The hunter drew closer. Three hundred eighteen foot- pounds of torque. John knew he couldn’t outrun them. Every time he went down a hill, they would disappear and then reappear again, cutting the gap each time.
Suddenly John’s head snapped forward then slammed back. He had the Navigator matted, but the Marauder made contact, hitting him hard.
John didn't panic. The impact had slowed the pursuing car.
John still had the gas pedal matted. He veered left, locking up the brakes on the four wheel drive. Advantage John.
The Navigator was huge. The Marauder swerved right but couldn't avoid contact. It hit John's Navigator in the right rear and slingshot him forward into a slide.
The Marauder wasn't as lucky. Thunder roared. It rolled six times, busting out every window, its body distorted, caving on all sides before finally coming to a rest on its roof against a lone tree.
John's vehicle slid, making a one-eighty, coming to a stop facing back at the spectacular crash. Shaken, John scrambled out of the Navigator and ran toward the car. Smoke drifted from the grill and front wheel wells.
He approached with caution. He wasn't strapped, but anticipated the two men would be out of commission. He took a quick look in the rear driver’s side door. The airbags had deployed, and a yellow dust coated the interior.
The man in the passenger seat didn't move. He was twisted awkwardly and blood streamed down his face. John eased forward to the driver’s door. No movement. Neither man had been wearing a seat belt.
The roof was crushed on the driver’s side; a Glock 19 lay on the headliner near the interior light. The driver’s neck was broken and his legs were twisted and pinned in the wreckage.
John reached in, no pulse. Halle-fucking-lujah.
He got to his feet and scrambled around the back of the car to the passenger side door. John got down on all fours, extending his arm into the wreckage, reaching, feeling for the man’s neck, the tree impeding his reach slightly. He lifted his head to visually line up the man’s neck
‘Where’s the fuckin Glock?’
The first shot grazed John’s left cheek and tore into his shoulder. The second passed clean through his right hand. John screamed. Blood clouded his vision. He felt the next .40 caliber bullet enter his abdomen. He had no idea what was driving him. He lurched forward and wrestled the gun from the man’s hands.
The man was upside down, reaching for his ankle. John saw the play and blasted him three times. His body convulsed with the impact of the bullets. Blood was everywhere.
John screamed again, this time in rage. How could I have been so stupid? He put an extra one into the passenger’s head. It burst through his teeth, spewing a fountain of blood and porcelain across the headliner.
John sat down. “Fucking asshole.”
His hands were cold and his lower back was wet and warm. He tried to focus, but his head was swimming. He forced himself to sit up rigid against the tree, his breathing labored and shallow.
With the last of his strength, he struggled forward again, reaching in the window and inside the man’s coat pocket. He pulled out a wallet and collapsed against the tree.
It was just as he thought.
“Fuckin CIA spooks. If there’s one thing I hate more than a CIA spook, it’s a fuckin’ NSA spook. Spying on your own goddamn country,” John sputtered coughing up blood.
He managed to get his phone out of his coat, but it wasn’t easy. He had to fight just to hold his head up. His right arm wasn’t working anymore, and his left felt like it was tied to a fucking anchor. The coppery taste in his mouth was making him nauseated on top of everything.
John didn’t know how long he could last. But he had to talk to Jake. What he’d found out changed everything, and just might save Jake’s life. They might be executed, anyway, but John was damn sure they were toast if he didn’t tell Jake what he’d learned.
“If it’s the last thing I do,” he slurred, spitting blood as he laughed.
He managed to get his eyes focused on the face of the tiny phone.
Fucking cell phones. Everything’s too goddamn small for me.
He moved his thumb over the buttons. He was almost there when the phone slipped from his hand. John tensed every muscle in his body that was still responding and focused every ounce of strength down his arm and into his fingers, catching the edge of the phone between his ring finger and his thumb. Pain shot up his arm like he’d never felt before, nearly blinding him with its intensity.
He moved his middle finger underneath the phone and pushed it back into his palm. If his hand cramped up it was all over. Sweat and blood stung his eyes as he maneuvered the phone back into position.
But now he couldn’t see the face of the phone, or even lift it to his ear. John knew what he had to do, and knew he would have only one shot. He moved his thumb over the front of the phone trying desperately not to press anything. When he finally got to the one he wanted, he said a silent prayer and pushed. John couldn’t remember if he’d made any calls since Jake, but if he had, he wasn’t going to die before he could warn him. He dropped the phone into the grass.
With his last bit of strength, John jerked his massive head. He felt his upper body start to slide, and braced for the explosion of pain. He managed to miss the phone, hitting the ground with a heavy thud. His body was shutting down; his pain receptors went into overload and forced him into shock.
He could hear the other phone ringing. He no longer wondered whether his previous call had been to Jake. He felt very peaceful all of a sudden, and even if the next voice he heard was some faceless rental car agent, he’d be okay. Jake, on the other hand.
John nearly faded out when he heard Jake’s familiar voice.
“Hello?”
“Jake…”
There was silence. Had he heard him? Did he hang up? John was almost ready to give up and die when he heard Jake’s voice again.
“John, you sound terrible.”
“Should see me.”
“What's wrong?”
“Shot.”
“Where are you?” Jake asked. “I’ll come get you.”
“Too late. Shouldn't have turned off the 210.”
His breathing was raspy and shallow, but hearing Jake’s voice again gave him new strength, and John managed to speak again.
“Got both the assholes.”
Blood was everywhere now, like red gauze slipping down over his face.
“Tell me where you are!”
“Shut up and listen. You never wanna listen to my stories.”
“Okay, John.”
“NSA followed me from the airport. I’m dead Jake.”
“Oh, Jesus.”
John’s temporary boost of energy drained away, and he knew there would not be another. With his last ounce of strength, he steeled himself to scream the news at the top of his lungs. It came out as little more than a whisper.
“They have a vaccine.”
John’s eyes rolled back in his head and the last thing he heard was Jake’s voice pleading with him to stay alive.
“Vaccine,” he whispered again, wondering if Jake even heard him, and then he drifted into the darkness.
Chapter 14
“Jake!” Paul half shouted in an attempt to drag Jake back to reality.
Jake sat with his cell phone open, bewildered, lost in thought.
“That was John.”
“We got that Jake. What happened?” Leslie asked.
“He’s gone.”
“What do you mean?” Paul pleaded.
“They shot him.”
Jake stared straight ahead, not looking at any of the worried faces gathered around him. “The NSA followed him from the airport. I think he died while we were talking.”
Jake’s words were broken, stunted. Terrible thoughts filled the gaps.
“Jake, where is he?” Leslie asked.
“Are you sure?” Paul asked, but Jake just sat there, shell-shocked. Leslie had never seen him this way. It l
ooked like they were going to have to drag the information out of him.
Finally, he seemed to regain some awareness in his eyes, and said, “We have to leave.”
“Jake, what the hell is going on?” Leslie demanded. “Why would the NSA kill John?”
Jake didn’t answer, but seemed to slip back into a near catatonic state.
“Jake. Why,” June asked, “why is this happening?” She knew Jake well, and she knew there was more he wasn’t telling. She sat down next to him and took his face in her hands. For the first time since he’d taken the call from John, his eyes were clear and focused. He raised his hands to hers and squeezed.
“They have a vaccine.”
“What?” Paul and Leslie said, incredulous.
“That’s what John was coming here to tell us.”
Silence took over the room as the others tried to wrap their heads around the information. They had all been sitting around the television watching the news reports when the phone rang.
The virus had surfaced in no less than twenty-seven countries with quarantine areas set up to control the mouse pox. The military controlled these areas, always with the same orders to shoot to kill. For the sake of humanity, no one must escape. Clashes with the military were erupting everywhere.
Paul was the first one to break the silence. “But there was no mention of a vaccine?”
“That’s what he was coming to tell us and they killed him for it,” Jake said.
“Could they know about that call?” Leslie asked.
“Jake was right.We have to go. I’ll help load supplies.Leslie, you and mom get whatever else we’ll need.”
“How will they know where we are? It was two cell phones, right?” asked June.
“Triggerfish,” Jake answered.
“I’ve heard of that,” Paul said. “It’s a program law enforcement uses to track cell phones and pinpoint their location. They would know Jake’s name and that he took the call in Robert Williams’ house.”
“It’s the NSA and they just killed John. They’re not going to overlook the guy he was talking to while they did it,” Jake said. “No cell phones. We need money and lots of it. They might freeze our accounts. Hopefully that will take some time. It won’t matter if we use our cards here before we leave since they know we’re here. But once we leave, that’s it. No electronic communication of any kind. We’re off the grid.”
They all looked at Jake for a moment, considering how drastically their lives were about to change. Then they sprang into action, everyone moving with purpose.
An hour later and they were packed and on the road. They had all pulled their limits, all but Jake. His accounts already had “technical difficulties.” He was told to see the branch manager, who was at lunch.
Maybe they had not seen the connection to Robert. His address was an apartment number with its own mailing address. It was possible they might believe he acted alone and not dig any deeper.
The old Chevy was loaded. Jake had always meant to beef up the suspension, but it was too late now. The old springs were tired. The back end rode low under the weight of the rice, beans, water, guns, and other supplies. The truck banged with each bump in the road. The leaf springs were flat, the axle bottoming out on the rubber stopper on the frame. The front end floated and swayed, making steering awkward.
Jake had decided it would be safer for everyone if he drove alone. He kept his eyes peeled for a truck or a van for sale. He had to get rid of his truck as soon as possible. They would be looking for it.
“Jake, come in, Jake. Can you hear me?”
It was Paul on one of the two-way radios Leslie had brought. They had been her father’s. Robert had gotten them from a friend in the military as a gift after he retired.
They had a light-weight, aluminum cast and polycarbonate casing with a black matte finish. Made for the military by ICOM, the radios came with a package known as a military bundle. The rapid charger was capable of fully charging the batteries in just two hours, and the privacy module might level the playing field a bit. They could keep their communications confidential, even from the NSA.
“Go ahead, Paul.”
“It’s getting dark. Why don’t we find a little dive and dig in for the night?”
“Good thinking. We need time to regroup and something a little seedy may not take license numbers or ID.”
“Sounds good. The kids are already out.” Paul sounded like he was nearly there, too. He’d had a pretty intense week. Ninety-six hours ago he was in China.
“Rockingham is just up the 74.”
“Where's the 74?”
“June knows. We'll be turning right just past Laurinburg.”
Chapter 15
The Bell 430 descended gradually from its maximum altitude of 11,350 feet. Like a moth emerging from the blackness of an abyss, the helicopter was drawn to the flood lights that illuminated the night below.
The rotor noise was rhythmic, drowning out the drone of the generators. The state trooper cars were parked, lights pointed at the scene. The black Marauder lay twisted on its hood against the lone tree, and the big Navigator was a hundred fifty feet ahead, spun around and aimed right at the Marauder, lights on, driver’s door slung open like a silent accuser.
The pilot set the chopper down on its skid gear just behind the line of cruisers. The turbulence kicked up twisters of fallen leaves and dead grass. At a maximum speed of 160 miles per hour, it had taken a little over two hours from the helicopter pad code name cartwheel at NSA Headquarters, Ft Meade to the outskirts of Lillington.
“Looks like their buddies are here. Nice ride, too.”
Cpl. Dennis, a bulky young state trooper was speaking to his First Sergeant. They were trying to stay warm, coffees in hand.
“That's what you get with an annual budget of four billion and no one to answer to,” First Sergeant Michaels said as he admired the sleek black and grey corporate helicopter.
Major Folkstone and his three man team undid their shoulder harnesses and climbed out of hand-stitched, padded leather seats. The configuration of the interior matched the black and grey exterior. The number 430 was even stitched into the headrest of the seats. They exited the side door and shuffled away from the turbulence of the helicopter.
“Fucking clowns,” said Michaels. “Probably all order from the same spy wear catalogue.”
Cpl. Dennis chortled, but the first sergeant wasn’t laughing. He’d been around long enough to despise the NSA and their ways, the way they interfered with whatever investigation they damned well pleased, with no regard for truth or consequences.
All four men were in expensive, tailored suits with long dark wool coats. They stood in a line assessing the scene, waiting the major’s orders.
Folkstone had handpicked each one. He liked warriors. Hard men who had seen combat. His team had also scored well in their intelligence testing, elevating them above the pack of candidates for their specific roles with the ultra-secretive NSA. The major began barking orders.
“Borda, you and Jones take the Navigator. Toombs and I will take our guys and that piece of shit. And hurry it up; we have another team coming in. We have to get to Ft. Bragg.”
“Yes, sir.”
Folkstone and Toombs walked by the line of cruisers. There were silver and black marked cars and plain black pursuit cars with big steel smash bars on the front. Useful tools in a high speed chase. Bits of glass and steel were laid out like breadcrumbs leading to the Marauder. The grass was flattened and showed signs of the multiple rollovers.
The major maneuvered around the debris, Toombs a half step behind him. Toombs was a tall man, over six feet and built like a linebacker. He was focused and deliberate in everything he did, and he moved with the physicality of a panther stalking its prey. His tightly cropped blonde hair and piercing blue eyes made him look like a cross between an Aryan soldier and farm boy with a mean streak. He didn't look rough so much as confident, cold and calculating.
First Sergeant Micha
els stepped up to meet the major. Folkstone was in civilian dress, no display of leadership. But Michaels, like most of the other state troopers, had spent some time in the military. He could sense the pecking order.
Major Folkstone flashed his credentials. He had a black clearance level, which gave him access to extremely sensitive information. Michaels had never seen one, and it made an impression. This guy was not to be fucked with.
“Major, I'm First Sergeant Pat Michaels.”
Folkstone barely acknowledged him.
“What do we have here?” Folkstone asked as he walked around the overturned Marauder with Michaels following. The first sergeant found himself, almost comically, trailing Folkstone a step behind, just as his men did when they arrived. Something about his bearing made it seem wrong to put yourself on the same level unless invited to do so.
Folkstone pulled on a pair of latex gloves and looked at Michaels for the first time. Michaels would later recount the experience to his wife as “like looking into the eyes of a shark.”
“We’re the advance team. Our field agents are on their way. Your men haven't disturbed anything.”
It wasn’t a question, but a demand, as if the troopers would be expected to go back in time to fix any mistakes. If anyone could make that happen, it would probably be this fucker, Michaels thought, but he just said, “No. We found the NSA credentials with the big guy under the tree and called you in immediately.”
“What do your guys make of it?” asked the Major, suddenly more solicitous than before, but Michaels recognized it for what it was. The NSA might look down on the peons of regular law enforcement, but they were nothing if not thorough. Folkstone wouldn’t be leaving any stone unturned.
Folkstone reached down to pick the cell phone, which was covered in blood. He bagged it and put it in a large plastic bag.
“Well, Michaels?”
“You'll keep us in the loop?” the first sergeant asked, not quite believing what he’d just heard coming out of his own mouth. Local law enforcement harbored well known resentments for feds who swooped in and took over their investigations, and even though Michaels had been impressed by the black clearance, his true feelings had forced their way out.
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