by Roger Weston
When she turned the truck onto Highway 101, a two-lane backwater, she saw no vehicles in either direction, but then the white car muscled onto the road behind her and kept its distance.
Meg closed her eyes for just a second. “Oh my God, Eric. They’ve found me. Out here in the middle of nowhere. I’m all alone.”
Her mind flashed back to the training tapes, and she heard Eric’s voice.
Do the unexpected.
Meg’s foot pressed on the accelerator. They would not expect a scared drama teacher to put the ’57 Chevy to the ultimate test. The big gas-guzzling 450 engine roared. Even at forty m.p.h., she made the tires chirp. The vehicle lurched forward. Her head fell back against the head rest, and she felt herself being pulled against the seat.
For a moment, the tail gate began to rattle.
“Oh, no,” Meg said. “Why’d I pick this old beast?”
Nevertheless, the speedometer climbed the arc with confidence and boldness. It may have been an old truck, but it was an old muscle car at that.
Her speed increased from forty to eighty-five in seconds. The white Suburban was a quarter mile back and kept up with her, no problem.
Meg listened to the Chevy. Its big engine purred. She heard a squeak come from some moving part and hoped the old rig was up to the task.
Meg took a gentle turn at ninety, and the wheels screeched. “Oh no,” Meg said. She was about to lose control and wrap the beast around a telephone pole. Somehow, she made the turn and picked up speed to a hundred M.P.H. on the straightaway. She’d increased the distance between the other car, but not by much. Whoever was behind her was determined that she not get away. She simply didn’t have the power and the driving skill to outrun them.
On the next turn, the Chevy’s rear end slipped, and Meg squealed with terror, certain that she was about to die a brutal death. Once more, however, she got lucky. The treads grabbed onto pavement, and the truck stopped sliding. She hit the accelerator, and the Chevy leaped down another straightaway.
The white vehicle fell back to maybe half a mile, but it was beginning to close the distance as Meg leaned into the next gentle turn in the road. Up ahead, she saw a stop sign at a crossroad that led off into the trees. A long stretch beyond that was another turn.
Meg hit the brakes, and the speedometer fell backwards down a steep hill. The entire truck shook, and Meg feared it was going to fall apart. It got sideways as she took the turn, laying down black skid marks on the pavement. She trusted the power under the hood and raced the Chevy down the side road, eager to get away from the highway and out of sight before the Suburban could see that she had turned off the highway.
The truck caught a little air as it took a rise in the road. As it came down, the bumper slashed the road. On a two-mile straightaway, she caught sight of the white car in her mirror just before she took another turn.
“No!” Meg said, slamming her palm against the steering wheel. “I’ll never get away.”
Meg pumped the breaks. The speedometer dropped from ninety to thirty in moments. She pushed harder. The car skidded, at first straight, then sideways. The whole vehicle lurched as it came to a stop in the middle of the road. Meg hit the gas and turned back the way she’d just come. She slammed the pedal against the floor, and the big engine roared. The front end lifted up. In seconds, Meg took the last corner and sped onto the last straightaway. She was now streaking toward the Suburban that had been following her.
Do the unexpected.
“Okay, Eric.” The last thing they’d expect her to do was hit them head on, but that’s exactly what she was going to do. She wasn’t going to live like a hunted animal any longer. Meg eased the Chevy into the oncoming lane.
The Suburban must have thought she was bluffing because it raced toward her at full speed.
“You think I’m playing chicken,” Meg said, “but you’re dead wrong.” She eyed her speedometer as it crawled up past eighty.
The two cars closed the distance very quickly. Meg reached down and unsnapped her seat belt, freeing herself.
In just seconds, the hundred yards between the vehicles became fifty. Meg grit her teeth, but kept her eyes open. The Suburban was now right in front of her and about to hit her head on. The driver swerved and sailed off the road, catching air as the huge white behemoth soared down a steep bank.
It worked. Eric was right. Do the unexpected.
Meg eased off the accelerator and slowed the car down to forty, then twenty. She drove at twenty for at least a mile. With her jaw shaking, she wiped the wetness off her forehead with her wrist. With tremor-filled hands she turned on the heater, then realized it was ninety degrees and turned it off. She listened to her pulse as it pounded in her ears.
When her cell phone rang, she shrieked in fear. She glared at her purse as if it was a salt water crocodile plunging out of the water. The phone rang again; she rummaged around her purse, found her phone and flipped it open.
CHAPTER 30
Marcel caught a flight to Anchorage, Alaska, and transferred to a puddle jumper that flew him to Dutch Harbor. The flight gave him time to brood on why Carl had demanded this meeting. Publicly, Carl Johnson was known for his good works as CEO of Environmental Solutions. Privately, he worked under the umbrella of the Harding Corp., finding more creative ways of dealing with toxic waste.
Marcel had been hired as head of security. He was focused squarely on maintaining secrecy and eliminating problems for Harding Corp. Of course, Meg Coles was Carl’s current priority. No doubt Carl was losing his patience because Meg was still alive. Four of his men had been killed by what was supposed to be a soft target, a drama professor from Boise, Idaho. How tough could that be? Well, she’d had luck on her side, and Neil didn’t hurt either. Now that he was gone, Meg’s luck was about to run out. Marcel would assure Carl of that. In the meantime, spending a night at sea could be interesting. At least Alaska was a change of scenery.
The old man in the coal mine had seen nothing but coal for forty years. “Never took a damn vacation in my life,” he once told Marcel. “You get in a deep enough rut, you can’t get out even if you want to. Last year, I went to my cousin’s funeral in Ohio. Took two days off for that. Only time off I’ve ever taken. I was anxious to get back to the mine. Don’t know why. I hate this place with a passion.”
Marcel figured the old man was chasing a tombstone. Marcel, on the other hand, was chasing a simple drama professor named Meg Coles. Marcel was eager to get back, but he knew a night away at sea wouldn’t change the outcome. He would find Meg soon.
In Dutch Harbor, a military helicopter awaited Marcel, and it delivered him to a cargo ship in the remote reaches of the Aleutian Islands.
As he climbed out onto the ship’s helicopter pad, a bearded crewman said, “I’ll take that,” referring to Marcel’s overnight bag. When Marcel passed it over, the crewman heaved it across the deck.
Marcel was thinking of kicking the bastard’s teeth in just for pissing him off. Instead he followed as the man led him to the captain’s quarters, which had been converted into Carl’s office. Two grim-faced security men rose from their chairs. One stood back while the other frisked Marcel. After they’d searched him and examined his wallet, they retreated, leaving Marcel alone. He sat down and waited for the legend. Unlike Marcel, who’d fought his way up the slag heap, Carl was different. He’d graduated from Harvard and had probably never known the kind of brutal hard work that Marcel had grown up with. Carl arrived wearing slacks and a polo shirt. He was smiling and looked relaxed, holding a set of keys in his pale hands. He sat down across from Marcel behind a huge walnut desk.
Marcel leaned forward. “What’s going—?”
Carl silenced him by raising his open hand. His pale jaw was set tight. He closed his eyes and ran his hand through a thin tuft of white hair that barely covered his scalp.
Marcel sighed. At least he wasn’t back in the coal mine. Better to be out in the light of day, even if that meant working with a spook like Carl
in a place like this.
Marcel watched as his boss fed shells into the magazine of a combat handgun.
Carl suddenly looked up at him. “Recycled and reloaded shells.” Finishing his work, he added the magazine to a pile in his desk drawer and checked his watch.
Carl patted a piece of paper on his desk. “This press release will be sent to the Austin-American Statesman tomorrow. It’s part of an ongoing effort to cultivate my public persona as an environmental watchdog and savior who is on the short list for the Nobel Peace Prize.” As the door to the office opened, Marcel watched Carl put down the press release and stared at his tech assistant Wayne, who entered with a clipboard. Carl gestured toward a chair.
Wayne was under six feet and over 290 pounds. He eased onto the cushion. He had a big round beard and a belly to match.
Carl eyed Marcel then turned his attention back to Wayne. “What have you got?”
“Things aren’t moving as fast as we’d like. Miss Coles isn’t using her cell phone.”
“What else are you doing to track her?”
Wayne shifted his clipboard to the other hand. “We’re watching her credit cards, her bank accounts, and the phones of her friends and relatives.”
“This is all you have?” Carl said.
“No, sir. We’re going to integrate Meg Cole’s photo into the F.B.I widgets program. It will put Meg’s face on computer desktops all across the nation.”
“And you reinforced to the bureau that they have no jurisdiction?”
“They’re willing to help out as long as—”
Carl raised his hand to silence Wayne. After a moment, Carl said, “You reminded them of the importance that they turn all leads over to us and not to follow up on their own without clearance.”
“They’re well aware of it, sir. Somebody talked to somebody big over there because they are quite sensitive about the issue.”
“What else have you got?”
“We’re going to post Photo-shopped pictures of Meg in a bikini. We’ll put it on blogs, Facebook, everywhere.”
“Attractive women in bikinis are all over the web.”
“Not with the caption Arsonist-Killer, Reward Offered slapped on it. Nothing will spread faster. It’s hardly the face and body one would expect to see attached to accusations like that. Her photo will be everywhere.”
“What else?”
“We’re setting up daily email alerts, podcasts and even digital billboards posted across the Northwest, especially along major highways. They will be activated in the next 48 hours. Her face is going to be all over the place. No matter where she goes, strangers who she would never suspect will turn her in. Our hotline is ready to go. I hope she’s enjoying her freedom because her time is running out fast.”
Carl leaned forward in his chair and said. “Thank you, Wayne, you may be excused.”
After Wayne left, Carl planted his elbows on the desk, and leaned forward, directing a piercing glare at Marcel. “You, come with me.”
CHAPTER 31
Carl led Marcel to the wheelhouse, which was manned by a frowning technician, who stood by a monitor. Carl introduced him. The man, whose name was Rene, acknowledged Marcel with a nod and the sort of look typically reserved for an I.R.S. auditor. He quickly refocused his attention on his monitor.
Carl put his hand on Marcel’s shoulder. “You have to understand something. Meg Coles is not only a priority for national security, but she is personally my number one priority. I’m calling in Jose. He’s never made a mistake.”
Marcel shook his head. “I don’t need Jose’s help. I’ve got it under control. If I hadn’t been called up here, she’d have a tag on her toe right now. You know I like to work alone.”
Carl removed his hand from Marcel’s shoulder. “The operation we have underway here will change the world.” He gestured expansively toward the sea as though it was all his own creation. “We can’t let Meg Coles stop it.”
Marcel looked out over the central deck at a crane that was in front of the wheelhouse. It lifted a shipping container and swung it over the water. The deck hands backed off. When the crane operator hit the release button, the shipping container dropped into the water. At the sudden release of so much weight, the crane cables whipped in circles, almost too fast for the eye at first. The ship rocked, too, but only a little.
As the container sunk beneath the waves, Carl walked to the monitor. He made a hand gesture, and Rene stepped away from the instrument and glared at it from a few feet away, his hands so tightly balled into fists that his knuckles jutted out as he rubbed them together. Carl gestured for Marcel to come closer. Marcel watched the sinking hulk, which was evidently caught by a sophisticated sonar system.
“It’s moving out of the zone,” Rene said with an anxious tone and a Bosnian accent. “The current has picked up.”
“Just be patient,” Carl said.
Rene leaned toward the monitor. “It’s not gonna make it into the volcano.”
“Keep quiet.” Carl shooed him away.
Marcel watched carefully as Carl studied the monitor, while the shipping container landed outside of a huge, funnel-shaped steel mesh that had been placed over an underwater volcano. The shipping container missed the mesh and the volcano by at least thirty yards.
Rene slammed his hand down on the desk. “We have to stop operations until the current slows down.”
“I’ll decide that,” Carl said, giving him a sharp glare.
“We can’t risk letting this happen again.”
“We will proceed, and you will shut your mouth. Get off the bridge—now.” Carl pointed at the door.
“No!” Rene turned to face Carl directly. He pointed his finger at Carl’s chest. “This is a prime fish habitat. There are native fish in these waters. Once we dump this stuff in the ocean, it will sicken the marine life for thousands of years.”
Marcel lifted his eyebrows in surprise. Hadn’t Carl said something about angling for a Nobel Prize for being an environmentalist?
Carl frowned at the floor. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment. Looking up, he started to pace, walking past Rene. His left hand shot out, hammering Rene in the back of the neck. The Bosnian gave a loud groan as his back arched. Carl closed in on him from behind, delivering a blow to the spine with his elbow. As Rene fell, Carl came down on him knees first on the back of Rene’s neck.
Rene was groaning in shock and pain.
Carl grabbed his hair and pushed his face against the floor. “Don’t you ever question me again.”
“Okay, okay.” The look in Rene’s eyes betrayed horror and desperation.
Carl got up and glared down at the technician. “You will do what I say or you’ll be in the next container that I shove down that volcano.”
Rene rolled over, still groaning, holding his neck with both hands.
Carl gestured toward the ocean. “Greatness requires boldness and foresight.”
He turned to Marcel. “I expect total devotion and loyalty from all my people. I won’t settle for anything less than excellence. You’d better have Meg soon.”
“Coles is dead. She just doesn’t know it yet.”
CHAPTER 32
Meg got off the freeway in Moses Lake, Washington. John Lomax had called. He was back from Central America and said that he would meet her in Spokane tomorrow. Meg drove to a secure, locally-owned storage facility. The owner was a Hispanic man in his forties. He wore wire-rim glasses and dressed in casual designer clothes. He greeted Meg warmly when she entered his establishment.
“I need a large unit. The size of a garage, please.” Meg removed a wad of cash from her pocket. “I’d like it for six months.”
The man took the money and brought out a form. “Name, please?”
“Leslie Walsh. How’s the security here?”
“Excellent. We have a watch dog. He’s a Doberman, but don’t worry. I only let him out at night after the gate is locked, which will be in twenty minutes. We’re closi
ng up.”
“I won’t be long.” Meg pulled her car into the storage unit and put the wooden box behind the seat of the truck next to the files and bags of cash. She stuffed fifteen thousand dollars into her pockets and several files and DVDs into her purse. Then, using the truck’s rearview mirror, she altered her looks once more. She put on a brown wig and bee-eye shaped sunglasses with thick rims.
Meg left the storage unit on foot. She kicked up dust on the shoulder of the quiet country road as she headed toward town. She knew she couldn’t keep this up for much longer. She was so tired. How was she going to survive? Every turn in the road brought new threats. Maybe John had the answers. He would help her, she hoped.
Up ahead she saw a sign with a thin grey dog running for his life. It was the Greyhound bus logo, and she headed towards it. She didn’t attract much attention at the station. That was good. Blend in. She got on the first bus to Spokane. Once there, she got off at the downtown depot and walked to Riverfront Park. Crossing a swinging bridge, she found the bench John had suggested for a meeting place. It was out in the open surrounded by trees. She sat down. Every millimeter of her body trembled. She felt like a Canadian goose during hunting season. Meg waited on the bench until she could take it no longer. Then she ran to the trees for cover.
Was she being watched? Why would John pick such a bad spot to meet?
Meg ran from the park. She remembered Eric’s words: “You won’t see the professionals, but that doesn’t mean they don’t see you.”
She jumped on a city bus that wound its way through the park. At the next stop, a blond man entered the bus, his eyes focused on a novel in his hands.
When the bus stopped again, he got up to leave and dropped an envelope onto Meg’s lap. She looked down. They had found her again. Was she about to be shot through the head? She was too frightened to move. Was this letter just a distraction to occupy her hands and keep her from grabbing her gun? Nobody was looking at her. Were they waiting for the sound of the ripping envelope before they made their move? She reached into her purse and clasped her hand around her handgun, finger on the trigger.