“Lindsay, we have to finish what we came here to do,” he said.
“You’re right,” she said. “You’re right.”
Archer put the transmission in gear and accelerated out of the side street, turning west.
* * *
The Hummer turned off the highway at a road directly across from the gas station and headed away from town. A battered asphalt strip ended at gravel after several hundred feet, and the gravel faded into a dirt lane a couple hundred yards after that. They could see the tiny old church long before the rolled up to it.
The church looked like a prop taken straight out of an old spaghetti western movie. It was a small stone structure with a steep-pitched roof. The front door was wood, painted white, faded and peeling and filthy with dust.
Archer bumped the Hummer up the dirt track that opened into a very primitive parking area. He pulled nose-in at the front of the building and shut the engine.
“Sit tight a minute,” he said.
Lindsay nodded.
Archer studied the horizon in all four directions. There was nothing of note except the outline of the buildings from town three-quarters of a mile to the south. Nothing in any other direction for miles but vast empty desert terrain. Dirt. Sand. Scrub brush. Stunted, withered trees. Rocks. Weeds.
Three wooden steps had been added to the front of the tiny church building. Steps leading up from the ground to the front door. They looked like they’d been there a thousand years.
Archer marched up to the top step and turned the doorknob. The old hinges groaned as he swung the door slowly open. The old church was mostly dark inside. The light was filtering in through tall, narrow stained-glass windows set into the stone walls. The stained glass depicted the Birth, the Life, the Crucifixion, and the Resurrection. A nice, tidy summation of the gospels within the span of six lovingly handcrafted tapestries of glass.
The floorboards of the humble little mission groaned under his weight as he strode cautiously between the short rows of pews towards the alter. The floor was covered in a fine dusting of grit.
There was a narrow door at the rear of the building, several long paces behind the alter. Archer turned the doorknob and tramped down a second set of ancient, warped wooden steps to a weed-covered landing adjacent to a small, tidy cemetery. The cemetery was enclosed by a low wrought-iron fence, with a swinging gate cut into the southwest corner. Archer lifted the latch and shuffled sideways through the narrow opening. The little graveyard was overrun by weeds and grass. Some of the grave markers were stone with names and dates chiseled in block lettering, while others were simple wood crosses with names and dates crudely carved into the grain.
He could see no fresh graves.
He loitered for a few minutes, reading names and dates. The most recent he spotted was dated August of 1981. The woman had lived a hundred and two years. Archer thought that to live a life like that in a place like this was really saying something. He wouldn’t have wanted to hang around there for more than a month, even in the best of times.
Archer drifted along the perimeter of the burial ground and then let himself back out through the gate. He drifted around the backside of the church building and followed a well worn footpath up the side past weeds and discarded cigarette butts to the parking area where the Hummer sat awash in bright morning light.
He studied the compacted dirt for signs of new tracks. Signs of a presence within the last few hours. But there’d been nothing for days, at least. They were clearly the first visitors of the morning. He studied the surrounding horizon, then returned to the Hummer. Stood at her door. Tapped a knuckled against the glass.
The window buzzed down.
“They haven’t been here,” he said.
“Are you sure?”
“No one has been here for a while,” he said.
“What now?”
“Let’s get out of here before we have company.”
“Are you still confident?”
Archer looked at her. A long, intense, sincere gaze.
“I will never let anything bad happen to you,” he said. “And I’m not going to let anything bad happen to Penny. I owe that to both Simeon and Raj.”
She smiled, wearily. “OK, then. I trust you.”
Archer started the engine and bumped the Hummer back onto the narrow dirt road, turning back for town. A cloud of dust rose up around the tires. Lindsay held his hand as they drove.
* * *
Noella Chu watched the black Hummer through the lens of the powerful Schmidt & Bender scope mounted to her sniper rifle. She held the reticle steady. Calculated the speed and distance of the vehicles, then she raised her head, squinting against the crisp morning light. Interesting, she thought.
The Hummer was speeding down the dirt lane back towards town through the cloud of red dust. They were surprisingly early, though this actually pleased Noella Chu very much. It provided her an excellent opportunity to assess the enemy and to confirm her target. She had watched them from the moment they turned off the highway to the dirt lane. She assumed that the man from the Hummer was Ryan Archer. Noella Chu was pleased to finally put a face with the name. She had been able to see him quite clearly through the powerful lens of the sniper scope. His was a face she would not forget.
Noella Chu was positioned on the rooftop of the three-story apartment building along the main drag in town. It was easily the highest point within the little community. She rotated into an upright sitting posture and stashed the rifle away in the shadows beneath a bulky air-conditioning unit bolted to the tar-covered roof. She hurried back across the roof. Descended the fire escape ladder quickly and quietly. Then jogged back through to the end of the short alley to where she had parked the Kia minivan with Penny Lockwood bound and gagged inside.
She turned onto the highway and followed the black Hummer from a discreet distance until it turned off at the little roadside motel at the edge of town.
CHAPTER 112
The operation had to be put together and carried out in absolute secrecy. Gaston Dunbar was a celebrity inmate. A big media draw. Easily recognizable on the street. If word got out that he was being temporarily released from prison to lead police to the bodies of his wife and daughter, there would be news helicopters circling all over the place. Reporters and paparazzi everywhere. It would become a circus in the blink of an eye.
So Kline had to keep the lid clamped down tight. Dunbar’s trip to the emergency room would actually work to their advantage. He was already away from the prison grounds. And the hospital staff would think nothing of him being transported away, making the educated assumption that he was being shipped right back to his cell.
Kline wanted the excursion to last no more than three to four hours. And if it became clear that Dunbar was playing games again, they would shut him down and simply turn around and head back to San Quentin.
Dunbar would have to be disguised because he was too recognizable to simply haul out into public. They would slap a beard and wig on him. Give him some street clothes.
They would airlift him by FBI helicopter out of Marin County. A car would be waiting to pick up Dunbar and Special Agent Kline, and a heavily armed security detail would meet them on the ground, ready to shadow their every move. Dunbar wouldn’t be able to breathe without a dozen or more M16’s shoved down his throat.
The young Dr. Ghinnish visited his patient one last time before reluctantly clearing him for discharge. Dunbar had thick, clean bandages around both his wrists. His color was slowly returning, and his blood pressure was back to within an acceptable range. A buxom redheaded nurse pushed him in a wheelchair out through the emergency room exit and down a short ramp to the sidewalk.
Dunbar turned his face up to her as she set the brake. He made a show of licking his lips.
“I’d give anything for a few minutes alone with you before they give me the needle,” he said, grinning devilishly.
The nurse looked at him with revulsion. Face reddening. She flattened her l
ips and hurried away.
Dunbar glanced at Kline.
“Got to love the ladies,” he said.
“Let’s go,” Kline said.
Dunbar’s hands were cuffed behind his back. He rose from the wheelchair and traveled the three short steps to the rear of the prison van. A prison guard rode opposite him with a Remington 1100 tactical shotgun resting across his thighs. A metal screen separated them from the front seats of the van.
Kline spoke briefly with the driver of the van, issuing instructions. The driver nodded. Kline climbed into the passenger seat and glanced back through the metal screen at the inmate.
They detoured away from the prison.
The FBI helicopter was waiting on the concrete apron of the airport. The van rolled up close to the chopper and the driver came around and opened the rear doors. Dunbar dropped to the concrete and glanced around. It was the most open space he had experienced in four years.
“Let’s go,” Kline said again.
The prison guards escorted them to the chopper.
A beefy FBI agent in a Kevlar vest strode toward them from the chopper and shook hands with Kline. His name was Blackwell. Blackwell stepped up alongside the inmate and took him by the arm. Walked him to the chopper and loaded him inside. Shackled his arms and ankles so that his limbs were completely restricted from movement.
The guards stood and watched Kline and Blackwell load into the chopper.
The turbine whined as it received power. The rotors began to slowly paddle against the warm breeze. The chopper lifted off the tarmac.
Special Agent Kline popped the radio headset over his ears. Turned in his seat to face Dunbar. “You got your wish,” Kline said. “Where are we going?”
“Los Angeles,” Dunbar said.
“Stop with the games. Give me something specific.”
Dunbar smiled darkly. “No, we’ll start with Los Angeles,” he said.
* * *
Raj was stable. Dr. Fay had thoroughly cleaned and treated the wound and applied a proper splint to the break. He had a morphine drip running to Raj’s arm. Raj looked content to just lie on the table and soak up the drugs.
The kids were asleep at the motel. They had crashed on the beds with the TV on and the sound turned all the way down. Archer chose to not wake them. He simply opened the door a crack and peeked in at them. Then he locked the door and pulled it shut.
He returned to the Hummer.
“How are they?” Lindsay asked him.
“Out cold.”
“Poor things are exhausted.”
Archer put the SUV in gear and tooled out of the parking lot to the highway.
“Let’s find some coffee,” he said.
They picked one of the two diners at random. Archer gave the menu a cursory scan, then quickly lodged it back behind the wire rack filled with condiments. A waitress materialized, a woman with the look of someone who had abandoned her dreams the day of her high school graduation.
“Start with coffee,” Archer said.
The waitress returned with two ceramic mugs and a heavy glass carafe and poured the mugs full to the brim.
“I’ll take eggs and sausage,” Archer said.
Lindsay pushed her menu aside. She nodded at the waitress.
“Same,” she said.
Archer had brought the satellite telephone into the diner with him. He set it on the table between them.
“When will she call?” Lindsay asked.
“Soon.”
“Who is she? Is she working with someone or alone? What does she want?”
“First answer is easy. She wants the five hundred million. She’s an assassin. And she’s good. That’s pretty clear. She might be part of a team, or she might be working alone. No way of knowing at this point. But if she is working alone, she’s very good. That means she’s very smart and very dangerous.”
“How are you going to do this?”
“One step at a time.”
Breakfast was delivered to the table.
They stared out the window at the other lonely diner facing them from the opposite side of the road.
“Do you think Penny is still alive?”
“Yes,” he said. “I think this woman is smart enough to know we will want to see what we are trading for before we turn you over to her.”
A shiver sparkled up Lindsay’s spine.
“Makes me very nervous when you say it like that,” she sighed.
Archer offered a small, comforting grin.
“Yeah, sorry about that. But don’t worry, I’m not handing you over to anyone. It’s all about strategy and trying to predict what the enemy will do. We have to set it up so that it appears we are following through with the deal. Then when I can see her opening move, I will make the necessary adjustments.”
Archer finished his eggs and drained his third cup of coffee.
“I think this coffee was made fresh last Tuesday,” he said, pushing the mug aside.
She smiled.
“I agree.”
She reached across the table and cupped his big hand in both of hers.
“So tell me, what are you going to do when this is all over?” she asked.
“Sleep.”
“Want some company?”
He considered her a moment.
“You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?” he said.
She smiled again. “I have a vacation home in Vail.”
Archer shrugged. “I haven’t skied in years.”
“Who said anything about going outside?”
“OK, you’ve talked me into it.”
Lindsay tucked strands of blonde hair behind her ear and winked at him.
Then the satellite phone rang.
CHAPTER 113
Noella Chu had shadowed them to both the motel and the doctor’s office. She was parked in the Kia in an alley behind the diner on the opposite side of the highway from where Archer and Lindsay were finishing breakfast. She had dialed the number to the satellite phone from memory into the cheap disposable prepaid cell she’d purchased at the truck stop.
When Archer answered, she made him wait. She stared out the windshield and listened to the sound of Archer’s voice. Lindsay Hammond and Ryan Archer would both die because they were in way over their heads. There was not a shred of doubt in Noella Chu’s mind.
“Are you ready to listen?” Noella Chu asked.
“Let me speak to Penny.”
“That is not going to happen.”
“Not a problem,” Archer said. “I will take Lindsay Hammond and disappear, and you will miss out on your shot at the five hundred million dollars. Is that what you want to happen?”
Noella Chu remained unfazed.
“Where is Simeon?” she asked. “Where is Raj?”
“You aren’t dealing with Simeon or Raj. You are dealing with me now. Happy birthday.”
“And who are you?”
“Just a guy.”
“Do you have a name?”
“I’ve been called a lot of things.”
“I think I’ll call you Archer.”
Silence.
Archer and Lindsay had left money on the table to cover breakfast and had wandered outside, drifting across the gravel parking lot toward the Hummer.
“How do you know my name?” he said into the satellite phone.
“Because I know everything there is to know,” Noella Chu answered.
“Get on with it,” Archer demanded. “Tell me how you want to do this.”
“You will drive down the dirt road toward the old church. Stop when you get within one hundred yards. Then sit and wait for further instructions.”
“When?” Archer asked.
“Right now.”
* * *
The city of Los Angeles spread out beneath them as far as the eye could see. It was a city Gaston Dunbar knew well. A city he loved. But now he sat with his eyes closed inside the helicopter, ignoring the view, not interested in watching the tangle of a
sphalt and humanity passing beneath them. He was content to insulate himself within the walls of his own thoughts.
The rotors thundered overhead.
The helicopter drifted over power lines, over endless clusters of congested residential subdivisions, and over office towers of glass and steel. They circled above 11000 Wilshire Boulevard, setting gently down on the helipad atop the tall building. Blackwell was the first man out. He hooked a meaty hand under Dunbar’s arm and ordered him to exit the chopper.
Dunbar dropped to the roof and instinctively ducked his head against the wash from the rotor blades.
Special Agent Kline gestured with his head.
“Move!” he yelled over the roar of the turbine.
They went through a steel door on the roof. Followed a short flight of stairs to a landing and entered an elevator.
Dunbar proceeded as ordered without uttering a word.
The elevator opened onto a massive open floor plan filled with a vast cubicle farm and glass offices stacked along the walls. Dunbar was ushered through a corridor and into a windowless office. There was a long table with folding legs inside the room. A sagging, tired-looking cardboard box with its flaps folded into an interlocking pattern sat atop the table. Two thick, sober-looking men stood behind the table waiting for Dunbar and his escorts to enter the room and shut the door.
Kline shook hands with the men.
Both men glared at Dunbar. One of them nodded at the cardboard box, and Blackwell stepped forward and folded open the flaps. It was stuffed full with thrift clothes and an assortment of wigs and eyeglasses and shoes.
In ten minutes Dunbar was transformed. He now had long black hair and a frazzled beard held to his head by an elastic band. He donned a long-sleeved flannel shirt and the first pair of denim jeans he’d worn since the day of his incarceration. The final touch was a pair of glasses with oversized heavy plastic frames and nonprescription lenses.
The man standing before them was no longer recognizable as Gaston Dunbar.
“Anonymous enough for you?” Blackwell asked.
The two men behind the table offered their approval.
“OK,” Kline said. “The cars are in place, waiting downstairs. Let’s get him loaded and move out.”
72 Hours (A Thriller) Page 24