“I get it. But I don’t want any trail going cold on me. Longer I’m held back...”
“I understand. Let’s process this right.”
“Anything on that cell phone yet?”
“I should have your questions answered soon. Just take it one step at a time.”
“Can you arrange for some kind of presence here,” Riba added, “in case these people come back? There’s no reason this town should have to suffer because of these perps.”
“Leave that with me, Joshua.”
Riba ended the call and checked out Mitchell and Jarvis.
The old man had a nasty bruise on his cheek, but his fall from the stool had only shaken him up.
“That was some dive you took,” Mitchell said as he got Jarvis back on his stool.
Jarvis waved off the incident. “Take more than a fall to finish me,” he said.
His outward bravado didn’t hide the slight tremble in his hands. His face was pale and waxy.
Mitchell went behind the counter and gathered fresh mugs. He picked up the second of his coffeepots from the hot plate and began to pour, then noticed how badly his hands were shaking.
“You let me do that,” Riba said.
He had been checking out the man with the shoulder wound, wrapping towels from behind the counter around the guy’s shoulder. He wiped his hands and took the pot from Mitchell, filling the three mugs.
“I never knew anything could happen so damn fast,” Mitchell said.
“Something like that doesn’t leave much time to think,” Riba said. “It comes up quick and you take it on or the other guy wins. No second chances.”
Jarvis clutched his coffee mug. “It’s been a hell of a day so far. And we never got that food you were cooking.”
“You still want to eat?” Mitchell asked.
Jarvis considered, then shook his head. “You’re right. Sorry. I lost my appetite.”
Riba smiled, glancing up from reloading his Colt. “What the hell, I’m not letting that good food go to waste.”
He was still eating when his cell phone rang. It was Brognola.
“I’ve got the whole team working on this,” the big Fed said. “Here’s what we have. Laura Devon’s cell phone is transmitting erratically. It’s damaged. Maybe got wet. It’s a stationary signal.”
“Could be. You should see how bad the rain is up here.”
“We did manage to pin down a partial location north of Hardesty. You have GPS on your cell phone?”
“Yeah.”
“We’ll send you coordinates. One of our people managed to pick up a satellite image from the location. It turns out it’s an abandoned military facility that was decommissioned over thirty years ago, so there isn’t a lot of intel on it. According to what we’ve found, it’s been forgotten and just left to the environment, most likely taken over by the forest.”
“What was it used for originally?”
“Details are sketchy but reading between the lines it must have been some kind of research facility. Likely that’s why it’s in such a remote area.”
“Military and research. Not always a good mix,” Riba said. “Nothing from Cooper’s cell phone?”
“It’s shut down and there’s no more trace of it.”
“Okay, I’ll follow the woman’s signal and see where it takes me.”
“My team is still digging. If we come up with anything, I’ll pass it along. Joshua, be careful. There’s something wrong about all this.”
“I already figured that.”
“Helpful?” Mitchell asked as Riba ended the call.
“I’ve had better calls. But at least I got a direction to follow.”
Riba gave Mitchell his cell phone number. The man promised he would pass along anything that came in.
The police arrived a little while later. It was obvious they had been given a heads-up on the local situation, and though they were slightly disgruntled they followed orders and gave Riba little hassle before taking the situation in hand. An ambulance showed up after another half hour.
By that time Riba had left, following the GPS track the cyberteam at Stony Man Farm had sent to his cell phone.
Chapter 12
Riba had learned his tracking skills from his elders, his grandfather and even his great-grandfather before the old man had passed on. The tracking skills of the Apache were legendary. In the distant past it had been a tradition to pass on the old ways once a youngster reached the age of learning, and no Apache considered himself a man until he had acquired those skills.
Joshua Riba’s classroom had been the New Mexico wilderness. Under the patient tutelage of his elders he had absorbed everything they had passed to him. Sights and sounds and smells. They all went before him, being absorbed, remembered, until they became as natural to him as breathing. He learned to read signs. How to analyze each small mark left by his quarry. He took on the ability to pick up scents. How to notice unusual sounds that were out of place. Riba learned well and he learned quickly. And none of the things he learned were ever forgotten. They served him well. Even when he became a military warrior and served in Iraq. He took his Apache lore with him when he became a P.I., using those well-taught skills in the environs of cities. His hunting expertise helped track when he was searching in the concrete canyons as much as it did in the desert.
Now he was employing those skills in order to find his friend. Cooper was on his own, up against enemies with little regard for human life. Riba knew the man was good, but he was less than at his best and that might place him at a slight disadvantage. Cooper was as much a warrior as Joshua Riba. Right now he needed someone with him to provide backup.
Riba found where Cooper had abandoned his vehicle, concealing it in a stand of trees. The hood still bore a little heat, indicating it had been left some time ago. The Apache picked up Cooper’s tracks leading from his concealed SUV, and started to follow.
* * *
AN HOUR ON AND RIBA, checking his cell phone’s GPS, realized he was in the vicinity of the facility.
It was at that same time he spotted the armed men moving in on Cooper’s back trail. He melded into the undergrowth, becoming invisible as he stalked the stalkers.
The .45 revolver sat in its hip holster, held firm by the hammer loop. Riba slid his steel-bladed knife from the sheath on his belt, gripping the rawhide-bound handle in his right hand. He needed a silent kill here, could allow no mistakes that might alert others who were following Cooper.
Riba heard the guy before he was in striking distance. The man, armed with a pistol in a shoulder rig and an SMG, was speaking into a comm unit he was wearing. Riba heard enough of the conversation to confirm that Cooper was the intended target. He smiled to himself as he listened. The man was advertising his presence without a thought he might be overheard.
Riba closed in fast. He hadn’t established just how strong the force was following Cooper. He did realize they were moving in. The sooner he started to reduce the odds the better.
Emerging from the deep shadows of the undergrowth, Riba saw the guy pause to adjust his comm unit, losing any caution he might possess. It became Riba’s window of opportunity and he seized it. Two long strides and he was behind the man. He reached out and clamped his left hand over the guy’s face, his fingers digging into vulnerable eye sockets. The instant agony took the guy’s breath. Riba pulled his prey’s head back, sweeping the razor-keen blade of his knife left to right across the throat, cutting deep. The surge of blood flooded down the guy’s shirtfront, soaking it. Riba let go and the man sagged to his knees, his hands grabbing at his severed flesh, blood squirting between his fingers as he began to die.
Bending, Riba picked up the dead man’s weapon. It was an FN P90 and a visual check showed him the translucent top-loading magazine held its 50-roun
d, 5.7 mm load. The selector switch was in the full-auto position. The P90’s modern styling had produced a compacted weapon that fit neatly into the shooter’s hands.
Before he moved off, Riba rolled the body beneath a tangle of heavy brush. His silent kill maintained his unseen position. He took a moment to realign himself with Cooper’s distant line of travel, then loped silently through the thick foliage and trees.
He understood there would be more opposition. Cooper was a sought-after target, and the enemy was throwing as much manpower into the field as possible.
Riba was here to even the odds and help his friend. He didn’t give a damn how many there were. Cooper had stumbled onto something that needed his unique approach, and despite being impaired by the physical trauma he had suffered, the man was staying on mission. Riba was simply lowering the odds a little.
He moved forward as quickly as possible. Riba wanted to reach Cooper ahead of the enemy.
He was still unable to physically see Cooper. Yet he homed in on the man by following the faint trail Cooper left behind, small things that might have been easily missed by others. To Riba they stood out sharply.
He spotted a faint boot print on soft ground. The recent rainstorms had left the earth open to being marked as someone stepped by. They weren’t fresh enough to have been made by the men following Cooper, but there was enough of the fading depression to point Riba in the right direction; once he had seen that boot print Riba knew to look out for others.
The opposition had left marks, too. They were haphazard, telling him the men were casting about in numerous directions where Cooper’s stayed on line. He was moving in a single direction, not turning about and twisting as the others were. Riba smiled; Cooper knew where he was heading and maintained his forward line of travel.
Faint sound caught Riba’s attention, a brief rustle that told him someone was close by. He crouched, staying in the shadows, homing in on the sound. His eyes sought out the perpetrator. He found the guy, not more than twenty feet to Riba’s right. The tracker made out the lean figure, dressed in too-bright clothes for the occasion and carrying an FN P90. The guy wasn’t entirely clumsy, but his stalking techniques needed improvement.
Pity you won’t be getting the chance to improve them, Riba thought.
He started in the guy’s direction, sliding through the undergrowth with barely a leaf disturbed. As he closed in on his target, Riba could hear the guy speaking into his comm unit.
“You can’t raise Jacko. How the hell do I know what he’s doing?” The guy nodded at a response. “We keep moving. Rackham wants this guy. What? Quit worrying about Jacko. If we lose Cooper, it’ll be our asses on the firing line. Rackham is already going ape-shit because Cooper broke out and blew the hotel exchange. Let’s not screw up ourselves.”
Riba slid forward a few feet, bringing himself up close behind the guy. He eased the knife from its sheath for the second time. Even when he rose to his full height his target was still unaware of his presence. Riba reached his left arm around and clamped his big hand over the guy’s mouth, preventing him from uttering a sound. His right swung the knife in a powerful stroke, burying it deep in the base of the skull, severing the spinal cord. Riba twisted the blade, completing the action, and the guy entered into a spasm that continued as Riba followed him to the ground. Without pause the P.I. yanked the guy’s head back and swept the knife across his throat, cutting deep.
Sheathing his blade, Riba moved on, back to where he had seen Cooper’s track, and picked up again. He saw other signs of Cooper’s cautious passing: a broken leaf stem still fresh at the point where it had been snapped; more boot prints. Cooper was good, but in his current state of mind the man wasn’t fully observing caution. If Cooper had been 100 percent operational, Riba would be having a harder time tracking him.
Riba thought ahead. If the men following Cooper realized they had lost a number of their team, they might contact base and advise. That could generate a backup squad moving out from the base to converge on Cooper from a forward position, putting him between two groups. It would lessen Cooper’s chances. He wouldn’t back off even if that happened. Riba knew the man’s determination, a stubborn single-mindedness that wouldn’t allow him to quit.
Picking up his pace, Riba closed the gap, wanting to reach Cooper before the opposing force was able to increase its strength. His eyes scanned the forest floor, locking onto Cooper’s sparse trail. He noticed the boot prints were becoming wider spaced; Cooper was moving faster himself.
Twenty minutes brought Riba closer. There was less reduction in the prints, meaning Cooper wasn’t far ahead.
He caught a fleeting glimpse of a figure: tall, broad shouldered, a flash of dark hair.
Riba increased his own pace now, losing a little caution as he powered through the foliage, ignoring the slap of errant tendrils against his face and body.
He heard a distant rumble of thunder. The first drops of a rain shower filtered through the high canopy of treetops. He suddenly thought of home, the dry New Mexico landscape. It was becoming more appealing with every passing minute. A smile edged his lips.
And it was in that moment of lapsing concentration he was confronted by a dark shape stepping out in front of him. A powerful blow to his chest slapped him off his feet. Riba hit the sodden forest floor, briefly caught off guard.
He sucked air into his lungs, calling himself all kinds of a fool for dropping his guard.
He stared up at his attacker.
And recognized the face. Unshaved, showing some heavy bruises, but so recognizable. The piercing blue eyes were fixed on Riba. They held a distant expression.
The pistol in Bolan’s hand was steady, the muzzle aimed at Riba’s face.
“Cooper. It’s Riba. Joshua Riba. We worked together once. You remember Zero. Doug Buchanan. Saul Kaplan. Think back. Clair Valens. Lady agent. I spoke to Brognola. He was worried because you seemed to have fallen off the radar. I tracked you to the diner at Hardesty. People there told me you showed up. Said you took a knock that skewed your memory. You weren’t thinking too good... Vern and Sam.”
Riba took a breath. He’d been talking fast to try to get through to Cooper. To at least give him some key words that might jog his memory. He had no idea if Cooper had recalled anything. The stare didn’t waver—nor did the hand holding the pistol, so Riba remained motionless. It would take only a little pressure on the trigger to end it all.
Seconds passed.
It could have been a lifetime.
There was nothing in Cooper’s intense stare to indicate whether he had understood what Riba had said.
And then there was a slight, but visible light of recognition in Cooper’s eyes.
He mentally stepped back from whatever brink he was standing on. Riba saw a change in his stance. The muzzle of the pistol lowered a couple of inches.
“You were Mike Belasko when I met you in Albany. We were working the same angle. Hal Brognola told me you changed your cover name. Matt Cooper.”
“Joshua Riba? Colt .45 in a hip holster? Apache?”
Riba spread his hands. “Got it in one.”
“You drove a big red truck.”
“Still do.”
“Brognola? Why do I recognize that name?”
“You work with him. Some deep-cover agency is all I know. You guys are real dark, and you have some clout.”
“I know my real name but not much more.”
“Keep the name to yourself. Must be a reason.”
Bolan nodded. “Cooper, then.”
Riba slowly climbed to his feet.
“So where do we go from here? The way you were traveling tells me there’s a destination.”
Bolan nodded. Riba was using words to jog Bolan’s memory, to get his mind working.
“The place they were holding me earlier.”
“Before you took off and ended up in Hardesty?”
“I’ve been on the move since then. There were guys after me.”
“Still are,” Riba said. “On our back trail right now.”
“You figure how many?”
Riba shook his head. “Whatever number, it’s less two.”
Bolan smiled at the statement. “Did they wear comm units?”
Riba nodded.
“If they suffered losses, they might call home and pull in some more help.”
Riba saw that even if he had lost some of his facilities, Cooper retained enough to stay alert to problems.
“I figured that, which is why I decided to speed up contact.”
“Glad you did. What do we have ordnancewise?”
Riba held up the P90. “And I still have my trusty Peacemaker.” He tapped the sheathed knife. “And this.”
“The SIG,” Bolan said, showing his pistol, “and a couple of extra mags.”
“You got time to tell me why we’re doing this?”
“Where we’re heading is a lab that’s producing a smallpox virus. The intention is to sell it to a North Korean client. I already quashed one attempt. This group won’t give up. There’s big money involved. I can’t let them do it. I won’t.”
“That’s enough to satisfy me.”
Riba felt his cell phone vibrate. He took it out and answered. It was Mitchell.
“Problem,” Mitchell said. “Cops just came in and told us they found Laura’s 4x4 on the back road. Empty. No sign of her.”
“Hold on.” Riba turned to Bolan. “The woman. Laura.”
“I sent her home. I didn’t want her in any more danger. She was supposed to be heading back to the diner. Isn’t she there?”
“No. Mitchell just told me the local cops located her car on the road. No sign of Laura.”
Bolan stared at him for a moment. Then he nodded.
“Rackham’s men picked her up. They’ll bring her back to the facility to use her as a bargaining chip. They must know I’m coming for them.”
Viral Siege Page 12