Trust Me

by Abbott, Jeff

  Bridger, to Henry’s disgust, started to cry.

  ‘Your mouth is what’s gotten you in trouble.’

  ‘I didn’t do nothing, honest.’

  ‘You didn’t do anything because your Quicksilver contact got killed before you could sell us out.’

  ‘No. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘You’re on the Houston traffic intersection tape we accessed, son.’

  ‘It ain’t me, it ain’t me.’ He was not a brave man, in any sense of the word, and his stark fear shuddered off him in waves, as though it had its own energy his skin could not contain.

  ‘It’s you. Even if we hadn’t pulled your face off the tape your extremely bad-ass leather jacket with the embroidered eagle on the back is too tasteful and refined to belong to anyone but you, Bridger.’

  Bridger hung his head.

  ‘You’ve broken Snow’s heart.’

  ‘She … you don’t need to hurt her.’

  ‘I don’t blame her for your betrayal. Plus, she’s useful. She’s already found a guy to fill your shoes and to warm her bed.’ Henry’s smile shifted. ‘When you don’t amount to much, it’s easy to replace you.’ He smiled to himself. He knew this truth. Warren Dantry hadn’t been much of a father or husband, in Henry’s eyes, and he’d slipped into Warren’s life with an astonishing ease.

  ‘Now. We can be friends again, and the Night Road can forgive you.’ Henry squatted on the cool grass next to him. ‘If you tell me who Quicksilver is.’

  ‘I don’t know that name.’

  ‘The man you were meeting works for a company called Quicksilver. Who are they?’

  ‘I don’t know. They said …’ and Bridger stopped as though searching for words.

  Henry reached over to him, found a finger. And broke it, with a clean snap. Drummond had taught him the technique, years ago, for self-defense.

  Bridger howled, kicked a muddy trench in the grass, knocked his shoulders and head hard against the bumper. When he could speak coherent words again he begged, ‘Don’t, don’t, no!’

  ‘You have nine more. One minute to change your mind, and I crack another.’ He let the pain sink in, let the horror rise in Bridger.

  Bridger clenched his teeth.

  ‘I mean, do you think Quicksilver’s going to charge through the woods and rescue you? I think not. I’m your only hope for mercy and kindness, Bridger. We can forgive you. We can hide you. But not if you don’t help us.’

  The minute passed, the only sound Bridger’s clenched moans. He was nothing more than a loser, a guy who’d drifted from one racist extremist group to another across the South, usually doing no more than building their websites and waving a placard during poorly attended demonstrations. He’d met Snow five months ago and they’d moved in together; he had an interest in learning how to build bombs, but no skill, and he’d been demoted to solely being the guy in charge of fetching her supplies.

  Gently, Henry reached for the next finger, caressed it from nail to joint, and before he could break it, a desperate spill of words came from Bridger’s throat:

  ‘I got a call on my cell phone. From this man.’

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘He didn’t give it. He said, real blunt, that he knew I had acquired bomb gear for Snow. That if I didn’t want to go to prison for the rest of my life, I needed to cooperate.’ Bridger swallowed.

  But how had Allen Clifford known about Snow in the first place? Henry wondered. And the answer was clear: we have a spy inside the Night Road.

  ‘The guy said they’d pay me, they’d hide me, make sure I didn’t go to prison. If I just gave everything I knew to him, he’d come meet me in Houston.’

  ‘How did you know about what Snow was working on?’

  ‘I heard Snow talking to you.’ He shook his head in shame.

  ‘You were spying on her.’

  ‘I knew she made a few simple bombs, for people to pick up and use. A guy from Minnesota, a guy from Missouri, a bunch of hippies from Seattle. But then she was working on a huge number of bombs, for days and days.’ Bridger bit his lip. ‘So I thought, I’ll go meet this dude, then I was gonna capture him and bring him back to you. So we could know who the enemy was, you know. I’m on your side.’

  ‘We? You’re not part of us. You’re not smart enough to be one of us.’ Henry broke another finger and Bridger vomited onto his own lap. ‘That’s for lying and not even being good at it.’

  Bridger howled and cried and spat a green rope of spit onto the floor. ‘I thought I’d … prove I was useful to you.’ His voice sank into a quicksand of pathetic whining. ‘I ain’t a traitor.’

  ‘Then prove it. Tell me everything and I’ll let you call Snow and you can apologize to her.’

  ‘So I agreed. The guy said he’d meet me in downtown Houston. I wanted it on the streets in case it was a trap. So I could run.’ As though a trap couldn’t be sprung on Bridger in the streets of Houston, as it clearly had been, and one of Jane’s own design. ‘Told him he had to dress like a homeless man, throw me a hand signal that all was clear.’

  ‘And the point of this meeting?’

  ‘I’d tell him everything I knew about Snow and the bombs. I knew about the website she goes on, to talk to folks around the world, you know, people like us. How to access the website, what Snow was planning. Give ‘em any names. I only knew yours and Snow’s.’

  ‘And Clifford - that’s the man’s name, by the way - would give you what?’

  ‘Protection. A fresh start overseas. I thought I’d go to Sweden or Iceland or one of those countries that’s nearly all white folks. That’s just what I told him. Of course my plan was to capture him, bring him back to Snow so y’all could question him.’

  ‘Of course. Did he know about Hellfire? About the members of the Night Road?’

  For a second it looked like Bridger was giving the matter serious thought, as much as his lax brain could summon. Then he shook his head. ‘He knew something big might be coming. He didn’t know what specifically, I don’t think.’

  ‘Thank you, Bridger. I’d like to know if Clifford mentioned my name.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did he mention Luke Dantry?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did he ever suggest that he was part of a police or government agency?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did he use the word Quicksilver?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How did Clifford assure you he could protect you?’

  ‘He said they could hide me better than the feds or the police could because there would be no record, no paperwork, no trail for me to be found.’

  No paperwork? Then Quicksilver didn’t play by government rules. Henry rubbed his temples, a throbbing headache blossomed in his brain. Bridger’s claims only deepened the mystery.

  But he had to act before either Jane or Quicksilver could derail Hellfire. Apparently Quicksilver didn’t know about the first wave of attacks; nothing had interfered with the execution of those operations. But they suspected the first wave were just a prelude to something bigger.

  He patted Bridger’s cheek. ‘Okay. Let me get your fingers fixed up and we’ll get you on your way.’

  ‘Really? Really?’

  Henry nodded at the pathetic desire to believe. ‘Really.’

  He went to his own car, pulled out a video recorder and a tripod, mounted a night-vision lens to capture the images, and turned it on.

  ‘What’s that for?’

  ‘Discouragement.’

  His back was to the camera, but he still lowered a black balaclava, drawn from his jacket, over his face to hide it. Bridger started to whimper. ‘But you promised … you promised.’

  Henry could edit the words out later. He broke the remaining eight fingers. By the fourth one Bridger was unconscious from the pain. He kicked Bridger in the testicles, to waken him. Bridger’s eyes jerked open with numbed fear, long enough to be open while Henry cut his throat with a straight razor, one
swift move.

  He put his hand on Bridger’s shoulder, felt the life and the pain seeping out of him, and said, ‘This is what happens when you attempt to betray the Night Road.’ The video clip would be put up on the group’s website in short order, and that should take care of any loyalty issues.

  Ten minutes later the boy from Alabama returned from his stroll. He stared down at Bridger’s body and Henry heard the click of his swallow. ‘Well.’

  ‘Get rid of him for me, please. Make sure he’s not found. Dig deep. Then go home. You’ll receive extra money or extra training at our expense, your choice.’

  The Alabamian nodded, his face pale. ‘I want to learn how to make bombs.’

  ‘I’ll see that you do.’

  Henry drove home to Alexandria. He sat down at his computer.

  Quicksilver - he needed to know who they were. And they would have to be eliminated. If they were a new incarnation of the Book Club, a group working outside government constraints, then their activities could be mapped, followed, discovered.

  Among the clients of The Shawcross Group think-tank were leading telecommunications companies, concerned about infrastructure attacks; transportation companies, worried that they themselves could be terrorist targets; and financial services companies, always knowing that a wave of terrorism could slash their profits in the event of a massive financial collapse.

  He would use his clients’ resources to find Quicksilver.

  He crafted his email carefully, then sent it to his highest, most discreet contact in each client.

  As one of my key clients, I urgently require your help. I have been requested by a high government official to test how quickly both government and private databases can unearth covert operatives working on American soil, as well as seeing how consistent the information is. I suspect lucrative contracts may be at the basis of his decision.

  I have created two false identities: Allen Clifford and Kevin Drummond. Please use your databases in communications, financial, transportation, credit, security, and so on to find them. I have given them an association with a legitimate firm called Quicksilver Risk Management. Please forward any results, time-stamped, on these two identities or this firm. Thank you and please know that our confidentiality agreement applies.

  Henry suspected he wouldn’t have long to wait. And this would give him the best opportunity to find out about his enemy.

  Afterwards, he sent out another private email to his clients. The first line of the email read:

  Forthcoming from Shawcross Group research, a new series of papers outlining the most likely infrastructure attacks against the United States.

  Hellfire was going to make him look like a very smart man.

  32

  Luke woke up from his doze, leaning against the airplane’s back wall. Frankie Wu stood over him. Luke’s head throbbed, thick with sleep. He blinked himself to full wakefulness. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing, Mr Lindoe. I just wanted to be sure you were all right. You’re not in your seat.’

  ‘Sorry. I sat to have a think and I thought too much.’ He stood awkwardly.

  Frankie Wu watched him, arms crossed.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be flying the airplane?’ Luke said. He went back to his seat. His knapsack lay tilted on its side and he wondered if that was the position it was in when he dozed off. Had Wu searched it?

  ‘Auto-pilot. Just wanted to see if either of you needed anything, Mr Lindoe.’

  The use of the false name again, the barest emphasis. He knows. But he’s not calling you on it. Not yet. He doesn’t want trouble in the air. ‘When do we land in New York?’

  ‘Forty minutes.’

  Luke glanced at Aubrey; she was asleep. He wasn’t surprised, not even at his own heavy slumber. Sleep was escape. Hunger was a sudden, sharp fist of pain.

  Wu turned without a word and went back to the cockpit. Closed the door.

  Luke opened the knapsack. The gun was still there. He checked it. Unloaded. The clip was gone, and nowhere in the backpack. The gun was now useless. The cash he’d taken from Eric’s stash was still there, though. The laptop from Eric’s was there too, cool to the touch. It hadn’t been fired up.

  Wu had searched the bag.

  Luke went to the tiny galley. Quietly, he checked the drawers. In one he found a flight manifest for the food and drinks on the flight. The charges paid for by Quicksilver Risk, with a New York City address. Quicksilver.

  His stomach sank to his toes. He picked up the phone in the galley. He called information for Braintree. He remembered the name of the property company of the cabin, from its sign near the gate. He got the number and called. If they rented cabins, there ought to be an emergency number in case the renters had a problem after hours. He got an answering machine that fed him such a number; he redialed.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Hello. My father has gone missing and he may have rented a cabin from you. Cabin number three. At the edge of the property. Was it rented by a company called Quicksilver?’

  ‘I sure am getting calls about this rental.’ The clerk sounded huffy. ‘Please. Allen Clifford, he’s missing …’

  ‘Well, he left the cabin a mess, destroyed the bedroom furniture, and we charged his card again for damages.’

  ‘How did he pay? I’ll make sure you’re compensated.’

  ‘Charge card. Company card. Quicksilver Risk Management.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Luke hung up. Jesus, they had paid for the cabin, Henry was right. That didn’t mean he could trust Henry. But it sure didn’t mean he could trust these people, either. He took a calming breath.

  He tore the page with the address from the manifest. Eric’s escape route was a trap.

  He found sandwiches in the galley and he ate one. The city that never sleeps looked like a creamy, miniature galaxy below. He guessed they would be landing in New Jersey, right across the river.

  He shook Aubrey. She blinked at him, awake and ready. He handed her a sandwich and mouthed the words the pilot knows. We have to run. Her eyes widened in fear and she mouthed back what’s the plan?

  He wished they’d had this discussion back in her car but they hadn’t known they’d be able to con their way onto Eric’s flight. They’d have to improvise. He whispered into her ear: ‘A company called Quicksilver paid for the cabin we were held in and for this flight.’

  Her eyes widened in fright.

  Who are they? She mouthed.

  He shook his head. Follow my lead, he mouthed, and she nodded.

  He took her hand, and they waited to land.

  The plane taxied toward the small terminal at the private airfield. Wu asked, through the intercom, for them to remain in their seats.

  Luke disobeyed. He got up, went to the door, popped the lever. The door swung open and an alarm brayed into the cold night air. Aubrey was at his back and they jumped to the tarmac. Aubrey landed next to him and they ran.

  Cutting through the roar of the engines, he heard Frankie Wu’s once-friendly voice yelling in rage. The airport’s runway was between them and a fence and another commuter jet was preparing to take off, now that Wu’s plane was clear.

  Luke and Aubrey ran to the edge of the runway - then he heard voices bellowing his name. ‘Luke! Luke Dantry! Stop!’

  He glanced back, causing Aubrey to collide into him, and saw two men, running past where Frankie Wu had screeched his jet to a stop. Wu was in the doorway, pointing at them. Closing fast. Quicksilver’s welcoming party, he thought. If he and Aubrey stayed put they’d be dead. The other commuter jet approached.

  We can make it, he thought. Aubrey’s hand clenched in his.

  They ran across the runway, the departing jet catching them in its lights, rising, knocking them in a battering wash of engine, both stumbling to their knees from the wake.

  He looked back - one of the Quicksilver men held a collapsible rifle and was unslinging it from a knapsack on his back. ‘Aubrey, run!’ he yelled.

  They bolted back to
their feet, running, nearly in a headlong dive, both intent on reaching the fence. Forty feet; beyond the mesh lay a parking lot, a scattering of cars. A stream of light beckoned beyond, the hazy glow of a highway.

  The grass erupted in front of his feet, shots spewing green bits of lawn. They kept running.

  They hit the fence. He slowed to help her but Aubrey was quicker and more nimble, clambering up the chain link with an assured grace. She reached the concertina wire and paused, pulling her coat free. She balled it over her head in a tight dome and wiggled through the slicing spiral.

  ‘I don’t want to get caught again,’ she screamed. And he knew to his bones her fear, that helpless, this-is-not-happening-to-me, terror. He’d felt it when Eric Lindoe had stuck the gun into his ribcage, steered him out of normalcy into the rapids of nightmare. He knew she’d felt it when that burlap bag went over her head as she left her office.

  She was through, on the ground, pants torn along the leg where the razor wire scored.

  He ripped off his own coat, following her lead, yelling at her to keep running, don’t look back.

  He covered his head with the cheap windbreaker just as he heard the voices closing in, one saying, ‘No way.’ Then thumps against the fence, the boom of the rifle.

  The lined windbreaker made a fragile cocoon. The curling wire cut past his defenses - he felt a slash along his scalp, his back, his butt. Then gravity superseded fear, yanking him through the last curve, the concertina cutting at his suddenly bare stomach.

  He hit the ground, panicked, rolling free of the tattered windbreaker, running for the lot.

  Aubrey was gone. It wasn’t that big a parking lot and she wasn’t moving through the moonlight. Where was she?

  She’s hiding, he thought, and then he saw a car racing away from the lot, far faster than normal traffic. And in a blur, her face, struggling at the window.

  ‘Aubrey!’ he yelled. He glanced back. The Quicksilver men who’d dogged him to the fence ran, yelling into cell phones. Not in such a hurry. Of course not. They had friends waiting to catch Aubrey and him, maybe a team for each. A car powered up, raced straight toward him as he ran off the curb.