Storch's dead hand dragged the lever and the bolts blew out. The two-by-four foot panel of the hatch was sucked out into the dazzling sunset sky. Keogh released him to cling to the seat, but Storch went limp and half-fell, half-flew, out of the plane and into the wind.
~34~
If all had gone according to plan, he'd be in the fucking tropics, right now. By comparison, DC in winter was a perfect metaphorical expression of how terribly wrong everything had gone.
He sat in a glossy black custom Range Rover, the kind of plush armored SUV with which foreign dignitaries tooled the streets of Washington to flaunt their diplomatic immunity. There was no diplo placard on the dashboard to attract attention where they were
parked across the street from Ford's Theater on 10th Avenue, but any thorough DC police officer who ran its plates would find it registered to the Ambassador from the Democratic Republic of Congo, and a headache no rank-and-file officer would want to deal with. A more astute officer might wonder why only one occupant of the idling Range Rover, the driver, was black, or why the grizzled, scarred old white man in the back, with one arm in a sling and a laptop balanced on one knee, had an assault rifle and three extra magazines resting on the seat beside him. But he would have to come very close indeed to see Mort Greenaway through the triple-tinted, bullet-proof rear windows, and by then, Greenaway would have thought nothing of shooting him. For Greenaway had come too far, and cost too many damned good men their lives, to let a police officer stand between him and what he saw as the next phase of his revenge.
Now totally rogue, without military or spook backing, wanted by the FBI for what happened in Idaho. Half an A-team left, their collective morale, their collective sanity, more ragged than his own. Still a soldier, still fighting his war.
All along, he had been running behind this thing, seeing only its smoke, and leaving his men dead in its tracks. It was high time he dragged one of the drivers out and found out where the goddamned final destination was.
Greenaway looked at the marquee of Ford's Theater, at the doors through which Abraham Lincoln's dying body had been carried after John Wilkes Booth shot him at point-blank range on April 14, 1865. Oblivious to politics, Greenaway had studied the lessons of the event, and was stirred to admiration. One man, resolved and in the right place, accomplished what the entire Confederacy, in five years of devastating war, could not. Greenaway hoped to shake down a bigger tree than Lincoln by very similar tactics, but the reverse side of the lesson stuck in his craw, and he looked away. Booth's assassination had been expertly performed, but it was too late to save the Confederacy. It was only a bitter parting shot in the conflict, and changed nothing. Greenaway wondered if it was just his nation he was too late to save. Perhaps his species—
In the driver's seat, Chuck Mizell stirred and clicked his tongue to get Greenaway's attention. "Here he comes," he whispered. In the shotgun seat, Wiley dozed with his head on his shoulder. He would come full awake the moment he was needed, but it was really, really for the best that he sleep until then.
Greenaway wiped condensation off the inside of his window and saw the charcoal gray Chrysler sedan scoot out the mouth of the underground garage like a ball bearing. An arc sodium lamp on the corner made a bronze beaded curtain of the freezing rain pissing down on the street, which was fit only for figure skaters and zambonis.
The Chrysler's driver was nervous, and not gifted with adequate
winter-driving skills. The mid-sized government-issue car fishtailed wildly to the right, away from Pennsylvania Avenue, headed north on 10th, as expected. Mizell turned the ignition and swung into low-key pursuit down the empty street.
He heard Mizell's terse radio check with the forward units and the irregular squawking of the police scanner, and knew he should be listening in, but none of it pierced through the thick scab of brooding at which he had been picking since they came down off the mountain and started running.
They set down the Bell 406 in a field on the Washington side of the Snake River and piled into a van they'd stashed for just such an unforeseeable turn of events, and from there went to a safe house in Spokane. A medic saw to Greenaway's wounds, which were far worse than apparent at first, and beaconed in any survivors, of which there were exactly three. Twelve hours later, the remnants of Team Dog Town came straggling in on a stolen farmer's truck, shot up, shell-shocked and pissed beyond all reason. They laid up for three days, putting out feelers. What happened, who did it happen to, and who was looking for them? The FBI and state police in Idaho and Washington were quietly canvassing on a vague tip that an armed and dangerous militia group was in the region, looking for trouble.
Nobody talked about what they saw up there, and Greenaway never tried to debrief them. Team Dogtown was down in the thickest of the shit when the Mission's goddamned drone bombers bombed them blind, and the mutant survivalist army tunneled in under them. He knew they survived because they ran, but he would not make them say it. They were all he had left, and in the end, they were a hell of a lot smarter than he'd been.
Getting back east had been a prickly bitch with the silent dragnet tightening around them, but they had planned for this, only with a hell of a lot more men. Crossing the border on a rural road into Canada, they drove to Calgary and flew to Montreal, and crossed back over with forged Canadian passports. Even though he'd had the passports made himself, he still heaved a sigh of relief that slightly banked the blue flames of arctic rage through which he saw the world.
They say that hate only weakens you, wearing down your reserves and your judgment. But Greenaway ran on hate and jolly green giants and Percodan, and felt ten years younger the moment he'd figured out how to take the fight to them.
For he'd been chewing it over since they left Heilige Berg in defeat, and he'd gone in to Canada with a plan. He knew who the real enemy was, now, and it was not tiring to hate them, it was the last thread he had to cling to, over a churning black sea of madness. For he'd learned that the real enemies were the ones he'd hated all along, hated the most. The Missionaries were just pawns, like he'd been, but the ones who ran the board, the ones who started the wars, the recessions, the budget cutbacks, and more wars, always more stupid, pointless meat-grinding wars. They were the ones he'd bargained with to raise his army.
In his heart, he'd always known they and their kind were the cancer eating civilization, but they never gave him a reason. Idaho gave him one in spades, left him nothing else to lose. He knew who they were and where they lived, and tonight he'd know more. He had a card he hadn't played yet; it was a wild card, so wild he couldn't read it himself, yet. He meant to have that tonight, too. And tomorrow, he meant to have the Cave Institute's goddamned guts for breakfast.
He wasn't scared of them. He could do it with six men better than sixty, and the more pissed-off, the more psycho, the better, and they came no more pissed-off than the survivors of Heilige Berg.
The only thing he was still afraid of was Dr. Keogh and his cult of clones. Radiant Dawn remained an unknown, a hole in plans tactical and strategic that you could just about drop the fucking Pentagon into without touching the goddamned sides. They didn't scare him because they weren't human, or even because they were all the same goddamned guy. They scared him because of how they made him feel inside. When the Mission shut him down over the Owens River last summer, it made him feel old and stupid, and he went blood-simple up until the moment he first looked into Dr. Keogh's eyes. Even then, before he saw any of the rest of it—the rest of it, Jesus—when he looked into Keogh's eyes, he had felt something else that cut deeper than he thought he had nerves. He felt obsolete.
He knew that Radiant Dawn was some sort of Cave Institute-sponsored genetic research program, but he doubted they knew half of what went on there, or how far he'd gone. It was only the latest in the endless parade of insanely stupid master plans the eggheads had hatched on the world, but it was the one that might finally fuck them all for good. Mort Greenaway wasn't long for this world, didn't really w
ant to be, anymore, but before he died, he'd sworn to himself and to his men above and below ground, he'd hurt both sides, and show them what an old, stupid caveman could do.
The geek drove distractedly, a rank winter amateur, talking on a cellular phone. He rolled past the Range Rover, then through the stoplight at F Street, where the cut-off car was expected, but did not show.
"Chuck, where the fuck is Pastrana?" Greenaway growled, but Mizell said nothing. He stopped the Range Rover at the crosswalk and switched off the headlights, whispered something into his headset, shook his head.
Another sedan rolled into the intersection from F and turned in between the Range Rover and the Chrysler, five by five with the plan. But it was not just a car, Greenaway realized with an ugly, heart-choking double-take. Not his car, oh hell no. A DC Metro police cruiser, roof lights already twirling. It hove in tight on the Chrysler's ass and goosed its siren. The Chrysler slammed on its brakes midway down Tenth between F and G, right in the center of the dead spot Team Dogtown had made an hour earlier by shooting out the streetlights. Shimmying on the ice rink street, the Chrysler stopped hard against the tight column of parked cars on the right side. Even with the windows closed, Greenaway heard metal grind on metal and crackling glass.
What shit luck. Their quarry might have seen them, and ran the stop to get attention, but it was Greenaway's shit luck, running true to form, that put the cop there.
The cop got out and stomped up to the Chrysler's window. He wore a knee-length parka and a plastic baggie over his cap. His right hand brushed the coat off his hip, gunslinger-style, as he approached and cagily leaned close to the ice-beaded glass, tapped once with his left.
Greenaway craned his neck down F Street in both directions, but no joy. No Pastrana. He checked his laptop, punched in a quick instant message query, but nobody answered. Hector Pastrana was a past master of the urban snatch, ran a crew in Bogotá that delivered Cali cartel heads like milk every Monday morning for the better part of a year. He drove one of the trash trucks that bagged Chan Durban. If he saw the cop, he'd lay back, try to catch the quarry closer to the freeway. They were not in downtown Lebanon, but downtown DC, and though, statistically, the two were nearly indistinguishable in terms of street crime, this was not the time or the place for a shoot-out. He hoped Pastrana was hip to the cop and readjusting the plan, but he'd feel a hell of a lot better if the fuck would let him know what the hell was happening.
The window rolled down, and the pale pink face of their quarry leaned out a little, conferring in puffs of frozen breath with the cop. The cop's arm came up, pointing back at the intersection, at the scene of violation, but also at them. Did you happen to see that stop sign back there, sir? Or maybe, Did you happen to see those terrorists following you, sir?
The puffs came faster and more furiously as the cop gestured for the driver to step out of the car. He saw the pale pink face wagging, head shaking, no, thank you, officer, or maybe, do you have any idea who I am? Credentials were shown, but the cop shook his head, now, gestured more forcefully, step out. He brushed back the slicker again, actually touched the stock of the Glock 9mm holstered there.
Holy shit. He saw what happened next, but he'd thought he'd lost the capacity to be surprised, over the last several months.
The driver drew a gun and stuck it out the window, surprising even the cop, who only just had time to duck before lead flew. Three shots pop pop popped out the window, actually through the window, which sprayed out at the diving cop. Straining to see by the muzzle-flashes, Greenaway saw only the driver's head turned away from the gun, pure panic-fire, the dumbshit couldn't even bear to watch where he was shooting. A car alarm started howling from the row of parked cars on the opposite curb. The cop, spread-eagle on the icy wet tarmac almost underneath the car, drew his Glock and expertly shot out both front tires just as the Chrysler's taillights flared up and the car bucked and tried to take off.
Greenaway, who knew, now, where Pastrana was, barked at Mizell, "Goddamit, Chuck, where's the cut-off? Raise Leo—"
"Here he comes," Mizell grunted, an amused lilt in his voice.
A van was indeed coming down Tenth Street towards them, roof-rack hi-beams on full-blast as it swerved to intercept the runaway Chrysler, which lurched across the center line like a badly thrown curling iron, horn honking an epileptic fit in Morse code. Greenaway saw the driver's arms fly up in a frantic defensive gesture just before the impact.
Tripping and slipping in the cop's bulky winter gear, Pastrana popped up on one knee and shot out the Chrysler's rear tires and taillights. Greenaway hid his face in his hands. Welcome to Dodge City, as seen on America's Stupidest Police Videos.
Incredibly, no lights came on in the ritzy apartments and office blocks flanking the street. No other cars strayed into their little firefight, but the bubble would burst in a matter of seconds, and if they were still here, they would have to shoot it out with the real police. It occurred to him then that they'd got away with a live shootout six blocks from the White House, and he stifled a grin.
Leo ended it. Swinging the van broadsides to the flat-footed Chrysler, he T-boned it into submission in the middle of the street. The van rocked, the Chrysler stalled. The driver spilled out empty-handed and made for the parked cars to the left, but Pastrana had the drop on him. Running as recklessly as he dared on the ice-slick tarmac, Pastrana closed with him and kicked his feet out from under him, stood with one foot across his neck and waved the Range Rover in.
Mizell shot across the intersection and parked hard by their quarry, who lay prone on the ice like a baby ready for nap time. Wiley stirred, Mizell eyeing him nervously, but didn't wake up.
Greenaway painfully climbed down, clutching his assault rifle like a cane, and surveyed the scene. Four cars on the street, one totaled, one damaged, one stolen from the goddamned DCPD. "What a fucking mess, Hector," was all he could say.
Pastrana whirled on him, and for a second, he thought the ersatz cop was going to shoot him, too. "Cop ran up on me when I was boosting the crash-car. What was I supposed to do?"
Greenaway fixed him with his dourest eye, but it was pointless. Pastrana was an initiative-taker, that's why he was here. The fish had proved harder to catch than they expected, and this might've gone down even harder if Pastrana would have had to run him down in a civilian car. Pastrana's defiant glare told him not to fight, not here and now, not ever. You don't know who or what or why we're fighting, and what you do know, you haven't told us. How dare you try to tell me how?
"Where's the cop?"
Pastrana pointed at the cruiser's trunk, then made a sleepy-time gesture, hands pillowed under his face.
"Clean it up," Greenaway said, "and get back to station." Letting out a pained grunt, he stooped beside the quarry. "You're coming with us, shitheel."
"Who—what—" the driver of the Chrysler stammered, then turned to look up. "Oh…my…"
"That's right, junior G-Man," he said, leaning in closer to Special Agent Cundieffe's flushed, horrified face. "You and me got so much unfinished business. We're gonna have us a goddamned good time."
Cundieffe blanched. He shook. His heart beat so hard it looked like a bird trapped under his coat. Greenaway took some small mote of satisfaction in seeing that his face still had gauze bandages and Steri-strips on it, from their last encounter. "What do you want from me? I don't know anything. You're the one who works for them—"
"Not anymore. I want answers, geek, and since you're the only one I can lay hands on tonight, you'd better hope to God you know 'em."
Hoisting Cundieffe up by one twiggy arm, Greenaway led him back to the Range Rover. The van disengaged from the Chrysler with a grinding crunch, lumbered off the way it came. Pastrana got the Chrysler out of the street and into a driveway, where he left it and returned to the boosted cruiser. This would all come out in the morning, or maybe sooner, but they'd be hard-pressed to figure it out before it was too late. After half a life spent fighting terrorists, it was more than a
little fun being one.
Still shaking like a wet cat, Cundieffe climbed into the Range Rover, slid over to make room for Greenaway. His head bobbed and nodded, taking everything in. Greenaway plucked off his thick horn rim glasses and stuffed them into his breast pocket, blindfolded him with a damp wool scarf, cinching it behind the geek's big balding dome until his ears flared bright red. "You don't need to see where we're going."
"Maybe I can save you some time, and both of us a lot of trouble," Cundieffe said, in that reasonable hostage negotiator's tone that made Green away want to smash the rest of his wormy little face in. "Radiant Dawn is coming together soon—"
"I don't give a shit about those mutant motherfuckers," Greenaway growled in his purpling ear. "I want your masters, little dog. I want to jerk the leash they've got on you, and strangle them with it."
The Range Rover threaded its way through the evaporating crash scene and headed north to K Street, an expressway that turned into the Whitehurst Freeway after the harrowing ordeal of Washington Circle, which was only half a bitch at this late hour. He watched the signs roll past, Canal Road to M Street, across the Francis Scott Key Bridge, into Rosslyn onto the westbound 66.
"You're making a tremendous mistake, Lieutenant Colonel," Cundieffe wheedled. "They're trying to stop him! The Mission was his creation. We're not the ones—"
"They're running it, and you know it. I have proof."
"Channing Durban. You have something called ROYAL PICA—"
Greenaway didn't like that. The little geek knew. But of course, they knew everything. He smelled it on Cundieffe, the same smashed-ant stink of their lair, where they'd let him think he was blackmailing them—
Cundieffe risked a sickly smile. "Only you can't read it. We're looking for him, too."
Greenaway grinned big and broad. The wormy fuckers didn't know everything. "Oh, but I know where he is. Been keeping tabs on the poor bastard since we operated him back in January."
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