by Theo Cage
“What?” cried Jeannie.
“Move. Pull the guy out of the driver’s seat into the middle and drive. I’ll give you instructions.”
Jeannie was frozen to the seat.
“In ten seconds, I’ll shoot your daughter. Another ten seconds, your son. It’s your call.” Jeannie started to cry, but she got up on her knees and crawled to the front. She struggled with the prone body of the second attacker, but eventually hauled him back into the cargo area. Then she pulled the driver over onto the floor between the two captain’s chairs. Then they all heard retching sounds.
Bear man looked at Scott and winked. “Delicate stomach?”
Jeannie was finally able to sit down and adjust the seat. Scott noticed the van was filled with the smell of fear, perspiration and urine. The second man had emptied his bladder when he died. The smell was overpowering. Scott’s son began to choke. Then he vomited over himself and his father, which only made things worse.
Jeannie got the van in gear, backed up, and then started moving down the street. Everyone was waiting for another rifle shot – a sound like someone punching a hole through ice. It didn’t come.
“Looks like we do have friends,” muttered Scott, his nose plugged with congealing blood. The bear ignored him, but he moved down lower behind the front passenger seat.
He gave Jeannie instructions for the next half-hour until they were on the freeway, rolling along at the speed limit.
“Mrs. Rice?”
“Yes.”
“You slow down, flash your brights, break the speed limit or try anything else to draw attention, someone will die back here. All I need is one of you to make this work.”
She nodded her head. Then they saw the flashing blue and red lights reflecting off the rear-view mirror and heard the swoop of a police siren.
“They’re pulling us over,” she said.
CHAPTER 39
Rice’s Dream
SHE CLAMBERED UP THE RIDGE in the moonlight on New Year's Eve. Unannounced. Impromptu.
Rice hadn't seen Grace for years. When she knocked on the cabin door, he pulled his gun out of his pack and crept up to the threshold of his handmade door, flipping through the faces of dozens of potential visitors in his mind. Probably Wilson, he thought. Although Wilson wasn't the spontaneous visitor-type.
Many of the other people he knew wouldn't knock. They'd just shoot. He inched the door open and saw her face. The elation he felt was a complete surprise. He pulled her inside and hugged her, which made her uncomfortable. He could see it in her eyes.
"So this is the villa?" she asked, looking around. The Spartan nature of his new life must have shocked her, but she covered up well. She actually smiled, a rarity.
He had a small crude table by the fire, but only one chair, which he used for reading. He pulled the table closer to his cot so they could both sit. She had on a nylon parka, a fur-lined hood and a heavy black scarf. Her boots were thick with snow.
"How did you find your way up here?" Rice asked, curious. The only road to the trail that led to his cabin was closed during the winter.
"A snowmobile up to the ridge. I parked a four-wheel-drive where the highway ends."
"What if they find your truck? The cops will think you're lost and send out a search party."
Grace touched his arm. "Stop worrying. I called the ranger station at Paradise. Told them I trek into the wilderness every New Year. An homage to my old man. And I have a freshly charged sat phone. If they're concerned, I told them to call me. They were cool."
She sat down and Rice brought out the only alcohol he had in the cabin. A partial bottle of Glenmorangie. He told her to help herself. He set the only cup he had on the table.
She gave him the once over, the only light coming from a Coleman lamp and whatever flames managed to leak out of the gaps in the wood stove. He was wearing a thick plaid shirt and a green watch cap that needed repair.
"What happened?" Rice asked.
"Nothing," she said. "I just came for a visit." Rice looked at her.
"Honestly, everything is fine," she said.
"If by fine you mean that Kreegar was hit by a bus and I get to go home, then let's drink to that."
Grace touched his hand as he was about to lift the Scotch bottle to his lips.
"Eight years Rice. You've been up here for eight years."
"That's eight years of being alive, Grace."
She didn't say it. You call this living? He appreciated that.
"How's Jimmy?" asked Rice.
"Jimmy is Jimmy." Rice knew what she meant. Jimmy was a demolition expert he had on contract.
"And Scott?"
"Still under surveillance. After all these years. But they seem oblivious to it."
"And you?" Grace poured an ounce of the peaty whiskey into her glass and sipped at the edge.
"Why does anyone think this tastes good? It smells like burnt wood. After a rainstorm."
"Sorry," Rice said, smiling at her expression. "Beer is too heavy to haul up here."
She took another sip, wrinkled her nose. "You've changed," she said.
"We all have."
"No. I mean it. Eight years? I would never have thought you'd hide this long. And you look like Jeremiah Johnson."
"We've gone over this before. What keeps my brother and his family alive is ignorance. He knows nothing about me, and they can't use them as hostages because they don't know how to reach me. Otherwise, they would have tortured and killed every one of them by now. The minute I step into the open, his family is in mortal danger."
"So let me look after things." Rice knew what she meant. To a woman with a hammer, every solution involved nails. When you're one of the best snipers in the business, you solve problems with bullets.
"You'd assassinate Kreegar? Because that's what they'd call it. Every cop and Federal agent in the country would be on you in minutes. You wouldn't last a day."
Grace took off her gloves and rubbed her hands together. She had beautiful, slender fingers. "You should have been a pianist," said Rice.
"I play music. I just don't use a piano."
Grace was tall, broad shouldered, muscled arms like a professional tennis player. Her skin was the color of creamed coffee, long fingers, short black hair. The way she moved surprised people: like she was immovable, unstoppable, a slow motion hurricane that nothing could deflect. She was born in South Africa, the daughter of a diamond trader killed in a labor dispute, then a foster kid to a diplomatic attaché in London. She traveled the world as a teenager. She went to college in the U.S. and joined the marines to cover her cost of a university education – a stint in Communications was interrupted by a Sniper training course where she excelled. She did duty in Afghanistan and Iraq. Special Services. She is considered one of the most effective snipers in US history. Dispassionate. Steady as Sherman tank. Killer focus. Resting heart rate of 38 beats per minute. A best kept secret by the US military working hard to protect her civilian identity and record.
One chilly morning in Baghdad she took out a personnel carrier commandeered by El Bakir insurgents by punching a hole in the shielded gas tank from just over 1200 yards. Her commander described the takeout as the same thing as shooting out the antenna of a mosquito sitting on a tree branch across a super highway. Luck? Grace doesn’t even flinch. There’s a world of forces working on the 55 millimeter shell as it screws through the swirling atmosphere pushing up from the heated desert floor. But the bullet doesn’t care. That was her favorite line.
Rice laughed. It felt just like old times, instantly. He loved her like a sister. And he hadn't felt this warm in weeks.
"And once you killed Kreegar? And just thinking about that, by the way, warms my heart. Then what? The ex-President? Because if Wheeler is still alive, nothing changes."
She downed the rest of her drink. "Life is complicated," she said, opening her parka, the snow on her boots melting into the floorboards.
Rice could feel the heat now; he had piled too many
logs on the fire. A trickle of sweat drizzled down his forehead. And the Scotch that burnt his throat seemed to be having an odd effect. He felt sluggish. He tried to reach for the bottle on the table, but his arm refused to move. He tried again. He looked at Grace, who seemed distracted and far away and blurry. He noticed the hissing of the propane tank growing fainter; then the light flickered and went out. Sudden abject darkness.
"Grace?" Are you there? Grace?"
He tried to push himself up from the bed, but he couldn’t get his arms to work. He needed to help her. Something told him she was in danger. He didn't know what the specific threat was, but the feeling of dread was overpowering. He thrashed out again, violently tearing at his covers.
Then a bright light flooded the room and he felt an arm on his shoulder.
"It's OK!" a voice was saying. "Everything's alright." A woman's voice, Hushed. Close to his ear. A voice he didn't recognize.
He looked up. Short brown hair. Green eyes. A splash of freckles across a turned up nose. Nothing like Grace. Then he felt a terrific stab of pain in his abdomen, and he fell back into the bed. Not the rough blanket of his cabin cot. Fresh sheets and pillows. The smell of fabric softener and antiseptic. Where the hell was he?
"My name is Britt," she said. "You've been in an accident."
Rice tried to think. Accident? There were too many accidents. The oil terminal that ignited during Seal maneuvers in the Iraq Invasion. The UH60 going down on its side in Kandahar. His life was just a chain of collisions. Then he remembered. He was out in the world. And they were after him. Grace and Jimmy were in danger. If Kreegar found them he would torture and kill them. And Scott's family. They might already be dead. It was like a nightmare coming true after all these years. Then he fell back into unconsciousness, those words echoing in his mind.
“It's OK! It's OK!”
But it wasn't OK. And OK was the problem.
CHAPTER 40
Los Angeles, CA
THE CALL CAME INTO L.A. dispatch at 2:35 AM. A suspicious vehicle was reported stalled at a red light at Sunset and Cahuenga. A white cargo van with a damaged windshield. Code 11-24. Abandoned vehicle.
Officer Vincente was patrolling on the night shift, travelling the Golden State freeway North, when he saw a white cargo van driving just under the speed limit. Was it stolen? He turned at Cahuenga, put on his lights and called in the visual. When he pulled up behind the van, he flicked his siren on and off quickly and waited for the vehicle to pull over to the shoulder.
As often happens this time of night, the driver reacted slowly. Like he was sleepy or under the influence. Vincente pulled up behind the van when it stopped and entered the license number into his in-car computer.
After a minute, he got out, removed his flashlight and walked up to the driver’s door. He shone his light into the driver’s face. The van was being driven by a woman in her thirties. She lowered her window. The first thing Vincente noticed was her hair was disheveled, like she had just woken up. And she appeared to be wearing a nightgown although he admitted to himself he was way behind in the fashion department. Some of the people he routinely saw on the streets looked like they were still wearing their pajamas. So what did he know?
“Can I see your driver’s license, please?” he said. The woman stared at him for several seconds, her eyes red and puffy. Vincente could see she was stressed out.
Jeannie Rice felt like her head was about to explode. When she first saw the police lights in the side mirror, she felt a wave of relief wash over her, which she immediately realized was an idiotic reaction. Her two children and her husband were sitting in the dark behind her with a killer's gun to their heads. One tiny miscalculation, even one wrong word from her, could mean she would never see them again. Their hostage taker whispered to her from behind the passenger seat in the dark.
“One wrong move and everyone dies,” was all he said. He was right too. He was the last man standing in a desperate situation. She had seen the news stories. He could be hopped up on drugs for all she knew - hardly rational.
Before she could react, the officer was walking towards her, his flashing lights throwing long red and blue shadows on the pavement. She tried to arrange her hair; attempting to look as sane as possible in the circumstances. She knew she looked like a mad woman, half dressed and no shoes.
Jeannie realized then the first thing he would do was ask for her driver’s license, but she didn't have one. The hostage takers hadn't given her the courtesy of bringing her purse. It was sitting on the kitchen island back home along with her cell phone.
She whispered back at the man behind her seat. “I don't have any ID.”
“Figure something out, Mrs. Rice. Or there will be a lot of dead bodies back here.”
She rolled the window down. The police officer asked for her DL. She blinked under the glare of his flashlight. Then she burst into tears.
“I don't have my purse, officer. I left my house in a panic. Look at me. I'm still in my night clothes.”
Jeannie let the emotions pour out of her, both unable to control herself, but also feeling there was no logical excuse she could come up with that would convince this middle aged male cop that she was sane. She remembered reading once that if you're going to lie - keep it as close to the truth as possible. So she did.
“My sister called me in the middle of the night. She's suffering from postpartum something. She said she was feeling suicidal and she had bought a gun. She's going to kill herself if I don't get there.”
“Ma'am... ”
“Every second we wait, she could be holding a gun to her head. She's all I have. I have to get to her.”
Jeannie could see something in the officer’s eyes. Yeah, he'd seen crazy before. How could you not, after years on the LA force. But there was something else. Maybe his wife had suffered from postpartum blues or a sister or a close friend’s wife. He was relating. She could tell he had forgotten about her driver’s license.
“Ma’am. Where does your sister live?”
“Burbank! She lives in Burbank!” she gave him the address.
He had a notebook out and was writing. Then he stopped. He was looking at the windshield and the two neat bullet holes, the crazed glass and the fragments of safety glass laying on the dash, reflecting back the orange light of the streetlights. Jeannie followed his gaze.
“I took my husband’s van because my car was blocked. I hit our metal trellis when I tried to turn around. I didn't know what else to do. He’s going to kill me.” The officer looked back at her. The cop look was back in his eyes. He was no rookie.
“Please officer. I have to help her.”
“Okay. I'll go ahead. You follow me. But don't speed. I'll call ahead and see if I can get an intervention team to meet us there. Okay?” Jeannie nodded, her tears flowing freely. He walked back to his patrol car.
“You should get an Oscar for that, lady,” said the hostage taker, tension in his voice.
Jeannie closed the window and put the van back in gear, waited for the patrol car to pass. It might have been an Oscar performance, but the evening was young. What would happen when the cop called in the license number of the van she was driving? For all she knew, it could be stolen. And the address she had given for her sister in Burbank was real, but her sister wasn't home. She and her husband and baby were vacationing in Hawaii. She had given them all some more time. As long as it would take to drive through the Hollywood Hills. Maybe thirty minutes. Then what?
CHAPTER 41
Bismarck, N.D.
ADDIE HAD SPENT A LOT OF NIGHTS on the streets, slept on dozens of park benches, even broken into parked cars to get out of the rain. Now she had cash, which gave her a significant advantage.
She counted the money at the edge of the tree line in the moonlight. Forty-five thousand, three hundred and eighty dollars. A fortune. She wouldn’t have to beg for food. Which she had considerable experience with. Wear worn clothes, slouch, look as desperate and forlorn as possible. And smi
le. She knew it didn’t make sense, but smiling worked. But she didn’t have to turn on the charm quite yet.
Addie stared into the dark and felt a confusion of emotions. Something told her Rice was right about Frank being dead. She had joked about killing him herself, but now she felt guilty and partly responsible. Would the bikers still be looking for her? If the gang spread out, they would form a formable search array. But bikers didn’t do that. They stuck together in packs, which was dumb. You could see them coming down the highway looking like a growling ragged chrome and leather parade, afraid to be more than three feet away from each other. If she were the leader of that group, she would have them stick to the main highway. Cover as much ground as possible to make up for the distance that flying machine had made. If it didn’t crash land six hours into the flight. That’s something else the bikers couldn’t have guessed. They would have to assume Rice made it to some military base like Grand Forks AFB or Minot. Which would put them off their target by hundreds of miles.
The Ruffinos were always next on her priority list. They had a fatwa on her head. And they had a lot more resources than the bikers. But they had clearly lost track of her since she left California a year ago.
She didn’t know what kind of range they had. Their power base was Arizona and New Mexico, constantly at war with the growing strength of the Mexican gangs. Organized crime obviously communicated with families in other jurisdictions, but it wasn’t on a constant basis. She didn’t believe the mafia had alerts or BOLO’s on specific individuals; she guessed it was just word of mouth. And how do you keep that alive? Some newbie assassin with a phone full of emails? Addie Smith. Missing for two years. Price on her head a quarter of a million dollars. Pass it on.
She wasn’t making light of her situation. The thought of Rolo Ruffino, his bulging cheeks and dead eyes boring into her, sent a shiver through her. He was in prison because of her father’s testimony. Ruffino would kill her like they had killed the rest of her family if they could just get their hands on her. No question at all. But right now she was just another homeless kid in the Midwest, no driver’s license, no credit cards. How could they track her?