“Yes.”
“The apocalypse scenario has been a long time in preparation, Robie.”
“I’m starting to see that.”
He climbed up on a seat and squatted down.
Reel did the same.
“You left, me right,” said Robie, and Reel replied, “Copy that.”
A few seconds later armed men came racing in from both directions. It was a designed pincers move, to trap Reel and Robie between two flanks and catch them in a crossfire they could not withstand.
Only they had not counted on a slippery floor.
Three of the men went down hard and slid along the floor, while a fourth staggered around trying to regain his balance.
Reel and Robie popped out from the hidden spots and opened fire, Robie right, Reel left. Nine seconds later four men lay dead, their blood turning the floor and walls crimson. The other men retreated to the cars bracketing this one.
Robie looked at Reel. “How fast do you think we’re going?”
She looked out the window. “Fifty, maybe a little more. These old bangers don’t get much above sixty.”
Robie looked at the terrain outside. All trees. “Still too fast,” he said, and Reel nodded.
Robie glanced to his left and then back at her. “Where’s your bag?”
“I stashed it here.” She pulled it out from between two of the seats.
“Got any flash-bangs in there?”
“Two of them.”
He looked at one of the connecting doors between the cars through which the men had retreated. It was metal but with a glass window. Then he ran over to a control panel built into one wall in the car’s vestibule. He ripped it open and took a few seconds to see what was available.
While he was doing that Reel snagged both flash-bangs from her bag.
“You ever jumped off a moving train before?” he asked, looking up from his work.
“No. You?”
He shook his head. “I figure at sixty, we have no chance. At thirty our odds improve some.”
“Depends on what we jump into,” said Reel, who was already clicking keys on her phone. She brought up their current location.
“Body of water coming up on the left in about two miles.”
“Could be harder than dirt depending on how we hit.”
“We stay here we die.”
Robie hit a button and the left-side door slid open. Cool air rushed in.
“They won’t be waiting long,” said Reel, looking at each doorway.
“No. We need to take care of that.”
She handed him a pair of earplugs, which he pushed deeply into his ears. She did the same with her ears. Then she passed him one of the flash-bangs.
“Give me a countdown,” she said.
Reel went to the middle of the car, drew her pistol, and waited.
“Five-four-three-two-one” called out Robie.
Reel fired to the left, shattering the glass on the door leading to the train car in front of them. She gripped the flash-bang, engaged it, and threw it through the opening. She whirled and shot out the glass in the window to the rear. The bullet was followed by the second flash-bang, which Robie tossed through the new opening. Robie crouched down and covered his face and his ears as both flash-bangs detonated within seconds of each other.
Screams came from the other train cars.
Reel, who had ducked down a split second before the flash-bangs went off, raced back down the aisle and joined Robie.
He engaged the emergency braking system. They were thrown for ward as the train’s brakes caught. They righted themselves, faced the open door, and looked at each other. They were both breathing hard.
“How fast are we going?” Reel asked.
“Still too fast.”
He glanced out the door. “Water’s coming up.”
The train was slowing, yet it took a long time for something that big to reduce its speed. But they were out of time.
Shots were starting to rip through the train car as their opponents recovered.
“Gotta go.” Robie gripped her hand as the train slowed even more.
“Robie, I don’t think I can do this.”
“Don’t think, just do.”
They jumped together.
It seemed to Robie that they stayed in the air a long time. When they landed, they hit soft mud, not water. The one thing they couldn’t have accounted for was a summer drought that had extended into fall and had lowered the lake’s water level by about four feet. When they hit the wet dirt, Robie and Reel rolled and tumbled along about twenty feet past their first impact.
The train was already out of sight around a bend. But at some point the brakes would bring the million-pound-plus behemoth to a stop.
Robie slowly sat up. He was covered in mud and slime. His clothes were ripped and he felt like an entire NFL team had jumped on him.
He looked over at Reel, who was starting to slowly get up. She looked as bad as he did and probably felt worse. Her pants and shirt were torn too.
Robie managed to stand and stagger over to the knapsack, which had separated from him on impact.
Reel groaned. “Next time I’m staying and just shooting it out.”
Robie nodded. There was a pain in his right arm. It felt funny. He worried that he had broken it, but it didn’t feel broken, just...funny.
As Reel walked over to him he rolled up his shirtsleeve, exposing his burn.
What he saw surprised Robie. But it also solved the question of how the people had been able to follow them.
Robie looked at Reel and smiled grimly.
“What?” she said.
“They just made a big mistake.”
CHAPTER
60
SAM KENT WAS AT HOME when the call came in.
“Believed to be dead,” said the voice.
Robie and Reel had jumped off a train going nearly forty miles per hour. It was thought unlikely that they could have survived.
The fail-safe tracker had gone silent.
It was over.
Kent didn’t believe that for a second. But he had confirmation that his greatest fear had been realized.
Robie and Reel had teamed up. And despite the report, his gut was telling him that they were alive.
Kent was sitting in his study in his exquisite home set among many exquisite homes in a sect ion of Fairfax County that was home to the unassailable “one-tenthers,” the people in the top one-tenth of the one percent. Average income per year: ten million dollars. Most of them made far more than that. They did it in myriad ways:
Inheritance.
Gaining the ear, for a fee, of those in power.
And many, like Kent, actually worked hard for a living and provided things of value to the world. Though his wife’s money had certainly come in handy.
Now Kent sat in his castle and contemplated the phone call he was about to make. It was to someone of whom he was understandably afraid.
His secure phone was in his desk drawer. He pulled it out, hit the required numbers, and waited.
Four rings and a pickup. Kent winced when he realized it was the person and not a recording. He had been hoping for a bit of a reprieve.
He reported the latest news in terse, information-packed sentences, just as he had been trained to do.
And then he waited.
He could hear the other person breathing lightly on the other end of a communication line that not even the NSA could crack.
Kent did not break the silence. It wasn’t his place.
He just let the man breathe, take it in, think. The response would be forthcoming, he was certain of that.
“Has a search been made?” asked the person. “If they’re believed dead, there have to be bodies. That will be the only confirmation. Otherwise, they’re alive.”
“Agreed,” said Kent, who let out a nearly inaudible sigh of relief. “I personally don’t think they’re dead.”
“But injured?”
“After that sort of a
jump, most likely yes.”
“Then we have to find them. Shouldn’t be too difficult if they are hurt.”
“Yes.”
“Cleanup on the train?”
“The train was stopped. Everything has been removed. All witnesses have been dealt with.”
“Explanation?”
“We can place the blame on whomever we want.”
“Well, I would place it on two rogue agents who have obviously lost their way. That will be the official line.”
“Understood.”
“It’s still an enormous mess. And one that should have been avoided.”
“I agree.”
“I didn’t ask for your agreement.”
“No, of course not.”
“But we’re near the end.”
“Yes,” said Kent.
“So don’t create any more obstacles.”
“Understood.”
“Robie and Reel together. A cause for concern.”
Kent didn’t know if the person was asking a question or stating a fact.
“I would not underestimate either of them,” said Kent.
“I never underestimate anyone, least of all my allies.”
Kent licked his lips, considered this statement. He was an ally. And this person would not underestimate him. “We’ll make a major push.”
“Yes, you will.”
The line went dead.
Kent put the phone away and looked up when the door to his study opened. For one panicked moment he thought his time had come and the open door would reveal a person like Robie or Reel dispatched to give him his final punishment.
But it was simply his wife. She was in her nightgown.
Kent’s gaze flicked to the wall above the door where the clock showed it was nearly eight in the morning.
“Did you even go to bed?” she asked. Her hair was tousled, her face bare of makeup, her eyes still weighted with sleep. But to Kent she was the most beautiful woman in the world.
He was lucky. He had never deserved a life of simple domesticity. But that was only half his life. His other half was decidedly different. Equal parts perfume and gunpowder. But right now, all gunpowder.
“Grabbed a few hours in the guest room. Didn’t want to disturb you, honey,” he said. “I finished up work late.”
She went to him, perched on the side of his desk, ran her fingers through his hair.
Their kids looked more like their mother. That was good, thought Kent. He wanted them to be like her. Not him.
Not me. Not my life.
He wanted his children to have exceptional lives. But also ordinary ones. Safe ones. Ones that did not involve carrying weapons or shooting others while being shot at. That was no life. Just a way to an early death.
“You look tired,” said his wife.
“A little. Burning the candles at both ends lately. Things will even out.”
“I’ll go make you some coffee.”
“Thanks, sweetie. That would be great.”
She kissed him on the forehead and left.
Kent watched her go every step of the way.
He had a lot.
Which meant he had a lot to lose.
He looked around his study. None of his awards, his military medals, his records of professional accomplishments were displayed here. Those things were private. They were not meant to impress or intimidate. He knew he had earned them. That was enough. They were kept upstairs in a small, locked storage closet. Sometimes he would look at them. But mostly they just sat up there gathering dust.
They were records of the past.
Kent had always been a forward thinker.
He unlocked a safe that sat on a shelf behind his desk and drew the paper out. It was Roy West’s white paper. A thing of intellectual beauty from a man who had become a paranoid militia nut. It was hard to believe that he could have concocted something that powerful. But perhaps from the forming depths of paranoia sometimes sprang genius, if for only a few frenetically productive moments.
Yet they had taken his original vision and turned it into something very different that suited their own purposes.
He walked over to the gas fireplace set against one wall. With a flick of a remote that he kept on the mantel, Kent turned on the fireplace. Then he dropped the white paper on top of the gas logs and watched it quickly disintegrate.
In less than thirty seconds it was gone.
But the ideas in there would remain with Kent for the rest of his life.
Whether that was to be a short or long time he couldn’t tell right now.
He was suddenly beset with doubts. His mind raced ahead to one catastrophic scenario after another. Such thoughts were never productive. But finally his military training took over and he calmed rapidly.
His secure phone, still on the desk, buzzed.
He hurried over to it.
The message was from the person with whom he had just talked.
It was a text. It was only three words.
But to Kent it proved his superior was indeed a mind reader.
The text read, No going back.
CHAPTER
61
THE CAR WAS PARKED OUTSIDE of a grill pub across from a bank. It was late, the darkness deep and broken only by the exterior light of the building.
There were only four other cars in the parking lot. One car’s lights came on as the owner hit the unlock button on her key fob.
She walked toward the car, staggering slightly. She had had more to drink than she probably should have. But she lived close by and was confident she could navigate the roads to her home safely.
She climbed into the car and closed the door behind her. She started to put the key in the ignition when a hand clamped over her mouth.
Her right hand went to her purse, to retrieve the pistol she kept there. But another hand encircled her wrist and held it inches from the purse.
The passenger door opened and the woman climbed in.
She had her gun pointed at the driver’s head.
The woman with the gun was Jessica Reel.
The woman in the driver’s seat did not seem to recognize her. She started, though, when the man’s voice from the backseat said, “I might need you to sew me up again, Doc. The tracking device in the sutures got broken.”
In the rearview mirror Karin Meenan looked at Will Robie.
He said, “Start the car. Then we’ll tell you where to go.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” said Meenan.
Reel pulled the hammer back on her gun.
“Then she’s going to put a bullet in your head right now,” said Robie.
Meenan glanced at Reel, who was staring directly at her. The look in the woman’s features was clear. She wanted to pull the trigger. She was hoping for any chance, any opportunity provided by Meenan, to do so.
Meenan started the car, put it in gear, and drove off. Robie directed her to a dilapidated motel about five miles away. They parked in the rear and Reel and Robie bookended Meenan as they walked to their room.
Robie closed the door behind them and directed Meenan to sit on the bed.
She stared up at them. “I don’t know why you’re doing this, Robie. You’re in a lot of trouble. You’ve kidnapped me at gunpoint.”
Robie sat in a chair and seemed not to have heard her. Reel stood with her back to the door and her gun pointed at her.
Meenan snapped, “Who the hell are you?”
“You know who she is,” said Robie calmly.
Meenan turned to look at him.
“And you might want to watch your drinking and driving,” noted Robie. “Two beers and a shot of tequila. You’re officially shit-faced. That could cost you your clearance and your job.”
“You were watching me?”
“No, we just happened on you by accident. I feel so lucky right now, I’m going to play the Lotto.”
“You’re cracking jokes?” she snapped. “Do you realize what you’ve done? You’
re going to prison for this.”
“Is that the same bar where you met Roy West?” Robie asked.
“I never met Roy West at a bar. He was briefly a patient of mine. I already told you that.”
“You want to reconsider that answer?”
“Why should I?”
Robie slipped a photo from his pocket. “I had a friend at the FBI pull this off the surveillance camera from the bank across the street from the bar.”
He held it up. On the image were Roy West and Meenan getting into her car.
“I’ve done nothing wrong. So I had a drink with Roy West. So what?”
Robie slipped off his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeve, revealing where the sutures had been.
“I took out these and the ones you put in my leg. Pretty ingenious stuff. Communication filaments and an internal power source disguised basically as stitches. GPS locator. Satellite up- and downlink. Probably electronically lit me up like the Eiffel Tower at night. The agency has really made great strides in the surveillance business.”
Meenan looked at Reel. “Robie, if that is Jessica Reel you should be arresting her. Or killing her. She’s the enemy. Not me.”
“Who told you to put those sutures in me?” asked Robie. “Sam Kent?”
Meenan made no reaction to this.
“Howard Decker,” said Reel.
Again, no reaction from Meenan. She kept her gaze on the far wall.
“Somebody else up high,” Robie barked.
Now, there was the barest of flinches from Meenan. But it was enough.
She must have realized that she had given herself away. She looked at Robie with an ugly expression. “You have no chance.”
“I was about to say the same thing to you.”
This came from Reel, who had placed her muzzle against the back of Meenan’s head.
The doctor looked at Robie with pleading eyes. “You’re just going to let her murder me?”
Robie’s look was impassive. “I don’t know, Doc. People have been trying to murder us. Why should you be any different?”
“But...but you’re one of us.”
“One of us? I don’t really know what that means anymore.”
“Please, Robie, please.”
“I’m not sure what to do with you, Doc. Can’t really let you go.”
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