No Refuge

by Richard Bard

  “Whatever you do, don’t move your finger, okay?” Her raised voice was urgent but confident.

  Scott nodded.

  “I’m Doctor Fairchild. What’s your name?”

  “Scott. I’m his father.”

  “All right, Scott, listen up. Your finger is keeping your son alive, and I don’t want to risk switching my finger for yours, not until we’re in the OR.”

  “Understood.”

  She glanced at Mary. “You’re his mom?”

  “Yes. His name is Bobby.”

  She turned back to Scott. “The safest way to get Bobby inside is for you to lie down on the gurney next to him during transport. Do you understand?”

  Scott’s breathing quickened. “Yes.”

  “Good,” the doctor said as she backed out of the cabin. “The EMTs will help guide you out. Move carefully, and focus on maintaining consistent pressure on Bobby’s wound.” She shouted quick instructions to the two EMTs, then stepped aside.

  One of the EMTs rushed back to the ambulance, while his younger partner leaned into the cabin to help Scott. He reached out and lifted Bobby into a back-first cradled position against Scott’s chest, making certain Scott’s finger stayed on his son’s wound. The second EMT returned with a sling that he and his partner wrapped around father and son, all under the watchful eye of the doctor. When it was secure, they guided Scott outside onto the gurney. Mary slid across the seat to follow, but she hesitated before stepping outside, turning to face Jake.

  “Thank you for—” Her eyes went distant for a moment, and he imagined her flashing back over what had happened. She shook her head and wiped a spray of rain from her face. “My God, I don’t even know your name.”

  He glanced at his grab bag on the seat beside him, recalling the identification on the fake passport he’d used to get off grid. But he couldn’t bring himself to use that name with the frightened mom. Somehow that would’ve soiled everything they’d been through together.

  “Call me Jake.”

  She choked back a sob. “How can we ever repay you?”

  It was a rhetorical question but he answered anyway. “How ’bout not telling anyone where I live?” He winked. Behind her, the EMTs finished strapping Scott to the gurney and moved off. “Go. Your family needs you.”

  She nodded and followed her husband and son into the back of the ambulance.

  The older EMT closed the rear doors and rushed toward the driver’s seat. He motioned for Jake to join him. When Jake shook his head and waved him off, the man jumped into the vehicle, turned on the siren, and sped off.

  That was Jake’s cue. He reached over the backseat and yanked the door shut. Strapped himself in, started the engine, and taxied onto the road. He stopped with the nose on the centerline, revving the 450 hp to the max before releasing the brakes.

  Six seconds later the Beaver lifted off, and churning gusts bit at the plane like a pack of wild dogs. The wings shimmied, the airframe shook, and he fought to keep the plane from flipping onto its back. His pilot instincts took over. Relaxing his grip on the controls, he allowed the elevators, ailerons, and rudder to become an extension of his senses, his hands and feet moving in response to the visual and tactile cues streaming into his brain. The roiling winds continued to jostle the plane but he gained control, raising the flaps and landing gear as he banked toward the airport.

  Returning to Grandpa’s cabin in this weather was out of the question. He needed a temporary safe haven, and the airport was only five miles away. Besides, he could use a few supplies, and the small general store attached to the FSS—flight service station—included a cafe that served breakfast.

  He switched frequencies on the radio and activated his mic. “Port Hardy tower, this is de Havilland Beaver Eight Seven Zero Niner, five miles northwest, requesting landing clearance.”

  The tower responded a few seconds later. “Beaver Seven Zero Niner, squawk ID.”

  Jake pressed the transponder button.

  “I’ve got you, Beaver Seven Zero. You seem to have popped up out of nowhere, and I can’t help but wonder how that can be. Not to mention the fact that nobody in their right mind should be in the air right now.”

  Jake cringed. The last thing he needed was undue attention. Even though the airport was small, it was classified as an airport of entry by Nav Canada, and that meant it was staffed by the Canadian Border Services Agency. He decided to play it loose and easy. “Long story, Tower. But I’ll be glad to share the tale over a cup of coffee as soon as I get out of this soup.”

  The long pause that followed made Jake consider veering off.

  Finally, the man said, “A cup of java sounds good to me, Beaver Seven Zero. You are cleared to land runway two-niner. Barometer two-eight-point-nine-two. Winds out of the west at thirty-five miles per hour, gusting to sixty. It’s pretty rough down here.”

  “Roger that, Tower. I’m assholes and elbows up here as well. Two miles out, on downwind leg. Looking forward to breakfast. Beaver out.”

  It was the first break in tension since he’d been in the cave, and he flashed back to the vision he’d had. Had his mind been playing tricks on him? He’d had a sense of déjà vu, feeling the same vibration he’d experienced eight years ago when he first connected to the alien pyramid in the cavern in Afghanistan. The cavern in his recent vision had been drastically different, and he wondered if it had simply been a distorted, dreamlike flashback. Fueled by the overuse of the mini? Or had it been real, as his gut was telling him? He shook his head to clear the thoughts away, latching on to the one part of the vision that—if true—had brought him relief. He’d seen Alex, and his son had been sharing M&Ms with two young girls, sitting on a bus. What could be better than that? If that was real, then everything he’d done—the kamikaze run, faking his death, staying off grid—had been worth it.

  My family is safe.

  Ten minutes later the Beaver was secure on the tarmac, and Jake pushed through the door of the FSS general store. He steeled himself. Being around people wasn’t wise but he had little choice. A foyer opened to a space about the size of a convenience store, with racks of snacks and groceries, a bank of refrigerated drinks and frozen food, and a luncheonette section comprised of half a dozen tables and a diner-style counter. Two uniformed officers sat at the only occupied table. They looked up, and their eyes narrowed. He wasn’t sure if it was because of his misshapen face or something else. It didn’t matter. He was past the point of no return, so he nodded and gave them a smile.

  A curvy waitress glided past, momentarily breaking their sightline. She placed two steaming plates of ham, eggs, and pancakes on the officers’ table, and that ended their scrutiny of Jake. He removed the rain slicker and baseball cap he’d donned in the plane, shook off the excess moisture, and hung them on one of the coat hooks by the entrance. The smell of bacon and fresh-brewed coffee drew him forward.

  He grabbed a seat at the counter, and the waitress sauntered over with a coffee pot. She frowned when she first noticed his face, but she just as quickly brushed it off. The name on her tag was Rose, and he guessed her age at about thirty. Her blond hair was tied back from a round face, and her friendly smile reached her eyes.

  “Mornin’. Heck of a rile out there, eh?” she said with a Canadian lilt.

  “You can say that again. Weather turned on a dime.”

  She flipped over his coffee cup and filled it. “Yep. We tell tourists not to worry if they don’t like the weather around these parts, because a few blinks later it’ll surely change.” She motioned outside and Jake saw a spear of sunlight pierce the clouds.

  A quick breakfast, a few bags of groceries, and he’d be out of there.

  Rose set him up with a couple of napkins and silverware. “Devon told me you were coming.”

  Jake sipped his coffee, wondering if she noticed the hair on his neck rise. “He works the tower?”

  She winked and swiveled her ample hips. “Among other things.”

  Jake liked this woman. He t
ried to relax. “Yeah, I owe him a cup of java.”

  “And a story,” Rose said.

  The officers looked up, and just like that, Jake’s gut was churning again. He took another sip of coffee.

  “He’ll be down in a few. In the meantime what’ll you have?”

  He forced a smile. “Bacon and eggs, over easy, with white toast and hash browns would be great.”

  “You got it.” She used a remote to turn on the flat-screen TV on the wall behind her, then disappeared into the kitchen.

  Jake wrapped both hands around his coffee cup and continued to take small sips. His gaze was on the weather girl on TV, but his mind was on the officers behind him. If they got word about his illegal landing at the hospital, it wouldn’t go well for him. He caught himself toe-tapping on the foot rail, and forced his muscles to relax. The mini was in his cargo pocket, and he’d tap into it if he had to in order to avoid being taken into custody. His fake ID might be good enough to allow him to cross borders, but it wouldn’t stand up to a comprehensive background check.

  He needed to stay dead.

  Rose emerged from the kitchen with his food. She set down the plate and his nostrils flared from the warm aroma. He hadn’t eaten since the day before so he dove in with gusto. The eggs were perfect, the bacon was amazing, and despite his tension, a small groan escaped from his throat as he chewed.

  Rose crossed her arms and grinned. “Hungry, eh?”

  Even though a part of his mind remained on alert for any unusual activity from the officers behind him, he managed a genuine smile.

  “Fresh-squeezed juice?” she asked.

  He nodded, and she scooted back into the kitchen.

  “All in all it should be a beautiful Vancouver day,” the weather girl reported. “Now back to John at the news desk.”

  As Jake mopped up egg yolk with his toast, a cell phone trilled behind him. One of the officers answered it. Jake tried to listen in, but the person on the other end of the line was doing most of the talking.

  “Jesus Murphy,” the officer said under his breath.

  Jake stopped chewing.

  “We’ll take care of it. For sure,” the officer said. He hung up and whispered something to his partner.

  Rose emerged from the kitchen, and Jake saw right away something was wrong. Her brow furrowed as she set the glass of juice in front of him. He figured he’d outstayed his welcome. He swallowed his food, gulped down the drink, and smacked his lips.

  “Best breakfast—”

  “Devon called,” she said. She tipped her head toward the door. “There he is now.”

  Jake followed her gaze to see a lumberjack of a man push through the door. His eyes targeted Jake.

  Jake placed a wad of cash on the counter, swiveled his stool to one side, and rose to his feet. “Thanks for the breakfast, Rose.”

  “What do you think you’re doing there, eh?” the officer who’d been on the phone said. He and his partner rose from their table and walked toward Jake.

  He braced himself as the first officer raised his hand. But instead of reaching for Jake, the man slapped his palm on the bills Jake had laid on the counter. “Your money’s no good here, fella.” He held the money out. Jake took it hesitantly.

  The second officer slapped him on the shoulder. “Well done, sir. Well done, indeed.”

  “Welcome to Port Hardy, Beaver Seven Zero,” Devon’s booming voice said. The barrel-chested man wore a knit beanie over curly dark hair, had a thick lamb-chop beard and a broad grin. Jake took the man’s extended meaty palm, masking his relief behind a tight-lipped smile.

  “All this because I offered to buy you a cup of coffee?” Jake asked, though the truth had dawned on him.

  “Hah!” Devon slapped him on the shoulder. “We’re a small town, mister…ah—”

  “Withers,” Jake said, using the name on his passport. “Jim Withers.”

  “Well, Jim, like I was saying, news travels fast around here, and we’re mighty grateful for what you did for that little boy. He’s going to make it, by the way. Thanks to you.” Devon pulled out a chair at one of the tables.

  “That’s good.” It didn’t take an enhanced brain to see where this conversation was headed. They’d want to know details, and that would lead to a discussion of where his cabin was located, and much more.

  “That’s good, you say?” Devon bellowed. “Now that’s an understatement. How about you let us buy you another cup of coffee?” Devon motioned toward the table.

  “Sure.” Jake looked at the restroom at the far side of the shop. “Give me a second.” He turned to go.

  “…update regarding the brutal Lake Tahoe attack by the global terrorist group led by Jake Bronson.”

  He stopped dead, his mind refusing to accept what he’d just heard on the TV. He turned around slowly and stared at the screen.

  A shaky video of a crowded motel parking lot, people fleeing as a trio of bikers advanced into the lot with guns blazing.

  “Dozens of cell phones captured videos of the deadly assault.”

  A man wearing a sport coat shot dead on a second-story walkway.

  “It’s still unclear if Bronson himself was part of the fray…”

  Jake’s image appeared on a corner of the screen.

  “But more evidence of his followers’ willingness to kill innocents…”

  A large man tossing a grenade into a guest room, diving for cover as the windows blasted outward, then pushing to his feet and turning toward the camera.

  Jake’s heart froze. Tony.

  “Last seen fleeing the scene in a late-model, red Dodge Ram pickup two days ago…”

  Devon and the others crowded closer to the TV as a video showed the truck fishtailing toward a tree line. It was too distant to discern who was in the vehicle, but there was one figure in the truck bed and five others in the cab.

  “The ruddy bastards,” Devon growled.

  Insets of Tony, Marshall, Lacey, Becker, Jonesy—and Francesca—checkered the screen. Jake staggered back and slipped silently toward the exit.

  “The underground reward for their capture now exceeds two million US dollars.”

  He ran.

  Chapter 14

  Los Padres National Forest

  FARHAD SLID TO A CROUCH, raised his M4 carbine, and triggered a three-round burst. Beside him, Jamal popped from his cover behind a tree and fired another burst, the suppressed shots sounding like three rapid spits.

  “Targets three and four down,” Farhad whispered into his tactical headset microphone, panting. He leaped forward to crouch-run down the game trail, his backpack bouncing. His clothes were soaked in sweat. He was exhausted but refused to slow his pace. Jamal stuck close, and the two-man team sped past the two pop-up silhouettes they’d just “killed.” They were determined to best their previous scores in this timed, live-fire exercise, being held in the forest on the eastern approach to their property. The shade did little to offset the late afternoon heat.

  “Final targets fifty meters ahead,” Jamal said.

  Farhad glanced at the military-grade, flexible LED display cuffed around his wrist. Two target squares were identified by the recon drone overhead, one on each side of a ramshackle hut. “Confirmed,” he said, altering his course to the left. “I’m on target five.”

  Jamal sprinted right. “Target six is mine. Mark when ready to activate salvo countdown.”

  Ten seconds later Farhad ducked behind cover, glancing at his HUD to confirm his position relative to the target. He was on the opposite side of the hut from his partner; it was critical they took out the two targets simultaneously. “Mark,” he whispered into his microphone. A moment later, a five-second digital countdown appeared on his display. When it hit two seconds, he popped up, took aim, and fired.

  “Final targets eliminated,” a voice sounded through his headset. “Exercise complete. Well done.”

  Farhad heaved a deep breath, smiling at the rare compliment given by their military mentor and traine
r, Hadi. He glanced at his timer to see they’d completed the exercise in record time. Slinging his rifle, he trotted into the clearing and around to the front of the hut. Jamal was already there. They high-fived.

  “Did he say well done?” Jamal asked with a snicker.

  “Must be getting old,” Farhad said.

  “Hah!” a loud voice boomed behind them.

  They turned as Hadi lumbered toward them. The forty-six-year-old was a bull of a man, his bulk dwarfing the forty-pound backpack and fully loaded ammo harness wrapped around his torso. He had ordered the exercise after the near miss in Lake Tahoe. The rest of their unit raced past him into the clearing, all similarly kitted up and decked out in woodland shirts and cargo pants. Their clothes and faces were filthy from the long afternoon of training.

  With the enthusiasm of a college football team that had just won a game, they congratulated one another with hugs and back slaps. The entire team had done exceptionally well, and had earned the right to celebrate. But everyone quickly quieted when Hadi stepped forward and gripped Farhad’s shoulder.

  “Getting old?” Hadi asked. His English was excellent, but unlike the rest of them, he’d never fully shed his Afghan accent. Hadi’s fingers dug into the pressure point above Farhad’s clavicle. It was one of his favorite moves.

  Farhad winced but couldn’t stop smiling, any more than his mentor could hide the amused expression beneath his stern gaze. After a moment, Hadi released Farhad’s soft tissue and grabbed him by the shoulders to give him a firm shake. “Well done, indeed.” He let go and spoke to all of them. “You’ve all excelled. I’m proud of each and every one of you.”

  Farhad’s emotions swelled, and he sensed the same feelings from his brothers in arms. Hadi’s approval had long ago become the yardstick by which they measured their successes in life. Hadi had been with them since the beginning, and Farhad had known the legend of the man’s feats before they’d even met.