"You don't think anyone recognized you, do you?" Constance asked.
He'd chosen to go to Covington instead of a closer town because, in his travels around the area over the years, he'd learned that the small city had a sizeable amount of Western European immigrants that had come to the area in search of employment at the large textile and paper mills that were the primary employers. Their presence meant that his accent wouldn't stand out as much, but he'd still been careful not to speak to anyone he didn't have to and he'd let Constance do the shopping while he waited in their car. Even driving her Nissan sports car at this point was a risk, but the only other option they had was the Trailblazer he'd stolen from a car lot the day before. It was a toss-up as to which vehicle would attract more attention.
"Nah," he said with a smile. "But I'm sure they recognized you. The most beautiful woman in the world doesn't walk into a store in backwater U.S.A. and not get recognized."
"Yeah, yeah," she said as she rolled her eyes and opened the car door.
As he got out of the car and followed her towards the cabin he was glad that the mood between them had begun to lighten. They'd always enjoyed a jovial relationship. He'd certainly done his share over the years to strain the marriage, but nothing made him feel worse than getting the cold shoulder from the person who had become his best friend.
"Let's go for a walk," Constance said, as she set down a bag of groceries on the porch. "It's almost warm out here tonight."
Declan stopped and scanned the shores of the lake that she was looking at. Seeing his reluctance, she said, "Did you try to contact your friends? The ones you said could help us."
"Aye, I left an e-mail for them. If news of what's going on has been picked up internationally, and I'm sure it has, they'll check it and be in contact. I'm sure of it. Now, what direction should we go in?" he said, clapping his hands loudly and rubbing them together. He was trying to be reassuring. He had, in fact, left word for Fintan McGuire and Shane O'Reilly and was sure they'd get back to him. The problem was when and how. In such a remote location they had no Internet access and would have to rely on periodic trips to the few libraries located in the region. The more he showed his face around, the more chances they had of getting caught, and trying to arrange travel out of the country with such limited contact wasn't going to be easy.
Half an hour later he wrenched his hand loose from his wife's and placed his arm over her back as they strolled slowly along a narrow path that wound its way around the remote mountain lake and through the many rhododendron thickets that sat along its shores. The sun had retreated behind the pine tree-covered Allegheny Mountains to the west and the path in front of them was growing steadily darker.
Constance brushed a hand through her auburn hair as the trail came to an end and the cabin came into view. "I'm not exactly suited to mountain life," she said, looking down at her sandals and wiggling her toes as if to say she wasn't smart enough to have worn the right shoes out of the house. The bottoms of her jeans were stained from the wet mud on the ground.
"Oh, I don't know," he said, looking down at her feet with a laugh. "You'd probably fit in better than you think. Ellie May never wore shoes either and she wrestled bears for honey. C'mon. Let's get back inside before you freeze. The temperature's dropping faster than the sun." He suddenly lifted her off the ground.
"Oh—Declan!" she protested, as he swung her over his shoulder and carried her like a wounded soldier.
As they walked across the uneven terrain she grunted loudly with every step he took, making it seem as if she was bouncing hard against his shoulder each time. Ten yards from the door, he stopped suddenly and lowered her to the ground.
"You're gonna pay for that," she said, slapping him playfully.
"Quiet," he said seriously, holding up his hand and looking off into the darkness.
She followed his gaze and a moment later watched as a pair of headlights shone through the thick forest and quickly disappeared again as a vehicle made its way over the highs and lows of the driveway.
"Who is it?" she asked. "Are you expecting someone?"
"No," he responded, as he withdrew a Glock pistol from his belt.
The headlights rose again, slowly washing over them. A twig snapped to their right and Declan knew he was too late.
"Put down the weapon!" a voice shouted from the darkness.
Professionals. Declan knew by the way they'd positioned themselves, one at his three o'clock and the other at his seven. With his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could just make out the two men, each with M4 carbine assault rifles aimed for the kill. There was no way he could take them both and they knew it.
He didn't know how they'd found him, but they had. He should have moved on faster and been out of the area, but he'd allowed the remote location and his emergency preparations to lull him into a false sense of security. He hadn't wanted Constance to live a life on the run so he'd delayed their leaving as long as he could; now they were caught and he was cursing himself. Instead of living a life on the run, neither of them would be living at all.
"Put down the weapon!" the man at his three o'clock shouted again. "We're not here to hurt you!"
The headlights of the approaching vehicle rose over the last incline of the driveway and bathed the small clearing where the cabin stood in incandescent light.
"Well, you're sure as hell not here selling hoovers, old son," Declan said, keeping his arms straight by his side but not releasing the Glock from his grip. He stared straight ahead at Constance who stood perfectly still, her arms straight up in the air and her eyes darting from left to right looking at each of the men in turn.
"Like you said, bud, we're not here sellin'...whatever. Someone wants to have a chat with you, but he can't very well do that if he's got a gun stuck in his mug." The seven o'clock's accent was local, for sure, the voice deep and raspy, probably from years of smoking.
The approaching vehicle took the last left hand curve of the drive way and pulled to a stop next to Constance's Nissan Z, revealing itself to be a dark-colored late model mini-van with deeply tinted windows. The rear passenger side window in the cargo door came down with a low hum but revealed only darkness beyond. Declan heard the pneumatic hiss before he saw anything.
"Get down!" he said pushing Constance to the muddy surface of the driveway, but it was too late. As he dived on top of her a sharp pain stabbed the side of his neck. He pulled the dart out as he rolled onto his back and raised his pistol to fire, but the poison was acting fast. He'd pulled the trigger twice before he realized he was aiming at nothing, the shots echoing into the night. A black boot came from the darkness and pinned his arm at the wrist, holding his hand and the gun in it tight against the ground. Trying to fight through the fog that was steadily overtaking his mind, he brought his leg up to kick the kneecap of the man holding him. But instead of landing a crippling blow, he found his leg held above him at the ankle and twisted into a stress position by a second assaulter. His vision began coming in quick, blurry flashes.
"Damn. He's almost out. That's some good stuff."
The voice was a slow drawl, but Declan couldn't tell if it was a real accent or just the effects of the poison. "You bastards," he breathed as he felt himself losing consciousness.
"You got that right, bud."
Chapter Forty-Five
7:26 p.m. Eastern Time – Wednesday
Russell Senate Office Building
Washington, D.C.
"The cabin was definitely theirs, Senator," the voice of SAC Robert Evers said, as David Kemiss answered the line. "But it looks like they cleared out just before we got there."
"Dammit!" Kemiss slammed his fist on his desk. He still hadn't heard a word from Lane Simard and the FBI had come up empty. With every hour that ticked by, Declan McIver could be getting further and further away. "Have you got anything, anything at all?"
Evers was silent for a moment and Kemiss realized he was overstepping the invisible boundaries between being an interest
ed policymaker wanting to help and a desperate man with an ulterior motive. "Sorry," Kemiss said bringing his voice back to a normal level. "The Castellanos are good friends, and I'm taking this very personal."
"I understand, sir. We think they cleared out minutes before we got there. Somehow they saw us coming and took off. There were still groceries in a bag on the front porch. We have police patrols all over the area, checkpoints set up and their pictures will be in the local media outlets within minutes. If they're still in the area, we'll find them."
"Good. The Castellano and Kafni families deserve justice and don't even get me started on the families of those people at Liberty University."
"It's the Bureau's top priority across the nation, Senator. Declan McIver's been moved to the top of the most wanted list and we're moving heaven and earth to find him. We just have very little to go on."
"I told you that my office would help, so I have. I'm working on getting you more information on his past."
"I'm sure that would be very helpful, sir. Judging from the cabin, they left in a hurry and on foot. They can't have gotten far."
"Hopefully not. Keep me updated every step of the way, will you?"
"Yes, of course, sir."
Kemiss set down the phone and looked at his watch; so much for Simard having answers for him by breakfast. It was already evening in the U.S. and after midnight in the United Kingdom. If Simard wanted to keep his posh job as the London station chief and not find himself transferred to a remote substation in the Ukraine, he'd be making a phone call soon.
Kemiss stood from his desk and stretched. It was late, but if he hurried he could still catch the last train to his nearby apartment and at least try to get some rest. He began to gather some files containing legislation that he would soon be asked to vote on, but set them back on the desk. What good would reading the bills be if he wasn't in the Senate to vote on them? And that's exactly what would happen if his plans didn't come to fruition soon. He'd be washed out of American politics on a tidal wave of scandal.
His phone sounded suddenly and before it could produce even half a ring, he'd picked it up and brought the receiver to his ear. At this time of night the Capitol's switchboard staff had left for the day and any calls would be from someone who had the private numbers of any legislators that happened to be working.
"Kemiss?"
"It's Simard, sir," the voice on the other end said. "I apologize for the delay, but it seems the files in London were quite old and some of the information had to be reconstructed before it could be passed on."
"Fine, fine, what's it say?"
"I'm sending the files to you now, but as it turns out Declan McIver doesn't have a file at the Security Service. His name only appears in a file dedicated to a unit known as Black Shuck."
"What the hell is Black Shuck?"
"Do you remember what Forestor said the other day about having evidence that the Soviets may have been involved with the IRA?"
"Yes."
"Well, he was right. The files the Security Service sent over indicate that in the mid-eighties there were rumors being spread around the paramilitary groups that some ultra-right wing members of the IRA were busy preparing a secret unit. Supposedly someone fairly wealthy within the ranks of the IRA had connections with some military brass in the Soviet Union and sent some men to be trained by their version of the Special Forces, the Spetsnaz. Officially, the group was known as Black Shuck."
"Jesus Christ," Kemiss murmured. "So this guy's a Russian trained terrorist?"
"Maybe. His name appears on a list with about a hundred possible suspects and it appears in a number of individual reports within the file, but there's nothing concrete. The British intelligence agencies never finished the job. The investigation was abandoned in ninety-four after a supposedly rock solid source, codenamed Homeless Viper, said that the unit was wiped out from the inside. Apparently the IRA was infamous for eating its own children because of the infiltration of British spies throughout their ranks."
"Intriguing." Kemiss was interested in the concept whether Declan McIver was involved or not. If he could pin McIver as a member of a specially trained unit of terrorists, then nothing the man said to anyone would ever be believed and he'd be on the run for the rest of his life–which wouldn't be very long if Kemiss had his way.
"When it comes to Northern Ireland, David, I have to caution you, you're dealing with an extremely difficult to understand situation."
"I don't care about understanding the situation," Kemiss said, being careful not to make the same mistake he had with Robert Evers moments ago. Like Evers, Simard was trying to capture a man whom he believed was guilty of a crime, not eliminate the only witness to it. "I only want this information because it might reveal where this guy's hiding and who he may reach out to for help."
"There's a lot here, David. It's going to take some time to go through and pick out anything useful."
"Have you seen the amount of regulations generated by the federal government lately? Send it all to me. I've got people around here that deserve purple hearts for the amount of paper cuts they've suffered."
"On its way, sir. I'll warn you, though. Some of the names and locations have been redacted to protect the identities of undercover agents. There was nothing I could do about that."
"Thank you, Mr. Simard. I'll be sure and send word of your helpfulness to your superiors."
"Thank you—"
Kemiss pressed the button on the phone's cradle to end the call before the man could finish speaking. Dialing another number, he waited.
"Colin?" he said as a young man's voice answered. "It's David Kemiss. I have a job I need you to get on right away. Are you up for it, son?"
"Yes, sir, of course."
"Good. Get in here and I'll explain everything."
Chapter Forty-Six
9:10 p.m. Eastern Time – Wednesday
The Greenbrier Resort
White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia
Declan felt a rush of cold air as the cargo door on the van slid open, followed closely by the stench of garbage. He'd been conscious for only a few moments and his head was still buzzing from the effects of whatever poison he'd been hit with. His wrists and ankles were bound tightly together; a blindfold that stunk of grease and felt like it had been fashioned out of an old dishrag had been placed over his eyes. He felt two large hands grip him under the arms and pull upwards.
"Let's go, bud, your date's waiting."
He recognized the voice as the seven o'clock gunman from outside the cabin. He tried to drop his weight and make himself as heavy as possible, but realized quickly that his muscles were useless. He was already being supported one hundred percent by the two men, each with an arm looped under his, holding him up as they dragged him out of the van. His legs stung like they'd been asleep as his feet impacted with the floor and he felt himself being pulled forward. The stinging continued as his feet bounced against the edges of steps as he was dragged upwards.
The smell of grease hung thick in the air and from the sounds around him he guessed he was in some kind of loading area in close proximity to a restaurant. How long had he been out? Where was Constance? He tried again to struggle against the two men carrying him, to no avail. He drew in a breath of putrid air and tried to ask "Where's my wife?" but all that came out was slurred babble.
"Bring him through here," he heard a voice say from up ahead. The two men dragging him stopped for a moment and he heard a door unlatch and open before they pulled him inside.
The unmistakable sound of a metal chair being pulled across a concrete floor filled his ears and when it stopped, the two men dumped him into the seat. He sat completely still concentrating hard on staying upright in the chair as he fought against the lingering effect of the drugs. He heard the shuffling of feet as at least two men moved around him and then a loud slam as the door he'd been brought through closed, leaving the room in silence. Was he alone? No, he felt someone nearby, standing in front of h
im.
"Welcome to the Greenbrier Resort, old friend. Sorry the accommodations aren't a bit better, but it seems you've gotten yourself into some trouble."
Declan recognized the voice immediately. It sounded older now, more experienced somehow but it was still close enough that he knew who it was even though he couldn't see him.
The blindfold was pulled off and the cold air attacked his sweaty face as he looked around. His vision was still blurry but his eyes finally settled on the person in front of him.
"Fintan?"
"Aye, you look like hell, old son."
"Screw you," Declan said his voice weak and catching in his throat. "How'd you get here so fast?"
"Fast? We've been looking for you for three days."
"Why?"
"Well, if you've been reading the same newspapers I have, you're in a lot of trouble."
"They killed Abe and set me up because I saw it."
"I figured it had to be something like that. Here, drink this. It'll help clear your head."
Declan felt cold condensation drip from a bottle as a hand held it to his mouth.
"Oh, cut him loose already," Fintan ordered. "He's not gonna hurt anyone. He can barely sit upright."
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