Bill Griffin called the dog and spoke softly. “Friends, Samson. Friends.”
He had the dog smell each of them.
Then, with Jon in the lead, they crawled to the end of the RV that was closest to the woods. There were only about fifteen feet between them and safety.
“That’s it.” Peter nodded toward the trees. “We can hide there and figure out what to do next. When I say ‘go,’ jump up and run as if the hounds of hell are on your tails. I’ll cover you.” He patted his H&K.
But then shapes moved out from the forest line.
“Flatten!” Smith growled and dropped onto his face.
As the four others fell, a fusillade swept across the open area, whining and ricocheting off the side of the RV. They scrambled back, searching for cover behind the tires.
Bill Griffin raised his voice. “How many?”
“Two.” The Englishman’s eyes were narrow slits as he searched the woods. “Or three,” Jon countered, breathing hard.
“Two or three,” Randi echoed, “which means one or two are still in front.”
“Yeah.” Bill Griffin looked around at their tension and fear and at the brave lights in their eyes. It was true even of Marty with his odd condition and even odder mind. Marty was not the same prissy, whiny nuisance he remembered. Marty had grown up. As he thought that, he felt a terrible tear rip through something old and painful inside. At the same time, he felt a shift. Maybe it was the sourness from all the years of working for men with pinched minds. Or perhaps it was simply that he had never fit into this world which made so much sense to others. But probably the truth was he did not care a damn about anything or anyone anymore, not even himself.
He desperately wanted to care again. Now he saw it—why he had risked so much to save Jon. By doing that, he had had a hope of saving something good within himself. Thinking that, his blood seemed to course more vigorously. His mind grew incredibly clear. A sense of purpose swept through him as strong as he remembered from the old days when he and Jon were young and the future lay ahead.
He knew what to do.
Knew with every fiber in his body. With all his disappointment.
Exactly what he must do to retrieve himself.
Without warning, he crawled quickly out from under the RV, surged to his feet, and with a sharp guttural sound charged straight toward where the attackers crouched at the edge of the woods. The Doberman followed.
“Bill!” Jon shouted. “Don’t—”
But it was too late. The stocky man’s legs pumped and his long hair flew behind as he pounded toward the trees, firing his Glock. He was excited and immensely relieved, and he did not give a damn anymore about anything but redeeming himself. With bared fangs, the Doberman sprang toward one of the attackers on Bill’s left.
Jon, Randi, and Peter leaped out with their weapons to follow. It was over in seconds.
By the time Jon reached him, Bill Griffin lay on his back on dry weeds at the edge of the woods. Blood bubbled up from his chest.
“Jesus,” Peter breathed as his canny gaze swept the trees and RVs, looking for more trouble.
Ten feet away the short, heavy man who had led the attack on Jon in Georgetown that first day was crumpled in a lifeless heap. A second man lay dead of a gunshot to his head. A third man had sprawled back, his throat torn open, while the Doberman paced the woods in search of others.
“No sign of the man Bill called al-Hassan,” Peter noted quickly. “He could still be out front.”
“If he’s alone, he probably won’t try anything by himself,” Randi agreed, her Uzi ready. Her voice softened and she looked down. “How is he, Jon?”
“Help me.”
As Peter stood watch, his H&K fanning all around, Randi helped Jon carry Griffin into the shelter of the trees, where they laid him on a bed of dry leaves.
“Hold on, Bill.” His throat tight, Jon crouched down. He tried to smile at his old friend.
Peter backed up to join them in the forest, holding his position as sentry.
Jon’s voice was gentle. “Bill, you damn fool. What were you thinking? We could’ve handled them.”
“You … don’t know that for sure.” He tugged Jon down by the collar. “This time … you could’ve got yourself killed. Al-Hassan is out there
.. somewhere. Waiting for reinforcements. Leave … get out of here!”
His grip was strong, but then pink foam appeared on his lips.
“Take it easy, Bill. I’m just going to take a look at your wounds. We’ll be fine—”
“Bullshit.” Griffin gave a weak smile. “Go to the lodge … Lake Magua. Horrible … horrible—” His eyes closed, and he breathed shallowly.
“Don’t talk,” Jon said anxiously as he ripped open Bill’s shirt.
His eyes opened. “No time … Sorry about Sophia … Sorry for everything.” His eyes widened as if seeing into a vast darkness.
“Bill? Bill! Don’t do this!”
His neck went limp, and his head dropped back. In death, the bland face seemed suddenly younger, somehow more innocent. The features that had so easily fit into so many different roles smoothed out to show a strong bone structure with definite cheekbones and chin. As Jon looked numbly down, somewhere a bird began to sing. Insects hummed. The sunlight through the trees was warm.
Smith went into action. He felt the carotid artery. Nothing. Frantically, he put his hand on the bloody chest. But there was not even a whisper of a beat. He sat back, crouching next to his friend. Pain swept through him. First Sophia and now Bill.
Suddenly the Doberman appeared. He stood over Bill, guarding him. He nudged Bill’s head and made what sounded like a low moan in his throat. Marty murmured something and stroked the Doberman’s back.
Smith closed Bill’s eyes and looked up. “He’s gone.”
“We’ve got to leave, Jon.” Peter’s voice was kind but definite. He handed him a colored kerchief from one of the webbed belt pouches on his commando uniform.
As Jon wiped blood from his hand, Randi said, “I’m sorry, Jon. I know he was your friend. But more of them will be here soon.”
When Smith did not get up immediately, Marty said, “Jon!” His voice was sharp. “Let’s go. You’re scaring me!”
Smith stood and gazed around at the battered RV and the dead bodies. He breathed deeply, controlling his grief and rage. He glanced once more at Bill Griffin.
Victor Tremont had a lot to answer for.
He moved into the woods. “We’ll work our way back to the car through here.”
“Good idea.” Randi took the lead.
“Come on, Samson,” Marty called.
The dog lifted his head. Then he nudged his dead master’s shoulder. He made a low sound in his throat again and prodded Bill one last time. When there was no response, he gave a final look around as if saying good-bye. He trotted silently into the woods, following.
Randi’s long body angled left. With sure footsteps, she forged a path through the underbrush and around the trees. Jon and Marty came behind with Peter and the Doberman bringing up the rear. Peter’s H&K swept from side to side.
Jon looked at Marty. “You know anything about this ‘lodge’ Bill was talking about? Lake Magua?”
“It’s where they chained me in a room.”
“You know where it is?”
“Of course.”
Suddenly Peter’s voice sounded over their conversation. “Bogies at six o’clock. They’re coming after us. I’ll keep them busy. Go!”
“Not without you!” Smith refused.
“Don’t be stupid. You’ve got Tremont to finish off. I can take care of myself.”
At the sounds of feet approaching through the trees, the big Doberman stopped its loping trot and spun back to join Peter. He spoke low to the dog, then looked back at Smith.
“Go on. Now! Samson and I will cover your tails and buy you time. Hurry!” He gazed down at the dog. “You understand hand signals, boy?” He lowered his hand to his side and m
ade a swift motion. Instantly the dog raced off into the woods to scout. Peter nodded, satisfied. “See, I won’t be alone.”
“He’s right,” Randi agreed. “It’s what Bill would’ve wanted.”
Jon was frozen for a second. His high-planed face with the dark blue eyes looked ominous in the shadowy forest. His long, muscular body was tensed, ready to spring. Bill had just died, and now Peter was volunteering to stay behind where his risk of being killed, too, was enormous. Jon had devoted himself to saving lives, not taking them. And now, because of circumstances, he was caught in what seemed a hopeless loop of death.
He studied Peter’s wrinkled, weathered face and the sharp eyes that had one message: Go. Leave me alone. This is what I do.
Smith nodded. “Okay. Marty, you follow me. Good luck, Peter.”
“Right.” Already the Englishman had turned, his gaze searching the forest behind as if his whole life were focused on this moment.
Jon stared a second longer. Then he, Marty, and Randi sped away through the timber. Behind them a long burst of gunfire sounded, followed by a cry of pain.
“Peter?” Marty’s voice rose with worry. “Do you think he’s hurt? Maybe we should go back?”
“It was his H&K’s fire,” Jon assured him, although he was not sure.
Marty nodded uncertainly, remembering the endless days of too-close contact in the RV and Peter’s tart humor and irritating habits. “I hope you’re right. I … I’ve grown to like Peter.”
Grimly they continued on. The woods were quiet now, shocked as sporadic gunfire sounded. Each shot seemed to pierce Smith to the quick. Then there was silence. That was worse. Peter could be lying in his own blood somewhere, dying.
At last they emerged on a quiet residential street that paralleled Route 5. Grave and wary, they hid their weapons inside their clothes, trotted right, and turned onto the street where Jon and Randi had parked their rented car under the maple tree.
They split up and approached the car cautiously.
But no one was around, and no one tried to stop them. Marty heaved a sigh and climbed into the backseat. Jon slid into the driver’s seat, Randi jumped into the front passenger seat, the mini-Uzi on her lap, and they headed for the Thruway. An hour later they arrived at the Oriskany-Utica airport, where they rented a light plane and flew into the vast wilderness of Adirondack State Park.
Chapter Forty-Three
3:02 P.M.
Lake Magua, New York
Victor Tremont’s timbered lodge loomed enormous through the trees below. Here at the back of it, a narrow brick drive led from an oversize timbered garage deep among the trees. Three heavily armed men patrolled. On the far side of the lodge a pristine lake was nestled in the forest of pine and hardwood trees. Large white clouds hovered above, and the long light of the late-afternoon sun cast dark shadows across the wooded slopes.
Taking it all in from a rise in the forest behind the lodge were Jon, Randi, and Marty. They lay on their stomachs on the thick carpet of duff under dense pines as they carefully analyzed the lodge’s layout and the bored actions of the trio of guards.
“I hope Peter is all right,” Marty worried quietly as he peered ahead, not sure exactly what he was supposed to be looking for.
“He knows what he’s doing, Mart,” Smith answered as he recorded the sentries’ routes.
Then Jon peered over at Randi, seeing her face intent on the scene below. She was stretched out on his other side and had been quietly listening.
She gave him a sympathetic smile.
With that troubled exchange, the three turned their full attention back to planning how to break into Tremont’s mountain castle. One of the bored and yawning guards circled the log-and-frame building every half hour, checking doors and cursorily sweeping the grounds with a gaze that would have seen nothing that was not immediately obvious. The second man sat relaxed in a chair, smoking and enjoying the late October sunlight, his old M-16A1 assault rifle across his lap. The third was comfortably ensconced in a civilian Humvee beside the small clearing for a helipad fifty yards to their right, his rifle jutting up beside him.
“They haven’t had any intruders for years,” Jon guessed. “If ever.”
“Maybe there isn’t anything to guard,” Randi said. “Griffin could’ve been lying to us. Or just mistaken.”
“No. He saved us, and he knew he was dying,” Smith insisted. “He wouldn’t lie.”
“It’s happened, Jon. You yourself said he’d gone wrong.”
“Not that wrong.” He turned to Marty. “When they had you locked up here, Mart, what do you remember of the layout inside?”
“A big living room and a lot of small rooms. A sun room and kitchen. Places like that. They questioned me in a room downstairs. It was empty except for a chair and a cot, and when I woke up I was in a basement storage room chained to a wall.”
“That’s all you can tell us?” Randi asked.
“I didn’t exactly get a vacation brochure of the place,” he said huffily. Then he grimaced. “All right. I’m sorry. I know you didn’t mean anything. Well, I did see some people in white coats, like doctors. Most wore white pants, too. They were going upstairs to the second floor, but I don’t know to where exactly.”
“A laboratory?” Randi wondered.
“A secret lab.” Jon’s voice was low but charged. “That’s it—one of the things Bill could’ve told us. A secret lab for research and development. The records of the experiment on the twelve victims from the Gulf War and whatever else they’ve been doing should be here. That’s probably why nothing showed up on the Blanchard company computer. They never put anything there.”
“Some other company name and password, maybe,” Randi theorized. Jon said, “We’d better get in there and find out for sure. Marty, stay here. You’ll be safer. If you see or hear anyone, fire a single shot to warn us.”
“You can count on it.” Marty hesitated, his round eyes widening with shock. “I can’t believe I said that. Especially that I said it enthusiastically.” He was gripping the Enfield bullpup in his plump hands with nervous distaste. He had taken a new dose of meds and was still calm, but the effect would wear off soon.
Jon and Randi decided to delay until the guard completed his next circuit and rejoined the one at the front for a relaxed smoke. Then they would take out the one in the Humvee in the clearing to the right, where the afternoon sun sent long, cool shadows through the tall trees.
They did not have long to wait. After a few minutes, one of the two at the front stood and vanished behind the lodge. Ten minutes later he reappeared, this time coming around the building’s far side. He gave a cursory scan of the forest and grounds, logged in at the key station next to the main rear entrance, and finally circled back to the front to rejoin his companion.
Only the guard in the Humvee remained on this side of the big lodge.
“Now,” Jon said.
They slipped through the pines to the clearing. Out of sight of his colleagues, the guard in the Humvee was dozing in the warm sunshine, slumped in the driver’s seat.
“You want to work around behind the Humvee, Randi?” Jon suggested. He could feel his pulse begin to pound behind his ears. “I’ll watch from here and cover you. When you get there, give me a signal, and I’ll distract him from this side. If he wakes up too soon and hears you, I’ll take him out.”
“I’ll wave a hankie.” She gave a short smile. “Well, a Kleenex.” She was relieved to be in action again.
Her heart pumping, she melted among the trees until she was out of Smith’s view. He crouched in the shadows just inside the forest. Beretta ready, he watched the dozing guard and waited. Five minutes passed. Then he saw a flash of white directly behind the parked Humvee. The guard stirred, moved in his seat, but did not open his eyes. As the man settled in once more, Jon loped straight toward the squat, open vehicle.
But just as Jon was halfway across the clearing, the guard’s eyes snapped open. He grabbed his M-16. Randi materi
alized behind him. Her pale hair was a wreath of sunlight around her head, and her beautiful face was stony with concentration. Her body moved with the fluidity of a feral cat as she sprinted silently to the topless Humvee, ran up over the back, balanced one foot on the top of the backseat and the other on the rollover rail, and pressed her Uzi down into the back of the guard’s head. It took Jon’s breath away. He had never seen a woman move like that.
Her voice was cold and clear. “Release the rifle.”
The guard hesitated a second as if calculating his chances, then slowly lay the rifle on the seat beside him. He placed his hands flat on his thighs in plain sight, like someone who knew the proper procedure for being arrested.
“Good decision.”
Jon reached the Humvee and removed the M-16. He and Randi marched the guard back to where Marty waited. The three worked quickly together. Marty ripped the man’s shirt into strips. Jon and Randi used the guard’s belt and the strips of cloth to gag and tie him hand and foot. Trussed up, unable to speak, he lay on a bed of pine needles, shooting angry looks.
Smith took the guard’s ring of keys. “The two others out front won’t expect us from inside the lodge.”
“I like that.” Randi nodded, approving the plan.
He looked at her a little longer than necessary, but she did not seem to notice.
Marty sighed. “I know what you’re going to tell me. ‘If you see anything, shoot.’ Gad. And to think two weeks ago I’d never even held a gun. I’m devolving.”
They left Marty shaking his head as he guarded the disabled sentry and trotted down the slope to a side rear entrance of the lodge. The scent of pine was aromatic but somehow cloying.
The Hades Factor Page 37