by Joseph Flynn
They thought they had everything covered.
Right down to measuring the chain that tethered Arlo so he could reach the table where Merilee’s cell phone lay. It’d be a helluva mistake if they’d gotten their arithmetic wrong. Or if Arlo turned out to have street smarts that approached his book learning.
Whatever the reason, more than an hour had now gone by and the Renegade NASA scientist had yet to attempt a phone call.
Celsus grew impatient before the others, breaking radio silence.
“Maybe he’s afraid to call,” the former SAC said.
“Afraid of what?” Merilee asked.
Welborn wanted to tell the two of them to be quiet.
Problem was, he didn’t know how to demand that without raising his own voice.
Celsus elaborated. “Afraid to let his friends know he screwed up. Got himself in trouble. Maybe they’re supposed to do themselves in if that happens. I didn’t check the dipstick for any cyanide capsule.”
Welborn hadn’t either. Now, that would be a really sick joke. The three of them playing their slick little game and Arlo lying in the cottage dead, a swollen purple tongue sticking out of his mouth.
The thought must have bothered Celsus, too, and led him to a further worry.
“You still with us, Dubya?”
Double-you. Not a bad spur of the moment cover name for Welborn, Welborn thought.
He had just barely whispered, “Yeah,” when a piercing high-pitched squeal followed by two more high register notes sounded in the bluetooth earpieces Welborn, Celsus and Merilee all wore.
Merilee shrieked, adding to the din.
“What the hell was that?” Celsus asked, pain clear in his voice.
Welborn shook his head and winced. “My guess is Arlo figured out a way to send out his own special 911 call.”
Or he’s just trying to mess with us, Welborn thought.
“Let’s make sure he doesn’t try to run for it while our ears are ringing,” he said.
“Watch for more bad guys to show up, too,” Celsus added.
That had been part of the original plan, after all.
The flaw in that part of the plan was a lack of triangulation technology on the part of Arlo’s fellow conspirators. They weren’t able to pinpoint his location, and having arrived at his present location only after being blindfolded, Arlo didn’t know where he was either. So they called back, not suspecting the call was being monitored, and one fellow with a deep voice did the talking.
“You still there, Arlo?”
“Where the fuck else would I be? I’m shackled to the goddamn floor in some old tumbledown shack.”
There was a pause as several voices quietly conferred in the background.
“The place is as run down as you make out, try yankin’ the board you’re pegged to outta the floor.”
“Sonofabitch,” Arlo muttered. “Hold on.”
The phone went down onto the table in the cottage with a clunk. A series of grunts, curses and pleas to the Almighty followed. A prolonged creak, a sharp snap and a dull thump concluded the sound effects.
Arlo, breathing heavily, came back to the phone.
“You still there?” he asked.
“Yeah. What the hell happened?”
“I knocked myself on my ass, but I did it. Pulled the board out of the floor, split it right where my chain was bolted to the floor.”
“So you’re free?”
“The chain is still fastened to my ankle, but I can move.”
“Then you better run, boy.”
“Yeah, but where to?”
“Any-goddamn-where you can.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Arlo was thinking as fast as he could. “Listen, I think the shitkickers who grabbed me took me west. I’ll work my way east and —”
“How you gonna know which way’s east?”
Arlo took a quick peek out the window. Didn’t see the assholes who’d kidnapped him or the woman who’d caused him all his trouble. But the sky was clear and he could see the stars.
“Celestial navigation,” Arlo said.
“What?”
“The goddamn stars, I’ll use them to guide me. I can’t be more than a few miles from Highway 64. I’ll hide out by the side of the road, jump up when I see you coming.”
“Yeah, okay. Hey, they done anything to you that’d make you hard to recognize?”
Arlo laughed bitterly. “Just the fucking opposite. I’ll be the only hitchhiker wearing chains.”
The other man laughed. “Yeah, that oughta be a tipoff. You better scoot right now.”
Arlo did, making the mistake of taking Merilee’s phone with him, thinking the shitkickers would never have the triangulation technology to find him.
He was wrong.
Though Welborn and Celsus were delayed momentarily.
McGill called them to say, “It’s time to bring in the FBI.”
Neither Welborn nor Celsus was inclined to argue.
But as long as McGill was available, Celsus had a request for him.
“Ask Holly G. if I can bring a date to the inaugural ball.”
McGill’s Hideaway — The White House
McGill and Patti had moved to opposite ends of his large leather sofa. Not as a result of an argument or hard feelings. There were times when they, like any married couple, had their disagreements, but they respected the right to dissent, even from each other. They could do that comfortably, knowing that far more bound them together than divided them.
Sometimes, though, the topic of discussion and the need for objectivity precluded whispering into each other’s ears. Such was the case at the moment.
“It was Byron DeWitt’s idea originally,” Patti said.
“What was?” McGill asked.
“That the sneakiest thing the jihadis could do would be to use our most trusted friend in the Arab world for cover. That would be Jordan, in case your subscription to the New York Times has lapsed.”
“Never had one,” McGill said. “Snubbing New York is an article of faith for all true Chicagoans.”
Patti smiled. “Anyway, there’s been a long history of cooperation between our government and Jordan’s royal family.”
“That’s not risky, backing a monarch? Didn’t we get our start rebelling against one?”
“We did, but you work with the best partners available, and that’s what we’ve done.”
“Okay. Seems I don’t remember hearing the Arab Spring hitting Jordan too hard.”
Patti said, “Relative to other countries in the Middle East, it hasn’t. There is an Islamist movement in the country, but given all the bloodshed and destruction next door in Syria, they’re showing self-restraint. Nobody in Jordan wants civil war in their country.”
McGill offered a surmise. “But maybe, as Deputy Director DeWitt thinks, some of the people who might otherwise be leading mass demonstrations in the streets have infiltrated royal headquarters. Posing as defenders of the status quo.”
“Our intelligence people think so. Deputy Director DeWitt had a good idea, it turns out, and it dovetails with another point he raised: Militant Islam and the militant right in this country want the same thing.”
McGill knew that one. “The destruction of the federal government.”
“Exactly. After 9/11, it became impossible for jihadists to enter our country in large numbers, cohere as military units and mount an attack on an even bigger scale than those that took place against New York and Washington.”
McGill could see that and he knew what was coming next.
“On the other hand,” he said, “there are so-called militias of Americans armed with assault weapons, fifty-caliber machine guns, shoulder-launched missiles and who knows what else already in the country and well represented by the gun lobby on Capitol Hill. Am I sensing that an unholy, interfaith alliance has taken place between people who’d otherwise shoot each other on sight?”
Patti said, “You never heard it from me, but yes. The FBI got thei
r first lead by discovering that some domestic hate groups have started receiving funds that originated in Jordan. The Bureau also learned that a portion of those funds came from the proceeds of selling stolen art.”
“Well, hell,” McGill said. “No wonder DeWitt couldn’t talk to me.”
“He would have been in serious trouble if he had. Attempting to discourage you was the only right thing for him to do.”
“You didn’t know about this conspiracy of dirtbags?” McGill asked.
“No.” Patti sighed. “Jim, if I told you how many threats I have to keep my eye on it would give you gray hair. The way my priorities get set, the worst come first.”
McGill hadn’t noticed any gray in Patti’s coif.
Then again he wasn’t sure she didn’t color her hair.
Wouldn’t begrudge her the artifice if she did.
“You’re sure you want to do this second term thing?” he asked. “You could leave this whole mess to Jean.”
“Okay, and you’ll leave Yves Pruet to work out his own problems?”
“So we’re stuck,” McGill said.
“Only four more years,” Patti reassured him.
McGill sighed.
“You do see the problem the government faces here, don’t you?” Patti asked.
McGill said he did. “The domestic dipshits get the deep personal pleasure of attacking the government they revile. Maybe killing you and me in the bargain. The foreign dirtbags claim responsibility, diverting the investigation and gaining glory from other foreign dirtbags. Then they see how many more times they can pull off the same trick.”
“That’s the way our people see things now,” Patti said. “The end game goes like this. Each side turns on the other. Once the local zealots get their hands on the really big weaponry, they think they’ll wipe out the jihadis. The jihadis figure the militias need help tying their shoelaces, won’t be able to run a competent military and will be easy pickings.”
McGill shook his head. “You know, I believe in evolution, but it seems to leave an awful lot of people behind.”
“I think that’s the point,” Patti said. “Natural selection and all.”
“Damn tough on the rest of us.”
“Only the strong survive. Meanwhile, I think it’s time we call Captain Yates and former SAC Crogher, have them return home.”
“Make use of any information they’ve gathered?”
“Of course.”
“And what should I do?” McGill asked.
“See if you can wrap things up as quickly as possible.”
McGill said he would, and made his call to Welborn.
Chapter 6
Williamsburg, Virginia— Friday, January 11, 2013
Having received new orders from James J. McGill, Captain Welborn Yates did the sensible thing. He followed them, and went them one better. First, he called the FBI office in Richmond, fifty-three miles away, and gave his and Celsus’ current location, their description, the make and model of the truck they were driving and the description of the suspect they were pursuing.
The special agent taking the call at that wee hour of the night, Brenna Ahern, listened to and recorded every Welborn’s word. Then she responded, “You know it’s a federal offense to prank the FBI, don’t you, mister?”
Welborn said as a federal officer himself, he knew that quite well.
He added, “Call Deputy Director Byron DeWitt if you want to check my bona fides. But don’t take a coffee break first.” He gave Special Agent Ahern the number where DeWitt could be reached. That got her attention.
“I’ll leave my cell phone on so you can track us,” Welborn said, and ended the call.
Celsus was driving and tracking Arlo’s movements on a computer app not available to the public. He pointed to a map on their iPad. “The dope is smart enough to run cross country. Let’s just hope he doesn’t fall into a ditch in the dark and break his neck.”
“Let’s hope he leaves Merilee’s phone on, too.”
“Right. Looks like he’s heading for Highway 64. We should be able to get there first, but then what? Just grab Arlo again and wait for the FBI?”
Celsus was already doing twenty miles per hour above the speed limit.
That was when Welborn decided to take the additional step.
“Let’s call the local cops, too. Wouldn’t do to get stopped for speeding and let the bad guy get away while our story’s being checked out.”
Celsus laughed. “Never entered my mind anybody would try to stop me. Guess I’ll need to make a few adjustments.”
“Uh-huh,” Welborn agreed.
He called the cops in both James City County and York County. Gave them his spiel. Undercover federal officers pursuing a terrorist suspect. FBI was en route. Local help was requested to capture and hold suspect until the FBI could arrive.
The county police didn’t think he was pranking them. They responded with professional courtesy and promises of immediate action. What slowed Welborn and Celsus was the entrance to the highway they had planned to use was closed for construction. That fact had not been updated on the app they were using.
Celsus cursed, then said, “Next entrance is only a mile away.”
Welborn saw Arlo was just about at the highway.
“Let’s hope our boy’s ride is late, if he has one coming.”
Celsus pushed the Ford F150 and the acceleration made Welborn think the damn thing, souped up the way it was, just might outrun his Porsche Cayman. Celsus looked like he was handling the high speed comfortably. No doubt, he’d taken the Protective Services Driver’s Training Course at Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri. Students not only learned how to drive at redline speeds, they also were taught how to turn their cars at high speeds, ram another vehicle without causing injuries and drive in reverse at up to fifty miles per hour.
Welborn knew all that but, as they entered the highway, he still wished he was the one behind the wheel.
Cresting a rise in the road, Welborn saw, ahead in the distance, a small car pull to the side of the road. A man standing there hurried into the vehicle, the driver taking off before the door was shut. The passenger had to try twice to close it before he succeeded.
“That’s Arlo,” Welborn said.
“You sure?” Celsus asked. “You recognized him from this far off?”
“Saw the chain on his leg. He had to pull it inside before he could shut the door.”
“Right,” Celsus said. He’d seen the problem with the door, too. “Hold on, we’ll see what this thing can really do.”
The F150 could do a lot more than the little car. The gap between the vehicles closed quickly. Flicking a glance at his rear view mirror, Celsus said, “Got cops running hot behind us.” With a smile, he added, “But they aren’t gaining on us.”
Welborn said, “That little bug up there is a Mini Cooper. It’ll never —”
Get away, Welborn had intended to say.
But as Celsus moved left to pass the little car it swerved in front of him, making Celsus ease back on the gas pedal. The police cruiser behind the pickup made up ground.
So did Celsus. He caught up to the Mini and rode its rear bumper hard.
He said, “I learned how to nudge another vehicle into a spin, but not when the difference in size was this big. One mistake, I might just run that flyspeck clean over.”
“We don’t want that,” Welborn said.
“Right, so we’ll try this other idea I just thought of.”
“There’s a bridge just ahead,” Welborn said, wanting to be helpful.
That was, not wanting anyone to die.
“I see it,” Celsus said. “Hold on tight.”
He dropped back maybe ten feet, just enough to sell what he was going to do next. He turned the steering wheel left, just a bit and only for a split second. That was all he needed. The driver of the Mini, quick as a cat, cut him off. But while the Mini was doing that, Celsus moved right and slammed the gas pedal to the floor.
The F150 shot past the Mini. The driver of the tiny car would have been risking suicide to attempt another blocking maneuver. Both vehicles were on the bridge now. The police cruiser was coming up hard behind the Mini.
Celsus said, “Here we go. Hope this thing has monster shocks.”
He slowed just a bit and put the pickup into a sideways skid, blocking the Mini from dodging around them on the narrow bridge surface. Welborn saw the Mini coming straight at him now. The little car looked too small to smack directly into the truck’s passenger door, but it was far too big to slide under the truck and emerge unscathed.
Welborn feared any collision between the two vehicles would end in a gruesome tragedy.
The F150 was not meant to skid sideways at high speeds for an indefinite distance. If it tore free of the road surface and started tumbling, that would likely leave him and Celsus dead and dismembered. Welborn didn’t see his life flash before his eyes, but his mind conjured images of Kira, Aria and Callista. They all looked at him mournfully.
Then the idiot driving the Mini brought him back to reality by honking the tiny car’s horn. Really? Like that would clear things right up. At least, the damn little pest was braking, leaving tracks of burning rubber behind it.
That was when Welborn realized he had his Beretta out and pointing at the Mini. If it had been a living creature, he would have shot it. But he didn’t think he could kill the car’s engine, didn’t even know if the damn thing was in front or back. That left him nothing to do but wave his gun at the car and its occupants.
Which, seemingly, by the grace of God, appeared to work.
The nose of the Mini dipped toward the road surface, and it slowed so drastically the police cruiser almost ran it over from behind. In the end, all three vehicles stayed upright and almost, but not quite, made themselves into a Mini Cooper sandwich.
“We good?” Celsus asked, not sounding particularly anxious.
Welborn only nodded. His legs were wobbly, but he managed to get out of the truck, stay upright and yell to the cops, “Federal officer.”