Author's Note: The merchandise discussed here is purely theoretical. I think. But I believe it is being investigated. Possibly. Who knows?
For 'ann ryce' who calls Junior 'Freak', which always makes my day.
*'cruit mo chridh' - 'harp of my heart', Scots gaelic, and the verse is from the 'Eriskay Love Lilt', which is one of the most beautiful love songs ever written.
"This ain't gonna be pretty, people," Hardison said as he brought up a picture of Chet Morris on the giant plasma screen.
Everyone – including Sam, who now felt as entitled to be there as anyone else – had ensconced themselves on the couch and easy chairs out of deference to Eliot, who found sitting on the high seats painful. He was sprawled on the couch, still in sweats and with bare feet, a heat pad at the small of his back and one on his chest. Parker had also nagged him to take one paracetamol to help dull the pain a little. Eliot, grouching even as he took the pill and glass of water, did so, much to his team's amazement. He was hurting.
"So," the hitter said, as he set the glass down on the little table beside him and waggled his finger at Morris' face, "who he?"
Hardison had forgotten Eliot wasn't up to speed, so he condensed it a little.
"Chet Morris, Texan, clever son-of-a-gun, expert on ultrasonic acoustics and, as it turns out, occasional purveyor of under-age girls for his private use," he said, curling his lip in distaste. "He's also the link to the whole business. This transaction Junior has goin' on … Chet's the key. Junior has the down an' dirty on the guy."
"Nice," Nate growled. He hated human trafficking.
"So," Eliot pondered, "what's he sellin', why's he sellin' it and who's interested?"
Hardison brought up another photograph and toggled it next to Morris' image.
"Meet Osman Osman. Other than his folks havin' no imagination whatsoever in the child namin' department, he is a very shady fellow indeed."
The image was of a dark haired man in his early forties with an interesting moustache and a white-toothed smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Turkish born, lives in Qatar now. On the surface, he's a respectable businessman dealing in lapis lazuli from Afghanistan an' other popular merchandise such as carpets, textiles an' such." He paused for a moment or two.
"But …" Sophie urged.
"But … he has underground contacts with ISIL."
"Let me guess," Eliot ground out, "I'd say smugglin' arms and explosives through the Akcakale border post. Am I right?"
Hardison nodded.
"Got it in one, El. And right under the noses of the Turkish border guards."
"Yeah, well, that's the situation right there. Turkey's refusin' to directly attack ISIL even though the UN an' the USA want the Turkish government to grow a pair an' engage the basta … miscreants," Eliot stuttered as Lizzie crawled from Sophie's arms over Sam and onto Eliot's lap, where she sat down and studied the face on the screen. She pointed at Osman and then looked around at Eliot.
"Boff!" she said.
"Yeah, sweetheart … not a nice guy," Eliot agreed.
"He also flew into PDX yesterday," Hardison added sombrely.
"So … what's the connection?" Sam said.
"Bareknuckle fighting," Hardison replied. "The dead guy Doc told us about? His name was Hamza Burakgazi, from Gaziantep, near the Syrian border. Osman's a big fan of bareknuckle, and whenever he's here in the States he finds the local illegal fights. He has business contacts in Portland, so it stands to reason he met Junior at one of 'em."
"Probably wanted to see a home-grown fighter like Burakgazi. And … Burakgazi was one of Junior's fighters … and one of his goons. Hey presto. Bad guy meets snivelling psycho, both of whom love the fight." Nate nodded to himself. That would work, he decided.
"Junior probably got rid of Burakgazi because whatever deal he has going on was threatened when Eliot broke his elbow. It would need emergency medical attention and –" Sophie pursed her lips, trying to timeline everything in her head.
"Nope. I reckon it was Osman took him out. Probably to cover his butt and to make sure any finger-pointin' was directed at Junior if Burakgazi was implicated in any of the other attacks Hardison mentioned to me." Eliot said, "He doesn't want any threat to whatever he has goin' on with Junior."
"So … Junior's acting as an intermediary between Osman and Morris?" Sam asked, trying to keep tabs on the whole plan so far.
"Morris has a little secret project all of his own," Hardison said, "which Junior found out about. Then, nasty little person that he is, he dug up the dirt on Morris an' his taste for young girls. Bastard," he added under his breath so Lizzie couldn't hear.
"So … let me get this straight … " Nate stood up and began to pace. "Junior knows Osman and has an idea of what he does … he knows whatever Morris has is something he can sell to Osman … so he makes it possible? A simple deal and nothing more?"
"So what is it he's selling?" Parker asked, now intrigued.
Hardison rubbed his hands together. This was the bit he loved best. The techy bit.
"Ever heard of the brown note?" he asked, knowing full well none of his audience would have done so. He gave them a few seconds to answer, and then launched into the explanation. He adored explaining things. "The brown note is a hypothetical – hypothetical – infrasonic frequency that hits a certain pitch an' causes people to lose control of their bowels … it makes 'em poop themselves," he added by way of simplifying the explanation. The glee in his voice was unmistakeable.
"Ick!" said Parker, screwing her face up in disgust.
"To be fair," Hardison continued, "imagine if we could do that – we could stop war in a day 'cause everyone would be too busy in the bathroom to do anythin' about fightin'. And, it would put up the demand for toilet paper in an instant an' business would boom. A win-win situation, if you ask me. But it's just a bit of theoretical fun. Chet's little project is very, very different."
Nathan frowned.
"So, what is Chet making in his basement that Osman would want?"
Eliot rubbed Lizzie's back as she dealt with a bout of hiccups.
"Weaponized acoustics," he said, understanding now.
Hardison nodded.
"On the button," he said. "I looked at the plans of his business an' there are several rooms in his HQ wired up with huge amounts of power input an' he's bought a number of transponders and emitters that work with infrasound."
"Infrasound?" Sophie asked, curious.
"In this case, it would be targeted low-frequency soundwaves. Because of the length of the sound-waves, it lends itself to bein' manipulated and targeted more easily than ultrasound."
Eliot was sitting up straight, his attention fully on Hardison.
"What level of hertz?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous.
Hardison hesitated for a moment before answering.
"Seven," he replied quietly.
Eliot's face was suddenly as though it was carved from rock and ice. The hand not rubbing Lizzie's back clenched into a fist.
"What … what does that mean, Hardison?" Parker queried, a chill running down her spine at the tone in Eliot's voice.
"Infrasonic weapons … again, theoretical. Until now," Hardison said grimly.
"I know the Navy and NASA were looking at infrasonic pitch to see how it would affect personnel in ships and space vehicles … which are nothing but big, resonant metal boxes, really … to see if certain pitches would inhibit the ability of crews to perform at the highest level," Sam added, remembering how at certain times depending on weather and engine levels a crew could suffer headaches and nausea due to the low-level frequency of the noise.
"But this is different," Eliot interjected. "Seven hertz. It's supposed to be the most dangerous frequency … somethin' to do with the alpha-rhythm frequencies of the brain. A weapon with enough power might be able to turn your brain and other organs to jello," he continued. "But …" he added, now thoughtful, "you'd need a pretty powerful transponder and they ain't small."
"Well, now they are," Hardison said. "Chet-boy's invented a dinky little back-pack transponder an' an infrasonic gun that works at precisely seven hertz." He brought up a wealth of schematics on the plasma. "He had this hidden in a sub-routine on his encrypted hard-drive." He shrugged apologetically. "It's taken me this long to winkle it out. Man, the encryption was fearsome."
"Sonofa …" Nathan let the whispered epithet die unfinished. "If this got into the hands of ISIL …"
"Yeah …" Eliot growled. "And bein' in a tank or helicopter is no protection. That's the handy thing about it … it's selective. It just targets humans an' nothin' else because of the pitch."
"You know about these things?" Sophie asked, looking at Eliot as he sat with her precious daughter on his lap, his scarred, dangerous hands gently soothing her through another flurry of hiccups.
Eliot shrugged.
"I've been on the wrong end of an LRAD," he said, "but that's ultrasound … a high frequency pitch, beyond our hearing range. Makes your head swim an' your ears hurt like hell. It's a very distinctive pain."
"But you know about the infrasound thing?" Parker asked, twisting around from her place on the floor beside Eliot to gaze up into his face.
Eliot's blue eyes glittered.
"Heard about it," he said quietly. "Didn't think it could be done, though." He shook his head. "I hoped it couldn't be done. Guess I was wrong."
"And Osman's willing to pay big time," Hardison continued.
Nate stared steadily at the hacker.
"How much?"
Hardison crossed his arms.
"A million apiece," he said.
Sam whistled.
"Any idea how many he's buying?"
Hardison hitched a shoulder.
"Not too sure, but from his conversations with Junior I think Chet-boy has five to sell, complete with power packs and transponders. They're still untried in the field, but hey … with ISIL funding behind him, five mill is a drop in the ocean. I think from the schematics these things're pretty stable, and five will just be a sample for tryin' out."
The group was silent for long seconds, with only the occasional hiccup from Lizzie to break the quiet.
Hardison finally stirred and switched off the plasma, and then returned to his comfortable seat.
"An' the sale's goin' down within the next few days, as far as I can make out from Danny the Freak's texts to his goons. Junior's keen to get paid, by the look of it. We know where, but we don't exactly know when."
Nate sat pensively in his armchair, fingers tugging at his lower lip as he ran through possibilities and scenarios in his head, but there were still a few missing pieces of the jigsaw to put in place.
"How are we going to tie in Senior? Junior's not including him in his little plan."
"Oh, didn't I tell you?" Hardison said innocently and not a little smugly. "That's easy-peasy." He paused for effect for a moment or two before letting them all in on his information. "Senior's into real estate, right? Well … he owns the whole block of derelict warehouses where Junior's pulling off his little deal. The area's ripe for redevelopment. When we bring down Junior, Chet-boy an' Osman, we bring down Senior in the fall-out – and he's not even involved. He'll never be able to wiggle out of bein' implicated … well, not after I've finished with him." Hardison's face lit up in a white, ear-to-ear grin. "God, I jus' love when that happens!"
Nate smiled back, his brain working overtime.
"All we need now is the time and to figure out the sting itself. Is there any way we can bring this within our control? We set the day and time?"
Hardison had to think about that one.
"Huh …" Hardison muttered, and Nate was sure she could see the cogs turning in the young hacker's extraordinary mind, "Maybe … maybe I can work this through Osman …" and Hardison eased himself out of his seat and meandered over to his bank of geeky goodness, mumbling to himself as he went.
Nate grinned to himself. Hardison would figure it out. He always did.
"Nate …" Eliot's soft voice was redolent with menace. "When you got a time and place … I'm gonna be there."
"Oh, no you're not –" Parker was on her knees now, eyeing Eliot with ill-disguised anger.
Nate's hand dropped onto Parker's shoulder, stopping her in mid-rant. He studied Eliot, who was amusing Lizzie by prodding her stomach, making the child giggle helplessly and grab at Eliot's fingers in a well-practised game. Eliot smiled at her antics, even as he looked up at Nate.
"Figure it out, Nate. That's what you're good at. Just make sure I'm with you."
Nate glanced at Sophie, who looked more than alarmed.
For a moment Nate was back in a warehouse with The Italian, and Eliot was telling him to get out of there and he would deal with who-knew-how-many armed thugs belonging to Damien Moreau. Eliot had picked up a gun – the first time Nate had ever seen the hitter handle a gun with the full intention of using it – and Nate remembered the look of deadly intent on Eliot's face. Nate knew Eliot would probably die in the process, but he would do it willingly. And Nate had done as Eliot had commanded … he had taken The Italian and left Eliot to his fate, and the massive explosion of gunfire that followed their escape convinced him he would never see Eliot alive again.
Eliot had walked away from the battle without a scratch.
That look of deadly intent was back on Eliot's face, even as he played with his adored god-daughter.
He knew then that Eliot would not be denied, and it wasn't revenge for his injuries. Eliot understood and accepted that if it hadn't been for Junior and his attack on him that night, no-one would have ever known about McAllister's treachery. He was doing it because Junior and his plan could kill good, honest people, soldiers and civilians, and Eliot would never … never … allow that to happen. Until his dying day.
Nate nodded.
"I'll tell you when."
Eliot's blue eyes gained a little warmth at the reply.
"Thanks. I'll be ready."
But even as Sophie began to protest and Sam and Parker both broke into an argumentative babble that Eliot wasn't anywhere near ready for such a confrontation, Nate knew that come hell or high water, Eliot Spencer would face Danny McAllister and his lethal bunch of goons, injured as he was, and there was nothing anyone could do to stop him.
Late that night, as Hardison worked at hacking his way into Osman Osman's service provider – a little more complicated than normal seeing as he was based in Qatar – he could faintly hear Eliot in the gym, pummelling the crap out of the punch-bag now that Sam and Parker weren't around.
Once in a while he heard a grunt of pain, and more than once he heard Eliot hit the floor as he over-reached himself and lost his balance, usually accompanied by wheezing gasps for a minute or two as Eliot waited for his breathing to settle so that he could slowly lever himself back onto his feet. When that happened, Hardison paused in his work and waited to see if he could hear the battering of the bag begin again. At one point he heard nothing for a full five minutes and thirty-seven seconds, and he was on the point of risking Eliot's not-inconsiderable wrath by barging into the gym and hauling the idiot hitter's sorry ass off the floor and yell at him to stop and go to bed and rest up. But just as he eased off his seat he heard the now-familiar punch-punch-thwack of Eliot's rhythmic routine begin once more, very slowly becoming smoother, faster and deadlier.
Hardison ran his hand over his face and shook his head. This was killing him, listening to Eliot work at pushing his badly damaged body to do as it was told. But … that was what Eliot did, and all they could do as a team was try their best to make sure he didn't wreck himself in the process.
He sighed deeply.
To take his mind off worrying himself witless about his brother, he decided he'd mess with Junior.
Danny McAllister Junior planned to ease his jitters by having an evening at a bareknuckle fight not too far from his father's block of derelict warehouses in Midway.
He had picked up his precious Porsche that morning after having the on-board computer and GPS replaced and a new PCM system installed, although the investigation by the expert staff at the dealership had said there was absolutely nothing wrong with any of them. Danny had railed abuse at them and told them to just damn well do as they were told.
He knew he would run into Osman at the fight, and he decided he would try and get the man to set a time and date within the next couple of days to do the deal. And then Danny would be gone. He didn't know where, just yet, but somewhere not here where … whatever it was … that was plaguing him could get at him. Although, deep in his heart, he knew that even Antarctica probably wouldn't be safe.
Still, as he drove through abandoned streets with just the occasional street light, he looked forward to the fight this evening and seeing his sponsored fighters doing their thing.
He took his time now … there was no need to rush, and he took a chance and switched on the radio. Oh, the relief when the exquisite voice of Stevie Nicks echoed through the car singing something about thunder and rain. Danny hummed along and his tension began to ease, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the steering wheel.
So when the car engine died, he didn't quite grasp what was happening. The car crawled slowly to a stop, and Danny just let it. His hands gripped the steering wheel as though his life depended on it, and he stared, wild-eyed, at the street ahead of him, seeing its silent, empty decaying buildings and feeble street lights.
The lights which suddenly went out and plunged the lonely, abandoned lot and Danny and his Porsche into darkness.
"Oh no … no-no-no –" he wailed, and he tried starting the car again … and again … and nothing, and then panic set in and he wanted to get out of there so he tried to open the car door …
It was locked.
It was locked, and he couldn't get out, oh god, and even when he grasped the door handle and shook it until he was breathless it didn't move and then …
There was Mam.
Not there, not looking at him or soothing his forehead or rubbing his back which she did when he was sick, but singing … no Johnny Mathis this time but Mam, her soft, untrained voice sweet and lonely and loving and she sang to him from her very heart –
Thou'rt the music of my heart,
Harp of joy, oh cruit mo chridh*,
Moon of guidance by night,
Strength and light thou'rt to me …
And it was the song of his childhood, which his Mam sang when she missed the sea and crashing waves and lonely cries of the gulls, and she sang in her mother tongue which Danny didn't understand but loved her for it … the sound of her heart singing just for him.
And she sang to him from the dead radio in this dead car, and he sobbed with the horror and the terrifying joy of it.
Danny McAllister Junior sat there for a long, long time, weeping and heart-broken and scared out of his wits. He sat there long after the car stirred into life and the street lights flickered back into being, illuminating the empty street, and the radio played Jethro Tull, and Danny heard none of it because his Mam had loved him, and she was gone, and all Danny had left in his life was the all-consuming hatred he had for his father.
To be continued ...