by Helin, Don
Popeye laughed. “Nice try.”
Sam stared at him. Was this how it would end? No chance to tell Emily he loved her. No chance to square things with Jackie. And, shit, what about Alex? Oliver knows she’s an undercover operative. Sam had no way to warn her.
He heard the shot and waited for the force of the bullet to tear into him. But he felt no pain. Had he already died? He opened his eyes to see Popeye lying on the ground, hands on his chest, gasping in pain.
“I held it steady this time, Colonel Thorpe. Yes, sir, I did.”
Sam wiped the sweat pouring down his face with his sleeve. “You held it steady, Marshall. You sure did. Thank you.”
Voices resounded over the speaker. “Roadblocks are in position. Guard troops have sealed off the town.” O’Brien could hear small arms fire in the background.
O’Brien’s attention remained focused on the screen of his Blackberry. Sam’s cell tracker showed that he was in the center of the block. “Watch out for Thorpe, big guy. He’s across from the science building. And keep an eye out for Alex Prescott: slender, female. Don’t want them shot by mistake.”
Muzzle flashes from the weapons lit up the street.
He leaned over to Patrick and called, “Double check the roadblocks. Make sure they know to look for Sam and Alex.”
Patrick keyed his mic. “Roger.”
O’Brien spoke into the mic to the pilot. “See if you can find a place to land this thing. We’re not doing any good up here.”
Marcel Dubois sat in his vehicle across the street from the theater in Sharpsburg. He had pulled over and stopped when he’d heard the rifle shots.
A helicopter hovered over the university. Something had gone wrong. What should he do?
He decided to turn around and head back toward the farm. He’d wait awhile and then call Oliver. No way did he want to get in the middle of an ambush.
CHAPTER FORTY
Popeye lay on the ground, withering in pain. Sam knelt beside him. “Don’t move. I’ll get medical help for you as soon as I can.”
Marshall crouched next to Sam, his rifle pointed at Popeye.
The truck with the insert team roared down the street toward the roadblock nearest to town. It weaved from curb to curb, a militia member in the front seat firing at the roadblock.
The state police returned fire.
A helicopter hovered overhead, its searchlight trained on the vehicle. As the truck careened toward the cruisers, one of the officers shot out the front tires. The vehicle swerved to the right and crashed into an oak tree, its stuck horn adding to the din.
Sam’s vehicle stood silent next to the curb. Men ran between the buildings, the retorts from weapons sounding everywhere. Weapons fire behind the science building alerted Sam that the state police had encircled the area. Where was Sergeant Bacher?
Sam glanced at Marshall. “You wait here. Keep your weapon trained on Popeye. I’ll get help.”
Marshall nodded.
Sam ducked low and ran back across the street, reaching the security guard lying on the ground.
The guard’s pulse was weak. He moaned between gasps for breath.
When Sam pulled open the man’s jacket, blood seeped from the wound. He would choke on his own blood and die if Sam couldn’t clear an airway and stop the bleeding.
Sam ripped off his jacket and covered the guard’s chest, pressing his gloves into the wound.
A police officer ran toward Sam, crouching as he moved. When he got close, he trained his weapon on Sam and murmured, “X-Ray.”
Sam had to think for a moment. He almost forgot that O’Brien had assigned the password X-Ray-Charlie to the operation.
Sam whispered back, “Charlie.”
The police officer knelt down beside Sam. “Colonel Thorpe?”
Sam nodded and pointed. “Security guard. He’s been shot. Needs a doc right away.”
The trooper grabbed a mic off the suspender by his collar, flipped a switch on his belt, whispered into the mic, then listened. “The medics will be here as soon as we can stabilize things.”
“Guard’s name is Case. One militia member on the ground.” Sam pointed. “Over thereby the corner of the building. Slender kid is guarding him. Kid’s okay. His name’s Marshall Pearson. He’s been helping me.”
Troopers formed a perimeter around Sam’s truck, their weapons trained at the vehicle.
Sam called to them. “That one should be empty, but there’s a third truck. I think it’s a gray Chevy.”
“Yep,” the trooper replied. “We’ve got it surrounded at the other end of the block. They won’t be going anywhere.”
“Oliver’s gone.” Sam pointed. “Last time I saw him, his Jeep cut down that alley.”
“How many vehicles total?” the trooper asked.
“Three trucks and a Jeep,” Sam replied. “I’ve accounted for everything but the Jeep carrying Oliver and Alex Prescott. She’s the FBI undercover agent.”
The trooper spoke into the radio again. “Mr. O’Brien, I’m with Colonel Thorpe. He’s says a Jeep has escaped down the alley’; probably headed west out of town on Route 11.”
Sam stood. “Let me talk to him.”
The officer handed over the microphone.
“Bob, Sam Thorpe. Oliver’s in that Jeep.” He gulped. “So is Alex.”
“They’re onto you,” O’Brien said.
“Yeah, I know. Popeye recognized Alex from that sting operation.”
“We just landed behind the administrative building.” O’Brien said.
“I’ll bet a month’s pay Oliver’s headed for the farm. I’m going after him.” Sam ran over to the Ford pickup.
The police now had two of Sam’s team spread-eagle on the sidewalk.
Sam jumped into the truck. The keys were still in the ignition.
Sam yelled to the trooper he’d talked to earlier. “I’m going after our undercover agent. Keep an eye out for a Sergeant Bacher. Big guy in black fatigues. Dangerous. He’s one of Oliver’s elite guards.”
The trooped waved. “I’ll clear things for you. Turn the truck around and head toward the roadblock at the center of town. They’ll let you through. Our radio frequency is 87.4.”
Sam jumped into the cab and fired it up. He power turned the vehicle on the icy road and switched the frequency.
Alex opened her eyes. Her head ached, and her neck felt as if it had been slammed by a hammer. She lay on the floor of the Jeep in the back, rolling back and forth as it swayed.
Oliver peered at her from the front seat. “You’re awake.”
Rose turned sharply to the right, the motion jamming her hard against the metal under the seat.
“Don’t get up, my dear,” Oliver said. “If you try, I’ll have to put a bullet in that pretty little head of yours.”
She got tossed around on the floor of the Jeep every time Rose turned. Pissed off she’d let Rose get the better of her, she considered strategies. Unfortunately, not a great time to make her move. “Where are we headed?”
“I’ll let you know. You and your friend Colonel Thorpe broke up our operation. You’ll have to pay. The shadow government won this round, but we’ll be back.”
“Tell me where the hell we’re going. There’s nothing I can do about it back here.”
“All in good time, my dear. All in good time.”
Did Sam know where she was? Had he been hurt? Was he even alive?
Sam glanced at the map. He remembered a shortcut using Highway 11/15 that would slice his time to the farm in half. He floored the gas pedal, driving the pickup as fast as he dared on the icy road.
He reached Highway 17 and turned right. A silver milk truck honked its horn and swerved to avoid Sam, ending up in a ditch. Sam hit the brakes, spun, and almost plowed into a tree next to the road. He managed to regain control of the truck. Goddamn, he thought, that was close.
Sam accelerated again. The truck leaped forward, and he sped down the road.
When he reached the farm l
ane, he doused the lights and pulled to a stop. He had to get to Oliver before he killed Alex.
Sam grabbed the mic. “Bob, Sam Thorpe. I just turned in to the farm lane.”
O’Brien’s voice echoed over the speaker. “Things are secure at the site. We’re in the air again, about twenty minutes away.”
“Status?” Sam asked.
“Three of the militia members have been killed and four wounded. Kaminsky, ah Kramer, is in custody. He’s implicating everyone but himself. And most importantly, the NEST guys have secured the cesium.
“Roger. I’m going in. Better get some medics down here.”
“Wait for us, Sam.”
“No time.”
Sam threw the mic on the seat. He slipped the vehicle into four-wheel drive and crept up the lane, wheels slipping on the ice. Halfway up the lane, he stopped. The pickup slid off to the side. He opened the window. All quiet.
Sam grabbed his M16, stuffed the Glock 21 in his belt, switched off the light in the cab, and climbed out, staying low. Using the trees as a guide, he jogged up the lane in an infantry crouch being careful not to fall, stopping every minute or so to listen.
He reached the edge of the fence and knelt down. Darkness and silence filled the barnyard. He listened again but heard nothing. Squatting down, he picked his way along the fence, stopping at the end.
Kneeling, he surveyed the yard. No lights in the farmhouse. Fresh tire tracks in the snow. He crouched over and ran over to the barn, knelt again, and listened. Silence.
Reaching up, he slid open the outside door to the barn and tested the inside door. The handle moved, then clicked as he turned it. Only a security light in the main room. No guard.
He stepped inside and propped the door open with a chair. Oliver could be in his office, Rose backing him up. Oliver had a pistol—Sam couldn’t remember what kind—and Rose had that Heckler and Koch submachine gun.
Sam moved along the wall, eyes surveying the room. He heard no sound. When he got to Oliver’s office, he tried the door. Locked.
Heart pounding, he put his identification card into the scanner, turned the knob, and pushed open the door with his boot. The door opened with a squeak. Sam jammed himself up against the doorframe. All quiet.
Sam waited a moment, then poked his head around the door frame. The dark office was empty.
Bacher’s words came back to him in a rush. They didn’t need to worry about anyone breaking into Oliver’s office.
Shit!
He ran across the room, throwing himself through the door as the bomb in Oliver’s office exploded. Sam got blown out into the yard. He hit the ground with a resounding thud, sliding on the snow. Shaking his head to clear it, he glanced around. Nothing broken. No Cover here. Have to move.
A machine gun opened up, bathing the yard in instant death. Rose! Sam burrowed down into the snow. He couldn’t stay there. Ears ringing from the blast, he did his best infantry crawl along the wall of the barn. He raised his weapon and fired three quick bursts at the flashes from the weapon, jumped up, and ran back to the fence. Another burst from the machine gun danced along the ground as Sam reached the fence, missing him by inches.
Sam spotted the source, then waited. Experience had taught him to be patient. Rose wasn’t smart enough to do that. Another burst of machine gunfire. Sam’s eyes adjusted to the darkness. A silhouette moved at the edge of the garage.
Sam heard the click as Rose reloaded.
Ducking down, Sam ran toward the farmhouse. He leaned up against a tree at the corner of the house and willed his heart to slow. Holding his breath, he listened. Silence. Rose must have smartened up.
Sam sprinted across the farmyard in a crouch, staying low as he reached the corner of the garage. Fresh tire tracks rutted in the snow. He listened. The faint sound of metal moving.
Sam pushed himself up against the outside wall of the building, feeling the rough edges of the stucco through his shirt. He visualized the room—four bays and that door that had been locked. Wooden benches stretched along one wall and a tool storage area against the other. The trucks were out so only Oliver’s Jeep would be in there. Too much open area to cross. He had to reach Alex.
Sam ducked around the corner and waited at the partially opened door. He listened. Voices.
Pushing the door open a little farther, Sam spotted Rose running across the room off to the right. Sam raised his rifle and fired. He heard a cry and thud as Rose bounced against the wall. Sam ducked down and ran inside. Rose moved, and Sam fired again. Rose didn’t move anymore.
Dim light illuminated the bays. Sam moved forward along the wall, staying low. He hid behind a table and watched. The door to the bay that had been locked was now ajar. Light streamed from inside.
With his back against the wall, Sam moved around the room. When he reached the door to the bay, Oliver’s voice called to him. “Come in, Sam. We’ve been waiting for you.”
Sam reached over and pushed open the door with his foot, staying down on his haunches and keeping his rifle at the ready.
“No need for weapons, Sam. You’re among friends. At least I thought we were friends.”
Sam peered around the frame. Oliver sat in the front seat of a camouflaged Hummer, Alex next to him. The huge vehicle gleamed, but all Sam saw was Oliver’s pistol—it looked like a .22 caliber—leveled at Alex’s chest. Sam kept his rifle trained on Oliver through the Hummer’s open door.
“No need for dramatics, Sam. Let’s talk this over. You don’t want this talented young woman to meet with any harm, do you?”
Alex leaned forward. “Get bent, asshole.”
“Is that any way to treat me after I’ve been so nice to you?” Oliver smiled and puffed on his cigar. “I even thought we might have a future, you and me.”
Alex laughed. “When donkeys fly.”
“Sam,” said Oliver, “I think it’s time that I leave. You’re going to help me.”
Sam said nothing. He kept the rifle aimed at Oliver.
“Ms. Prescott, or whatever her name is, and I will leave in my command vehicle. The windows are bullet proof, so don’t even consider stopping us. You’re going to make sure we get through. If you don’t, she dies.”
Sam measured the distance to Oliver. He had an open shot. “How do I know you’ll let her go after you get out of here?”
“Don’t worry, Sam. You can trust me.”
Alex glared at Oliver. “Don’t make any deals with this sack of shit.”
“Enough!” Oliver shouted. “Put down that weapon now, or she dies.”
Sam weighed his alternatives. None of them looked good. Oliver would kill Sam if he dropped the weapon. Then he’d take Alex as a hostage.
Sam kept his rifle trained on Oliver. Could he shoot the weapon out of his hand before the bastard pulled the trigger?
“Shoot the bastard, Sam!”
Sam squeezed off a shot group and heard the retort of Oliver’s weapon. Alex! Sam’s shots hit Oliver in the arm, shoulder, and the right side of his head. Oliver’s body flew backwards, and he fell out of the vehicle, hitting the floor with a loud thud.
Sam watched in horror as Alex’s body slipped down on the seat and rolled to the floor of the vehicle.
Sam jumped up and ran across the room. He kicked the weapon away from Oliver. That didn’t matter. Oliver wasn’t going anywhere. He moaned on the floor once, then lay still.
Sam reached for Alex’s wrist. A pulse, but faint at best. He pulled open her jacket.. Blood spurted out. Oliver’s weapon had put a hole above Alex’s stomach. Sam ripped his own shirt off and stuffed it under the front of her jacket, then put pressure on it to try to stop the flow of blood.
Sirens wailed in the background. The whirl of helicopter blades sounded outside.
Alex reached up and grabbed his collar to pull him down to her. “We got the bastards, you and me.”
Sam’s voice broke with emotion. “Be still. There’s plenty of time to talk after we get you to the hospital.”
&n
bsp; “Sam …” her eyes shut and her head rolled to one side.
Sam pinched her nose and began breathing into her mouth. He alternated breaths and pressure on her chest at a ratio of fifteen to two. He was still helping her breathe when the ambulance orderlies rushed into the room, Bob O’Brien close behind them.
“Here,” Sam called and waved his free hand. “I tried to stop the bleeding. She’s lost a lot of blood.”
Sam rocked back on his knees. “Please, God,” he called, “help her breathe!”
O’Brien reached down and pulled Sam to his feet. The orderlies placed Alex on a stretcher.. They raced toward the door.
“I failed her, Bob. I should have shot the weapon out of the bastard’s hand. If she dies, it’ll be my fault.”
She looked so little on that stretcher.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Sam Thorpe paced around the surgical waiting room at Hershey Medical Center, banging his fist into his palm. He stopped to look out the window, then started pacing again. This waiting room looked like all the others he had seen—vinyl couches, hard-back chairs, outdated magazines, and weary faces with reddened eyes.
It had been about an hour since the helicopter had delivered Alex to the hospital’s emergency room. Bob O’Brien had radioed ahead, so the doctors had been waiting for her. Sam had tried to stay with Alex, but the emergency room nurse had directed him toward this damn waiting room. “No exceptions,” she had said. He felt suffocated.
O’Brien sat on one of those couches, head in his hands, his voice cracking. “She wanted to be an agent. Told me she was sick and tired of the politics in the corporate world. I learned with Alex that once she set her mind on something, nothing could stand in her way.”
“What did she do before she applied for the FBI?” Sam asked.
“She worked in marketing for some sporting goods outfit. I forget which one.”
“She must have been great at that.” Sam chuckled. “That lady could sell anything to anybody.”