Random slugs shredded the plants around him. Judging from the spray, he could tell they were just guessing at his position. The problem was that he didn’t have a good visual on them either. Moonlight was fading and the creeping sun on the horizon was in that stage where the bright gold line just made everything else darker. No use firing his weapon at this point. It would only give away his location.
Decision time: kill these men or catch up with Gracie? He knew she’d be heading back to Chicago, which was a huge mistake. And if he didn’t find her in the next couple of hours, a score of backup men would find her. Killing these two men wouldn’t make Gracie any safer.
He hurled his final smoke grenade in the opposite direction, hoping they’d figure he was creating coverage to gain entrance to the back of the house.
After back-tracking to the front of the house, he was able to enter the cargo van where the two remaining terrorists lay unconscious, still bound and gagged.
Bic twisted the ignition and floored it, glancing in the side mirror to see flashes of light from within the smoke. Bullets riddled the rear of the vehicle. The rear wheels spun hard before gripping the soil, and the van took off like half of hell was after it—Bic was the fool leaping where angels dare not tread. The pursuers unloaded their clips. The metal projectiles ripping apart the back of the van as he drove off.
Two hundred yards up the road, he locked up the brakes, stopping next to the black Suburban. Extending his Glock out the window, he blew out the two driver’s side tires, finished emptying his clip into the front grill, then took off down the drive and onto the road.
16
Jaco tapped his knee in frustration. “We have a problem,” he said into his encrypted cell phone.
“Is the girl dead?” Peter Rains replied dryly.
“What do you think?”
Peter was silent for a long moment, save for the thick sound of his breathing. “Where is she?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re telling me you couldn’t hold on to that little girl?”
Jaco rolled his eyes. “She wasn’t here when we arrived.”
“Are you kidding me right now?” Rains screamed into the phone, “Tell me there aren’t four terrorists and a scientist grocery shopping in Sioux Falls!”
“Easy does it, there, killer,” said Jaco. “There’s another mercenary involved. Someone got here before I did, killed one of the terrorists, and used another as a decoy to kill two of my men.”
“And where is this other mercenary?”
Jaco ground his teeth, partly embarrassed and partly enraged. What he wanted to do right now was carve out Rains’ heart with a spoon. “Not exactly sure. But he did leave us a nice note.”
“Terrorists don’t leave notes. What kind of clown show are you running over there, Jaco? I had your assurances this would be smooth.”
“It was stuck in the bootlace of the terrorist hanging from the ceiling fan in the living room with a bullet in his head.”
“Ceiling fa— You know what? I don’t want to know. What did the note say? It wasn’t about the mayor, was it?”
“No. It was about eating a pork-chop.”
Several seconds passed with no response. At first, Jaco thought Rains had finally ran out of responses, but then the silence grew longer, the breathing fainter.
“You said he killed two of your men?”
"Yeah, you know this guy?”
“Did you get a good look at him?”
Jaco visualized the large, dark figure standing while holding up two of his men with knives in their bellies. “Black guy. I think. It was dark. Huge though.”
"This is DEFCON 5 bad.”
“Who is he?”
“I knew that savage was still alive.”
“Peter, stop tip-toeing around and tell me who this guy is so we can work out a plan here.”
“It’s the assassin who was responsible for all those billionaires a couple of years ago. He’s known as the Black Ghost. This is on you Jaco. This was your plan.”
Jaco sighed as he pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes for a moment. He finally replied, “And I will fix it, Peter. What’s his angle?”
Rains’ voice cracked. “What do you mean, ‘what’s his angle’?”
“Did someone hire him to protect the scientist or get revenge for Linstrom?”
“We need more assets,” said Rains. “You clearly can’t handle this alone.”
“Pardon me?”
“We‘re gonna need the Farmer.”
“Are you kidding me??” Jaco felt his blood sizzle. “I’m not splitting my fee with that homicidal maniac.”
“Hogs usually get slaughtered, Jaco, don’t get greedy. But don’t worry. I’m pretty sure you can get him for free. Just know this, you’re not getting a penny if this ocean of crap isn’t cleaned up.”
Rains hung up without another word.
17
Gracie’s heart raced as she sped east along I-90 in the old Ford pickup. A decent sized piece of a soybean plant, stuck inside the grill, rattled annoyingly in the wind. A tornado of emotion ripped through her insides. Horror, betrayal, loss, confusion, and anxiety swirled in the bewildering mixture. Unanswered questions screwed into her brain like some medieval torture device, ramping up her fear to primal levels.
Every inch of fear made her angry too. How many lies had there been?
She needed to maintain her cool. Every car on the road seemed like it was coming after her, every driver a potential shooter. A new horror reared inside her: As far as the world was concerned, she was a terrorist. Anyone who killed her would be celebrated as an American hero.
Pushing the boundaries of her self-control, she eased her foot off the gas pedal a bit and let the truck slow to the speed limit.
A tear rolled down her cheek. The most stable person in her life, her rock, was more than just a stranger—he was a killer for money.
She turned onto the exit heading north toward the Mayo Clinic’s Rochester, Minnesota campus.
She stared out at the blossoming horizon, watching the rays of the rising sun light up the scattered puffy clouds in the sky ahead. Just moments before, they’d been dark and dingy. She used to enjoy scenes like this. Now, it was merely a reminder of the reality of her existence.
She would die, and nature would go on as if she’d never lived at all.
18
Back across the state line in Minnesota, just off I-90, Bic pulled into a deserted parking lot full of weeds. This was the abandoned hotel where he had instructed Gracie to hide and wait for him if, worst case scenario, somehow, they got separated. He was heartbroken over that look of disdain she had given him back in the farmhouse when he told her what he did to fund her company. With no sign of her, he feared she had pulled off at one of a hundred exits and called the authorities to plead her case. If she did that, their enemies would have her within the hour.
Bic pulled the heart shaped locket out of his pocket and looked at it. Uncontrollable anger grew within him, a fiery seed taking root in his chest. He tried to take a deep breath, but the thought of what was going to happen to Gracie if he didn’t get to her first was more than his heart could manage. He was only a boy when he lost his mother. Unable to stop his father from beating her to death… If something happened to Gracie it was on him.
A noise grabbed his attention. He turned and looked with narrowed eyes at the two rats he had zip-tied in the back of the van. One of them was kicking the side of the van in an attempt to gain the attention of someone outside it.
“It’s time to talk,” he said, then stepped out of the van and walked to the back. He swung open the rear doors of the vehicle and pulled one of the men out by the hair.
The terrorist hit the ground jaw-first. Squirming, the man tried to say something through his gag. Bic grabbed him by the hair again and yanked him up to his knees. Something in his pocket rattled like a box of Tic-Tacs.
Bic suspecte
d, considering the age differences in the two men, that the younger one on his knees, a skinny, sullen 20-year-old, might know some English. He was clean-shaven, his hands soft, his nails clean and cut. No signs of a committed life hiding out in caves—unlike the man in his forties lying in the back of the van. Bic was sure after one glance in the older man’s eyes that he would take death before speaking.
Bic bent in front of the young terrorist. The young man with the bleeding jaw did not look up at Bic, even for a glance. Bic untied the gag and removed it from the man’s face. The terrorist took a quick breath and spat a gob of pink spit.
Bic pulled out his pistol, then, in a slow mechanical motion, buried the cold black steel under his chin and used the barrel to raise his head until their eyes made contact.
He could tell by the man’s expression that he’d glimpsed what so many of Bic’s enemies had glimpsed right before their death: those intense, cold, piercing eyes. The eyes of something otherworldly—whatever evil his people feared—a djinn, a demon of the desert, or something far, far worse.
After a couple of seconds, Bic asked slowly, “Who brought you here?”
The man replied in a foreign language.
Bic smacked the bloody jaw with a flat palm. “English!”
The man spat out a string of words in the same language as before.
Bic grabbed him by the throat and lifted him to his feet. With the barrel of the pistol no more than a foot from the man’s face, while squeezing his neck with his left hand, Bic moved the barrel and pulled the trigger, sending a bullet tearing into the van’s metal, and scorching the side of the young man’s face.
The man wailed.
“English,” Bic growled as he pulled the hammer back, “or the next one is going through your eye.”
The man again said something in the foreign language. With the precision of a surgeon, Bic shot the man with a glancing blow that tore a layer of skin off his upper cheekbone.
The scream was excruciating to hear.
“English, or we repeat this again.” He sat the man on the rear bumper, still holding onto his throat. The terrorist whimpered like a kicked puppy.
Bic waited just long enough for the man to regain his senses so he could clearly comprehend what was about to happen next.
He pointed his nine at the man’s left kneecap, placing the end of the barrel flush to his bone. Bic then cocked the hammer again, looking the terrorist in the face. “Should we try again?” he growled.
The young man’s eyes darted to the rear of the van. The older man glanced at the younger as he said, “Allahu Akbar,” which seemed to instill a fear even greater than getting shot in the kneecap.
"So be it,” Bic said, and rattled off two shots into the older man’s chest. He pressed the smoldering barrel right between the young man’s eyes, “An English word is the only thing that can save your life.”
The man stared blankly at Bic.
“Who brought you here?”
The man smiled defiantly.
“What about the girl?” Bic cocked the hammer.
The man spit at Bic.
Bic let go of the man’s throat. He lowered the gun, pulled up part of his shirt, and wiped the spit off his face. When he was done, he raised the gun again.
And put a bullet into the man’s skull.
After searching the men, he dumped the bodies onto the cracked tarmac and headed back toward the van.
He speed-dialed Hawk.
“What’s shaking, m’man?”
“Hawk, I need your help, ASAP.”
“Are you sure, brother? I’ll have to let the priest go.”
“Black ops guys are involved, and they’re going to kill Gracie if they get to her first. My father doesn’t matter right now.”
“Where is she?”
“She took off her pendant.”
“Not good. I’ll call Tony.”
“Let me know what he can find out,” Bic said as he pulled back onto I-90 and headed towards Chicago.
19
Gracie parked on the street in front of the Jacobson Building on the northeast edge of the Mayo Clinic’s Minnesota campus at Rochester. A new structure, its high-tech two-story architecture separated it from several of the brown brick massive structures of the main hospital. It shone in the early morning light like a gem.
Inside the building were four state-of-the-art proton beam treatment rooms capable of operating an amazing 12 hours a day. In the fight against cancer, the proton beam was developed as an alternative to traditional X-ray radiation treatment, which not only killed cancer cells but also the healthy cells in front of, and behind, the tumor. These machines made older radiation therapies look like a cave man’s club.
Before the proton beam, an oncologist’s chief concern was how to balance killing cancer cells and preserving the healthy ones. And up to now, standard operating procedure dictated the following: Due to the potential of extensive damage, especially when organs were in the line of fire, the X-ray radiation dose had to be reduced below the optimal levels required to kill the cancer cells. Now, with proton therapy, most of the energy to kill cells can be released within the tumor, which allows the doctor to deliver higher effective doses.
Walking into the spacious main lobby, her head down, Gracie immediately turned right and grabbed a surgical mask that was at the entrance for patients whose immune systems had been beaten down by chemo, for even a common cold could kill them.
Behind the surgical mask, she went up to the front desk. “I need to see Dr. Clink,”
The receptionist clacked away on her keyboard. “Do you have an appointment?”
“No, I’m an old friend and only in town for a few hours.”
“I’ll see what I can do. What is your name?”
Gracie realized using her real name was risky, as it could be in the news. “Rosita Stanford.”
The receptionist walked back into the facility.
She hoped he would remember the name. Back at Stanford University, she, Thomas, and Anna had dubbed their study group “the Stanford Dance Trio,” with each taking a different name. Anna was Marcella, Thomas was Paco, and Gracie was Rosita.
Five minutes later, Thomas came out into the lobby, scanning the room excitedly. Gracie, skulking in the corner, her head turned away from other patrons in the waiting room, took a cautious step forward and raised one finger in the air to get his attention.
“Gracie?” Thomas said with eyes larger than saucers. “You’re all over—”
“I didn’t know where else to go.” She interrupted. “None of it is true.”
Thomas slowly looked in both directions, thinking quickly. “Go to the chapel, you can wait there privately. It’ll be empty. I’ll be there as soon as I’m done.”
Gracie took off toward the chapel. She took one look back at her old friend, who watched her for a moment, then turned to go back to work.
20
Gracie sat in the front row of the chapel, head bowed in apparent prayer. A woman came and sat in a pew several rows behind her. She could hear the woman whimpering, asking God to heal her husband. The chemo was too much…
It wrenched her heart.
She had the answer to this woman’s prayers, to the prayers of so many that had sat in these pews for the same reason. And someone was desperate enough to ruin her life in order to stop it. No, they weren’t just ruining her life, they were blotting it out entirely with indelible marker.
Here in this chapel, she had a modicum of hope. With Thomas, she would have another colleague’s voice to go to the authorities to vouch that she wasn’t a terrorist, but a respected research scientist.
A flicker of movement caught her attention. A man was walking toward her. She kept her head down, made sure her mask was in place. The figure turned into the pew behind her. He leaned forward, hands clasped in prayer. He smelled like sandalwood.
“Think your prayers will be answered?” he said, his
breath on her neck.
She turned her head slightly to the side. His captivating gaze froze her as if he was an angel that had been sent down to save her.
“Gracie Green?”
A hot flush inflamed her collar.
Something appeared next to her head. An open wallet, and a shiny badge. “I’m Agent Quinn, Miss Green. FBI. Please don’t run.”
Gracie looked up as two more agents appeared before her, rifles pointed. She snapped her head around, the agent stared at her with baby blue eyes. The woman who’d been praying somewhere behind her was gone. Two more agents stood at the exit of the chapel weapons at the ready.
“You can’t,” she stammered.
“What?” said agent Quinn. “You’re not claiming religious sanctuary, are you?”
“Exactly,” she said. “You can’t arrest me in a church.”
“It’s not a church, it’s a chapel. And yes, we can. The U.S. Government doesn’t recognize religious sanctuary. Will you please step out of the pew, Miss Green?”
“Please,” she said, her voice breaking. “I’m innocent!”
“Not my call. That’ll be up to the judge. I don’t want to force you, Miss Green.” Agent Quinn stood up. “I can tell you though that innocent people don’t run. Turning yourself in right now peacefully would be a start to showing us that innocence.”
“You have to believe me, people are trying to kill me!”
“I don’t doubt it. You’ll be a lot safer if you come with us.” He took her by the arm and stood her up. Out came the cuffs. “Gracie Green, you’re under arrest for murder and conspiracy to commit acts of terrorism against the United States of America.”
“The terrorists killed my team and destroyed all of my research!” Gracie said through tears as the cuffs snapped onto her wrists. “We cured cancer!”
Agent Quinn guided her out of the chapel. “You have the right to remain silent…”
Outside the church, Thomas was standing next to an agent with a note pad.
“Thomas, tell them you know me, tell them about the research Anna and I showed you last year! Please help.”
The Cure Page 6