Free The Antiterrorist: A Jake Corby Sci-Fi Thriller (Mysterious Events Book 2) by Al Macy Page A

crossed. He was as relaxed as someone at a cocktail party and looked me in the eye. His clothes were right out of an L.L. Bean catalog.
    “Who do you work for?” His voice was resonant and relaxed. Like a voice-over professional asking about the weather.
    “I’m a consultant.”
    He glanced to my right, and Twiggy’s roundhouse kick landed on my ribs. She was a sadist, and Mr. L.L. Bean took advantage of it.
    I wasn’t giving a smart answer. I really was a consultant. I’d worked in the FBI and then quit to start a Mexico-based consulting company specializing in kidnap-proofing. The U.S. government had me on retainer as a quick-access problem solver.
    Just two days ago I’d been taking a break, surfing in Baja, when a Harrier two-seater landed in a field by the beach. The jet whisked me up to southern Oregon to gather intelligence on the Jefferson militia group. I didn’t mind doing my part to save the world. I was glad to get a break from giving executives advice they wouldn’t follow. Plus, I hate terrorists.
    “A consultant for the government.” I took a ragged breath and kept my head down. “Listen, I don’t know much, but I’ll tell you everything. I’m a wimp. I don’t do well under torture, so it will be a win-win if I just spill the beans at the start. Did you tell me your name while I was woozy?”
    He stared at me, looking like a freeze frame on TV. Tweedledum and Twiggy were just overgrown kids with self-esteem issues, but this guy was good. He didn’t wear a mask; he didn’t think I’d get out alive.
    I continued. “Cell phone chatter suggested that you guys are planning something. I was sent here to snoop around, see what kind of operation you’re running. I’m a low-level flunky, and they don’t tell me much. I’d only gotten started when your security picked me up. End of story.”
    The real story was that over the last month, satellites had been disappearing one by one, and the FBI thought this militia group was somehow involved. My snooping yielded a day-and-a-half’s worth of intelligence. He didn’t need to know that.
    “Before we’re done here,” he said, “you’re going to tell me exactly what your government knows about our operation.”
    Luckily, I couldn’t think up a smart reply to that. The information/torture session lasted for another hour before Twiggy led me back to the dungeon. Mr. Bean knew I was lying. We weren’t done.
    Near the bottom of the stairs, Twiggy tangled my feet and pushed me. I bent my knees and turned sideways so as not to do a sailor dive into the cement. With cuffed hands, I had no way to break my fall.
    “Oops,” she said. Man, I was getting tired of her.
    They put on new zip ties, left me four Twinkies and a can of Pepsi, and headed back upstairs.
    Where was the cavalry? I’d missed two check-ins now. Another “information session” like that would kill me.
    I used my teeth to tighten the new zip tie and positioned the lock between my wrists. Getting up on my knees, I raised my wrists above my head then slammed them down into my waist, squeezing my shoulder blades together. It didn’t work. Once more. Jeez, that hurt. I’d done this in Quantico, but with leather straps protecting my wrists. Okay, third time’s the charm.
    Well, it turned out that the fifth time was the charm. The tie broke right at the lock. The ankle strap was easier; one body roll, and the plastic snapped.
    I pushed a table under the window and climbed up. The window was small and below ground level, opening to a window well. I’m tall with a big head. A smaller person might have been able to squeeze through. Not me.
    I downed my Twinkies. I’d forgotten how good those things taste. I searched for weapons in the piles of trash. My prizes: a rusty crowbar and a half-eaten Pop Tart. Sorry, mice, I found it first. I paused as heavy footsteps from above loosened dust from the unfinished ceiling.
    Opening some of my fresh wounds, I smeared blood on the sill. Scary how