The footsteps came closer. Slowly. Just around the corner, on the other side of the caboose.
Resting his finger against the trigger of his Glock, he raised his flashlight to shoulder level and waited until the footsteps were nearly on top of him.
Then, in one fluid motion, he pushed away from the caboose, turned, leveled the Glock, and flicked the light on, a startled face caught in the beam. “Hold it!”
The face didn’t move. Nor did the body beneath it.
“Hey, boss.”
It was A.J.
“Jesus Christ,” Donovan said.
When the light came alive in his eyes, A.J. was sure he was a goner, cursing himself for holstering his weapon. Then he heard Jack’s voice, and sweet relief washed over him. Thank God the boss wasn’t quick to pull the trigger.
Jack lowered his flashlight. After they both got their stomachs out of their throats, A.J. said, “This place is a labyrinth. Gunderson could be anywhere.”
“Maybe,” Jack said, keeping his voice low. “But I think he’s close.”
“Yeah? What makes you think so?”
Donovan tapped a temple with the tip of his finger, a gesture A.J. had seen a hundred times before. It was true that Jack had always had pretty good instincts, a kind of sixth sense when it came to bad guys, but with this particular bad guy it hadn’t exactly paid off yet.
A.J. loved Jack, loved working with him, but the guy wasn’t functioning on all cylinders right now. When he’d insisted on taking Gunderson alone in that train car, A.J. had known it was a mistake. Gunderson was not somebody you took alone.
As soon as word got out that Jessie had been snatched, somebody upstairs should’ve pulled the plug on Jack. Let the FBI take over. They were arrogant assholes, yeah, but they specialized in this kind of shit.
Of course, you’d never hear A.J. say a word of this out loud. Especially not to Jack.
He didn’t even like thinking it, but there it was.
Donovan said, “We’d better split up. If Gunderson’s around here, I don’t want Fogerty’s bozos getting to him before we do.”
A.J. nodded, understanding the concern. “Watch your back.”
“You, too.”
As Donovan headed away, A.J. cut a diagonal path across the narrow strip of land that separated the caboose and another train car. Trampling over the weeds and piles of trash that had collected over the years, he realized how sluggish he felt. A taste of the bean would do him wonders right now. The smooth ecstasy of, say, a little Cafe Atarazu.
Moments like these made A.J. realize just how bad his addiction was. Considering the circumstances, coffee should’ve been the last thing on his mind. But he just couldn’t help himself. No doubt about it, he was a bona fide caffeine junkie.
Oh, well. At least it wasn’t booze.
Halfway to the adjacent train car, a faint beep brought A.J. to an abrupt stop. What would only be a nanosecond for anyone else stretched to several times that for A.J. as he analyzed the situation:
That beep-it wasn’t good.
He was pretty sure it had come from beneath the flattened old hubcap he’d just stepped on, and it wasn’t the kind of sound you expected to hear in the middle of a dump like this.
No, something was seriously amiss. And it didn’t bode well for Arthur James Mosley.
In the latter half of that nanosecond, A.J. sensed what that something was, giving him just enough time to close his eyes.
The prayer, unfortunately, would have to wait.
23
The explosion knocked Donovan off his feet. He toppled backward, hitting the ground hard, dropping both Glock and flashlight. Pain radiated through his back as something hard and splintery dug into it.
He rolled away, both ears ringing. Biting back the pain, he pulled himself upright.
His back throbbed. His vision was blurred.
The caboose and adjacent train car were completely shredded, flames shooting up from what was left of them. Between them was a small crater in the earth, and in that crater was a sight so horrible, it didn’t even register in his brain as human.
Donovan had never been a military man, so the only action he’d seen was on the city’s streets. He’d seen some pretty heavy things, but none of it had prepared him for this.
What was left of A.J. lay in pieces scattered between the two cars, glistening in the light of the flames. Part of a torso. A leg that looked as if it had been run through a meat grinder. A severed hand with only two of its fingers.
And A.J.’s head. Eyes closed. Half the skull missing.
Jesus God, Donovan thought, then leaned forward and vomited into the gravel.
He sat there, dazed, barely remembering what he was here for, knowing that shock had set in and was liable to overcome him. Then another explosion, followed by an ear-shattering shriek, reverberated through the train yard.
Donovan looked again at the remains of his friend and partner, a renewed sense of rage pounding through him. Patting the ground blindly, he found his Glock half-buried in a clump of dry weeds, then stood up, his feet starting to move involuntarily, carrying him into the darkness.
Soon he was running, knowing that he could easily suffer the same fate as A.J., yet he barreled forward with complete abandon, thinking only of Gunderson and what he’d do to the bastard when he got hold of him.
He was pretty sure Gunderson wouldn’t be hiding. The train yard was surrounded by a high fence, and Gunderson was smart enough to have prepared an escape hatch. All Donovan had to do was keep him from reaching it.
As he ran, yet another explosion rocked the yard. A distant scream. Picking up speed, he zigged and zagged through the last of the cars and emerged at the edge of a clearing.
It was too dark to see, but Gunderson was out here. He knew it. Could feel him.
Then, as if in answer to a prayer, the CPD chopper buzzed overhead, throwing its beam down on the clearing. And there, caught in the light, was Gunderson, legs pumping, headed for a break in the fence.
Donovan ran faster than he’d ever run in his life, his back still throbbing, his breathing ragged, his bad leg about to give out on him as he steadily closed the gap that separated him from his prey. Raising his Glock, he fired a shot into the air, shouting over the roar of the helicopter.
“Hold it, Gunderson! Freeze!”
But Gunderson didn’t slow, only a few short yards from his escape hatch.
Donovan fired another round. “Freeze, goddammit, or the next one goes in your back!”
Gunderson stopped, pinned in place by the chopper’s search beam.
He turned around, clutching a Walther.
Donovan moved in closer, struggling to catch his breath. “Drop your weapon to the ground!”
Another explosion echoed in the distance.
Gunderson smiled. “And spoil all the fun?”
“Do it, asshole!”
“Don’t forget Jessie, Jack. No food or water. Only enough air for what-a coupla days? Maybe three, if she breathes through her nose.”
Donovan pulled the trigger. The bullet whizzed past Gunderson’s ear. “Throw down! Now!”
Gunderson didn’t even flinch. “You keep fucking with me, the worms’ll be snacking on her intestines before Sunday school lets out this weekend. So cut the horseshit and call off the hounds.”
Donovan had never wanted to take someone out as badly as he did right now. Every gesture, every word this bastard said, was an invitation to pull the trigger.
And Gunderson knew it. Reveled in it. “This ain’t a drill, hotshot. Get on that radio of yours and tell your buddies to take five, or you can kiss Jessie’s ass goodbye.”
Donovan stood there, thinking of Jessie and A.J., feeling helpless and outmaneuvered. He knew that his only choice was to do what Gunderson told him.
He brought out his radio, flicked the call button. “This is Donovan. Everybody fall back. You read me? Fall back and hold your fire.”
The radio crackled in response,
the words unintelligible. A moment later the chopper backed off, but kept its beam on them.
“Attaboy,” Gunderson said, moving closer. “You say you wanna deal? Looks like I’ve got no choice but to bring an offer to the table.”
“I’m listening.”
“Oh, I bet you are. So here it is, Jack, a simple proposition: your life for Jessie’s. All you have to do is escort me out of here in one piece-no tails, no surveillance, nobody but you and me. When I’m done punishing you for your multitude of sins, I’ll give your buddies a jingle and tell them where to find her.”
Donovan searched Gunderson’s eyes. “You expect me to trust you?”
“Your negotiating position is tenuous at best. Think of it as the ultimate test of daddyhood. Are you willing to die for your little girl?”
Donovan said nothing. Gunderson already knew the answer.
“I thought so. So drop the nine or the bitch goes out gasping.”
Donovan hesitated. If he dropped his weapon, Gunderson would have a free and clear shot at him. But was Gunderson stupid enough to take him out right here in front of Fogerty’s men and a team of federal agents? Donovan didn’t think so.
In the corner of his eye he saw movement in the shadows. The cops were slowly closing in on them. Carefully avoiding potential booby traps.
“Tick tock, Jack. She’s losing precious time.”
Donovan waved an arm at the approaching cops. “Fall back!” he shouted. “The situation’s under control!”
The movement slowed, then stopped.
“Nicely done,” Gunderson said. “Now put your weapon down and come on over here.”
Keeping his eyes on Gunderson, Donovan crouched and dropped his Glock to the ground. He wasn’t dealing with a moron like Willie Sanchez. No last-minute surprises would help him here. His only choice was to play along until he found out where Jessie was buried.
He stood up again, started toward Gunderson.
“Damn it, Jack, I’m close to tears. You really do love your pumpkin.” Gunderson’s smile widened. “It warms my heart to see that some of us haven’t lost our sense of family val-”
A shot rang out and Gunderson’s face went slack. His chest exploded as a bullet ripped through him, the force knocking him backward.
Before he could completely comprehend what had just happened, Donovan sprang forward, catching Gunderson, blood streaming from his chest and mouth.
“Jesus,” Donovan muttered, clamping a hand over the wound to stop the flow of blood. But it was pointless. The wound was fatal. Whoever had fired that shot had done exactly what he’d set out to do. The life in Gunderson’s eyes was sifting away fast, and Donovan had precious seconds to get what he needed.
“Listen to me, Alex, you’ve gotta listen to me. Tell me where she is. Where’s Jessie?”
Gunderson focused for a moment, moving his mouth, but nothing came out.
“For God sakes, tell me!”
Gunderson’s mouth moved again, blood flowing, his voice barely audible.
Donovan leaned in close.
“Forget God,” Gunderson croaked, the words coming out in bubbly gasps. “This isn’t over yet. It’s very far from…”
And then his eyes went blank, his body limp in Donovan’s arms.
He was gone. Finished.
Dead.
Donovan sat there, staring into those eyes, the shock that had threatened him earlier now creeping up again, crawling through his bloodstream, leaving him numb.
There was movement all around him, cops shouting as they approached, but Donovan had no idea what they were saying.
After a moment, he looked up to see Fogerty’s bulk emerge from the shadows of a train car. Fogerty holstered a Smith amp; Wesson, a big shit-eating grin on his face. “Looks like CPD’s gonna have to take credit for this one, boys.”
And before anyone could stop him, Donovan was on his feet and pouncing at Fogerty. With an angry roar, he knocked him to the ground and hit him over and over again as the fat man squealed like a motherless child.
It took four uniformed cops to pry Donovan away.
24
The news coverage was merciless. Networks broke into their regularly scheduled broadcasts-pissing off more than a few sitcom fanatics-to tell the country about the federal agent and his kidnapped daughter and the savage but clever fugitive struck down by police gunfire.
The moment Donovan was pulled off Fogerty, the leaks had begun, and soon the sky above the train yard was filled with those dreaded newscopters, their pilots dutifully reporting the massive sweep for land mines.
Three cops were dead and the girl was still missing, and none of it looked good for the grieving father and the ATF. Donovan was painted as a rogue agent. Fogerty was considered by some to be a hero, and by others to be a complete idiot.
Reporters were waiting for them both outside the train yard, where uniformed cops did their best with crowd control. Donovan had no comment, but Fogerty, playing it up for the cameras as he was loaded into the back of an ambulance, shouted that he was just doing his job and would be speaking to his attorneys tomorrow.
Somewhere in the suburbs, the families of slain security guards Walter O’Brien and Samuel Kingman thanked God for answering their prayers.
But how sad about the little girl…
25
Rachel knew she wouldn’t be going home tonight. No way she’d walk out that door knowing what Jack was going through.
Two years working for the man wasn’t the only thing that kept her here. She felt his hurt. In the pit of her stomach. Like a mother feels the hurt of a child. Or a wife the hurt of a husband.
Sure, they all felt it. But not like Rachel.
She stood in the doorway of the Situation Room, watching Jack struggle to contain his torment. He stared down at a conference table covered with the contents of Gunderson’s train car: guns, knives, convenience-store receipts, Polaroids, a half dozen cartons of Marlboros, an assortment of candy bars, pamphlets touting antigovernment propaganda, a handful of battered-looking books on metaphysics and cult religions.
The yard had been thoroughly searched, a dozen or more land mines uncovered and defused by the CPD bomb squad. But there’d been no sign of Jessie anywhere, and none of the items on the table gave them the slightest indication of where she might be.
The oxygen tank from Gunderson’s train car had been traced to a recent warehouse theft at Clayman Medical Supply. Seven portable E cylinders had been stolen, containing about 680 liters of oxygen each. The manager of the supply house estimated that, depending on the rate of intake and barring any leakage, each tank could last between five and ten hours. If Gunderson had used the remaining six tanks rigged to an automatic switchover system, the most optimistic projection gave Jessie approximately sixty hours of air. Two and a half days. And the clock had already started.
An eternity for Jessie.
But for Jack…
He was trying to cover, but Rachel could see the look of hopelessness in his eyes as he stared down at the evidence spread across the table.
“This is it?” he said, speaking to no one in particular. “This is all we’ve got?”
He was surrounded by most of his team: Sidney, Al, Darcy Payne, Franky Garcia. A.J.’s absence was a palpable, living thing dulled only by shock and disbelief.
“CPD’s still looking for the Suburban,” Sidney said. “Maybe they’ll get lucky.”
“I don’t want lucky, Sidney, I want results.” Donovan looked around the room now. “Has anybody bothered to contact A.J.’s folks?”
“I talked to Bill Klein in Austin,” Rachel said. “He’s on his way over right now.”
“What about my ex? Has she been notified?”
“The Caymans are in the middle of a level-three hurricane. Phones could be down for days.”
“Son of a bitch!” Donovan exploded, sweeping an arm across the tabletop. Weapons and evidence flew everywhere. The agents around the table jumped back to avoid the debr
is, staring at Jack in stunned silence.
After a moment, Rachel crouched down, gathering up a handful of books and returning them to the table. The Book of Changes. Metempsychosis in the Modern World. The Doctrine of Eternal Life. Gunderson’s choice of reading material was interesting, to say the least, an odd counterpoint to his public persona.
It also, strangely enough, reminded her of her grandmother, a woman who took great stock in ancient folklore and the promise of eternal life. She could just imagine the conversation the two would have…
Among the litter were a half dozen washed-out Polaroid photos, shots of Gunderson and Sara standing in front of the Lake Point Lighthouse.
Funny, Rachel thought. She’d never really looked at them as normal people. Yet here they were, happy and smiling like a pair of love-struck high school kids on an all-day field trip.
Setting the Polaroids on top of the books, she looked at Jack. His eyes were bloodshot.
“Maybe you should take a break,” she said.
Donovan glared at her. “Why are you even here, Rachel? You’re off the clock.”
Heat rose in Rachel’s cheeks. The words stung and Jack knew it, but at the moment he didn’t seem to care. She’d seen him in a dozen different moods, but had never known him to be cruel. She felt tears coming on and held them back.
Be tough, Rache. He didn’t mean it.
She wished she could say something to him, something that would ease his mind-a bit of Grandma Luke’s wisdom, perhaps. But she came up empty.
Lowering his gaze, Donovan stomped past her and exited the room.
She found him in his office, sitting at his desk, head slumped forward, eyes closed. The newspaper clippings, police reports, and photographs that normally covered one wall had been ripped down and scattered across the floor.
Rachel looked at them, then at Donovan.
She closed the door behind her.
“Jack…”
He didn’t open his eyes. His voice was soft, faraway. Filled with regret. “What the hell have I done, Rache?”
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