Chasing Rembrandt

Chapter 1

     Panic swept over F.B.I. Agent Michael Markham. His dark, ill fitting suit snagged on a briar bush as he ripped his way through its tangled embrace and into the woods beyond. His body was slapped by twigs and branches as he plunged deeper and deeper into their perceived safety and freedom. His face was a mask of grim determination as he darted wildly through the undergrowth. He had a slight lead, his arms and legs churned as he stumbled into yet another thicket of thorns. Striking blindly at the offending bushes, his flesh was torn, and his clothing ruined. Ripping free he hurtled onward they were behind him.

     Fear was his motivation; he didn’t dare look around as he pushed through yet another tangle of the accursed briars. His chin tucked into his chest he muscled through the last tendrils, he hardly noticed when a thorn tore across his cheek. He moved as fast as he could across a field of knee high weeds. He tried to hurdle a fallen tree, his shoes betrayed him and his shin smashed into the horizontal trunk. He was rolled head over heels landing beside the fallen tree. His shin felt broken from where it had made contact. It couldn’t be broken, he thought. His life depended on getting away. He raised himself into a pushup position and tried to listen. Why was his breathing so loud? His lungs felt like they had exploded and he couldn’t regain his breath.

     To his right the clearing ended into another wooded area, it was just a few dozen feet away and beyond that the freeway and salvation. Behind him someone cursed as they ran into the same briars that had torn his suit. Who were these guys? He wondered. As he lay there his body started to register the scratches and aches from the run reminding him that he was no longer a young man. He knew if he was going to get any older, he was going to have to move.

     Agent Markham rose from behind the log his ragged breathing coming in gasps. How did they not hear him? He thought. His vision clouded and he fought to keep from fainting, his throat felt like someone had poured sand into it. How could people run for fun? He wondered. He closed his eyes momentarily as his vision filled with shooting stars.

His breathing slowed and his hearing returned as he recovered from the run. He could hear the sounds of cars on the freeway. He’d run a wide loop, running through the woods and slowly circling back to the freeway.

     He sat with his back against the fallen tree, his hands on his thighs, he took another deep breath. His car had just shut down as he was driving. Two men dressed in black had chased him into the woods.

      Markham tipped his head backwards and looked up into the sky as he fought down the urge to vomit. His dry mouth made him feel as if he was suffocating. He dug his cell phone from suit coat pocket. His eyes widened in disbelief as he realized there was no signal. He began moving the phone around frantically trying to get service. How could there be no signal? He rose up higher and began punching buttons. He looked in the direction his pursuers were coming from. He couldn’t see them yet. He took a deep breath and stood on the log. If he could get a signal then maybe he could get a message out.

In desperation he croaked into the handset. “This is Markham, I need help, on foot, Eastbound, just outside of Crossroads…” He paused, and listened to the sounds of the searching men. They had overrun his last turn but were now drawing closer. Why were there no bars for his cell phone? He looked at the useless device and stuffed it in his pocket.

      Would they kill him? He wondered as he knelt behind the tree again. His hand touched the butt of his Glock model 19 in its shoulder holster. Straining his ears he could hear the freeway, with its carefree traffic racing to all sorts of wonderful, safe places. He looked at his watch; he could still make his meeting if he could just get, back to the roadway and catch a ride.

      That spark of hope broke into a tiny blaze as he turned his head once more towards the freeway. If he could just rest for a few minutes, perhaps he could run then, but he didn’t have minutes. They would be here shortly; he had to move.

Two men in black were about fifty yards to the right and in a thicket of trees, they were still moving quickly. Markham drew his Glock and took a slow deep breath. He’d never shot at a living target before. Could he take them both? He took another step. He had barely qualified the last time at the range. He was a desk jockey not some super spy. He sucked up what reserves he had and plunged forward through the weeds towards trees and the freeway.

      The pace was a trot as he trudged towards the road noise. Behind him he heard a shout as one of his stalkers spotted him. Markham hid behind the first tree large enough to hide behind and raised his weapon. They were still running fast, he’d never outrun them. He’d have to shoot it out. Maybe they’d run if he fought back and maybe he’d get away. He gun wavered in his shaking hand.

      His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a biting sensation in his thigh. Had he been stung? His hand swatted at the back of his thigh and he found a tranquilizer dart sticking in his leg. He fell to the ground as his vision got fuzzy. Where had he dropped his gun?

     Markham couldn’t move, the Glock lay on the ground inches from his body. The world shimmered in his vision. Yet through this haze he could discern an older man with wire rimmed glasses and a white Stetson hat approaching him. This man had been between him and the freeway. It was a man he hadn’t seen before, a man with an evil, wicked grin. Markham noticed large dirty looking teeth as the man put another dart into his blow gun, a thin, eighteen inch length of tube.

      The world began to swirl as Markham closed his eyes and tried to summon his strength. Was this what dying felt like? He wondered as he fought to move.

     The older man returned the dart tube into an interior pocket of his suit coat. He was slow and methodical in his movements. He appeared to have no fear of the gasping man in front of him. He knew Markham couldn’t retrieve the dropped gun which was inches from the paralyzed hand.

     The Stetson wearing man pulled what looked like an older police radio from where it was clipped to his belt. He tossed a few switches on it and replaced it. His wicked smile beamed. “Cell phone jammer.” He explained. “It’s a bit bulky but it worked.”

With the jammer off, the man took a cell phone from his coat pocket and punched in some numbers. “I’ve got him. You guys did real well running him back towards the freeway.” He paused a moment. “He popped up where Case said he would.” He used his free hand to massage the back of his neck, “Go back to your car and await further instructions.”

     The man pushed aside a branch and groaned, he hated walking, and even more so since he was in the woods in a suit. He hated nature, he hated exercise and he hated this running man. He grinned down at the still gasping man, and stood on the F.B.I. agent’s left hand.

     “Good morning,” He said in a overly happy voice. “Mr. Markham I presume?”

     “Puh, puh, please no.” Markham shuttered through gasps, he couldn’t move but he felt the pain of the man’s heel grinding into his hand.

     A broader smile, spread across the man’s face. “It’s not Markham?” He said enjoying his dominance over his fallen prey. He leaned forward putting his two hundred and seventy pounds into the motion as he continued twisting his heel back and forth on the hand.

     The F.B.I. agent tried to focus; stars were exploding across his eyes as the pain in his hand caused him to cry out loudly. “I’m Markham.”

      The man smiled, and took his foot off of his hand. “That wasn’t so hard now was it?” He said cheerfully. Without warning he kicked Markham in the groin. “That’s for making a chase out of this.” He hissed as he kicked him a second time. “That’s for running in the woods.”

     The second strike caused Markham to lose his stomach contents. He lay quivering mass as the big man reared back for a third kick.

     Markham couldn’t move and breathing was difficult from the pain and the vomit. He didn’t want to die here, he needed a plan. Had the big man’s kicks moved him closer to the gun? “What did you do to me?” He sputtered with difficulty.

     “Oh no Mr. Markham, you don’t ask the questions I do.” There was a slight lilt to the man’s voice as he delivered two more savage kicks to Markham’s stomach. “You ask questions you pay for it. Do you understand?”

     Markham has disappointed he hadn’t passed out from the pain. His throat which had been dry and parch now burned with the stomach acid and chunks of vomit that lay in his mouth and by his face. He exhaled forcibly trying to clear an area around his mouth. After a few moments he recovered enough to quietly mutter. “Yes”

     “The dart had Kolokol 1 in it.” The man pushed his glasses back up his nose. “You’re a fed. Do you know what Kolokol 1 is?”

      Markham’s mind was racing through all the brochures he’d read at the Bureau. “It sounds familiar.” He lied. “I just can’t place it.”

      The older man smirked. “It’s a paralyzing agent. It might,” He gave air quotes with his fingers “Have been used in 2002 during that hostage situation in Moscow.” The older man said leaning closer and beaming with pride.

     Markham’s eyes betrayed his fear. The Moscow theater hostage crisis involved forty or fifty Chechens who took about eight hundred and fifty hostages at a theater. They had rigged explosives in the place and it looked like a no win situation. Then the Spetsnaz, or Russian Special Operatives introduced a gas that killed all the terrorists and about a hundred of the hostages. Markham hadn’t thought the actual gas had ever been identified.

“The Ruskies used an aerosol spray, which is less reliable. I’ve got a special formula. Its fast acting and you’ll probably survive. This one is my own special mix.” He leaned in closer. “I added a drug called SP-117 to it. That’s a KGB truth serum. That was an extremely expensive dart, I shot you with.”

     Any hope Markham had vanished. He’d been told this was going to a milk run, anyone could do it. They’d been wrong.

     “Too bad your car just shut off like that.” The man dug a small black box with some buttons on it from his suit coat pocket. “We put this kill switch on your car, one more click and it’s good to go again.”

     “Why?” The word had difficulty getting off of Markham’s lips.

     The older man kicked him in the thighs two times. “I ask the questions.” He hissed.          “Don’t you know who I am?”

      Markham tried to focus on the face, the wire rimmed glasses, the hat, the crooked teeth. He’d seen the face in an agency flier, but couldn’t place a name with it. “No.” he sputtered.

     “I’m called Collins.” The old man said nodding his head as though bowing. “Perhaps you know me was Collins the Crippler. My work is world famous. Surely you’ve heard of me?”

      Markham felt a shudder run up his back. Collins the Crippler, was like a bogeyman in the espionage business. “Yes.” He muttered. What had he’d gotten himself into? He was face to foot with Richard Collins!

      “I’m glad to see the Bureau keeps its agents well apprised of dangerous people” Collins said smiling sickly. “I assure you anything you’ve heard, was candy coated.”

Markham’s mind raced, he worked a desk in the FBI Boston office, but he’d heard the stories of Collins who was famed for his torture techniques. The Crippler had risen to prominence in Iraq and Afghanistan where he’d been a civilian contractor. He got results but his techniques drew criticism for being inhumane. There had been talk of criminal prosecution, but he fell of the grid before it was initiated.

     “My pal, Mister Case wants his stuff back.” Collins said grinning.

Markham blinked his eyes a few times and tried to focus on what was being said. Case wasn’t a familiar name. What had he wandered into?

     “The art collection!” The man in the wire rims said as if that would explain things. “It belongs to Mister Case. The Rembrandt you’re chasing after, it’s his.” Collins added. “Do you know Mister Case?”

      Markham tried to speak, but the words caught in his throat. He tried to shake his head no.

      The Crippler grunted as he straightened a bit. “Mister Case is a planner and he’s really good at it.” He smiled again. “You can imagine how upset he gets when someone takes his stuff.” He picked at a speck on his suit jacket sleeve. “He wants his Rembrandt back.”

“It’s his.” Markham hissed through his dry lips. “Take it.”

      Collins smiled “It’s not that simple is it? You’re supposed to meet with someone, transfer money, and take possession of the painting. Then what? How are you going to get that person to give you the rest of the collection?” He asked.

      Markham felt the drug running through his body, Could he lie? How much could he keep hidden? Would he talk? Where was his gun?

      “Aw you aren’t thinking you can still get away are you?” Collins grinned. “That’s really cute, but my drugs are good, that was my premium mixture. The clients almost always talk.” He shrugged and quietly added. “When they survive that is.”

      “I was thinking I could reach my gun.” Markham said eyes widening at his disclosure.

      “Well that would be a rude thing to do.” Collins said brushing the Glock a few inches further from Markham’s outstretched hand with his cowboy boot.

      “Has he said anything yet?” A newcomer asked stepping from the trees.

     “Not yet. We were just getting ready for the good stuff, weren’t we Agent Markham?”

     The FBI agent replied through gritted teeth. “Yes.”

     “Oh excuse me.” Collins said beaming. “Where are my manners? Agent Markham this is Mister Case.”

     Case was about six foot three; he wore a tailored black suit with a navy blue dress shirt and red print tie. A few beads of sweat formed on his forehead, his short brown hair was neat. His demeanor was that of a Fortune 500 CEO.

     “He gave the guys a merry chase.” Case muttered. “A younger agent might have made it to the freeway.”

      “You’d have had a different plan for a younger agent.” Collins said grinning wickedly.

     “Yes.” Case said tipping his head slightly. “See what he knows.”

Collins reached down and grabbed Markham by the graying hair, and pulled him into a seated position. “Here’s the deal,” he hissed. “You tell me everything, and I mean everything or I’m going to be extra nasty with you.” He reached into his coat and pulled out a pair of pliers.

      “Let’s start easy, shall we.” Collins said smiling really wide, showing his large stained teeth. “What is your name?”

      Markham’s head swam, Don’t talk! Perhaps he could ride out the drug and the pain. Perhaps he could. His eyes rolled back as a wave of intense pain washed over him, he heard a snap. Straining his eyes to the left he could see his left hand where Collins was working. His little finger was held in the pliers; it was now twisted and pointed at a wrong angle. Daggers of light flashed in his eyes as he felt as though he would faint. Yes pass out, escape that way. He thought as his mouth said. “Markham, my name is Markham.” He swallowed hard and repeated softer. “Michael Markham.”

     “Very good Mikey,” Collins grinned wider, “I love this part about my job.” He grabbed the ring finger on Markham’s left hand with the pliers. “In case you forgot, I’m Collins the Crippler, you probably have figured out how I got my name.” He smiled as if embarrassed and then turned serious again. “Tell me who are you meeting?”

      Markham’s brain swam. I must not talk. He thought as he felt the answer dance on the tip of his tongue. He fought it back and managed to mutter. “No.”

      Collins looked up at Case. “Damn, he’s a tough old bird.” He twisted the pliers and there was another snapping noise as the ring finger went in a different angle.

      “I can do this all afternoon, I work downward, breaking each joint as I go.” Collins explained to Markham. He tipped the cowboy hat back a bit. “Tell me, where is the Rembrandt?”

     Markham felt the world somersault, as he tried not to talk. “The Grant Road Community Chapel.” Flowed from his lips, as the ever pliers sought another finger.

      “Very good Mikey.” Collins grinned. “Quick answers mean no pain.”

      Case’s dark eyes didn’t register any change. “Who were you meeting?”

      Markham clenched his lips in defiance.

      Collins twisted and broke the middle finger. “Who were you going to meet?”

      “I don’t know his name.” Markham screamed as the pliers found his index finger and tightened onto it. “He didn’t give me his name. All he said was I’m suppose to know Joshua.”

     Collins leaned over and looked into the agent’s fear filled eyes. “You can do better than that.” He twisted the index finger abruptly.

      Markham screamed, “All I know is Joshua.”

      “Joshua?” Collins asked “Is that the contact’s name?”

       “I don’t know.” Markham said through gasps of pain as he tried to keep the information to himself. Could he make a play for his gun? He wondered. Perhaps he could get a round off.

      Collins snapped the next joint down on the little finger. “Wrong answer.”

      Markham writhed in pain, his left hand was in agony, and all thoughts of the Glock were gone from his head. “I don’t know his name.” He moaned.

      Collins twisted the middle finger until the second joint snapped. “How would you recognize him?”

      Markham prayed he’d pass out. “We have a prearranged location and a set time.”

     “Where and when?” Case called out from behind Collins.

      Markham moaned as he answered. “The church’s men’s room at seven ten.”

     Case pulled out his phone, it had the latest technology on it, and he accessed the internet and did a check on the Grant Road Community Chapel. “The Church is about ten minutes from here.” He grunted to Collins.

      “What’s he giving you?” Collins asked.

      “A Rembrandt, and the location of the others.” Markham gasped.

      Collins flexed his hands randomly “How did you hear of this guy?”

      Markham blinked his eyes, and gritted his teeth “He called the F.B.I. tip line, said he had a lead on the collection.” he whispered. “They gave the call to me, said see what he has, see what he wants, and meet with the guy. Get the rest if you can.”

      “How much are you paying for this painting?” Collins asked.

      “Two million dollars.” The agent replied his mouth moving freely.

      “Cash?” Collins asked. “I’m pretty sure you don’t have two million in that suit. I checked your car while you were at lunch. That’s when we put the kill switch in it. You don’t have two million dollars there either.”

      Markham grimaced through his cracked lips. “They don’t trust me with that kind of money. I’m authorized to do a money transfer to the guys account. I can go a couple more million for the entire collection.”

       Case shook his head, “You Feds are amazing.” He snarled. “The reward is five million dollars and you’re authorized to go as high as four?” He came closer, “What if this guy doesn’t have the whole collection? What if he doesn’t want to sell?”

       Markham couldn’t stop from talking, “I’m to be persuasive if he doesn’t cooperate.”

Collins smiled spread across his face. “Well maybe you can use some of my techniques on him. They’re very effective, don’t you think?”

       “Yes.” Markham said tears of pain dancing in his eyes.

       “Do you really think the collection is still intact after all these years?” Collins grumbled.

       “We haven’t had a solid lead in this theft in years the Bureau is desperate to make some sort of apprehension.”

       “Yes well, I’m afraid the Bureau isn’t doing real well on this particular crime.” Collins said smugly. “It’s too bad you don’t know any of the players in the crime.” He rocked his head back and forth and raised his eyebrows at Mister Case.

       Markham blinked his eyes. “How did you find me?” he asked through the pain.

Collins rapped Markham’s broken hand with the pliers. “I usually do the questioning.” He snapped. “But, it is a good story. So let me enlighten you.”

      “The museum is located in Boston, that’s where your F.B.I. office is Mikey.” He leaned closer. “Here’s something you don’t know. The guy who pulled off the heist used to be in a brotherhood of professionals who go by the non de plume of the C-Squad. He nodded towards the other man. “Mister Case is the leader of the C-Squad. Anyway short story long, our ex-friend, Colt ripped pulls off the heist, but it was a job we planned. That was over twenty five years ago. We haven’t been able to find him or the artwork. He’s very good at hiding. But then if we were after you, you’d get good at hiding too. Now we find one of the Rembrandts is here in Ohio.” Collins waved a hand at the air. “Why would anyone come to Crossroads Ohio?”

       “True” Markham whispered, thinking the story over.

       “Anyway, we’d want our art collection back. We’d like to find Colt and visit with him for awhile.” He smiled “You see it’s basically our stuff.”

        Markham blinked a few times. “It belongs to the museum.”

       “Yeah, but they kind of sloppy with it.” Collins snapped back.

       Case looked at his watch. “If we’re going to church, we need to wrap this up.”

      “Anyway Mikey, a few days ago someone called the museum tip line. They wanted to a deal with the F.B.I.” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “You’re here to offer the deal.”

      “Ho..!” Markham’s question was cut short by Collins applying pressure to his throat.

      “Don’t ask a question, it’s not healthy.” Collins snarled at him. “How do we know about the call? Is what you’re wondering?” He grinned broadly. “It took a couple of days, but we located Miss. Salazar. She’s a charming young woman. Do you know her?”

       “She’s the woman who took the call at the museum, transferred the guy to my office.” Markham said his brow wrinkling. “Does she work for you?”

        Collins smiled. “No, not hardly, we’re acquainted like you and I.” He snapped the jaws of the pliers a couple of times. “Let’s just say her typing speed has dramatically decreased.”

       “You monster!” Markham hissed.

        “Ah sticks and stones Mikey.” Collins grinned. “I think I could like you Mikey.”

        “I’m afraid the feeling isn’t mutual.” Markham grunted through the pain.

         "Now, that was funny.” Collins looked at Case. “He says the feeling isn’t mutual.”

       Markham’s left hand was a mass of twisted fingers, the pain was terrible but it also seemed to dilute the paralyzing agent. He felt like he could move his right hand. He was wondering if he could locate his Glock. He’d been to the FBI academy; he didn’t need that to know he wasn’t going to live after this bout of exposition.

       Case drew a hand across his throat. “Time to go.”

      “It was real nice to meet you Mikey. You were a good sport.” Collins chuckled as he put the pliers into his suit pocket. “I really appreciate you being so helpful, but it looks like Mr. Case wants to go to church tonight. I hear if you get there late you can’t get a good seat in the back.”

       Collin’s looked to the right of Mr. Case, another man had materialized from the brush. This man was shorter than Case, about five foot ten, his hair and eyes were dark and his ancestry appeared to come from Italy. He’d moved silently in his black clothing.

“Mikey, this is one of my friends, we call him Cutter. I’m pretty sure you’ll understand why in a moment. “

      Markham watched as the newcomer produced a switch blade knife.

      “When we meet your nameless contact in the bathroom and discuss Joshua, I’ll be sure to let him know how cooperative you were.” Collins continued.

      Markham watched the newcomer’s hands, the knife was held nonchalantly and then at the press of a small button a large blade popped out.

      Collins was still droning on. “You know when I mentioned that Miss. Salazar’s typing speed had recently diminished did you think that was because I broke her fingers?”

Markham stayed fixed on the blade as it came nearer.

       “I broke about four finger joints,” Collins smiled a big toothy grin. “She does a bunch of typing. You just know that was going to ruin her career. She’d have gotten a disability. Imagine the drain on society. My pal Cutter here did the working men of the world a great service and killed her. I think it was better for everyone that way.” He smiled. “Well everyone except for Miss. Salazar.”

      “No, please!” Markham pleaded. “I don’t know you.”

      “But you know enough.” Collins said “I was kind of chatty.”

      Cutter stepped in and in one motion, yanked Markham’s head to the side and slid the knife across his throat.

      “Besides, I lied about liking you.” Collins said standing outside of the splash zone.

      Case started towards the freeway. “For being such a badass, you talk way too much.”

      Collins swept an arm towards the spot where Markham lay gurgling. “Who’s he going to tell? Besides it makes them feel good knowing why they have to die.”

     “Dana, tell me again how we got roped into this thing.” Kirby Lee pled with his wife as he drove down the freeway.

      “Why must you make a Federal case out of everything Kirby?” She replied. “You should want to go to church.”

      “I want to go to a good church.” He said, his brown eyes scanning the roadway.

      “And where is that at?” his wife countered.

      He thought for a moment. “I don’t know,” he said quietly. “But it’s Wednesday. Who goes to church on a Wednesday?”

      “Lots of people do it.” Dana said. “Besides Loretta will be expecting us.”

      “Hey you work with her.” Kirby said “I still don’t see how this affects me.”

      “Yes we work at the same school but she’s also my friend.” She smiled. “I think she’s worried about our spiritual well being.”

      “Well my spirit is doing fine.” Kirby said.

     “Hmm,” His wife replied. “When was the last time you got into the Bible and studied it?”

      “I did that.” He started.

     “When was the last time?” She said. “I know you used to.”

      He quieted as he thought. “Well maybe it has been awhile.”

      She decided to press her attack. “When was the last time you really prayed?”

      He glanced sideways at his wife. She was a brunette with hazel eyes, the corner of her mouth was turned up slightly in a quizzical smirk. He sighed slightly; she exuded a beauty that always left him flustered. “Is this attack Kirby day?” He managed to finally reply.

“You’re the one who doesn’t want to go to church.” She pointed out, waving a long slender finger under his nose.

       “But we’re on vacation.” Kirby whined. “Who goes to church when they’re on vacation?”

       She gave him a slight smile. “I go back to school next week.” Dana was an elementary school secretary. “I want us to feel good about what we did this summer vacation.”

       “I know, I know. Get a real job you slacker.” He said in a mock gruff voice at himself. “Quit chasing that stupid artist dream, leave that part time job at the Comic book store and go to work at the bank or someplace respectable.”

      Dana smiled at her husband, they had been married a little over a year and she had decided that before they settled down, Kirby should make every effort to chase his dream. Their deal was he would concentrate solely on art for one year. But when the bills started backing up he took on some extra work at a local comic book store. “You know I don’t think badly of you.”

       “You’d think someone with so little vacation time left would be anxious to make every moment count.” Kirby pointed out.

       “We will, besides what else would we do tonight?” She countered.

       “I could work on my graphic novel, and you could watch Sasquatch CSI and The Policeman Perry Show.” He said quoting the evening television lineup.

      “Sasquatch CSI is a rerun; it’s the one where he goes undercover as a streetwalker.”

      “I loved that episode.” Kirby grinned, “I think I can get back home before it starts.”

 (end of excerpt)