forward anymore it was possible he could do some lasting damage. He withdrew the knife and crashed his elbow onto the same spot on the man’s left eye.

  The man’s head snapped viciously to the right, a spurge of blood filtering across the back of the van as someone knocked on the door.

  18

  Lynch didn’t hesitate. He reached for the still conscious man and punched him square in the mouth to stop him speaking.

  The back of the van was mirrored glass, darkened so the interior couldn’t be viewed from outside. He withdrew a gag and tied it firmly across the man’s mouth before withdrawing his firearm. He was in a compromised position but at that moment had no other course of action. It didn’t matter who was on the other side of the door. One way or another it would cause problems. He cursed himself for his lack of professionalism. He’d thought the location was secure but, in retrospect, he should have driven away, should have kept moving; should have checked if he was being followed.

  ‘Who is it?’ he shouted, pretending to have just woken from sleep.

  ‘Sorry to bother you,’ came the voice. ‘It looks like you’ve got yourself into some trouble. I thought I might be of assistance.’

  ‘No, you’re fine,’ said Lynch, ‘just resting up for the evening. Thanks for your concern.’

  Lynch waited, hoping the do-gooder had taken the hint. Seconds later there was a second knock on the door. Lynch cursed and retreated to the front seats of the van.

  ‘I said go away,’ he shouted, mustering as much authority into his voice as possible.

  The do-gooder didn’t respond. It was then that Lynch understood. The person outside of the van was no simple passer-by. He crouched into the footwall on the passenger side seat. He tried to glimpse at the rear-view mirror but it was still dark outside and he could see little more than shapes and shadows. He sucked in a deep breath. Exhaling, he opened the door as quietly as he could and slid out onto the ground.

  ‘I wouldn’t move if I were you, Mr Lynch,’ said the man holding a gun, mere meters away. ‘These babies don’t tend to miss in such close confines.’

  Lynch was face down in the mud. He couldn’t see the assailant but he recognized the voice.

  ‘Balfour.’

  ‘Whoa, buddy,’ said Balfour, ‘you got me. I still need you to release your gun and then we can talk.’

  Thoughts rushed Lynch as he lay in the mud considering his next course of action.

  ‘Throw the gun over here, Lynch, and you can get on your feet and we can have a little chat.’

  Lynch threw the firearm over and pushed himself up onto his knees before standing. Balfour moved towards him, picking up the gun.

  ‘Samuel Lynch,’ said Balfour, shaking his head. ‘Well, I’ll be. Still trying to do my job for me, I see.’

  Lynch was relieved Balfour had dropped his gun. ‘Have you been following me?’ he asked.

  Balfour leant forward and helped him to his feet.

  ‘Indirectly, yes. I’ve been tailing the two men you have in the back of your van at present. I presume they’re secure?’

  Balfour was acting like the compound had never happened, that he was the only agent unaccounted for.

  Lynch nodded, playing along.

  ‘And would you like to tell me what the hell is going on?’

  ‘Me?’ said Lynch. ‘The last time I saw you, you were unconscious at the compound. How’s the nose by the way.’

  Balfour nodded, his hand involuntarily reaching for his face. ‘I remember. At least, I remember being knocked unconscious and left to die.’

  ‘That’s not exactly what happened, Balfour.’

  ‘Not exactly?’ Balfour gave him his practiced smile, the side of his face swollen from where he’d been knocked out at the compound.

  ‘We came back for you.’

  ‘So Agent Rose claims.’

  ‘You’ve spoken to Rose?’ Was that why he was here now? Had Rose given him details of the tracking device?

  ‘I haven’t spoken to anybody. I’ve been tracking those two men in the back of the van. I managed to follow them from the compound and now I find you here.’

  ‘Come on, Balfour, I’m supposed to believe that? Why didn’t you call it in? How did you know what Rose said?’

  ‘I have access to the Bureau’s database. Unfortunately, I can’t trust anyone there. Anyway, I can’t discuss that with you anymore. You’ve technically committed a felony.’

  ‘Technically bullshit,’ said Lynch. ‘Those two were following me and I’ve just turned the tables. You know what they are.’

  ‘I know what they are and I know what they’re capable of,’ said Balfour, ‘but that still doesn’t give you the right to take the law into your own hands. And I’m not just talking about here.’

  Lynch had lost all patience. Balfour had always been sanctimonious from the very day he’d stepped into Lynch’s office all those years ago, and Lynch was sure he was loving this moment of power. Not that Lynch bought a single word he was saying.

  ‘You wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for me. It was my investigation into the Railroad. This is effectively my case you’re working on.’

  Balfour laughed. ‘That’s history, Lynch. Christ, it’s ancient history. Things have moved on a great deal since then. And you, as I’m sure you recall, are no longer an FBI agent. That’s why I’m going to have to bring you in.’

  Lynch folded his arms. ‘This must be some sort of wet dream for you, Balfour. Are you going to cuff me as well?’

  Balfour still had two hands on the shotgun. ‘Now, let me think. Shall I cuff the man who was last seen at an FBI compound where a high security prisoner was murdered along with forty plus colleagues of mine? Would you consider yourself a flight risk, Lynch?’

  Balfour’s hand moved slowly to his belt where he withdrew a pair of handcuffs.

  ‘You know the drill,’ he said, throwing them towards Lynch.

  Lynch considered his moves. He had a second gun in a holster behind his back. But Balfour was trained for such maneuvers and he was sure the man wouldn’t hesitate to take him down. He had all the justification necessary. Reluctantly, Lynch cuffed his left hand and placed it behind his back before falling to his knees. Balfour moved towards him, ramming his foot into
the small of Lynch’s back.

  .‘Sorry about this, Lynch,’ said Balfour, dragging Lynch’s right arm back and cuffing his wrists together. ‘Let’s get you back to base and we can clear this up. If it’s any consolation you can ride up in the front with me.’

  Balfour placed him in the passenger seat before checking on the two men in the back. The unconscious man was still out on the floor of the van. Lynch watched the proceedings as best as he could through the rear-view mirror. The second prisoner moved his head towards Balfour as he released the gag in his mouth, narrowly missing contact with the agent’s head.

  ‘Now, now, sir,’ said Balfour. ‘It seems you’ve got yourself into a bit of a situation.’

  ‘Fuck you,’ came the simple reply.

  ‘I see you checked out the tattoos on the man,’ said Balfour, returning to the driver’s seat. ‘You think they’re genuine?’

  ‘I know they’re genuine,’ said Lynch.

  Balfour reversed the van back down the lane. Outside the sun was rising, the light blue sky tempered with pale red and orange.

  ‘This shouldn’t take long,’ said Balfour. ‘We’ll get you back. Get your side of the story then we can begin interrogating these two.’

  Lynch didn’t buy the friend act. Balfour had hated him for the brief time they’d been colleagues and he imagined his feelings for him hadn’t changed in the interim period. Railroad member or not, Balfour was the complete Machiavellian character. He’d known it from the first time he’d met him. He’d played the friendship card then but Lynch had seen it for what it was. After Lynch left the Bureau, he watched from afar with a growing disdain as Balfour rose through the ranks. Nothing had pointed to him being a member of the Railroad, but every fiber of Lynch’s being was convinced he was lying now.

  ‘Where are you taking us?’ asked Lynch, forty minutes into the journey.

  ‘I told you, a secure office. I don’t want to say too much in front of those two.’

  If Balfour was on the level, it was likely this was the end of the road for him. Unless Rose could sway things in his favor, he was likely to do time for holding the men in the van whatever their backgrounds and motives for following him.