The Fourth Law

by Paul Stein

  Now that Jer was missing, he felt powerless, at a complete loss for what to do next. Under any other scenario he would have been elated to be in Sarah’s company, but he was too numb from witnessing his son’s abduction to feel any emotion other than overwhelming dread.

  Sarah, likewise, was unable to concentrate on anything, overcome with panic. The depressive grief she endured those many months following Jacob’s death once again held her captive in its paralyzing grip. Jer’s abduction brought back the pain so vividly that she felt it all over again. She couldn’t shake the dread of facing another trauma of that magnitude. Just imagining losing her remaining son caused such anxiety that she began trembling uncontrollably as she sat next to Ryan. The insanity of their situation was simply unbearable.

  As they drove, a Residence Inn caught Ryan’s attention and he abruptly made an illegal turn to pull into the motel parking lot. “We’ve got to get off the street for a while, don’t you think? Rest will do us both some good,” he said, patting her hand, trying to get her to stop shaking.

  “Ry…Ryan, I…I…ca…can’t think,” Sarah stuttered. “I’m losing it,” she said, forcing the words from her mouth between rapid and shallow breaths. “Wh…what are we…going…to do?”

  “Sarah! You’re hyperventilating. You’ve got to calm down.” he cautioned. He began rummaging in the backseat and found a white paper bag from his stop at the Burger King in Reno. He shook out the soiled napkins and blew up the bag. “Here, breathe into this for a few minutes.”

  She shakily took the bag without argument and began breathing as he instructed. Within a few moments, her panic attack abated and her breathing slowly returned to a more normal rate.

  “Okay, that’s better, honey, much better,” he said soothingly, reaching out to smooth the hair on her head. “I’m upset, too, but we’ve got to hold it together…for Jer, right? Let’s get a room and unwind a bit, okay? Will you be all right for a minute or do you want to come with me?”

  “No, no, you go ahead. I’ll wait here,” she said, her voice quavering. “I can’t go in there looking like we just had a fight. Besides the police will be looking for a couple. You should check in alone.”

  “Okay, I’ll only be a moment. Stay right where you are, Mrs. Marshall,” he said with a slight smile.

  Ryan checked into the motel under a fictitious name, paying cash for one night. The attendant merely had him sign the rate card and handed him the key to room 239. Moments later, they checked into their room, alone for the first time since their divorce.

  Ryan couldn’t believe how drastically things had changed in the past forty-eight hours. He was torn by feelings of humble gratitude for having Sarah back in his life, and total dejection from losing Jer. These conflicting emotions made it almost impossible to think clearly. Once settled in, he decided to take a shower and wash away the grime he’d picked up over the past three days.

  Sarah was much too agitated to relax. She decided to send Sela a message. It was too early to call Maryland, and even though her sister wouldn’t mind being awakened, sending her an email seemed more reasonable.

  Sarah opened the laptop and connected to the local Internet service in the room. She went to her email account and entered her password. Jarrod’s message was the first one that came up on her screen.

  “Ryan!” she screamed. “My God…they’ve got Sela, too. They contacted Jarrod. He was right!”

  “Sarah…shhh…keep your voice down,” Ryan called out from the bathroom, worried neighbors would complain about the noise. He reached for a towel before opening the shower curtain. “What are you talking about? How do you know Sela’s been taken?”

  “Jarrod sent us a message,” she groaned. “They’ve taken him to run that machine, just as he thought. They’ve also taken Sela for ransom. Ryan, what are we going to do? What’s happening to us? We’re losing our whole family.” She slumped onto the floor, looking stunned. “We need help…we can’t just keep running. I’m calling Pop.”

  “Whoa, hold on a sec. Let’s think this through,” Ryan said, trying to process the news. New developments were happening too fast to comprehend. The odds of gaining the upper hand seemed more remote than ever.

  “The first thing we should do is call Ben Dare. I’m sure he arranged the PI that was tailing you and Jer; he’ll know what to do about Sela. Call right now. I know it’s early in Washington, but we can’t wait another minute. Ben can start an early search for Sela. Kidnapping a senator’s daughter has national implications and Ben’ll know how to handle it. Don’t worry, honey, they’ll find Sela; we’ll get everyone back,” he said, trying to sound convincing, but he realized his words lacked conviction.

  Sarah went to her cell phone and dialed Ben. Her nerves were shattered as she waited impatiently for the phones to connect, nervously pacing the room. She held her free hand across her chest as if embracing herself, trying to hold her fragile emotions in check.

  “Hello,” Ben answered, groggily, obviously awakened from a deep sleep.

  “Ben, it’s Sarah…Marshall,” she said haltingly. “Sela’s been kidnapped. We need your help…”

  “Sarah? It’s been a long time,” Ben replied, trying to clear his head, surprised by the information he thought he’d just heard. “What’s this about Sela? Tell me everything that’s happened.”

  “Gladly,” she replied, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “Let me start at the beginning….”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  LIVERMORE

  05:30 HOURS

  THE ALARM WENT OFF at 5:30 a.m., arousing the man from sleep. He reached over, silenced the alarm and sat up on the edge of the bed. By habit, he turned to kiss his wife lightly on the forehead and whispered, “I love you” softly into her ear. Then he stood up, dragged himself groggily to the bathroom, his head still trying to make sense of the early hour. He pulled on his sweats, donned his running shoes and before he really realized what he was doing, found himself stretching on the pavement in front of his house, getting ready for his daily four-mile run through the municipal park and back.

  Steven McCauley’s routine was as predictable as salmon swimming upstream. He prided himself on staying in shape, something most engineers only gave lip-service to following an annual physical. But McCauley’s passion for physical fitness bordered on obsession. Every workday was a success when it began with sixty minutes of exercise, no matter what else happened during the day. Likewise, if he missed his early morning workout before a tedious day at the lab, it seemed as if the whole day was wasted. Such was the regimen of this alcoholic-turned-fitness aficionado.

  McCauley considered the run to Hidden Park and back the perfect distance: almost exactly a mile from his house. It took him less than ten minutes to traverse this distance, which allowed enough time to complete two circuits around the perimeter of the park. From start to finish, the four-mile run could be completed in less than fifty minutes.

  This was his favorite part of the day and he was never deterred by the weather. His daily hour-long jog was the prescription that kept him sane and out of the doctor’s office. He’d also had more than one strike of enlightenment while making his customary run. Nothing took its place.

  Hidden Park was aptly named—it couldn’t be seen from the street and was surrounded by contiguous houses on all sides; alleyways were the only access to the park. Even though the City of Livermore had it well marked, most people using the park lived close by. There were hundred-year-old sycamore trees that populated the park, and a series of natural caves and small hillocks made it a great place for kids to play capture the flag and other war games. The Livermore police routinely patrolled this area, so most crimes that would normally be associated with a secluded park were almost nonexistent—pot-smoking being the only criminal activity that regularly took place in the park’s numerous secret hiding places. McCauley especially liked Hidden Park because it brought him a sense of solitude to start his day.

  McCauley conducted his run in typical fashion
, warming up slowly the first half-mile, but achieving full stride by the time he entered the park. There was a hill at the southern entrance, which, depending on the direction he ran, would require he either run up the hill at the start or down it at the finish. He usually liked to run up the hill, finding it more forgiving on his knees than the additional pounding they took running downhill. Today, however, he decided to run in a clockwise direction, which would mean running downhill on the way home. His knees, after all, were responding favorably to the daily dose of glucosamine chondroitin for his joints.

  McCauley was just rounding the bend that led from the top of the hill back to the park’s southern entrance when he noticed another jogger dressed in slate gray sweats approaching him on the path ahead. A new guy—must’ve just moved in, he thought. McCauley rarely saw anyone on the path at this early hour.

  As he drew near the jogger, it was difficult to distinguish much about his features. The man wore sunglasses and had pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over the top of his head, partially obscuring his face. As the distance between the two runners closed, however, the man in the gray sweats abruptly stopped, pulling something from the small of his back. The jogger had withdrawn a large handgun and pointed it directly at McCauley. A second later a muffled spit of fire issued from the muzzle of the gun. McCauley tumbled and fell to the ground as a jolt of pain pierced his left thigh. I can’t believe it…I’ve been shot!

  Steven McCauley lost his focus on everything but the man in the gray sweatshirt, whose threatening presence seemed to envelop him like smoke from a smoldering campfire. Before he could register a protest, the muzzle of the nine-millimeter Lugar fired again, the second shot piercing the middle of his chest. Bewildered and unable to grasp what was happening, he tried to escape, haphazardly clawing the ground in an effort to back away from his oncoming assailant. His efforts were of little use as the man was now straddling him from above, pointing the gun directly at his face. It was at this moment that he heard the last words he would ever hear.

  “This is for Dallas Weaver, ya bloody wanker.”

  The man in the gray sweats then fired a third round into McCauley’s face, the bullet entering his mouth just above the chin, ripping his jaw apart. McCauley’s hands made involuntary, spastic movements caused by the shock and trauma to his body. He tried to scream, but no sound would come from his mouth. He put his hands to his face but could feel nothing below his nose.

  Just as with Dallas, McCauley’s carotid artery had been severed, the blood pumping out in spurts with each contraction of his heart. The man stared passively down at McCauley now, watching the life force ebb from his victim’s helpless body, relishing the confusion in his eyes as he struggled to make sense of what was happening. The running path was awash with blood and it was only a moment later that Steven McCauley breathed his last breath, his eyes staring blankly toward the sky as the life force spirited back into the heavens.

  “There ya have it, Mr. McCauley. We’re all square,” Kilmer said, and slowly resumed his solitary jog back to the entrance of Hidden Park, content he’d evened the score for the death of his trusted friend.

  THIRTY-SIX

  JOHN HOPKINS UNIVERSITY

  TRAVIS MARLON was way beyond his comfort zone. He had reluctantly taken the unexpected assignment from Richard Kilmer to fly directly to Maryland to locate one Sela Coscarelli, a research fellow at Johns Hopkins University.

  “Can it, mate,” Kilmer had said. “Yer not doing bugger. The Livermore op launches t’night. Cripes, how tough can it be to case a Sheila? Scope her out, and gimme the deal on pinchin’ her. It’s simple. Now belt up ‘til I spell ya.” All of which meant: do it and shut up.

  Holloway had ordered that Dr. Sela Coscarelli be put under immediate surveillance for reasons unclear to Marlon, but she was apparently essential to force the willing cooperation of Jarrod Conrad. There had been another setback with the antigravity machine, and Conrad was now central to making it operational. Because all of Kilmer’s available men were committed to Livermore, Marlon was the only suitable man for the job. True, Stuart Farley was available, but he came with predictable consequences, which Kilmer was eager to avoid. Besides, the volatile Farley was already staked out at Conrad’s place in Stanford. So even though it was not his forte, Marlon grudgingly agreed to handle the task and report his findings.

  He shook his head, remembering the earlier discussion he’d had on the matter. I must be losing it, he thought. He was feeling ill-prepared, lacking the necessary expertise to tail a person, but forged ahead despite his misgivings.

  Marlon had been following the slender, dark-haired woman since his arrival, trying not to be spotted as a tail. Even with his rudimentary skills, he had learned a great deal about Dr. Coscarelli in a short time. Primarily she was of woman of simple tastes, and didn’t appear to have any complications in her life that would make kidnapping her difficult. He briefly questioned Jordan Blair, her research assistant, and discovered Coscarelli was normally in class weekday afternoons, but spent the bulk of her time in lab with graduate students; her research and teaching endeavors were clearly her highest priority. But Ms. Blair had also volunteered that she was the oldest daughter of Senator Alfonse Coscarelli, a significant and obvious complication, but one that was not his concern. He was merely to investigate and report; Dr. Coscarelli’s kinship to one of the most powerful men in the country was somebody else’s problem.

  While Sela Coscarelli seemed very affable and outgoing, it didn’t appear she had a love interest, or even many close friends. From what he could gather, she lived alone except for a Siamese cat. Marlon was able to identify this little tidbit through a careful examination of her home a few blocks from the edge of the campus. By happenstance, he’d discovered an open window that allowed his entry. A cursory inspection yielded nothing more than the cat, a few family pictures, and stacks of scientific papers confirming her academic passion. How odd that such an attractive woman lives alone, he mused.

  After watching his subject perform a ho-hum routine, Marlon had finally reported his findings to Kilmer. Remembering their conversation still bothered him.

  “Richard…Marlon here.”

  “Bonzer there, Trav. I trust yer in Maryland,” Kilmer had answered tersely. “What’a’ya found out about Coscarelli?”

  “All things considered, she’s pretty low-key and would be easily abducted. But I suggest we steer clear of this woman. She’s the daughter of U.S. Senator Alfonse Coscarelli of New Mexico. Kidnapping her will unleash a shit-storm of heat. An army of police will be searching for her, and the media will rip into this story like a pack of hyenas. This isn’t a good idea.”

  “Good or not, it’s what Holloway wants,” Kilmer replied. “More to the good…yer teein’ up the transport. Sully’ll meet ya after Livermore. With yer intel, he’ll make the pinch, and yer to brin’ her in.”

  “Whoa…just a second, Richard. We discussed this. I don’t kidnap people. I’m a freaking pilot, for chrissakes,” Marlon remembered saying, hardly believing his ears.

  “We ain’t hagglin’, Travis…everythin’s wonky. Ya just give Sully everythin’ ya got on the woman. He’ll be the heavy; yer goin’ to a safe house. I’ll give ya the spot later. Just keep under wraps ’til we figure the next move. I’m mad as a cut snake, but that’s the deal… ya good?”

  “Got it,” Travis had said, wishing he could worm out of the assignment, but he knew his fate was already sealed. “Sully and me will take care of this…” he said, ending the call.

  The hits just keep on coming, Travis reflected. I’m going to help kidnap the daughter of Senator Coscarelli… Brilliant, just brilliant! How did I get myself into this mess? Better yet, how do I get myself out?

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  BALTIMORE, MARYLAND

  07:00 HOURS

  SULLY METUSACK had barely slept in the past seventy-two hours. With preparing for the Livermore job, dealing with the aftermath of the mission, and then immediately boarding JetBlue f
or the red-eye to Maryland, he was feeling drained, his energy level at low ebb. Flying coast to coast made his situation worse, the effects of jetlag further complicating his lethargy.

  There were psychological effects to bear as well. The entire team was reeling from the devastating reality of losing Weaver, and although Sully wasn’t a stranger to losing close teammates in combat, it was never an easy thing to face. He actually felt fortunate to have something on which to focus his attention, keeping his mind off the loss, knowing at some point he’d have to process his anger to keep from repressing the emotional trauma of Weaver’s death.

  Travis Marlon pulled to the curb at the JetBlue baggage terminal only moments after Sully arrived. He had been alerted by Tooz to stand by as soon as the flight attendant cleared the passengers for cell phone usage. Sully opened the back door, threw his duffle bag into the car, and slid into the passenger seat beside Marlon.

  “Hey, Trav, how’s it hangin’?” Sully said, pulling the seatbelt across his chest. “I’m famished. You don’t mind, do you?” he asked intending to eat the cinnamon roll he’s purchased on his way through the airport.

  “Not at all,” Marlon replied, looking carefully over his shoulder as he merged into the hectic traffic at the terminal.

  “Thanks. I haven’t eaten in God knows.”

  There was a moment of silence as Marlon concentrated on selecting the right lane for the freeway entrance toward Maryland. Satisfied he was on course, he said, “I’m not thrilled with this latest job, but we’ll get through it, I guess. How’d it go in Livermore?”

  “It all went haywire. We lost Dallas last night,” he said, pausing briefly to swallow. “We got the goods, but paid a heavy price. Krilenko’s out too…for keeps.”