by Joanne Pence
“Interesting,” she murmured.
“Interesting?”
“Because while I think the world of him, it’s not the way you imagine at all. He came to my tent for conversation and companionship, nothing more.” She studied him, this great, loud, bull-in-a-china-shop sheriff, who for some odd reason, she liked being around. Her face grew warm as something made her say, “Besides, he's not my type.”
That took him aback, along with a twinge of something that felt a lot like elation—except that it'd been so long since he'd felt anything like that, he scarcely recognized it. Then, fool that he was, the wrong words spilled from his lips. “What is your type?”
She tapped her fingers thoughtfully against her chin, realizing to her astonishment, that she enjoyed this conversation. “I'm not sure I remember.”
He smirked. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”
Her brow wrinkled, but she couldn’t hide a small smile or quiet the drum beat coursing through her as she said, “I do believe I've always had a weakness for law and order types.”
He gawked as his mind considered how to interpret that.
At his unnerving silence, she quickly added, “My husband was one.”
Ah. “I see.”
She struggled for what to say next. “Are you married, Sheriff?” she blurted.
He was surprised she’d asked. “I was. Divorced now. No kids. I spent too much time on the job. My wife got lonely and met someone who was ‘there for her,’ as she put it. She got what she had always wanted. Two kids, a nice home in Ventura, and a husband who isn't me.”
Although he kept his tone light, she heard the pain in his voice at what he clearly regarded as his failure, his blame, and instinctively knew there was a lot more to the story. She wondered why she cared. He had been right about one thing—Michael, not him, was her type. She had always gone for academic types, scholars. Dennis’ involvement with the CIA was a bizarre aberration to her way of thinking. The sheriff was completely different.
And yet, she couldn’t help but admire in both men their bravery, sense of duty, and selfless commitment to all they believed was right. “And so you're now living alone in the mountains of Idaho?”
“Yes, but it could be worse,“ he replied. “I could still be in L.A.”
She nodded. “Can't say I disagree.”
“Then you're a little cracked yourself. Most people thought I was flat-out looney-tunes to leave all that glamour and sunshine for this cold nothingness.”
She watched him “Why did you leave?”
He took in a deep breath before saying, “I quit the force.”
“Why?”
He dropped his gaze. “I don't think...”
“Try me,” she said.
A long moment passed before he spoke. “It was a hostage situation. Kids at a small private school in Bel Air. Three gunmen entered a classroom of first graders and threatened to shoot them one at a time unless they were given ten million dollars. For some of the parents, that was pocket change. Higher ups decided to go along with the demand and grab the gunmen as they left. I headed the team tasked with making the capture. But something went wrong with the money drop. All hell broke loose and when it ended, two kids and the gunmen were dead. I still have nightmares about it. Guess I always will. Just like the parents of those little kids who died.”
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. She sensed the agony, anger, and guilt he felt as he recalled what had happened. His character caused him to take responsibility for the tragedy, but she suspected the blame wasn't his. No more than Dennis' death had been hers. Her heart opened to him. “Violent men and innocent kids,” she murmured.
“Ironic, isn't it? I came all the way to Idaho to get away from those memories, and now this.” His agony seared through her before he turned his head away.
She ached to comfort him, even as she realized she scarcely knew how to anymore. Awkwardly, she placed her hand on his shoulder. “You don't always have to act tough, Sheriff.”
He stiffened at her touch. “I don't,” he said with a forced chuckle.
She felt his tension and quickly withdrew her hand. “But you do, until you allow someone close enough to see beneath that gruff exterior.”
Surprise, then caution, then a bittersweet sadness flickered across his face. “It requires trust,” he said, “something I seem to have grown out of.”
The heartache in his voice rocked her. “You can trust me,” she whispered.
He didn’t move, but listened to the sound of their breathing. “I know.”
Then, inwardly cursing himself as a fool, he forced his gaze to the rifle and picked it up. Looking only at the weapon he said, “It’s your turn to get some sleep. I’ll take over the watch now.”
She nodded. “Yes, you’re right.” She waited, and then rose to her feet. “Good night, Sheriff.”
He watched her move nearer the campfire and settle down to rest. She told him he could trust her, and in thanks he sent her away. That just might have been the dumbest thing he’d ever done in his life.
“Good night, Charlotte,” he whispered so only he could hear.
Chapter 59
“SHOULD I GIVE HIM more propofol?” Bob asked Phaylor.
“No. I want him lucid when we reach Idaho.” Phaylor gazed, bored, out the window of the Cessna Citation X. They neared the Montana-Idaho border, but he only saw a cloud bank below. They would be landing soon. He squeezed the bridge of his nose wearily.
The nurse nodded, then leaned back in his seat.
Phaylor had decided to go to the twin spires himself. The two teams of mercenaries he sent out there, plus the university group Vandenburg sent had been able to find them, so he should be able to as well. Once found, however, why did no one leave them? Was the world they offered so wonderful men chose to stay? Or did they die? He needed to see it for himself, to learn the answer. He was close to death, so he didn’t fear going there the way a young man like Bob might. But he needed Bob’s help. Promises of unimagined wealth bought Bob’s loyalty.
When he finished this, if he survived, Phaylor would take back his company. With his newly created gold, he’d buy back the stock and make the company private once more. He couldn’t wait to get rid of Milt Zonovich and fire that entire stupid board of directors.
With his plans in place, Phaylor-Laine Pharmaceuticals would become so wealthy it truly could have world domination. And he would be at its helm forever.
He would create his own empire, and soon, his own world. One world order. And all his.
Chinese alchemists used a term, lien tan, or “pill of transformation.” His pharmaceutical soul liked that. Whatever means delivered immortality, he would market it as a pill. Also, he would make it clear that one pill alone would not help, but a pill needed to be taken every year—a placebo, of course, but who would know that? And who would risk challenging it? Yes, that way, money would continuously flow into PLP's coffers. He already planned his contracts with American billionaires and oil rich Arab sheiks. Immortality wouldn’t come cheap.
Jianjun opened his eyes, and fought to clear his head. “He's going to kill you, Bob, as soon as he doesn't need you anymore. You know that, don’t you? Think about it. How could he leave you as a witness to murder and kidnapping and everything else he’s planning? You would have too much power over him, too much knowledge. I know you aren't smart, but at least you should have some sense of self-preservation. Even a slug knows enough to try to get out of danger.”
Phaylor chuckled. “I'll make you so rich, Bob, I have no worries. You'd never tell because you'd lose your fortune. Don’t listen to him.”
Bob smiled. “I don’t. But I'll be glad when he's dead.”
“You are a fool!” Jianjun shouted. “And a killer. Security cameras monitored Vandenburg’s building. Are you sure you avoided every one of them? They’ll see you entering her apartment, and then taking me out of there at gunpoint. They’ll know who the murderer is.”
Bob's face flushed. “It won’
t happen!”
“You know it’s true. You know the old man set you up!” Jianjun raged.
Bob punched him in the mouth. Jianjun’s head snapped back and he tasted blood. The sound echoed through the plane.
Phaylor chuckled, but a phlegm-filled cough got in the way of his enjoyment.
All were quiet as the plane began to descend. They landed at an airfield near Sun Valley. There, they would transfer to the helicopter Milt Zonovich ordered soon after his talk with Phaylor.
The Cessna no sooner landed, however, when armed Blaine County deputies, Idaho State Police, and Homeland Security officers surrounded it.
The pilot opened the plane’s doors.
The lead deputy boarded the plane, followed by others. He quickly drew his gun. “Drop your weapons,” he ordered.
“Weapons? What is this?” Phaylor demanded. “There must be some mistake. I’m Calvin Phaylor! Do you have any idea of my influence? My power?”
Officers placed Phaylor and Bob under arrest.
“John Lee?” the deputy asked, untying Jianjun and noting his bruises. “Are you all right?”
“I am, now,” Jianjun said. “Yes. I am fine. Very fine. So, Homeland Security sent you?”
“That’s right, although their intel said you might be here or you might have been murdered. Glad to see it was the former, and we’re able to free you.”
“Thank you!” Jianjun exclaimed, giving himself an inward cheer that his plan worked. After discovering that, shortly after talking to Phaylor, Milt Zonovich ordered a Cessna out of Teterboro, New Jersey, and then a helicopter in Sun Valley, he put two and two together. Phaylor planned to go to Idaho to find the gateway himself. Jianjun feared Phaylor might decide to take him along to help—or kill him so there would be no witness to Phaylor’s involvement.
For that reason, he wrote a number of carefully worded and completely untrue emails filled with buzz-words and scenarios sure to excite terror specialists. He then sent all of them to his most reliable first cousin, Waymon Li. He asked Waymon to release them to specific people in Homeland Security if any four hour period passed and Jianjun hadn’t sent him a text that he was alive and well. Fortunately, his cousin watched the clock.
“With all the bigwigs who have homes or come here for vacation,” the deputy said, his face beaming, “we’ve trained for situations like this, but this is the first time we’ve actually used it! Pretty exciting, I must say. We heard that you’re the son of some muckety-muck in China. No need for this to become an international incident.”
“I am much relieved to be rescued.” Jianjun stood and bowed many times while trying not to chuckle over what his father, who worked as an accountant in Canada, would think of this story. “Very relieved, but I must go, now.”
“I don’t think so. We’ve got lots of questions, like why kidnap you? What were they planning to do? Also, considering who we just arrested”—he looked over at Phaylor—“I’m sorry to say Homeland Security is going to need a lot of answers.”
Jianjun nodded. If the authorities were confused now, just wait until they found Jennifer Vandenburg’s body. Having used the police to free him from Phaylor, he needed to escape them. He wasn't worried. Given all he and Michael had been through over the years, doing that would be a piece of cake.
But after that, how was he going to find Michael?
Chapter 60
“UNTIL WE COME up with a way to protect ourselves,” Michael said when the group gathered after a restless night, “we're sitting ducks if they come after us.”
“Sam Black and Arnie Tieg had rifles when they first picked us up,” Melisse said, “and they had ammo clips. One day they headed northeast from the village with the rifles, and when they returned they no longer carried them. I saw some caves out that way when Rachel and I were picking tubers. I’d look there.”
“Give me directions to find the spot,” Michael said.
“I'll join you,” Jake added.
“We should all go,” Charlotte suggested. “I don’t like the idea of splitting up.”
“No,” Jake told her a little too quickly, a little too abruptly. “It’s going back near the compound, back to danger. You, Lionel, and Quade need to put your heads together with that book and the philosopher’s stones and look for any hint on getting us out of here.” He looked hard at Quade, as if to say he knew Quade had a lot more information than he shared so far.
“I told you I can’t help,” Lionel complained. “It’s not my area.”
“You’d rather return to the village with us and look for guns?” Jake asked.
Lionel blanched and fell silent.
“I should go with you, Sheriff,” Melisse offered.
“Michael and I can handle it,” Jake said. “I'd rather you stay and protect the others. If this camp is attacked, you'll be most useful here.”
“I know what you're doing, Sheriff.” Melisse held her head high. “Don't cut me out. It's my job to go into danger.”
“I understand that,” Jake said. “But you may be needed right here.”
He didn't know how prophetic his words would be.
o0o
By late afternoon, Michael and Jake still hadn’t found the cave with a stash of guns. They hadn’t found any cave at all.
“Should we give up?” Jake asked. “I’m worried about leaving the others alone all this time.”
“There’s only about an hour more of daylight,” Michael said. “We should take advantage of it. In any case, it’ll be dark before we get back to them.”
“You’re right,” Jake said. “If we can only find those rifles, we’ll be a credible fighting force.”
“Bring 'em on,” Michael said with heavy irony.
“Careful what you wish for.”
“That's the story of my life, damn it.”
Dusk fell as they continued their slow, cautious search. Jake glanced back to tell Michael it was time to give up. A red laser spot danced on Michael's chest—a high beam rifle scope had him in its sight.
Jake lunged and knocked Michael off his feet as the high piercing sound of a rifle shot whizzed by. A rock Michael had been standing in front of shattered.
A half second later, multiple rounds of rifle fire sounded.
Dirt and debris exploded around them. Jake groaned as he and Michael scrambled for cover.
“You're hit!” Michael stared at the gaping wound on the sheriff’s thigh. Jake had seemed invulnerable to him.
They dropped to their stomachs and rolled into a dry creek bed offering a slight depression in the contour of the land. There, Michael fired back with the Remington, while Jake used his knife to cut and tear off material from his shirt to make a tourniquet for his thigh. The bullet had missed his femoral artery or he would have quickly bled out.
Gunfire stopped altogether for few moments. Then shots came at them from three new positions.
Jake drew his Smith and Wesson. With dizzying agony he balanced on his good knee, his wounded leg outstretched. Waves of blackness swept over him as he fired blindly at the enemy. As he struggled against passing out, each wave became more difficult to fight. “I don't know how much longer I can hold on,” he murmured.
“Don't give up now, Sheriff!” Michael gripped his shoulder, his words harsh. “Concentrate on all who need you. Charlotte, Melisse, Lionel, Rachel, Brandi,”—he saw movement and shot at it—“even Quade and me. Hang on!”
Jake nodded, determined. More gunfire sounded and the two began to work their way backwards, away from the heavy assault, finally making a labored run to a more secure position behind a cluster of jutting rocks.
Jake reached shelter, but the effort cost him. The adrenaline rush that propelled him to safety abandoned him, and he slumped over.
Michael aimed his weapon in the direction of the attackers' oncoming sounds and fired wherever he detected sound or movement, desperate to hold their position.
Volleys of gunfire came at him with such force and frequency that he found
himself pinned down, unable to leave the security of the rock face to return fire. Not that it mattered. He had so little ammunition left, the fight would soon be over.
Chapter 61
THE FIRST GLOW OF sunrise peeked over the mountains. Melisse had kept watch all night while the students, Charlotte, and Lionel slept in a relatively secluded and secure culvert. Melisse guarded the group’s south flank and Quade its north.
Anxiety and a sense of hopelessness gripped her. The night before, as the group hiked, they heard the sound of high-powered rifle fire in the distance. They assumed the mercenaries found Jake and Michael. She prayed the two located the cave with weapons before that happened. But when the men didn’t return by nightfall, dread became despair.
The small group pushed on. They had managed to hide from both the mercenaries and the villagers for a day, but she doubted their luck would hold out much longer.
Something moved not far from her.
She crept cautiously toward the movement, then lay down flat in the scrub and waited.
Two strangers approached dressed in black tactical gear, and ball caps. They carried semi-automatic weapons. The mercs.
Three bullets remained in her Beretta.
She waited.
The men crept closer, but she still didn't act. A head shot would be the best way to stop them, but the hardest to make. She weighed her options. She didn't relish the thought of dying out here, not when she had so much to live for. Thoughts of her pretty little daughter, Marianna, came to mind, but she pushed them aside. She had no time for them now. The possibility of sidling back, out of the killers' view, waking Charlotte and the students and running appealed to her, but it wasn’t possible.
Heart pounding, she watched the mercs. They stepped into the open now, just as the sun peeked over the horizon, casting a whitish-pink aura over the land. They crouched, careful. She hadn’t moved for a long while so they had no idea she was there.
The sky was too beautiful for anyone to die under, she told herself.
Then, her training kicked in. She aimed, adjusted as she remembered Michael’s caution about bullet trajectories, and fired.