“Don’t get too close,” Mitch said. “We’ll see where they take those things, then we’ll grab one of the trucks.”
“I don’t suppose it occurred to you,” Mouse said, “That the only way they could get those things out of the convention center is with Lamar’s agreement.”
“Maybe. I’m betting they fed him a cover story. Got his agreement without him knowing what he was agreeing to, or maybe some faceless man in Washington gave Lamar his marching orders.” Mitch threw a knowing look back at Mouse. “You know the story, someone whispers national security and the shadows close in. If I’m right about Lamar, that would have pissed him off. He doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who likes having his jurisdiction overruled.”
Up ahead, the trucks turned to the right, and for almost a minute were lost from sight. Gunter sped up to close the distance, then worked the brakes hard as they rounded the corner, running a red light in the process. Two blocks ahead, they saw the convoy.
“They’re taking the Holland Tunnel,” Mitch said. “Get closer, we don’t want to lose them at the other end.”
Gunter threaded their car through the late night traffic until there were only a few vehicles separating them from the convoy. Progress under the Hudson River was slow, but once through the tunnel, the pace picked up again. The convoy turned south, heading back around toward the quiet riverfront, forcing Gunter to let the trucks pull ahead so they wouldn't be detected. The convoy slowed as it entered the warehouse district close to the wharves, then the Humvee stopped and a soldier jumped out to open a large metal roller door. Gunter turned into a side street a block from the warehouse and parked. Before the car had fully stopped, Mitch jumped out and ran to the corner, where he watched the trucks drive inside the warehouse. A few minutes later, two men emerged, locked the roller door and drove off in the Humvee. Mitch waited several more minutes, but no one else exited the warehouse.
“They’ve locked the trucks up for the night,” he said when he returned to the car, “The escort is gone, looks like the drivers too. I guess they’re confident they weren’t followed.”
“Did everyone leave?” Mouse asked suspiciously. “If they saw us following, there could be a welcoming committee waiting inside.”
“We’ll have to wing it, and be suitably prepared,” Mitch said as he checked his gun's ammunition.
Gunter drove toward the warehouse, cruising past slowly so they could take a closer look before entering. The warehouse had a few small windows placed high in the wall overlooking the street, but none showed any light. Gunter parked a short distance from the warehouse, leaving the engine running. Mitch climbed out and approached the roller door cautiously, followed by Christa and Mouse, listening for any sound that might indicate a trap. The hum of the car’s engine was the only noise disturbing the empty street's silence. At the roller door, Mitch placed his ear against it, listening, then studied the metal lock and handle embedded in its center. Mouse produced a small leather wallet, unzipped it and selected a sliver of metal which he inserted in the lock and twisted, testing the tumblers.
Christa looked surprised. “So, you’re a computer geek by day and a cat burglar by night?”
“How do you think I got my first computer?” Mouse retorted glibly, then nodded to Mitch, indicating the lock was open.
Mitch covered the entrance with his gun as Mouse pulled the roller door up, revealing an empty shell of a building. The small windows along the walls, close to roof level, let in only meager illumination, but the two army trucks parked in front of the entrance were clearly visible. Hundreds of oil drums stacked on top of each other lined the walls either side of the trucks, while the air was thick with the stench of fuel oil. Mitch walked cautiously into the warehouse, passing the length of the first truck. He glanced into its empty cab, then circled around the second truck, acutely aware of the pungent petrochemical smell, and remembering how ferociously the accelerant had burned in the convention center.
Mouse inspected the drums nearest the roller door. “At least we know where they assembled the fuel air bomb.” The drums had US Army markings and fire hazard warnings painted on them. He sniffed, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “Nothing like the smell of a fuel air bomb in the morning. Uncle Sam sure knows how to brew the best.”
“Careful,” Mitch warned. “It wouldn't take much of that stuff to turn you into a fireball.”
Mouse backed away from the drums nervously. “Hmm . . . I think I'll inspect the trucks.”
“Mitch!” Christa called, her eyes searching for something unseen.
He turned toward her, sensing the urgency in her voice. “Yeah?”
“There’s someone else in here. No! Two. Not conditioned. They’re right in front of us!”
“Where?” Mitch asked tensing, then he felt the cold barrel of a gun press against the back of his neck.
“Under the truck,” Bradick sneered from behind him. “Now drop the piece.”
Mitch hesitated only a moment, then let his gun clatter to the ground. From the other side of the truck he heard a thud, as Mouse fell to the concrete floor, stunned. Christa, standing near the warehouse entrance, saw Mitch under Bradick’s control and started to retreat toward the street.
“No you don’t, bitch,” Bradick ordered. “Get in here, nice and easy, and keep your hands where I can see them.”
Christa stopped, then moved slowly into the warehouse as instructed, her empty hands visible by her side. The second man appeared with a M16 balanced on his hip, dragging Mouse by the collar. Mitch recognized him as one of their abductors from the Museum, when they'd gone to meet Knightly.
“You spotted our tail?” Mitch asked.
“No, just checking for rats before we lock down the cheese. Now where’s that fucking kraut?”
Mitch remained silent, while Christa started to circle to the side, hoping Bradick would not be able to watch the entrance and her at the same time, but Bradick waved her back. “Stand over there bitch, where I can see you.”
The second man released Mouse’s collar, letting him crumple to the floor. Mouse made a weak attempt at movement, but hadn’t regained enough consciousness to do more than roll his head sideways, eyes closed. A red stain matted his hair, and a trickle of blood ran down his neck.
Get ready! Christa’s voice sounded in Mitch’s mind, a clear, unmistakable thought.
He glanced toward her startled, confirming she wasn't speaking. Her eyes were focused on Bradick, but with the barrel of the M16 jammed against the base of his skull, Mitch was not ready to do anything. He mouthed to her helplessly, “What?”
Christa didn’t notice Mitch’s mouthed word, but another thought filled his mind. I can only do this once!
“Do what?” He mouthed silently, this time realizing her thought didn’t ‘sound’ like her voice, yet it was unmistakably from her. She had a distant look in her eyes, and her face was pale as she focused her concentration.
Bradick nodded to the entrance. “Do the kraut, he’s got to be out there.”
“Right,” the second man said. He strode confidently to the entrance, stepped onto the sidewalk, then the side of his head exploded as a bullet blew his brains out, felling him instantly.
Behind Mitch, Bradick screamed, and the pressure of the M16 against his skull vanished. Mitch looked back uncertainly as the M16 clattered to the ground. Bradick stepped back, clenching both fists in pain and surprise. He opened his fists and stared at his palms confused, not understanding where the burning pain came from. Mitch leapt at Bradick, surprising him with a punch that sent him reeling backwards. Bradick’s years of special forces hand to hand combat training took over. He rolled smoothly off the ground to his feet, shaking off the impact of the punch and forcing himself to ignore the pain in his hands as he assumed the crouched stance of a trained fighter.
Mitch reached down for the M16, but Bradick charged, kicking the weapon across the floor and following through with a crashing punch to Mitch’s face. Mitch staggered back, b
locking Bradick's next punch. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Christa sitting weakly on the concrete floor, her head bowed, breathing deeply as if recovering from a terrible physical shock. Bradick threw another punch, this time low to the stomach, sending Mitch stumbling backwards, gasping for air, as the glint of a thick bladed commando knife in Bradick’s hand caught his attention.
“I don’t need a gun to finish you, Mitchell,” Bradick hissed menacingly.
Mitch backed away towards the empty oil drums, as Bradick lunged forward with the knife. He darted sideways narrowly avoiding the blade as it flashed perilously close to his stomach. Bradick swiveled on the balls of his feet, and thrust back again in a fluid motion. Mitch caught his wrist, twisting it until Bradick's elbow locked, then punched the joint. There was a crack as elbow ligaments snapped, then Mitch threw his weight forward, turning the blade still gripped by Bradick’s broken arm up into his stomach. Bradick coughed blood, then slid slowly to his knees before falling face first onto the cold floor.
Mitch rolled him over, grabbing his shirt and partially lifting him off the ground. “Why are they doing this?”
Bradick gasped for air, making a gurgling sound as blood seeped into his lungs. “Screw . . . you,” he hissed, as he died.
Mitch stood and turned to see Christa sitting weakly on the cement floor, watching helplessly as Gunter appeared in the entrance with his gun held high looking for targets. Mitch waved him down, indicating there were no more. Gunter lowered his gun, as he gave Christa an astonished look.
“You are telepathic!”
She nodded weakly. “Yes.”
“I heard her voice, inside my head. That is how I knew.”
“I can project thought,” Christa said exhausted, “Short distances.”
Mitch scooped up the M16, and his own gun. “And Bradick? What did you do to him?”
“That was the hard part ... I tricked him ... I made him believe the gun was molten metal . . . and . . . it was burning his hands.”
“You controlled his mind?” Mitch asked incredulously. “You can do with your mind, what they do with their machines?”
“No . . . nothing like that. I put a thought in his mind . . . only for an instant. It was a trick, a fleeting thought, not mind control . . . I had to overpower his senses. I can’t even get close to what they can do with their machines. I must feel the pain, much worse than him to make it work, then I send him my pain.” She was absently rubbing her hands, trying to forget the burning sensation she'd created in her mind.
Mitch lifted her gently to her feet. “Whatever it was, thanks.” He turned to Gunter. “You take Mouse in the car, I’ll drive the truck.”
Gunter pocketed his gun, then lifted Mouse onto his shoulder.
Mouse's head rolled back weakly. “Why am I always the one to get hit? I always get hit. It isn’t fair.” His words slurred, ringing with self pity.
“That is because you have the hardest head.” Gunter said, as he carried him out to the car.
“Really? . . . Do you really think I have the hardest head . . .?”
Mitch helped Christa into the truck's passenger seat, before reversing out of the garage. The truck bounced slightly as one wheel rode over the body of Bradick’s dead accomplice, then he headed toward the tunnel, back to Manhattan. Christa closed her eyes and, to Mitch’s surprise, immediately fell asleep. When they had crossed back under the Hudson, they drove to Washington Square Park. Mitch lifted Christa out of the truck, barely waking her as he placed her in the rear of the car beside Mouse, then he and Gunter climbed onto the back of the truck and peeled back the green tarpaulin.
“What do you make of it?” Mitch asked, eyeing the melted machine.
Gunter tried to imagine what it would have looked like before the heat of the explosion had fused its parts and partially dissolved its structure. “ From your description, it is a charge collector, but how it works. . .?” He shrugged. “They expected it to be vaporized in the explosion, or at least melted to the point of being unrecognizable.”
“I’d say it’s definitely unrecognizable.”
Gunter knelt down beside the machine studying the colors of the melted alloys. “It would take weeks or months to reverse engineer, even if it were intact. The alloys are probably exotic, so the metallurgy alone could take forever.”
“Do you think I’m doing the right thing giving it to Lamar?”
“It would be an interesting job, but it is beyond our resources to study.”
“Good enough for me. Slap the tracker on it, where the Fibbies won't find it for a long time.”
Mitch secured the tarpaulin again, while Gunter crawled under the truck and attached a homing beacon to the chassis. When they returned to the car, Gunter checked his tracking device was receiving the signal. Satisfied, they drove a few blocks from the park, then Mitch called Lamar on Gunter’s cell phone.
“Mitchell? Aren’t you dead yet?”
“Not yet, but considering the FBI did such a great job taking credit for neutralizing the bomb, I’m surprised you’d care.”
“I had nothing to do with that. I was waiting until we found your body to make a statement.”
“Did you authorize the removal of the two big speakers from the convention center?”
“I had to let the army take whatever they wanted. Some kind of secret government crap! I don't know how I'm supposed to investigate a crime scene with the army trampling all over it!”
“You could have obstructed them.”
“Not if I wanted to stay on this case.”
“They weren’t speakers. They were the detonators, for a fuel air bomb.”
“You saw that with your own eyes?”
“Yeah, it was quite a show. How would you like to take a look at one of those things? Or what’s left of it?”
Lamar was quiet for a moment. “The army has them.”
“The army had them. It seems they lost one of their trucks. Very careless. If you get your ass over to Washington Square Park, near Sullivan Street, you might find it for them. But then again, you might want to take a look at the melted pile of junk on the back of the truck, and tell the army later, if they report it missing. Which they won't.”
“You hijacked an army truck?”
“That depends, on whether it really was an army truck, or just made to look like one. You might want to check on that. And keep in mind, they tried to kill a couple of million people today, and you’re talking to the man who stopped them. That should count for something.”
Lamar was silent for a moment. “It counts, Mitchell, with me.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“Let me bring you in.”
“I don't think so. Too many people want me dead. I’m safer out here.”
“I'll give you that protection you wanted. And anything else you need.”
“No one can protect me, Lamar, not even you. I’ll be seeing you.”
“Wait! Mitchell!”
“You better hurry. I left the keys in the ignition!” Mitch switched off the cell phone and checked the time. “Let’s see how long he takes.”
After almost twenty minutes, the on screen marker indicating the location of the tracking device began to crawl across the map of Manhattan. “They have it,” Gunter said.
Mitch started the car, and followed from a safe distance. The blip passed south of Canal Street, then drove a short distance and stopped. Following Gunter’s directions, Mitch eventually halted opposite 26 Federal Plaza, the FBI’s Manhattan Headquarters.
“It is in there,” Gunter said. “The signal is weak, probably underground.”
Mitch gazed across at the FBI building, well satisfied. “Lamar wouldn’t be stashing that thing in FBI headquarters if he was going to hand it over to the opposition. He’s put it where he knows they can’t get it.”
“They could order him to surrender it.”
“They don't know he's got it. And I don't think he's going to tell them.” Mitch smiled.
“So where to now?”
“Arizona.”
Chapter 14
They hired a four wheel drive at Sky Harbor International Airport, then headed west on the highway out of Phoenix, into desert country. Before midday, the thirty three hundred foot peak of Eagletail Mountain emerged out of the shimmering heat haze on the horizon. The highway skirted around it to the north, carrying them into an arid wilderness of cactus and scorpions.
Mitch kept watch on the desert, until at last, he pointed to a south bound track. “Over there.”
Gunter turned onto the dirt track, which was scarred with potholes as if it hadn't been maintained for years, but the wheel ruts indicated the road was in frequent use.
“I don’t suppose we know what we’re looking for,” Christa said, scanning the desert apprehensively.
“Sure we do,” Mouse said. “A super secret, multi-billion dollar military base, guarded by an army of special forces Rambo's who are itching to shoot us on sight.”
“Right . . . well that shouldn't be too hard to find.”
They drove south, past several more dirt tracks, endless miles of scorched desert and scattered cactus, but found no base. When Mitch estimated they were well south of the latitude and longitude they were searching for, he said, “Let’s go back. We’ll try one of the turn offs.”
“We could be out here for days and find nothing,” Gunter observed.
“If we have no luck today, we’ll come back with a GPS receiver and find the exact coordinates.”
Gunter drove them back up the track through the thinning dust haze their car had stirred up, a haze which seemed to hang in the air over the desert.
“Want to try this one?” Gunter asked as they approached the first side track.
Mitch studied the map, estimating their location. “Okay. My guess is the coordinates are over there, closer to the mountain.”
They turned onto the side track, which angled indirectly east. After a few miles, the track turned to the south east, revealing sunlight glinting on metal far ahead.
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