Winter went around the block and spotted a house that was being renovated, one end of it a yet roofless skeleton made of two-by-fours. A large container jammed with debris had been plopped down in the rutted disaster that would become a yard. The house was protected from its neighbors by a stand of bamboo. Winter cut his lights, turned in, and parked his truck behind the loaded dumpster.
He speed-dialed Alexa on the cell phone she’d furnished him.
“Yeah?” she answered.
“I’m here.”
“You sure you want to go this route? Not too late to change your mind.”
“I’m here, Lex. Unless you have something from Able that makes this unnecessary.”
“Anything I can say to stop you?”
“I can’t think of a thing.”
She was silent for a few long seconds. “Don’t do anything without weighing it against possible consequences. You’re wide open, Massey.”
Winter ended the call, reached behind his seat, and pulled out his hooded foul-weather camouflage jacket.
He set the cell phone Alexa had given him to vibrate and dropped it into his shirt pocket. He put the coat on, took the SIG out of his shoulder holster, and slipped it into the right front pocket of the coat. He opened the door and climbed out, locking the truck and pocketing the keys.
Winter decided that with current events under way, the lawyer might have special security measures in place, so Winter needed to be extremely cautious approaching the property. He had to let his eyes grow accustomed to the darkness so he could see using what little ambient light there was.
He used the stand of bamboo as a shield, waiting several minutes before he crossed the street and dodged behind a big home that backed up to the alley that ran behind the Laughlin house. Winter moved the way he stalked deer—slowly and deliberately, using the shadows and foliage and avoiding open spaces. Unlike deer, humans didn’t have a sense of smell that would allow them to pick him out. The falling rain covered the sound of his footsteps. He reached the back of Laughlin’s property, which was protected by a brick wall. Going over meant exposing himself and dropping into an area he didn’t know anything about.
His eyes lit on a section of ladder leaning against an oak tree in the backyard of the home closest to Laughlin’s. It was a godsend. He could climb up high enough into the tree to reconnoiter Laughlin’s property from a safe place.
Question coincidence, his inner voice reminded him. Anything that seems too good to be true . . .
Something about this conveniently abandoned ladder that had looked so perfect now chilled him. Slowly, he backed deeper into the shadows. He put his hands in his pockets, froze completely, and concentrated on the ladder, his mind drawing lines and angles around it.
Long minutes passed while Winter closed his eyes and focused his ears until the normal sounds of the night were filtered out.
Sound betrayed them.
A muffled cough. Probably into a gloved hand.
A sniffle.
A twig snapped as someone shifted his weight.
Winter opened his eyes slowly.
Two or three invisible men trained in techniques of ambush had a kill zone set up around the bait—the ladder. A shadow beside a garden shed shifted and Winter made out the shape of a man giving hand signals.
They were communicating, which might mean nothing, or it might mean they were growing restless. Winter was positive the men hadn’t been there in the neighbor’s yard since dark in case someone decided to drop in on Laughlin. He was certain that they had known he was coming, and had become increasingly uneasy because he hadn’t arrived yet, long after he was supposed to. How many times had he been in a similar position when an informant’s tip about a location or a time had been wrong, and the fugitive recovery team had grown antsy, fearing their target had changed his mind or had made them? And when that happened, the team had communicated.
He wondered if Max Randall was waiting, finger on the trigger of a silenced MP5, its barrel still reeking of cordite from the assault at Click’s house. There wasn’t but a couple of ways they could have learned he was coming here.
The cell phone inside his coat vibrated.
Judas calling.
51
According to his watch, Winter Massey reached the truck an hour after he’d left it. He got in, cranked it, and drove away. As he was driving down the street away from the area, the cell phone vibrated again. With a fire burning inside him, he answered it.
“Winter?” Alexa said.
“Who else would it be?”
“Did you see him?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
His mind was stringing together a lie even as he spoke. “You won’t believe it.”
“Won’t believe what?”
“I parked and decided to take a catnap so I’d be sharp. My alarm didn’t go off, or if it did, it didn’t wake me.”
Winter fought hard to keep the anger he felt out of his voice. Alexa knew him pretty well, and she had a sharp ear for deceit. He yawned to flavor the lie.
“What now?” she asked him.
“Why don’t I come by there and we can put all three of our heads together, try and come up with a plan?”
“Clayton’s here. We’ll be expecting you in, what, ten minutes?”
“About that,” Winter said. “I’m going to stop by the store and pick up some things first. Need anything?”
“No.”
Winter ended the call. His mind was swarming. Why hadn’t Alexa parked at the house across from Click’s where Winter had been parked? Why cut through yards on foot when she didn’t have to? How could she have crossed over to Click’s and not seen the assailants’ vehicle waiting on the street? Was it possible that she didn’t want to find the Dockerys? That was insane. Alexa was his friend, his closest friend—well, she had been once. What could change her like this? How could she set him up to be killed?
What could explain her behavior? Could she resent him for something he was unaware of to the point where she wished him harm? And as he went through the possibilities, he saw it. There was only one person on earth he could think of who was important enough to Alexa to explain her betrayal. There was only one person who hated him enough. . . .
Winter pulled up at a Quick Mart, got out and used the pay phone—the only way he could be sure nobody could eavesdrop on him. He dropped the coins in, dialed Information, asked for a number. He fed the phone and called the number.
“Westin Charlotte,” a voice said.
“Yeah, this is Scott Keen, can you connect me with my wife’s room? Probably under A. Keen.”
“Just a minute,” the clerk said. Winter heard him typing on his keyboard.
“Alexa Keen?”
“Antonia.”
“I’ll connect you.”
“Oh, never mind,” Winter said. “She’s calling me on my other phone.” He hung up.
Precious. Antonia Keen. How had he forgotten that she began as an MP, had trained in cryptology? He suddenly remembered a conversation with Alexa years earlier: She had mentioned something about someone maybe contacting him to ask about her younger sister because of a security clearance. Nobody had called, probably because Winter hadn’t been enthusiastic about the prospect of giving Antonia a reference. Clayton Able had worked with M.I., too. Winter saw now that he had just been window-dressing. There was another agenda—typical agency-style sleight of hand.
If what Alexa had told him wasn’t true, what was? Was it possible they didn’t want the Dockerys found until the last minute, for added dramatic effect? If that were the case, why would they try to kill him?
He remembered what Clayton had said—that Colonel Bryce couldn’t operate his weapons dealing without the assistance of people in the Pentagon. Clayton had told them that some people in M.I. wanted Bryce convicted and others didn’t. Able had told him the truth, but the man had swapped sides on him. Tell enough truth so that it holds water.
Alexa was w
orking with Antonia, her only blood relative—probably the only person she had truly ever loved. Was it because Antonia was in danger? Alexa might do something this insane to save Antonia, and to do so, she might let Winter suffer the consequences of being in the middle. Maybe they were blackmailing her. Or maybe it was more basic. Maybe it was just about dollars and cents and security.
He couldn’t be sure his vehicle wasn’t bugged with a GPS device, so he called Alexa on the cell phone she’d given him. “I was thinking. You were right: I better run back and turn the lights on in Click’s cell. It isn’t going to help if I turn him into a babbling lunatic. If he talks, I’ll call you. I’ll get some sandwiches on the way back.”
“Okay,” Alexa said cheerily. “We’ll be waiting for you.”
Winter felt sick at heart. He turned at the next light and sped off into the night.
Max Randall was somehow tied into Antonia, and if Max knew where the Dockerys were, so did Clayton and the Keens. Was Clayton Able parceling out the bread crumbs he and Alexa were supposed to use to find the Dockerys’ bodies?
He smiled.
If they were prepared to kill him to keep him from finding out where the Dockerys were being held, it meant that Lucy and Elijah were still alive, and he was on track to finding them.
As long as they thought Winter was ignorant of what they were up to and were sure he was coming back so they could keep an eye on him, they wouldn’t have any reason to try to stop him. By the time they figured out that he was not doing what he said, he would be ahead of them.
He only had to move fast enough to stay ahead of everybody else. There were no more good guys versus bad guys—just bad guys and him.
52
As soon as Dixie Smoot left the room, Lucy stuck a finger down her throat and vomited the foul liquid cocktail into a wadded-up blanket to muffle the sounds of her retching. Gagging, she shoved the blanket between two padlocked crates. She crawled over to the door and lay down with her ear near the bottom of it, listening.
Then she stood and, trembling, slid the door open a crack. The only light in the trailer was the flickering light from the TV. Dixie was lying on the sofa, a bottle of bourbon on the floor beside her, half-full glass in her hand.
Lucy slid the door closed, turned on the flashlight, and used the hem of the T-shirt to cover the lens to soften the light. She had figured out why the dogs hadn’t attacked Eli and her earlier. The scent of the owner of the jacket had confused them. She knew that the bottle of spray she’d found beside the bed was designed to kill human scents to fool deer, and hoped it would work on dogs. She hoped they didn’t decide to bark after all.
She used the spray, which smelled like rotting vegetation, on her legs, her arms, and, closing her eyes, on her face and hair. Putting on the hunting jacket, which was permeated with one of her captors’ scents, Lucy went to the window, removed the bolt, and slid open the screen. She took the empty pee bucket from beside the bed. Feet first, Lucy eased her body out. Once she was hanging from the sill by her fingertips, there was no turning back.
She dropped to the dirt, landing on the balls of her feet. She prayed the sound of the television had kept the sound of her escape from alerting the dogs. She crept to the trailer’s edge and looked around the corner. The dogs weren’t coming out of the storage room’s cracked-open door. Taking a shaky breath, Lucy moved swiftly across the expanse, made it to the door just as one of the animal’s heads jutted out. She turned the flashlight, catching the dog full in the eyes. The animal’s head vanished back into the shadows. Lucy eased the door closed and flipped the catch to lock it.
She crossed the dogs off her mental checklist and thought about the next step. The easy part was done. Now she had to do a couple of things out in the warehouse, go back inside, and get Elijah. If she remained calm, followed her plan, she would be outside the warehouse within ten minutes or so. That, or she would be a four-letter word for “no longer among the living.”
53
Winter Massey sped to the clinic, darted from the truck, swung open the pole gate, and parked his truck on the lot. Still wearing the camo coat, he sprinted down the steps, crossed the bridge over the creek, unlocked the front door, and hurried to disarm the alarm system. He ran back to the lockup ward, opened the door, and flipped the light on in Click’s cell right before unlocking and jerking it open.
Click was wedged in a corner, frozen, his blank eyes as wide open as his mouth.
He looked up at Winter and started crying. “I’m soooo sorry. I’m sorry. I’ll tell you. I’ll take you to find them . . .”
“Tell me where they are,” Winter said, kneeling beside the sobbing boy.
Click put his hands on Winter’s forearms and squeezed. “And you’ll . . . you’ll let me go? You . . . prom . . . prom . . . ise?”
“Tell me where Lucy and her son are, and I will take you out of here. Show me where they are. As soon as I have them, you’re as free as a bird. Word of honor.”
Winter lifted Click to his feet. He felt a sharp pang of remorse when he realized that the kid had urinated on himself. Winter led him out of the padded room and down the long hallway. They stopped at the counter just long enough for Click to blow his nose and tell Winter how to find the land in South Carolina where the Dockerys were almost certainly being held. Winter gave Click a sheet of clear plastic from the floor to keep him dry on their walk to the truck. Turning off the lights, he set the alarm, after which, he led Click though the door, closed and locked it. Reflexively, Winter checked out the route up the slope, holding Click by his left arm to support him and to make sure he didn’t try anything. The kid might have lied to Winter about the location, figuring it would be a while before his deception was discovered. Click was extremely intelligent and crooked as a sow’s tail.
“So, tell me the truth, are you a cop?” Click asked him as they walked.
“I used to be.”
“Ever really killed anybody?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll really let me go?”
“As soon as I know for sure you’ve told me the truth.”
Winter opened the truck door and let Click climb in, crossing the console and buckling his belt before he followed him in. He cranked the truck and started out.
“They’ll kill me if they find out it was me,” Click said. “Kin or not. I’m breaking the code.”
“I won’t tell them,” Winter said.
“How many people you taking in there?”
“Just me.”
“In that case, if they don’t kill you outright, you’ll tell them I did.”
“You can tell them you knew they’d kill me so you tricked me into coming to them.”
Click was silent a moment. Then he said, “You said I could go free.”
“You will. But while I’m getting the Dockerys, you’re going to be cuffed to my steering wheel.”
Click looked down at the floor. Winter raced down the winding driveway.
“So, knowing that,” he told the kid, “you maybe want to make any amendments to the directions you just gave me?”
Winter came around the final bend and saw that the heavy yellow pole was back in place. His gut twisted because he’d intentionally left it standing open.
“Duck!” he yelled, flooring the accelerator. He cut the wheel at the last second, aiming at the boxwoods between the security pole’s upright steel post and the sign kiosk. He saw a head rise above the shrubs, and he ducked lower just as the automatic weapons opened up. He felt the impact as the truck exploded through the shrubbery and caught the shooter behind it, punting the man’s body in a high arc. Winter’s tires bounced as he ran over the assailant’s body. He jerked the wheel and skidded sideways, straightening as the automatic weapons shattered the rear windshield and then the front one.
“Shee-at,” Click said, straightening to peer over his shoulder.
“Down!” Winter yelled. There was a sound like a bottle of cola being dropped. The back tires went flat and wh
at remained of the front windshield was peppered with gore as Click folded at the waist. The truck crested the hill.
They would be coming after them.
He didn’t have to look at the gauges to know the truck was mortally wounded. He smelled the radiator fluid, and it was all he could do to hold the truck in the road with two flat tires that would be sliced off the rims in a matter of seconds. He turned onto a narrow county road, waited until he saw the headlights swing onto the road behind him, then he jammed the accelerator and aimed the truck at the tree line beyond the ditch.
Winter’s truck went into the ditch, came up the other side, and went airborne. Tumbling, it finally stopped on its left side in the muddy field, its headlights illuminating the scraggly trees fifty yards ahead.
54
The pursuing Tahoe came to a stop, and the driver got out to look at the wreck. He spoke into his cell phone. “Massey’s done. Truck’s finished. We’ll just make sure and we’re out of here. Yeah, I know how dangerous he was. You get Blocker out of the street, we can handle this. Meet you back at the place in an hour.”
The passenger climbed out of the Tahoe and walked in front of the headlights, carrying an MP5-SD. The driver came slowly around the SUV holding a tactical shotgun with a high-intensity flashlight mounted under the barrel.
After the killers crossed the ditch and were advancing toward the overturned truck, Winter sat up behind them. He had been lying on his back since jumping out into the mud as the truck left the ground. Silently, he put a pair of .40-caliber rounds into the back of the SUV passenger’s head. As the driver pivoted at the sound of his shots, Winter put one into his right ear and a second into his neck below his jaw. He knew neither man was Randall or Sarnov because he’d seen them in the headlights.
Winter sprinted to the running Tahoe, turned it around, and drove away. He needed to catch Max Randall before he picked up the run-over corpse and left. When Winter got there, Randall was gone. Only a dark circular oil-slick-looking stain showed where the dead man had been. Winter itched to chase Randall down and kill him, but he had more important things to do. He had to find a pay phone.
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