There wasn't.
The truck, moving like a rampaging bull, clipped the back of the Lexus. It started a weird spin. Jack heard the sound of metal striking pavement and knew the silver bumper had been yanked free of its moldings. He pumped the brakes, bringing the vehicle to a stop in time to see the huge hunk of tangled metal hit the guardrail where it came to a full and complete stop.
For a while everything was silent, the mangled truck engine's ticking the only sound. Morgan's head came up level with his.
"Is it over?" she asked.
He nodded. "It's over."
She let out a sigh and launched herself into his arms. Oh, God, she felt good. Jack released his seat belt and drew her to him. l love you, he wanted to say. I'll love you forever. But all he said was, "It's over, sweetheart. It's over."
"Not quite," a deep voice contradicted him.
***
The FBI building in Clarksburg, West Virginia, is a modem structure built in 1993. It stands as a many-windowed white building. The director of this facility doesn't have the protection of the United States and its borders as one of his priorities. He isn't concerned with the enforcement of the law, only keeping track of its paperwork. Clarksburg is a huge computer facility, housing the fingerprint division for the vast resources of law enforcement.
On the third floor, in a corner conference room of dark paneling that looked as if it was polished only moments ago, two men entered the room, joining two others who'd been together far too often in the past several weeks. Jacob Winston and Clarence Christopher shook hands with Forrest Washington and Brian Ashleigh before taking seats at one end of a long conference table. A speaker phone sat on the table between them.
"Has there been anything further?" Brian asked.
"Not since Morgan Kirkwood called yesterday," Jacob answered. He knew Forrest was concerned about Jack. "We don't know if she found Jack or not."
She found him. Jacob knew it. He didn't say it out loud. He didn't want to get anyone's hopes up. Yet he was sure Morgan had found Jack. The more he learned about her, talked to her, saw her in the films, the more he liked this woman. She reminded him of two other strong women. The first was his wife, Marianne, whom he worshiped and who he knew was patient and resourceful. The other was Brooke Richards, a former member of his special group of protected people. She'd endured five years of the worst kind of existence. Jacob had watched Brooke being the brave, courageous standard bearer while her own life died, but she didn't give up. She fought with everything she had to save her child and her love for her husband.
Morgan was a lot like them. She hadn't said anything to make him think it, but Jacob knew she wanted to find Jack for more reasons than because he'd saved her life or that he was in trouble on her account. She was in love with him. It was on the films. The way she looked at him twelve years ago. The way he went to her with those roses crushed to her breast. Marianne had noticed it, just as Krysta had seen the ring.
If Morgan hadn't called in that she'd found Jack, there would be other things on her mind that took priority over telephone calls to him.
Clarence had authorized a search and there were people out looking for the duo at this minute. They would report in as soon as they found anything.
All they could do now was wait.
The door opened and all eyes turned to look up. A man in a white cook's uniform wheeled a cart in with coffee and food on it. Silently he laid the service out on a low credenza. No one said a word while he worked. He finished and left the room as silently as he'd entered it. The door clicked closed.
The telephone rang.
***
The unmistakable cock of a handgun sounded close to Morgan's ear. She gasped as she moved back in Jack's arms. He didn't let her go completely.
"Hello again." The green giant was back. Only this time he was wearing blood on his face and arms. His smile of bright white teeth was menacing enough to send a cold finger down her spine. "I underestimated you before, Ms. Kirkwood. Rest assured I won't do it again."
Morgan understood him exactly. She'd played her one and only trump card at their last encounter. This time he'd shackle her too.
Or kill her.
"Separate," he ordered them. "And keep your hands where I can see them."
Morgan raised her hands and moved back. The seat belt Jack had released snapped up. Jack's hands came up too.
"Now, out of the vehicle." He moved around to the front, pointing the gun at Morgan through the windowless frame. "You even think of doing something smart and she gets it."
Jack stepped out.
"Over there." He pointed with one finger to a place away from the Lexus while keeping the gun level and straight on target. Jack moved to the appointed spot.
"Who are you?" Morgan repeated her question from the first time she'd seen him.
"You don't learn, do you?" His face screwed into a dark frown. "I ask the questions. Out of the vehicle."
Morgan started to turn toward the passenger door.
"This way," he said. "That door." He indicated the driver's side. Morgan knew he didn't want either her or Jack out of his sight for even a second.
She climbed over the console. It was awkward getting into the driver's seat. She lost her balance. Her leg fell onto the console. Bullets came out the front of the van and cut the giant across the legs. The man screamed in pain.
Jack moved as he went down. He grabbed the gun from his hand and checked for others. Morgan jumped down from the driver's seat and joined him.
"Good thinking," he said. The man on the ground writhed with pain. Blood covered his legs, soaking into the fabric of his fatigues. The big man grabbed his legs, pressing his blood-soaked hands on them in an attempt to stem the flow.
Morgan got the first-aid kit from the truck. "I'm going to look at your legs," she told him. "But first. . ." She pulled out the set of handcuffs he'd forced her to shackle herself with and cuffed his hands behind him.
"And remember whose got the gun," Jack said. Morgan cut his pants legs and looked at the places the bullets had cut. He had two wounds in each leg. "You're lucky," she told him. "Apparently the bullets didn't hit anything vital. You'll be well when they strap you in the electric chair."
As she bandaged his legs, the sound came again. She and Jack looked at the sky at the same time.
"I thought the helicopter crashed," she said.
"It did," Jack said. He looked behind them at the crippled Apache sitting on the road a quarter of a mile away.
"I hear another one."
"Let's get out of here." Morgan jumped up and started for the Lexus. Jack grabbed her arm and stopped her. "What?"
He let out a whoop that would rival a victory yell.
"Jack!" Morgan pulled at his arm. They had to get away. Why was he hesitating? They were standing out in the open. Jack put his arm around her and pointed to the approaching bird.
"Look," he said, laughing. "The cavalry's arrived."
***
Jim Burton landed the black helicopter with the FBI decal on the side thirty feet from where Jack and Morgan stood. The green giant, still lying on the ground where he'd fallen, squeezed his eyes shut and pulled his body up and away from the churning debris caused by the aircraft's rotors. Morgan shaded her eyes until the blades slowed. With both hands she held her hair back. The smile on her face at the approaching savior must have been as wide as an ocean. She was just as glad to see him as she'd been to find Jack alive last night. Relief threaded through her with the force of Niagara Falls.
"How'd you find us?" Jack asked as the roar of wind died down to normal.
"I got here as fast as I could after the phone call."
"Phone call?"
"I hoped Jacob would still be monitoring the line," Morgan explained. "While you were busy swerving all over the highway, the phone skittered across the floor. That's when I released the belt and lunged for it. I hit the redial button and then got the rifle."
"We got a call to get in the
air," Burton picked up the story. "And speaking of calls, there's a really angry man on the headset who wants to talk to you, Jack."
Jack smiled and started for the helicopter.
"There was a roadblock in front of and behind you," Burton continued. "We've got them. The locals should be here any minute."
"Hey, I'm lying here. Bleeding." The green giant spoke like a wayward child being ignored.
"You're lucky you're not lying there dead," Morgan stated with more bravado than she felt. She hadn't thought anything when she pressed that button. Jack was outside and the giant had a gun. She was trapped. They were trapped with nowhere to go. This time he wouldn't give them time to escape and he'd told her he'd treat her with the same care and consideration he'd given Jack. It was push that button or die.
Morgan's eyes were closed when the bullets began to fly. If they hit him in the chest or some vital part of his body, she didn't know what she'd feel, but she had to take the chance. And she was glad she'd only wounded him, even though he would not have given her the same consideration.
She checked his legs from her position out of his reach. The bandages were soaked with blood, but he'd be fine. He wouldn't die.
"What happened here?" Burton asked.
"They chased us. Three trucks and the skybird. He was in the chopper." She indicated the man lying on the ground and then related the entire ordeal for Burton, ending with Jack's comment on the cavalry's arrival.
"Who are you working for?" Burton asked the man.
"Yo mama," he snarled.
At that moment they heard the sirens. Coming toward them was a six-pack of police cars.
"Great," Morgan said, glancing down. "We can turn you over to them."
Blue and red lights on the car's crossbar cycled back and forth, like colored strobes. Sirens blared as if they were horn testers out for a final run before horns were forever banned. Morgan covered her ears.
"How are Allie and Jan?"
Burton's face suddenly turned soft. "Out of their minds with worry."
Morgan knew how he felt about Jan. She hoped her friend would give him a chance. Morgan liked him. He seemed to be a really good guy, like Jack.
"You didn't call," Burton was saying when she brought her attention back to him. "I practically had to tie Jan up to get in the chopper without her. I promised I'd let her know immediately when I found you."
They both looked at Jack. He was obviously trying to get a word in. Morgan could see his mouth say the word "but" as if he were stuck in a rerun. The cars, their sirens winding down, came to a stop a few feet behind the Lexus. Uniformed officers, guns drawn and ready, rushed to them.
Jim Burton held up his identification badge. The officers acknowledged it. "Everything all right here?" A tall man with graying hair and the build of an ex-football player spoke.
"There's a helicopter up there." Morgan pointed to a place behind Jack. "He came out of it." The giant smirked at her then winced in pain. "There were also three trucks. Two of them went over the side. The other is there."
The officers listened to her and the obvious leader dispersed men to check out the places Morgan mentioned.
She glanced at Jack. He had his arm over his head as he leaned on the windshield of the helicopter. But he was talking. He'd managed to get a word in and probably taken over the conversation, she thought.
The officers moved around her. Like a well-oiled machine they split into teams and went to work taking care of the wounded or the trucks. A car with two officers sped around them and headed for the downed helicopter around the bend. The other officers knew what to do. They appeared to be locking down everything, making sure there was no danger from explosions or surprise attacks. Ambulances joined the growing crowd of vehicles.
The tinkling sound of a cell phone went off. Burton pulled a unit from his pocket and the ringing became louder. He spoke in short, cryptic phrases. Without a good-bye or a word to her, he pressed a button and handed the phone to Morgan.
"Call them," he said and winked at her. Then he went to the tall officer in charge and spoke quickly.
Morgan smiled and began dialing the memorized number,
"Burton, did you find her?' Jan's voice was breathy and frightened.
"He found me," she said. "We're fine."
"Where are you? Did you get to Clarksburg?"
Morgan didn't want to share the details of the past twenty-four hours. "We'll be there in a few minutes," she said, glancing at the group standing a few feet away. Morgan assured them she was all right and that Jack was taking care of her. After a few minutes of repeating herself, and promises to keep in touch, she clicked the phone off and returned it to Burton.
Burton seemed to wait for her to finish her call. Then he came to her, indicating she should follow him. Morgan had to walk fast to keep up with him. They joined Jack, who ended his phone call as they approached. Burton helped her into the helicopter without a word. Climbing into the back, Morgan remembered the last time she got aboard a helicopter. Her heart beat a little faster even though she didn't expect to have to dive out of this one. Jack and Burton got in the front seats. She sat behind Jack, nervous, unsure of what was about to happen.
Morgan felt as if she was being rushed. Most of her life she had controlled her own destiny. She'd been her own champion of causes, responsible for herself, making her own decisions. Now, as this machine lifted her off the ground, she felt as if she'd been inside some game. For twelve years she'd been running around in circles, back and forth through the same maze of tunnels, going nowhere.
And now the sign read, "Game Over."
She'd lost.
CHAPTER 16
The FBI's Criminal Justice and Information Services—Fingerprint Identification Division Complex was a multimillion-dollar construction project. The complete complex sat on 986 acres within the city of Clarksburg, West Virginia. Total employment at the facility exceeded 3,600 people.
The whitewashed, three-story building flurried out in an array of connected facilities. It had no helicopter pad. The chopper set down at the edge of a parking lot that had been cordoned off. A car sat on the other side of the orange and white barrier. Two men got out as soon as Burton turned the engine off and the whine of the blades started to fade.
Jack and Burton got out. Morgan remained where she was, her throat dry, her legs feeling as heavy as lead pillars. Two men walked toward them. The taller one was lanky with dark hair. He didn't squint even though the sun shone directly in his face. He moved with an air of confidence that spoke of quiet control. The second man was shorter. His body was squarely cut, square shoulders leading to a thick but not fat waistline. Morgan had the impression that he was solid from the skin all the way through.
Jack smiled and shook hands with the shorter man. Then they hugged in that awkward I-am-a-man-and-men-don't-hug manner. Morgan knew this had to be Forrest Washington. She remembered his name now. Jack then shook hands with the other man. They said something to each other, but Morgan couldn't hear what it was. She still sat in her seat, staring through the glass in front of her, unseeing, unmoving, afraid of what was to happen. She'd been running for what seemed like years, but her journey ended here. It was over. She'd get out and walk into that bright, white building and her life would never be hers again.
Briefly, she thought of Hart Lewiston. Her father. She'd never get to know him. She hadn't decided if she even wanted to know him, but the decision wouldn't be hers. Even as president he couldn't protect her from a bullet.
And Jack.
She did move when she thought of Jack. He was still talking to Forrest Washington. Morgan reached for the door and pushed it open. Outside it stood the other man, the tall one. He had clear blue eyes that were trusting. Morgan found it hard to look away from him. His presence spoke of safety and care. She actually thought he cared about her. A stranger cared about her safety.
"I'm Jacob Winston," he said. "Director of the—"
"You don't have to introduce yours
elf." She'd never met him in person, but she knew who he was. Once she thought of him as her savior. Today he appeared as her jailer, kind eyes or not.
"Neither do you." His mouth curved into something less than a smile. "I've seen films and photos of you."
Morgan dropped her eyes. Everyone had seen those films.
She'd done the deed, performed for the world and no one would ever let her live it down. They saw it as pride. She could tell that even Jacob Winston, honcho of the witness protection program, thought of her as a national hero. While all she remembered was risking her life, nearly losing it for—
She stopped. For her father. She'd saved the man who fathered her, who said he didn't know about her, but claimed her for some unknown reason.
"I was very young in those films," she said.
"And very brave," he finished.
He helped her out of the aircraft. The white letters F-B-I caught her attention as she stepped onto the blacktop. She looked at the man Jack was talking to, then up at Jacob.
"Forrest Washington?"
Jacob nodded, glancing over his shoulder. The two men stopped talking and Forrest looked at her. They came to where she stood.
"I'm glad you're safe," he said.
Morgan reached out and shook hands with him. He was only a couple of inches taller than she was, and for all his bulk, his hands were surprisingly soft and gentle. Not like Jack's, which were rough and calloused. Washington's skin was a darker brown than her own, but where her underlying pigment was yellow, his was red. He wore a mustache and his brown eyes were serious and concerned.
"Why don't we go inside," he said. Instead of walking the short distance, a car was there and they all piled into it. The ride was only seconds long, then they went into the white building and were led to a conference room on the third floor. Waiting for them were two other men. One of them, a man in his fifties she estimated, had a shock of white hair and ruddy complexion. It made him stand out against the dark paneling. Morgan recognized him. She'd seen him a few times years ago. He was introduced to her as Clarence Christopher, director of the FBI. The other man was Brian Ashleigh, director of the CIA. He had the kind of face that was hard to put an age to. Morgan assumed, due to his position, he was probably a contemporary of the FBI director. His eyes were light brown, and his blond hair was graying in streaks and balding on the crown of his head.
More Than Gold (Capitol Chronicles Book 3) Page 29