it on to the others. Needless to say, no one was pleased with the bad news. In a highly volatile situation such as this one, however, mistakes are to be expected and even anticipated. They know how to tie up loose ends, which is one of the group's specialties.
Bellini shakes his head, causing his jowls to move from side to side, which makes him appear like he is attempting a Tricky Dick impression. He is a man who loses his temper often and with great gusto. He should have been dead of a heart attack long ago as a result of his explosive temperament and penchant for artery-clogging foods.
“Where do you think Kaley is headed?” Bellini bluntly asks.
“You know as well as I do that wherever he goes, he'll be found soon enough,” Moriah reassuringly responds.
“Soon enough may not do it, Moriah-”
“Well goddammit, Paul, what else can we do?” Moriah asks in exasperation. “We have people all over the country looking for him, he can't get very far.”
Bellini pauses and shakes his head again. “How could this have happened? You said the men sent to his house were the best. You said they'd take care of it.”
“Well, they didn't,” Moriah snaps. More calmly, he continues, “For now, we have to stay on an even keel. The next twenty-four hours are crucial to maintaining the mission and seeing it through to its completion. That is our sole priority right now and it will continue to stay that way. The fish are our second priority.”
“Your fish,” Bellini spits.
Moriah's phone on the table rings and he quickly picks it up.
“Yes?”
Moriah listens intently, digesting every piece of information as it comes to him, his face a mask, emotionless, not giving anything away. Without a word, he sets his phone down. Bellini is about to burst, waiting for that first word, which seems to him like an eternity.
“That was Gleason. Well, we know who our escapee is.”
“Yes?” Bellini says, expectantly.
Confirming what he already suspected, Moriah says matter-of-factly, “It's our old friend, the conspiracy professor and ex-Marine, Sean O'Connell.”
Bellini lets out a gush of air as if he has been sucker punched in the stomach. In a voice barely above a whisper, he says, “Jesus…”
“And how's this for a kick while you're down?” Moriah asks.
As if pausing for dramatic effect and possibly to see if Bellini can survive this bombshell, Moriah lets it fly.
“O'Connell and Kaley used to be best friends.”
“….…Christ.”
Chicago, Illinois
Around this time, Private P.J. Rushmore is sitting in a blues bar called Kingston Mines in downtown Chicago on Halsted Street, a place he and a couple other guys frequent on their occasional jaunts into the city. The establishment is separated into two gigantic rooms, with a large stage and bar in each one. There is a method to the madness, of course, for as one band completes their set in one room, the act in the other room fires up as soon as the last chord has been strummed next door. Nothing but blues played every night into the wee hours of the morning. And although the cover charge can occasionally be exorbitant, it remains a great place to kick back and enjoy a few cold ones with the boys, and hopefully, a few select ladies.
But Rushmore is not thinking about that right now. He is not thinking about the cover charge or the loud, raucous music blaring throughout the bar. He is not thinking about the ladies around him or the alcohol that seems to be flowing like water tonight. He feels like he is being watched and, unfortunately for him, he is correct on that count.
Two men, as ordinary and nondescript as two human beings can be, stand at the back of the bar, watching and waiting for Rushmore's next move. They do not drink, their heads do not bounce to the music, and they sure as hell do not take their eyes off of Rushmore. They have the place covered front and back, with another two-man team waiting across the street from the bar's entrance. As soon as they see an opportunity, the young private is theirs. If it is necessary to eliminate his cohorts to capture the private, this is collateral damage that can easily be afforded.
As his friends move towards the stage, Rushmore drifts towards the bar.
“You coming, Rush?” one of his buddies asks.
“Yeah, in a minute, I gotta take a leak,” Rushmore responds, nodding towards the back of the bar.
Rushmore casually looks around, attempting to study every face, looking for anyone who seems to be watching him or paying too much attention his way. Everyone seems to be talking with one another or looking up towards the stage, dancing and clapping along as the lead guitarist begins one of the many lengthy solos he has embarked on throughout the night.
Then there are two faces Rushmore spots who do not seem to be enjoying themselves like the rest of the patrons. They seem oddly out of place, like nuns in the middle of a fraternity party. He makes eye contact with them, two rather large men standing at the back of the bar. Rushmore quickly takes inventory and notes that neither of them holds a drink and the music certainly does not seem to be the focus of their attention. The men do not glance away from Rushmore, as if to avoid detection, and their piercing stares feel like they are boring a hole right through his brain.
Rushmore quickly looks away towards a small television hanging in a tiny alcove above the bar. The television is on mute but the screen shows a reporter standing in front of a beach, motioning towards it. Rushmore sees small patches of embers glowing at various points in the background, dotting the landscape. He sees medical personnel running around desperately as the camera slowly pans over the beach. Although judging from the looks of it, they are far too late.
There are tattered clothes lying about, burnt cabanas, the requisite small doll with a scarred face. Rushmore immediately feels a strange connection to the scene played out on the TV screen, a sensation that he has been there before. Then it hits him: the mysterious signal, the shoreline, the mass disappearance of people.
He can feel his heart beating faster and a knot forming in his stomach when the camera comes to rest on the most indelible of images. Row upon row of bodybags line the beach, their contents fresh and unmistakable.
Suddenly, the band stops playing, the people stop dancing and clapping, and one of the bartenders turns up the volume on the TV and tries to call for silence.
“Hush up over there for a second! Hush up!” he shouts.
The noise level of the place suddenly fades from a cacophony to several conversations asking what is going on, until finally, silence seems to envelop the room.
The people gather around the bar, transfixed by the images on the TV.
Another 9/11?
Not again, people groan.
It is too much for Rushmore. He feels nauseous, as if he is going to be sick. Although the bar is not air-conditioned and the abundance of ceiling fans has done nothing to ward off the July humidity that has seeped in, Rushmore feels like his whole body has been dipped in an ice bucket. A cold sweat begins to coat his skin and he feels the blood
