by Rachel Lee
But Tom didn’t know the city. He had no idea where the nearest police station, firehouse or bank was. There was a gas station two blocks up on the right, but the sign was off; it had already closed.
As Tom saw it, he had three choices. Return to his hotel. Escape and evade, trying to lose the van and very likely getting himself lost. Or stop, turn and fight.
Much as he leaned to the last option, he realized there were probably two or more attackers in the van. And he was unarmed, having left his Glock in his room. At the hotel, he would at least have Renate’s support, provided he could get her attention. It would expose their lodging, but he suspected that was irrelevant. It was unlikely his pursuers had simply stumbled across him in the parking lot of a Chinese restaurant. They’d followed him from the hotel. They already knew where he was staying, but apparently they didn’t know about Renate. So he had nothing to lose—and Renate to gain—by leading them back there.
He pressed down on the gas pedal a bit. If they knew what they were doing, they would try to ram him as he made a turn, forcing him into a spin and immobilizing him. He needed to open up a gap between them, and while the van had the advantage of mass, his Jeep had better acceleration.
He reached the intersection and tapped the brake as he turned. Normally the light tap would have bled off enough speed that he could make the turn easily, but now it had no effect whatever. The SUV, with its high center of gravity, heeled to the left as he turned. For a moment he felt the right side wheels leave the pavement and was sure he was going to roll over. But the Jeep righted itself, just as the van bore down on him.
He stepped on the gas now, only a half mile from the hotel, and the only backup he could hope for. The van was closing in again. Turning into the hotel lot, he tapped the brakes and this time felt the pedal sink with almost no resistance.
With more time, he would have used the brake failure techniques he’d learned in driver emergency training—downshifting and using the parking brake—but he had no more time.
He felt the right wheels rise from the pavement, and pulled the steering wheel back to center, but it was too late. Directly in front of him, sitting atop a concrete base, was the blinking sign for the hotel, and as the SUV began to roll, he watched the sign turn upside down before the world went black.
José Martinez slowed as he passed, watching the target’s SUV tumble and slam into the concrete base of the sign. In the flicker of neon lights, he clearly saw the red, goopy mass explode over the inside of the windshield.
He would have stopped to verify the kill, but the screech of metal on asphalt, followed by the bone-jarring crunch of the impact, had already brought the hotel’s night manager out to see what had happened. Right now, José was simply a passing motorist. If he stopped, he would be memorable.
Besides, what was there to verify? The man’s brains were spattered over the inside of the car.
Misión consumado, he thought, driving away.
Dos Ojos, Guatemala
Miriam watched as the operation began to spin out of control. The flash-bang grenades, intended to stun the occupants of the house while the entry teams stormed in, had also awakened the village. The sight of armed troops—even policía—had an immediate effect on this village that lay in the shadow of two volcanoes. Shouts echoed in the nighttime stillness, and within moments the crackle of small-arms fire began.
The commander, standing in the now-halted Jeep, his radio to his face, was an easy and obvious target. Miriam heard the buzz of bullets whipping past, and dove out of the Jeep onto the ground. Moments later, the commander crumpled atop her, his gurgling wheeze unmistakable evidence of a chest wound. She rolled from beneath him and felt for a pulse, but his eyes were already glazing over.
Pablo scurried around the back of the Jeep and squatted next to her, his eyes widening as he saw his commander lying on the ground.
“He’s gone,” Miriam said. She handed him the radio. “You’re in charge.”
“I don’t know anything about this,” he pleaded, pushing the radio back into her arms. “I do office work.”
Miriam met his eyes. “Pablo, take a breath and look at me. I don’t speak Spanish. Even if I did, I have no authority here.”
Sputtering voices were already flooding the radio, as the entry and evacuation teams called out for orders. Even though she didn’t understand the words, Miriam clearly heard the edge of panic creeping into their voices. The same panic she saw in Pablo’s eyes.
“Tell me what they’re saying,” she said, handing him the radio. “Take a deep breath and translate for me.”
He nodded, eyes still like saucers, and listened. “The trucks on the far side of the village have been hit,” he said. “One is disabled. Another driver has been shot.”
“How bad?” she asked. “And what’s the status on the entry teams?”
As he relayed her questions, she crawled to the front of the Jeep and tried to take stock of the situation. On both sides of the street, gunfire was winking from windows. One of the entry team members was down, lying near the doorway, though she could not tell how badly he was hurt. One truck had rumbled into the village, but its tires had been shot out, and the windshield was spiderwebbed with bullet holes. The other two trucks were apparently still holding on the far side of the village, for she saw no sign of them.
“Hurry, Pablo,” she said. She searched her memory for the few Spanish phrases she’d picked up over the years. The only one that seemed to apply bubbled up from cartoons she had watched as a child. “Ándale!”
“The driver is dead,” Pablo said. “The entry teams have the suspect. He is shot but will live. They also shot one of his nephews. They are ready to come out.”
“Tell the other trucks to get moving,” Miriam said. “Let’s get the hell out of here before this gets worse.”
Pablo relayed her orders, then shook his head. He crawled up beside her and pointed. “The disabled truck is blocking the only road. They say there’s no room to get around.”
“Tell them to push it,” Miriam said. “Get it out of the way.”
She listened as her orders were translated first into Spanish and then into action. The dark outline of another truck emerged from behind a building, easing up to the disabled truck and making contact. Then the engine revved and the disabled truck began to roll. But with the tires shredded, it dug in on one side and turned, crunching into the front of a house. The harder the second truck pushed, the more firmly the disabled truck became lodged.
“Shit,” Miriam said. “Someone’s got to get into that disabled truck and get it out of the way.”
“They say the gunfire is too great,” Pablo said after relaying her command.
“The entry team members have flak jackets,” Miriam said. “Tell them to send someone out to move that truck or we’re all going to get killed here.”
For the first time, she glanced up into the Jeep. As she had feared, the driver had been killed in the same volley that had felled the commander. A hiss from the front of the Jeep told the rest of the story: the radiator had been hit. They would have to evacuate on the trucks with the rest of the men.
She watched as three members of the entry team emerged from the doorway. Two took up prone positions and began to pepper the windows from which fire had come. The third ducked low and dashed for the disabled truck, climbing over the hood to reach the driver’s side. He pulled a body from behind the wheel and climbed in.
“Tell the second truck to back up,” Miriam said. “He needs room to back out.”
Pablo complied, and once the second truck had backed off, the entry team driver tried to pull the disabled truck out of the building. With the rims digging into the dirt street, it was agonizingly slow going. The truck rocked forward and back as the driver tried to free the wheels from the base of the building. Finally, spewing dirt from below, it lurched back out into the street and began to creep forward.
“Send the other trucks in behind,” Miriam said. “Tell the entry
teams to be ready for pickup. And tell them they need to get us, too.”
The disabled truck finally lumbered off the street and into a gap between two houses. Moments later, the driver crept out from beside it. She signaled for him to stay low and wait for the trucks to reach him.
Miriam knew that disengagement under fire was considered the most difficult of all military operations, and in the circumstances, she was inclined to agree. Now that the policía were clearly trying to escape, the villagers redoubled their volume of fire. Unlike the truck drivers and members of the entry team, the villagers had cover. They could duck down below windows. Their attackers were in the street, exposed.
Two more members of the entry team fell, leaving only five still combat effective. Two were shoving the prisoner into the truck. The two prone in the street were trying to give covering fire in every direction. That left one man to gather the wounded. His courage was unquestionable, but it was only a matter of time before he, too, would be hit.
“We’ve got to go secure the wounded,” Miriam said, rising and pulling Pablo by the sleeve. “Now!”
The night air was filled with angry shouts, pained moans and a persistent buzzing that made Miriam feel as if she had walked into a beehive. But she knew those were not bees flying past. They were bullets.
The man who had cleared the disabled truck joined them as they ran to the center of the village. Miriam felt a sting on her side but ignored it as she helped to heft a man whose knee was shattered. Gritting her teeth against his screams, she pushed him into the back of a truck. She looked back into the street, and saw Pablo and the other officer grab the last wounded man.
“Let’s go!” she shouted.
Pablo nodded and climbed into the first truck. She was about to vault into the second truck when another stinging pain jolted through her leg. One of the soldiers reached for her, but the driver was already revving the engine and pulling away.
Miriam clutched at her leg and fought the urge to scream as she watched the truck recede into the darkness.
16
Boise National Forest, Idaho
Tom first became aware of a headache that felt as if a bomb had gone off in his head. Next he felt the movements of a vehicle under him, and the tightness of a harness across his chest and hips. Every so often, bright lights would flicker red through his eyelids, then vanish.
With minuscule movements, he tested his body for injuries and bindings. Nothing broken, no bindings on his hands or his ankles, but damn, the seat belt that held him was pressing on some pretty painful territory.
He heard a female voice mutter something beside him, then the vehicle downshifted, straining as its front end tilted upward. Renate. That much he remembered. That and Armageddon.
Cautiously he opened his eyes, but only the dim glow of the dash lights greeted him, enough by which to see Renate, not enough to hurt. She was driving a pickup, and he was riding in it. So far, so good.
“Welcome back,” she said. “You’re dead.”
If his head hadn’t been hammering so hard, he might have evinced shock, anger or confusion. Instead he decided he simply hadn’t heard her correctly. “Concussion,” he said, testing whether he was still able to speak.
“Yes,” she answered. “You have a concussion, a couple of lacerations of no importance, and plenty of contusions. Your seat belt saved your life.”
“What happened?”
“No brakes and a nasty man chasing you. You turned too fast into the parking lot and rolled the Jeep.”
“Oh.” He let his groggy brain absorb that.
“You’ll be okay soon. In the meantime, I took care of business.”
“What?”
“You went to the emergency room, unconscious. I went with you, of course.”
“Sure.” Vaguely he realized this was leading up to something.
“They checked you out, decided that you needed a scan because of the severity of the concussion, and took a few stitches to stop the bleeders. Then they left you.”
This, he began to understand, was important.
“Of course, in the way of emergency rooms, they ordered you sent for a scan, but the line for the scanner was backed up, so you stayed in your little cubicle until I came to wheel you up to MRI. You never arrived.”
“Oh.” He wasn’t sure he liked that.
“You weren’t in any neurological distress,” she said bluntly. “I was able to rouse you twice. So I dealt with it.”
“How did you deal with it.”
“You’re dead now.”
“That’s the second time you’ve said that. Unfortunately, owing to the amount of physical pain I’m feeling, I suspect I’m very much alive.”
She laughed then. “Good, your sense of humor is intact.”
“I don’t think I’m being humorous.”
“Perhaps not. The point is, they forgot you for a long time, long enough for you to have a serious cerebral hemorrhage, which killed you. Your file clearly states time and cause of death, and that you were released to a funeral home. I found a John Doe in the morgue, similar enough. And since your face was smashed up…”
Pain or not, he was getting a very clear picture, and he didn’t like what he was seeing. “Is that where we’re headed now? To a funeral home?”
“Of course not! We’re going to camp out for a day or two, so the word of your death can spread. Then we’re going to continue our investigation.”
“I see.” He paused. “Did it ever occur to you that I might not want to be dead?”
She shrugged. “Right now, it’s the best thing for you to be. What happened to you was no accident. You’re supposed to be dead. Later, if you want your old life back, you won’t have any trouble getting this explained away as a mistake.”
If he wanted his old life back?
He wanted to press her further, to argue about her high-handedness, to threaten to go back to D.C. right now and to hell with her.
But he kept silent, and it wasn’t because of the headache. Concussed or not, he was so damned intrigued by this woman that he was going to stick around a few more days, at least, just to find out what the hell she was up to.
Or so he told himself.
Guatemalan Highlands
Miriam woke to flickering firelight and the wizened face of a Mayan woman. She caught her breath, suddenly frightened for her life, but then a European face leaned over her, and she saw a Roman collar.
“Rest easy,” the priest said to her. “Our curandera is very good. She’ll stop your bleeding, and then you’ll feel better.”
“Where is everyone?”
The priest’s smile was not happy. “Your actions in Dos Ojos have set off the rebels. They’re roaming the jungle right now, looking for targets of opportunity. You’re safe here, but your helicopter won’t be able to land anytime soon.”
“And the others?”
“They made it safely back to the city.”
She let her head fall back on the mat. “Thank you, Father.”
“Don’t thank me. I’m not sure I would have put the village to this risk. Thank the curandera. She’s the one who offered you shelter.”
Miriam looked at her benefactress. “Muchas gracias.”
The woman waved her hand as if it were nothing. Then she began to speak.
“She says,” the priest translated, “that you would be wise not to become involved in the affairs of the Maya. She says that the Maya were once a relatively peaceful people, who warred for tribute and captives but never destroyed their enemies. Then something changed, and they began to war for territory, and to kill one another in large numbers. She says it has been thus for more than…” He paused. “I need to translate the numbers…more than a thousand years. They have been fighting the Spanish for centuries, and they will fight any others who try to take them from their land.”
He sighed. The curandera grinned at him. “Paloma laughs at me. She knows I do not approve of killing and warfare. And she asks me, ‘Pad
re, how can you change our nature? You want us to be peaceful, but others will not leave us alone.’”
He nodded. “Unfortunately, there’s a fair measure of truth in that. My name is Steve Lorenzo, by the way. And yours?”
“Miriam Anson. FBI.”
“Well, Ms. Anson, I don’t know whose harebrained idea it was to go into Dos Ojos like a conquering army, but it has stirred up some serious trouble.”
“It wasn’t mine,” she admitted. “I was dragged out of bed to accompany them on the raid.”
Father Lorenzo translated for the old woman, who nodded and muttered something.
“Paloma says always it is this way. They cannot simply arrest those who committed the act, but have to come in as if an entire village is responsible.”
Remembering how the whole affair had begun, with flash-bang grenades and armored trucks, Miriam silently agreed. She couldn’t say so aloud, of course, lest it get back to her hosts, but it did seem to be overkill for picking up one man…unless you believed everyone in the village was a rebel.
Paloma might have read her mind. She spoke again, and Father Lorenzo translated. “She says the vast majority of people in any village are simply ordinary people trying to support their families and feed their children. If they are left alone, nothing will happen. But now…” He shook his head.
Impulsively, Miriam reached out to touch Paloma’s arm. The curandera looked at her, deep into her eyes, and it was as if something passed between them. Then Paloma spoke again.
“She says, Ms. Anson,” Father Lorenzo translated, “that you are being used by forces you do not understand. She says you must henceforth stay in Guatemala City, for your own safety.”
“Why does she think that?”
Father Lorenzo said something to Paloma, who answered. Then he looked at Miriam. “She has a gift, Ms. Anson. Sometimes she sees things others do not. More than that she will not say.”
Watermill, Long Island
Tom Lawton was dead, according to the agent who had carried out the mission. Edward Morgan wasn’t quite sure, however, since Wes had assigned a Guatemalan to do the deed. Morgan was never sure when any non-European handled a job.