The Greater Good

by Casey Moreton

  Even if he managed to scuttle through the small window, without the SIG-Sauer he’d never get far in the snowbound world outside. St. John patted the front of his coat and fished out the penlight gracelessly with his left hand. A weak cone of yellow light fell on the floor beside his hip. He lay on his back, holding the light against the underside of his chin, playing the spot of light out away from him.

  How had they responded so quickly and so effectively? St. John tried to piece it together as he searched for the handgun. He’d barely gotten off his two shots before they drowned the building with submachine gun fire. Had they expected him? How? How could they have—

  …Albertwood?

  The thought hit him with absolute clarity. It was impossible but undeniable.

  Something was wrong. The plan had changed. For whatever reason, Albertwood wanted him gone. Wanted him dead. They’d waited for him, and he’d walked right into their sights. Either they had already gotten to the girl, or the girl had never existed. And now they no longer had any use for him. They were there to kill him. They’d likely already murdered Megan.

  Albertwood.

  He should have killed the old man when he had the chance. Albertwood had discovered his one weakness, and then exploited it beautifully. As a professional in the most dangerous game in the world, St. John felt out-and-out shame at being played for such a fool. The hatred and anger that seared through his soul was partially focused on Albertwood and partially on himself.

  Just then, something glimmered at the farther outskirts of the penlight’s reach.

  Adair had the woman by the arm, dragging her free of the firing lane. She appeared to be unconscious, and her legs made long ruts in the snow as he pulled her to the rear of the smallish building.

  The garage had been quiet from the time he sprayed his rounds through the door and wall. But he’d heard the cough of a silenced gun, and heard the double-tap to the wooden door, so he knew that Belfast was in there. Maybe the quiet meant that Belfast was hit. Surely it couldn’t be that simple. Belfast was superhuman. He wouldn’t die that easily.

  He saw Newbury squatting at the far corner of the house. He signaled for him to make a dash for the front corner of the garage. Newbury nodded, then hunched low to the ground and scurried across the snow-shrouded cement walk, finally pulling up against the siding of the garage. Adair signaled again. The message was simple:I’ll raise the garage door, then you go in blasting. Newbury gave the thumbs-up.

  Adair put a shoulder to the outside wall of the garage and reached out his left arm, nudging open the side door. The solid-core door was shredded. It wobbled open, splinters flaking off in the cold. His guess was that there should be a light switch on the inside wall, mounted just to the right of the doorframe, and beside that, a button to operate the garage door. If he could get close enough to punch that button, Newbury should have open season on their friend the assassin.

  He eased a boot up on the cement stoop, crouching as low to the ground as possible. The inner garage was impossibly dark. He felt naked and exposed, framed as he was in the doorway. He was facing into the empty space, barely able to breathe. He raised an arm over his head, touching the wall, and fingering his way up the Sheetrock. His fingers touched the light switch, then scrambled several inches to the right, but felt nothing.

  The blast thundered through the night air. Adair started, shuffling his feet wildly, then spinning and firing at the rafters. His index finger held tight against the trigger, emptying the clip in a stream of fire and lead. The muzzle flashes lit up the garage in staccato squirts of luminosity. Empty shell casings danced at Adair’s feet.

  The Ford’s tires exploded, and its rims sunk through the shredded rubber to the cement. St. John had had the garage window open and was working on silently punching out the screen when the lightning started. The spray of lead caught him across the back, whirling him against the wall. The SIG-Sauer was in his one good hand. He fell across the hood of the car, holding the gun outstretched in a firing posture. He fired impulsively, taking aim at nothing in particular.

  One .40 caliber slug blew open Adair’s throat, pushing him flat against the wall. Another peeled his face open from the left eye on over. Blood gurgled up his throat and foamed out through the open gash. He could no longer breathe. He crumbled to his knees and slumped over backward, pressing his head at an awkward angle against the wall. His cold dead eyes stared vacantly up at the exposed rafters.

  St. John was aware only of the sudden quiet. The SIG-Sauer fell from his grip, clanking against the hood of the car where it fell. He could smell the acrid odor of burnt gunpowder. He could taste his own blood pooling in his upper lip. His head lay across his outstretched arm. For the briefest of moments an image of Megan flashed before his eyes. He wanted to believe that the love she’d shown him had made him a better man. He’d never have the chance to tell her good-bye, to hold her one last time and tell her he was sorry. He had almost escaped his old way of life. But, in the end, he would die the way he’d lived. And on some level that seemed only fair. He tried to focus on her, to hold her face in his mind’s eye. Then she was gone, and the world turned black.

  Newbury’s corpse was slumped on the ground at the corner of the garage, blood hemorrhaging from the stump between his shoulders where his head used to sit. The Uzi dangled from his shoulder, swaying slightly in the kicking wind. He’d felt nothing. Death had come instantly and from out of nowhere.

  Several minutes passed. There was no sound save the whistle of the wind and Grace’s sobs from the rear of the garage. After an intense period of absolute stillness, there was a small, careful movement on the front porch of the house.

  Naked except for the peach-colored towel tied around his waist, Dean held the .30-06 Winchester Model 70 at his side. He was shaking, both from the cold and from trauma.

  The front door opened a crack, and Wyatt stuck his head out.

  “Dad?”Wyatt whispered.

  “Get in the house, son.” Dean’s voice was trembling. “And take this,” he said, handing the hunting rifle to Wyatt. To his horror, as he’d scrounged through the closet, desperate for ammo, a single .30-06 shell had rattled out of the Winchester box and into his hand. One bullet. One shot. And by some miracle, he’d made that one pull of the trigger count.

  He approached the garage barefoot, his toes and ankles numb in the snow. Bending at the waist, he put out a hand and touched the dead man on the shoulder. Newbury was sticky with gore. Dean saw that the man’s head was missing. He backpedaled in the snow, suddenly dizzy. Then he convulsed and vomited between his feet.

  Wyatt had on a pair of unlaced Reeboks and a hooded jogging top. He crossed the patio from the back door, honing in on his mother’s sobs. He eased inside the garage, stepping past Adair’s body in the dark. He opened the access panel and reset the breaker switch. The house lit up instantly. He moved past the door and hit the garage light. He nearly jumped out of his skin at the bloody corpse at his feet. He found his mother and helped her inside. He grabbed a blanket off the nearest bed and went outside to put it around his father. Then he hurried inside and waited at the door for the police.

  At the first sign of sirens and flashing lights, Watkins started the van, keeping its lights off. He backed into a driveway on Eberhard Street, and then slipped into the night.

  50

  UNITED FLIGHT0214WAS NOT DIRECT. THAT WAS THE ONEdetail that gave them the upper hand. Flight 0214 had lifted off out of Buffalo, and would make stops in Richmond and Detroit before sailing on into Chicago. Their Learjet, on the other hand, had made a nonstop trip from a private airstrip in New York to O’Hare.

  The team was made up of Eamon Desmond, Porter, Carmichael, and Lewis. R’mel had remained behind to deal with Megan Durant and Joel Benjamin. The Learjet landed at O’Hare without incident. Surprisingly, the weather was better in Chicago than farther east.

  They had a good hour’s jump on Weaver. She would simply walk right into their arms. Desmond passed out photocop
ies of the picture of Weaver to each member of his team. He told them to watch for the obvious disguises: a wig, a different hair color, a ball cap, a hood. He also told them to watch for anyone walking quickly with their head down, or being extra careful not to make eye contact. She was on the run, he said, and she’d be on the lookout. She’d be suspicious of anyone and anything. Don’t spook her. Don’t give her a reason to bolt.

  Two of them would be stationed at the gate where 0214 was scheduled to dock. The other two would loiter near the outside doors. But if they didn’t catch her early, she’d be tough to find. They had radios and were instructed to keep in close contact. If they saw something, orthought they saw something, they were to send up a flare. Then they were to pounce. They had the strictest orders to kill first and ask questions second.

  Brooke was asleep when the plane crossed over into Michigan. She’d wanted to stay spry and alert, to keep her guard up, but the day had sapped her strength and her stamina, and she’d eventually dozed off. The in-flight meal on the tray in front of her had gone untouched save for a bite or two of the week-old salad. She slept with her head against the window.

  The Boeing skipped through a patch of turbulence. Brooke awoke, momentarily disoriented. She sat up in her seat and smiled at the woman next to her. She rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand until the world came back into focus. It was a blissful few seconds, during which the past day was forgotten. Then her mind recoiled, and the gravity of where she was and where she was going hit her like a wave of cold water.

  The woman next to her leaned over and said, “We’re over Lake Erie.”

  Brooke glanced out the window but saw little else other than the smear of snow and clouds and infinite gray in the sunless sky.

  “We’ll be coming down into Detroit any minute now,” the woman added.

  “Good.”

  The woman returned to the magazine opened in her lap.

  Detroit. Richmond. Brooke hadn’t anticipated the broken route. She’d have much preferred a direct path from Buffalo to Chicago O’Hare. But once in the air, there hadn’t been a thing in the world she could do about it. If Stott’s people knew she had the tape and had somehow figured out where she was headed, they might be on their way to Chicago now to head her off. Could they beat her? Just the consideration caused a chill of dread to walk up her spine.

  What were the odds?

  She shifted in her seat, suddenly uncomfortable and anxious and itchy to walk about, to breathe fresh air and to know who was after her and who wasn’t. If this flight had been a straight shot, she would have been on the ground in Illinois by now.

  The captain spoke over the intercom, announcing their approach into Detroit-Metro Airport. They would begin their descent momentarily. She was probably just being paranoid anyway. Okay, so say they’ve heard the message on the machine and know she has the tape. And go as far as to say they follow the trail to her parents’ house in Syracuse. She didn’t tell Mom, Dad, or Wyatt where she was headed or why. So, that would be the end of the trail. Right?

  Her mind simply wouldn’t let it go. A piece of the puzzle was missing. It was like an itch in the middle of her back, a fraction of an inch out of reach.

  51

  TRAFFIC THINNED AS THEDODGE PICKUP EDGED OUT OFthe city. R’mel watched his speedometer, keeping within the posted speed limit. It would certainly not be the best of times to get pulled over. He watched his mirrors. The old six-cylinder rumbled beneath the hood, pulling him farther into the night.

  Snow thickened on the windshield. The wipers should have been replaced a decade ago. They pushed the snow from side to side, streaking the glass. His fanny pack was on the seat beside him. He found a pack of cigarettes and stuck one between his thin lips. The cab quickly clouded. He lowered his window a couple of inches. Periodically he’d glance through the rear window at the camper shell. All had been quiet back there. If those two died before he got them on down the road, it would simply save him some busy work at the end of the line. He turned up the radio and tapped some ash out the window.

  The Boeing taxied up to the gate at Detroit-Metro. Fewer than a dozen passengers deplaned. The woman seated next to Brooke Weaver removed her seat belt and walked toward the lavatory.

  Brooke pressed her head against the seat. She looked out over the wing. Lights from inside the terminal outlined the maintenance workers taking care of the plane. She blinked, staring off in the darkness over the runways. She’d never been to Detroit.

  She estimated that it should take less than an hour in the air to reach O’Hare. What exactly would she say to Jefferson Peel? She’d considered the question during the drive from Syracuse to Buffalo. The only thing she could really tell him was the truth. What else was there? She was going there for only one reason: to tell him what had happened to his parents on the fateful day in California so many years ago, why they had died, and who was responsible. He deserved to be the first to know. And he deserved to have the opportunity to watch the tape alone in private. Then the truth would be known. The rest was up to him.

  Peel was the CEO of Peel Consulting, a company his grandfather founded. They now had offices in Chicago, Orlando, San Francisco, Europe, Hong Kong, and Australia. He was a very busy man. Until that moment she hadn’t considered whether he’d even be in town. It was coming up on Christmas, and it was likely that his family might be out of the city or even out of the country for the holiday. A pang of anxiety sprung up and her stomach tightened. Even if he were in town, it would not be a minor task getting in to see him or even getting a message to him. So getting to Chicago was only half the battle.

  Boarding passengers moved up and down the aisle, stuffing luggage into the overhead compartments and under their seats. Brooke ignored them. The activity in the aisle reminded her about her backpack she’d stowed under her seat. For the time being, that backpack contained her lifeline, and she—

  The credit card!

  Brooke sat bolt upright in her seat, the blood draining from her face.That’s how they’ll find me, she thought.My MasterCard. I paid for this flight with my MasterCard! If they knew about her, they’d track every transaction she or any of her family made. And that’s how they would know she was headed to Chicago. And now they knew her exact point of entry. They’d be waiting for her. She’d never have a chance. She and her backpack would disappear like Amelia Earhart and her plane.

  A small cluster of flight attendants were talking near the door to the jetway. They’d been on the ground over ten minutes now, and she feared that the door was about to be pulled shut and locked so that they could get back in the air. She bent down and grabbed her backpack from beneath her seat. Her neighbor returned from the lavatory, and Brooke burst out of her seat and apologized when she bumped into the woman. The woman said something she didn’t catch. Brooke shouldered her pack, then hurried down the aisle.

  The flight attendants all gave her a look, but Brooke was out the door like a shot. She followed the jetway up into the gate. The terminal was crowded. She worked her way through the masses, her mind cluttered with new plans and new scenarios.

  There was no ignoring the sensation in her gut. It was the feeling that she’d just gotten off a plane that was about to crash. The plane wasn’t going down, but she’d very likely dodged a bullet nonetheless. Her flesh rippled with goose bumps. That sensation told her a lot. It was like an angel tapping her on the shoulder.

  She could look for a seat on a flight with another airline, but that would require another credit card transaction, which would once again put them on her tail. But she still needed to get out of Detroit. Chicago was a five-hour drive. Car rentals would require the credit card. She’d never been to Detroit, or Illinois, for that matter. When she didn’t show up on the United flight at O’Hare, they’d check all other flights and the bus stations. The longer she delayed, the more time they’d have to spread out and wait.

  She needed to get moving. She needed to think on her feet, and to think two steps ahead of her
adversaries. Whatever they might be expecting, she had to do something unpredictable. They’d be watching for anything and everything. Right now they were waiting for her plane to land in Chicago. So for the time being, that put her at least one step ahead. If she ever got a step behind, she was dead.

  52

  UNITED FLIGHT0214HAD BEEN ON THE GROUND FORtwenty-five minutes. It had come into O’Hare on time, and the passengers had flooded out into the terminal. When the last of the stragglers deplaned, Carmichael approached the gate agent and made an inquiry. The gate agent grudgingly agreed to check whether anyone was left onboard. Three minutes later, the agent came out, shaking her head.

  “That’s it,” she said.

  Carmichael thanked her and reported to Desmond. Desmond was standing next to a support column, eating from a small bag of peanuts. He made no physical response to her news. The Weaver girl had not been on the plane. She had to have caught their scent. Perhaps she’d deplaned and they’d simply missed her. Perhaps she’d hurried off deep inside the departing crowd. No, they’d watched for that. She wasn’t on the plane when it landed. Whether or not she’d been on the plane at all was another question. But she wasn’t in Chicago, or else she’d come by other means.