Never Forget Read online

  But the driver, confirming my suspicions he’d been professionally trained, didn’t panic: he reached with his left hand to a blade at his waist concealed by his jacket. But I was ready for this and grabbed his wrist with my spare hand and smashed it against the door and he dropped the knife. Then I started pounding his face with his own hand.

  At that, his panic started: he started rocking violently against me, and his knees shot up and pummeled my shoulder. But I held on tight, increased my grip on his purpling neck and, after fifteen bruising seconds, he was finally out for the count.

  I took a moment to catch my breath; then I got to work.

  First, I removed the driver from the car, laid him by his accomplice, and frisked them both: the head-butted man had a .22 Walther P22 handgun, fitted with a suppressor; an iPhone, which had broken as a result of his fall; a short-wave walkie-talkie, not pre-set to any particular frequency; and, in his bag, the umbrella-cum-rifle, two vacuums, and keys to both the handcuffs and the Crown Vic – while the strangled man had a Walther P22 and $2,000 in cash. Next, I retrieved the knife, and slashed the Crown Vic’s tires. Finally, I got behind the wheel of the van, and exited the garage.

  Fifteen seconds or so later – and after encountering only one other vehicle on Washington Boulevard – I parked the van behind my Saab. Then I got out, opened the van’s side-panel, put the limp woman over my shoulder, and laid her in the back of the Saab; after which, I slashed the van’s tires and got behind the wheel of my car.

  Then, before anything else, I opened the rucksack and pulled out the umbrella: I had to ascertain what they’d used to drug this woman.

  I carefully pried it open. Inside, was a US-made Bigot – an adapted automatic pistol which fires sub-miniature darts, and which has often been used by American Special Forces for stealth operations due to its lack of muzzle flash. A serious piece of kit. And when I looked at the two darts still loaded within, I breathed a sigh of relief: I could see “M99” in a tiny font – a tranquilizer often used on guard dogs, and not something that’d do much more than knock someone out for a few hours.

  I put the umbrella away, fired the engine, and set off.

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later, I arrived at my rental apartment on East 5th Street, in the gritty Skid Row district and soon enough, after discreetly carrying the woman into the apartment block, I had her on my bed, and divested her of gag and handcuffs.

  I knew she simply needed to sleep off the drugs. But I was antsy and wanted to find out more about her, so I frisked her to see if I could find anything. Sure enough, in her jeans pocket I found a small wallet, containing a UCLA Access Card that identified her as Ellen Kelden – a twenty-eight-year-old Junior Lecturer in Mathematical Physics.

  That was all I found. I reckoned the broken cell I’d recovered from the men had been hers, but had been confiscated for obvious reasons.

  Accepting I’d have to wait to find out more, I opened the rucksack again, and took a closer look at the items. Both the guns were identical, and both had a full ten rounds in their magazines. But what was noteworthy about them was that their .22 long rifle bullets were subsonic – that is, if they were fired, they’d fail to break the sound barrier – meaning that with a suppressor in play, these weapons would be practically silent.

  It was illegal in California to possess models of the Walther P22 that were compatible with suppressors. But I had a hunch these folks weren’t too bothered.

  Next, I turned my attention to the short-wave walkie-talkie. The device itself was a high-quality, hard-wearing item; but the fact they were even using short-wave radio spoke volumes. Unlike a cell, which law enforcement can use to triangulate your whereabouts if they know your number, a short-wave radio device won’t give away your location – and whereas the NSA logs every single phone-call made in the country, short-wave communications go practically under the radar.

  In a post-9/11 America in which the NSA’s up everyone’s ass, using a back-to-basics technology like this is a serious statement of intent.

  Then there was the fact they’d kept the walkie-talkie switched off and not pre-set to any particular frequency – another sign of professionalism. It meant I couldn’t communicate with anyone else in their team, nor attempt to eavesdrop on communications.

  Placing the items back in the bag, I finally found myself calming down, and the adrenaline dissipating. And as I lowered myself into an armchair, I suddenly became aware of the pain in my shoulder and head: both were battered and tender; though the bruising on my head was largely hidden by my hair – which was fortunate, given that injuries often attract the wrong sort of attention.

  I looked at Ellen Kelden – the woman responsible for my state; then I glanced at my watch. 6:27. The event I’d booked into at UCLA – a conversation with crime writer Marc Bavcic – was over. But really, I didn’t much care – it was a triviality compared to what’d taken me away. And though a part of me resented being drawn into the orbit of this woman’s trouble, and feared attracting the attention of the authorities, a much larger part of me knew that regardless of what I’d been telling myself, I hadn’t been listening to the police radio just to pass the hours, and was simply thankful I’d been in the right place at the right time.

  I let go a big sigh, then a short choke of laughter. I’d come to California to retrace my father’s footsteps: he’d lived in the state in his early twenties. But in fact this was the first time I’d felt even remotely glad I’d come.

  Chapter 2

  Friday, December 11, 8:07 p.m. – 831 East 5th Street, Skid Row, Los Angeles, California.

  ‘What the hell?’

  Ellen was suddenly bolt upright in bed. And though her eyes were groggy, there was defiance and fire in them.

  ‘Here, have some water – it’ll help,’ I said, pointing to a glass on the bedside table.

  She snapped her head towards me, then shifted back a fraction.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ she said fiercely. ‘Did you fucking drug me?’

  I raised a calming hand. I’d anticipated this reaction.

  ‘Relax, you’re safe,’ I said insistently but gently. ‘You were drugged, but not by me. Two men kidnapped you on the street. So I followed them, knocked them out, and brought you back to my apartment to recover.’ I paused. ‘You’re at 831 East 5th, Skid Row. They drugged you with a tranquilizer, M99. You’ll be fine, but sluggish for a few hours.’

  She narrowed her eyes. ‘I was on Wilshire Avenue, then there was a pain in my leg.’ She reached to her thigh. ‘My last memory – two men talking in a car.’

  I nodded. ‘Right. They shot you with an air rifle concealed in an umbrella. Cloak-and-dagger stuff.’ I pointed to the glass again. ‘Have some water.’

  She looked me quickly up and down. Then, instead of taking the water, she got up, patted her pockets, and started scanning the room.

  ‘Give me my phone and wallet: I’m leaving.’

  I got up from the armchair. ‘Where are you going? You need to rest.’

  ‘Give me my phone and wallet,’ she repeated evenly.

  It wasn’t fair to withhold her possessions; so I retrieved them from the drawer, and handed them over.

  ‘The phone’s broken – one of the kidnappers took it, and it smashed when he hit the floor. But I removed the SIM, since your cell can be used to track you even when broken. And for full disclosure, Ellen, I looked through your wallet – I needed to get some idea of who you are. To level the playing field, I’m Saul Marshall.’

  She stared at the smashed cell, then looked at me hard. I was unsurprised that she was reticent to trust me, but the cell seemed to offer some proof I was telling the truth.

  ‘Where are you going?’ I tried again. ‘I’m not going to stop you. But you could be in danger, and you need your wits about you.’

  She continued staring at me hard. ‘Springville,’ she said at last. ‘The men, when they took me, one of them said “Springville.” I’m pretty sure it’s a town
in California.’

  This was the same place I’d heard the men mention. However, I hadn’t followed it up, because in the back of my mind I’d resolved not to be drawn further into this mess. My plan had been to ensure this woman was safe, then put her in safe hands that weren’t mine.

  I’d found trouble – hell, I’d sought it out. But it was imperative I knew when to quit.

  ‘Look, I’m not stopping you,’ I said. ‘All I’m suggesting is that you give yourself some time – they gave you strong enough stuff to knock out a horse.’

  ‘Time!’ she said emphatically, as though she’d forgotten it existed. ‘What time is it?’

  I glanced at my watch. ‘Ten past eight.’

  ‘No, I’ve got to leave now.’

  Clearly there was something she wasn’t telling me – she was now urgently pacing.

  ‘Again, I’m not stopping you. But I think it’ll only help you to tell me what’s going on: I have a car, resources. If time’s a factor, it’ll be quicker to tell.’

  Ellen stopped pacing, and again fixed me in a hard stare. She was still weighing up whether she could trust me. Finally she gave a short nod – like she’d made a decision.

  ‘Fine, I’ll tell,’ she said bitterly. ‘Just before I was ambushed, my brother sent me a text. He told me that my life was in danger, but the only explanation he offered was a list of six names, of which mine was the fifth. I Googled the first four, and they were the victims of those two sniper rifle killings over the past two days – you know the ones I mean?’

  I nodded. I would have to have been living under a rock not to know: the two incidents had been all over the news. The first had taken place two evenings ago in the small town of Ripley, CA, near the Mexican border; whereas the second had taken place yesterday evening in San Marcos, a larger town between San Diego and LA. In both cases, two bound and gagged bodies had been found in a public space – in Ripley, under a water tower; in San Marcos, under a replica of the Statue of Liberty – and in both cases, it appeared as though the victims had been killed by a single sniper rifle bullet.

  The only thing that connected all four victims was the fact that they were under the age of thirty. And though three were of East Asian descent, the anomalous fourth – a Caucasian woman – had undermined attempts to draw easy conclusions about who was being targeted.

  The police believed it was the work of a serial killer, but evidently it wasn’t so simple.

  Ellen continued: ‘Obviously, when I saw those names, I reckoned I was looking at a hit-list, and I was the next target. I tried to call my brother, but I couldn’t get through. So, figuring I wasn’t safe in my apartment, I decided to find a cab, and work things out from there. But clearly I wasn’t safe in the street, either…’

  ‘So you want to head to Springville and play the hero?’

  Ellen scowled. ‘Not play the hero – do the right fucking thing. The papers said the other killings happened late at night, so there may be a chance to save the last person.’

  I understood where she was coming from, but she was naïve as hell.

  ‘Listen,’ I said firmly. ‘These are serious people, with serious weapons. Both your kidnappers were carrying illegal pistols that you’d expect to find on special-force assassins. And though I’ve only got a rough idea of where Springville is, I’m pretty sure we’re a few hours away. So, if you want to help this sixth person, call the police.’

  Ellen gave a short, incredulous laugh: ‘But that’s the thing: we can’t. My brother’s text said I couldn’t trust the police – that it was imperative I avoided law enforcement. So you go ahead and call them, but the blood’s on your hands.’

  Suddenly, I was grinding my teeth. I could feel myself being pulled in.

  ‘Anything else your brother’s text said?’ I asked, keeping my voice calm.

  She nodded. ‘Yes – that he couldn’t give me any more details, since it was imperative they remained secret, and he couldn’t guarantee nobody else would read the message.’

  I shook my head. Part of me desperately wanted to call the local police in Springville and wash my hands of this. But considering what had happened so far, her brother’s warning clearly wasn’t to be taken lightly.

  ‘Fine, I’ll take you to Springville,’ I said. ‘After all, what choice do I have? You’re in no fit state to drive.’ I paused, then added: ‘But I really didn’t ask for this.’

  ‘Well, me neither,’ she shot back defiantly. ‘And nor did I ask for you to get involved – so don’t act like you’re doing a damsel in distress some big favor, because I don’t need you, and don’t owe you jack, okay?’

  I sighed. Of course she didn’t resent me busting her out, and her contrary attitude was frustrating. But, at the same time, I couldn’t help but respect her courage – not many in her position would opt to put themselves back in the line of fire.

  What’s more, given the events of the past few hours, her reluctance to blindly trust someone she’d just met was understandable.

  ‘Okay, nobody’s doing anybody any favors,’ I said. ‘We’re going to Springville, and you’re gonna fill me in on the way. Happy?’

  ‘Fine.’

  I fetched the valise containing all my worldly possessions: a couple of changes of clothes (jeans, tee-shirts, jumpers); a driver’s license and emergency credit card, both under false names; a clip of cash that I’d accumulated from odd jobs, which’d dwindled to just under $1000; a burner phone; an iPad; a store-bought GPS tracking device plus receiver; a California road-map; and, hidden in the lining, my now-defunct FBI ID. Then, grabbing the rucksack I’d taken from the men, and throwing on my coat, I led the way out the front door.

  Chapter 3

  Friday, December 11, 8:32 p.m. – SW 153rd Drive, Beaverton, Oregon.

  Devin Mannford was in that state of blank exhaustion he always found himself in after a long evening at the office, when something in his rear-mirror caught his eye.

  The car behind was flashing him.

  For a moment – as he peered into his mirror – he didn’t really see anything but his own shock of blond hair. But then, after blinking twice, he strained to make out the car through the dim light cast from the streetlamps. Then a stab of pure, unadulterated fear.

  It was a black Ford Crown Victoria. The last time he’d seen it was four days ago, parked outside his home, when he’d returned from evening prayers at Beaverton Mosque – and at the time he’d noticed it had all the hallmarks of a government car: Virginia plates, wheels devoid of plastic coverings, radio antennas and CB whips affixed to the rear. Of course, these details were no guarantee; but, after working for years as an IT man at the Secret Service’s San Francisco Field Office, Devin had felt fairly sure this was a government car. What’s more, the Crown Vic had sped off in the other direction as soon as Devin had driven onto the scene – as though the occupants hadn’t wanted Devin to get a look at them.

  But Devin had gotten a look. In fact, he’d noticed the woman behind the wheel before anything else. A middle-aged woman, of East Asian heritage, with an unnervingly gaunt face, and wearing a black suit and severe black pony tail… And there’d been something about her – something impossible to pinpoint – that’d triggered a primal fight-or-flight reflex in him.

  That same woman was now behind the wheel of the Crown Vic once more. Next to her, the same guy he’d seen in the passenger seat four days ago.

  There’d been a third guy in the back when Devin had first seen the car – a guy he hadn’t gotten a decent look at – but he didn’t seem to be in the car this time.

  The Crown Vic flashed him again – clearly a demand to pull over – and Devin’s heart beat painfully in his chest. Seeing this car four days ago had ignited a paranoia in him, and he’d racked his brains as to why he might be under surveillance. He’d been a Muslim convert long enough to know it couldn’t be down to that alone: he’d converted back in 1998 to marry his wife Jasmin – the daughter of an Egyptian university professor – and th
e Secret Service, his employer at the time, had been unfazed. And he felt certain his decision two years ago to resign from the Secret Service and move his wife and son 600 miles north to the quiet town of Beaverton, and set up an attorneys’ practice (he’d studied law at Washburn University in the early 1990s) couldn’t possibly have anything to do with it.

  But then, of course, there’d been his involvement with that member of the Oregon Four. Just over a year ago, four members of Beaverton Mosque had been accused of planning to join Islamic State, and Devin had agreed to represent one in court. And though he’d in fact defended him on an unrelated matter – a divorce action – and knew that, in doing so, he’d done nothing wrong, he also knew he’d angered a lot of folk. And it’d occurred to him that maybe the authorities had figured out a way to use it against him.

  One other thing had also cropped up in Devin’s mind – that terrible, terrible mistake he’d made six months ago. But at least he’d been able to dismiss that out of hand: it was impossible the authorities knew about it. Absolutely impossible.

  So it had to be about the court case.

  But though Devin had fanned the flames of his own paranoia over the past few days, he had at the same time also done his best to tell himself he was being foolish; that the vehicle could’ve been there for any number of reasons, most of which had nothing to do with him. As a result, he’d convinced himself to carry on as normal.

  Yet now it was inescapable his gut had been right; that it was to do with him.

  And the fact it was a federal government vehicle – it looked like the FBI, Devin reckoned – put the fear of God into him. They didn’t send in the Feds unless it was a big deal.

  Escape – that’s what he had to do. He had to lose them, then go to ground. And instantly he hatched a plan.