by Jon Land
“Headed for Portugal where Gypsies would be waiting,” Zarrin assumed. “But then something changed, didn’t it? The Mary Celeste’s crew abandoning her put a big crimp in the plans of your ancestors. The Dei Gratia sailing into Gibraltar instead of Portugal with her in tow, taking all that attention.”
“You’re right. It set my ancestors scrambling, but they were still able to off-load the barrels from the ship while the inquiry took place over the course of six or seven days. The Dei Gratia crew was paid off, including the mate and the captain.”
“They thought they were selling you petroleum.”
“Of course they did. Valuable enough in its own right not to arouse their suspicions. They had no idea what their ship was really carrying. The hoax that another ship, the Mary Celeste, was transporting the barrels was insisted upon by Napoléon III himself. He trusted no one, including the Brits who’d joined in the conspiracy with him.”
“And when did your ancestors realize the truth?” Zarrin asked him. “When did they realize those barrels carried something deadly and dangerous?”
Bajão leaned backwards, stiffening as he stole a glance at his two sons. “It would seem I’ve underestimated you.”
“I’m after those barrels, Matias,” Zarrin said, her hands quivering slightly but otherwise fully functional again. “You don’t have to die today and neither do your sons.”
The big Gypsy’s face straightened into stone, then broke out into laughter. He was quickly joined by his sons, the three of them going red-faced.
“What he told me about you doesn’t do you justice,” Bajão said.
“What who told you?”
“Me,” announced Colonel Kosh, stepping through a beaded curtain from the next room.
CHAPTER 76
Fairfax, Virginia
Alvin Turwell was staring out the windows of his house, moving from one to another, trying to spot the guards posted in his yard. His calls to Robert Carroll were going straight to voice mail, Jeremiah Rule was missing, and all he could do was try and figure out how to salvage something from a tactical plan years in the making as he parted a drape to peer outward.
“Four men,” a voice said, suddenly behind him.
Turwell swung, going for the pistol he realized he’d left on the foyer table.
“A bit under the weather tonight, it seems,” Blaine McCracken continued. “Johnny Wareagle sent them home early.”
“McCracken …”
Blaine had taken Andrew Ericson to CenterPointe Hospital for observation, remaining there until operatives sent by H. J. Belgrade arrived to spell him. “I see my reputation proceeds me. Robert Carroll sends his regards, by the way. Called you an asshole.”
“He said that?”
“Actually, I think he said ‘fucking asshole.’ Apparently, he blames you for me ending his career in public service.”
“I told him targeting that kid was a bad idea.”
“Too bad he didn’t listen. I’m guessing they’ve found his body by now. Poor guy got himself run over by a roller coaster.”
“You …”
“I did what I had to do, Colonel, just like I’m doing now. See, Carroll didn’t know where the barrels containing the White Death are hidden. You do.”
“White Death?”
“What the Indians called the contents of those barrels you’ve got stashed away somewhere.”
Turwell stood there motionless, not even seeming to breathe.
“It’s over,” McCracken continued. “Your term as the mayor of Whacko City has expired.”
Turwell shook his head. “I expected more of you, McCracken.”
“Really? And why’s that?”
“Because unlike the rest of these fools, you’re a soldier. Just like me.”
“I’m a soldier. Nothing like you.”
“You’re on the wrong side of this.”
McCracken grinned. “Your friend Robert Carroll said pretty much the same thing before I tied him to the tracks.” He took a step forward, close enough to Turwell now to catch the faint smell of perspiration mixing with talcum powder. “You’re going to take me to the White Death, Colonel. We’re leaving now.”
“You know what I’m doing is right and you’re afraid to admit it.”
“Right, keep telling yourself that. I’ve spent my life fighting people like you, only in foreign countries. What scares me the most is that you’ve come home to roost. And if there are more out there, like you say, I’ll find them too.”
“You are a piece of work, McCracken truly a piece of work. You talk like you’re invincible, indestructible, but we’ve all got a clock running on us, and yours is going to run out just like everyone else’s.”
“Got it all figured out, don’t you? Figure you know what’s best for everyone else, that anyone who disagrees with you is wrong. That’s called fanaticism.”
“It used to be called leadership. The courage to do the difficult thing.”
“You mean courage as in ordering a bunch of kids to their deaths in Afghanistan?” McCracken felt heat building under his skin, as if his blood was simmering to a boil. “Tell me something, Colonel. Where were you when those boys died? Leading them in an advancing position or hanging back where it was safe?”
Turwell bristled. “How many did you kill in Vietnam, McCracken?”
“None of my own. I don’t know what’s scarier: the fact people actually believe you or that you believe the bullshit you spout yourself. You talk like you’re the only one who knows what’s best for the country, the only one willing to make the hard choices that really aren’t so hard at all because they end up serving your own ends. Interesting how the threats used to come from outside the country, but now they seem to come just as much from the inside.”
Turwell just shook his head, looking more annoyed and disappointed than angry. “You should really listen to yourself, McCracken.”
“And what would I hear?”
“Someone who has bought into all of the bullshit, hook, line, and sinker. You’ve been hung out to dry more times than last week’s laundry and you still keep coming back for more. Well, there are millions out there like me who are done with all that. We see where this country’s going, and we intend to change that path whatever it takes.”
“And, what, that would be the ten-or-so percent of the country who believe in armed insurrection? We already fought this thing called the Civil War, Colonel. That was supposed to settle things on that note, but the people you speak for would rather fight it again. Or maybe they never stopped fighting it.” McCracken studied Turwell closer, as if seeing him for the first time. “You know, my enemies used to make up a pretty exclusive club. Now anyone with a laptop and an Internet connection can try to start World War III.”
A smirk bubbled over on Alvin Turwell’s expression. “And you think you can get all of us?”
“There’s only one more that matters right now, and he’s my next stop. After you’ve taken me to those barrels of the White Death, Colonel.”
CHAPTER 77
Costa del Sol, Spain
Kosh stepped all the way into the room, accompanied by the two hulking bodyguards Zarrin recalled from her dressing room at the Haliç Center in Istanbul. “It would seem we travel in the same circles,” he grinned.
And then she realized. “You came for the barrels, not me.”
“We’ve been hiding them this long because no one was willing to match our price,” said Matias Bajão. “Your friend here changed that.”
“What choice did I have?” Kosh added. “After Blaine McCracken wiped out our nuclear enrichment facility. You remember Blaine McCracken, don’t you? The man I hired you to kill but who you’ve now, apparently, joined forces with?” He shook his round, bowling bowl–like head. “Full of surprises, aren’t you, Zarrin? Like letting yourself be drugged so you’d be taken here. Tell m
e, have you already managed to get the rope free?”
Zarrin raised her hands still bound by the rope. “But the joke’s on you, Colonel,” she said to him, as Kosh’s two guards came up on either side of her with guns drawn, close but not too close. “Because the barrels are gone from wherever these Gypsies hid them.”
“My sons checked on the barrels just last month,” Bajão insisted, “as they check on them every month. A responsibility passed down through the ages since we took possession of them in 1872.”
“You’re wrong, Matias.” Zarrin looked back at Kosh. “And you came here for nothing.”
He smiled at her with, his tobacco-stained teeth looking even darker in the room’s thin light. “But I found you, didn’t I?”
CHAPTER 78
West Virginia
The helicopter arranged by H. J. Belgrade got them as close to the secret mountain storage facility as possible, a big SUV with one of Belgrade’s former right-hand men behind the wheel to take McCracken and Turwell the rest of the way.
“I’m not doing this for me,” Turwell explained, breaking the silence he’d committed himself to for the bulk of the journey. “I’m doing it because of Rule. He betrayed me. He can open his tenth circle of Hell on somebody else’s dime.”
“Wait a minute, you’re telling me Rule knew about the barrels, what they can do?”
“He made me take him here a few days ago. Insisted on seeing them for himself.”
McCracken had heard of secret storage facilities like this one contained in the Allegheny Mountains, but had never actually been inside one until today. The endless hallways set beyond big titanium bay doors were dimly lit and musty, filled with an odor of stale air and disuse. The walls and floor felt chalky and the air, when the thin light caught it right, swirled with dust. Blaine felt that dust paint his clothes and face with a layer of grit that caught in his lungs as well, making him want to cough.
They reached the massive double-bay doors beyond which lay the chamber where the barrels had been stored. As Turwell approached the keypad, McCracken pictured the convoy of trucks it must have taken to haul all seventeen hundred barrels up the winding mountain roads where they had ultimately been off-loaded and stacked here. He imagined the deadly contents had been transferred into more secure storage barrels first for reasons of safety and preservation. Any way you looked at it, a daunting task requiring lots of men and equipment, including forklifts and bucket loaders.
Turwell punched in the code, looking back at McCracken as if he had something to say before hitting the last number. But then he simply sneered and pressed it slowly. A dull hum sounded, and the mechanical double-bay doors began to slide open.
“No,” muttered Turwell, as he looked inside.
CHAPTER 79
Blountstown, Florida
“You won’t be sorry for this,” the Reverend Jeremiah Rule said to Boyd Fowler over the phone. “The end of this road holds great things for you and your boy.”
Fowler was on that road now squeezed behind the wheel of one of the trucks owned by another member of the Rock Machine. That truck was part of a Virginia-based fleet normally used for moving all manner of contraband in the form of drugs, cigarettes, alcohol, or weapons, a fleet appropriated today for a much holier purpose.
“I’m coming into Washington now and the others aren’t far behind. I’m just happy to be of service to God and you, Reverend,” Fowler said, hands tightening on the wheel. “Feels a bit strange to be doing His work, though. Then again, like they say, the Lord does work in mysterious ways.”
“He does indeed,” grinned Rule.
“When you gonna join us up here?”
“I’ll be leaving to meet up with you shortly. Just one last thing I need to finish.”
The reverend had shown up excited and near breathless at Boyd Fowler’s trailer just before dawn, having driven straight through from North Carolina.
“You okay, Reverend? Something wrong?”
Rule had forgotten how dirty he was, his clothes grubby and face streaked with grime. “I need your help, Boyd.”
“Anything, Reverend, just name it.”
“We need to get some men together. And trucks.”
“Trucks?”
“Big ones. To carry the weight of the future.”
Rule had given Fowler precise directions and instructions, the big man more than capable of handling the rest on his own while the reverend remained behind to complete one final task before joining him in Washington. From what he’d been told, the loading process had been finished just after dawn, all based on a vision that had come to Jeremiah Rule back on the grounds of Black House in North Carolina. Asking the old van for more speed than it could give him, the ghost of the boy he’d killed all those years ago next to him the whole time.
“I must confess something,” Rule told the ghost, when they crossed into Blountstown.
“It’s good for the soul.”
“I … I don’t remember your name.”
“It’s Jimmy.”
“Jimmy,” Rule repeated.
“James, actually. Named after my father and his before him.”
“And how did you come to reside in Black House?”
“My parents gave me up to the state, Reverend. Said with six other kids they couldn’t afford me no more. Promised me they’d come back someday and take me home. Guess they never got the chance.”
“I’m sorry, son.”
“Don’t fret on it, Reverend. They was never coming back anyway. I hadn’t even heard from them for six months before that night you made me hang from the steam pipe, so maybe you ended up just sparing me a whole lot of pain.” The ghost paused, seeming to fade out in that brief instant to reveal the faded and tattered car seat beneath him. “I know why you did it.”
Rule tried to see the ghost more clearly and swallowed hard.
“Because somebody did the same thing to you. I saw it in your face then and I feel it inside you now. So where we going?”
Jeremiah Rule pushed the rancid stench that filled the van from his consciousness. The mud that had dried into paste on his hands seemed to glue them to the wheel. It was everywhere now, having seeped into the driver’s seat where it had dried into a stench-riddled film.
“I’m gonna take you home, son,” he told the ghost. “And then I’m gonna open the tenth circle of Hell.”
CHAPTER 80
West Virginia
“A motorcycle gang?” McCracken raised, after Turwell had laid it all out for him.
“Reverend Rule’s personal army of God,” the colonel said.
Before them, the storage hold was empty. The tracks of the loaders that had removed the barrels and loaded them on to what must have been a convoy of trucks were evident, along with a number of large footprints left in the dust.
“The man has gone totally around the bend,” Turwell continued.
“Territory you know all too well. What was the target, Colonel? What were you intending to hit with the White Death?”
“Looks like we’re all fucked, doesn’t it?” Turwell smirked, instead of responding. “Damn shame too, since this country was on a path to a fresh start, a whole new beginning, after tonight.”
“Tonight?” Blaine asked, suddenly chilled by more than just the air-conditioning.
“Think about it, McCracken.”
“Oh shit,” Blaine said, realizing. “The president’s State of the Union address.”
“Our plan was to blow up the private Capitol subway with the barrels loaded on board,” Turwell said, almost boasting as he walked ahead of McCracken into the storage chamber, gazing about in almost nostalgic fashion. His voice echoed amid the empty confines. “Rupture the walls and flood the tunnel, exposing it to the contents of the barrels halfway into the president’s speech. But all the praying in the world won’t help Rule
pull that off.”
“You a man of prayer yourself?” McCracken asked, backing up until he was flush with the entrance to the chamber.
“What’s the difference?”
“Because of you’re going to have plenty of time for it now,” Blaine told him, stepping back into the corridor. “Rest in peace, Colonel.”
And he hit the button to seal the chamber behind him.
The sound of Turwell’s banging on the heavy doors grew fainter before dissipating altogether by the time McCracken got H. J. Belgrade on the phone just short of the exit.
“You say a motorcycle gang, son?” he asked before Blaine had finished.
“I did. They’re part of a gang called the Rock Machine out of Canada where they’re known for drugs and not much more. Down here they’re known for something else.”
“Got a feeling I’m not gonna like this.”
“No, you’re not. Several members of that biker gang the good reverend has enlisted spent time in federal prison for plotting to blow up the United States Capitol Building.”
“And now they’ve got the White Death …”
“But this all still ends once Jeremiah Rule is out of the picture. It’s ten a.m. The Indian and I will try to have him in chains by lunchtime.”
“Then there’s one more thing you need to know,” Belgrade said. “That satellite recon I ordered for you turned up something underneath the Reverend Rule’s house.”
CHAPTER 81
Gibraltar
“This way,” Bajão said, leading the group forward along the thin path so damp that it felt as slick as ice.
Zarrin followed next, flanked on either side by Kosh’s bodyguards, her hands still bound before her. The colonel himself struggled to keep pace. She could hear the huffing of his breath, the rustling of his feet each time he almost lost his footing just ahead of Bajão’s sons, who brought up the rear with shotguns slung by straps behind their shoulders.
“We’re almost there,” the Gypsy continued, and Zarrin heard Kosh sigh with relief.