Cortez fell in the opposite direction, sprawling on his ass. A torrent of water pushed him down the steep slope. The speed with which this happened left the others just watching. All except for Felix Rostan.
Rostan had lunged towards Cortez as the little man rolled to the ground. He was a fraction of a second slow, and his arms closed around nothing but air. Now caught in the same rush of water, two bullets struck him in the back as he picked up speed and followed Cortez down the slope.
Simon heard Alcott's scream. “Get back here, I'll cover you. On three. One … two … three.”
Alcott jumped into the open with his final clip loaded and the MP5 on auto. He stepped right into a hail of bullets intended for Simon. He pitched forward, hands still gripping the trigger of his gun.
One of the enemy went down at the same time, Alcott's last burst catching him in the chest. In the meantime, Simon had dived for cover, trying to keep the body draped over himself enough to provide some protection. He saw the rock formation through eyes burning with the mud and rain.
He made it.
“Cease fire immediately and take cover!” Andrea's voice boomed through the headset of the remaining soldier. She wanted to reach out and strangle him. She couldn't tell who was down, but quite possibly Simon or the CIA Director was among them. She didn't want to face Cimil's anger for violating his order to keep them alive.
She understood how it happened, a combination of bad luck and poor implementation. With the horrible conditions, her teams of two had tightened up, gotten too close to each other. They were professionals, but if they'd truly been the best, they'd still be in the armed forces. Or in charge, like she was. She only had four guys left, three converging on the scene now. She knew the President's group still numbered between three and five, but she couldn't tell about a couple of bodies that weren't moving.
Time for reinforcements. No question about that. But this time, with one big difference. She'd be leading them herself. She pressed the gas pedal to the floor, hoping to arrive in time to salvage the operation.
The firing stopped. Simon sat up and looked at Richards and Braxton. No one else left. Well, he wasn't sure about Cortez and Rostan, but he had to worry about the President first and them later. He saw Alcott's body lying a few feet away, MP5 still clutched in his fingers. He debated what to do and then decided to risk a quick look over the top of the rocks. He saw no one.
At least no one alive.
Unsure who might be waiting, he dived towards Alcott, grabbing the agent's gun and then rolling back. He expected to take a bullet in the back any second, but none came. Now they had two guns, with two clips left. It would have to be enough.
He slammed a clip in one of the MP5's and handed it to Braxton. The CIA man wrapped his fingers around it. His military training was a distant memory, but some things you never forget. Before he could do anything else, Richards grabbed the weapon. “No offense, Dennis, but I feel safer with this in my hands.”
She looked at Simon. “So what the hell do we do now?”
“We gotta keep out-thinkin' them. Aside from that one survivor, there's probably more out there. Heading back to the road is too dangerous. We need to get downhill, though, away from Cimil's place.”
Braxton pointed towards the slope. “Well, we don't know what happened to Jaime and Felix, but we know they went down that way. We should follow 'em?”
“I don't know, Dennis, that looks steep and slippery. Be easy for one of us to fall and break an ankle or worse.”
“Maybe, but the only other choices are to go uphill or head back to the road.”
Simon looked at Richards and then Braxton. He saw fear mixed with the mud and rain, but they both seemed to be coping. The CIA chief was right. They had no better option.
“OK, you sold me. Let's go that way. But something tells me we're gonna fall on our asses out of control.”
Richards laughed. “Story of my day so far. Why should it change now?”
“Yep. He's dead.”
Simon knelt over the body of Felix Rostan, index and middle finger on the agent's neck. The body was smeared with mud, as he and Richards and Braxton were, but it also contained two bloody holes near the base of the neck. For a few seconds, no one said a word. When the Secret Service agents had been killed earlier, circumstances had allowed no time to think about it.
Simon swallowed hard at the memory. Two decades since he'd lost someone in combat. The pain and disgust hadn't changed.
“I hate to sound callous, but we gotta keep moving.”
Simon said it knowing that finding a task to focus on would help the other two cope with the shock of the firefight. Braxton and Richards looked up from the body. Simon started walking.
As predicted, no one had stayed on their feet when they'd followed Rostan and Cortez. The muddy slope lasted almost a quarter mile. They weren't completely out of control, but all attempts to get to their feet had failed. The President sustained a nasty gash on her left hip; other than that, they'd emerged unscathed. She hadn't complained, and their slide had ended within a few feet of Rostan's corpse.
A minute after leaving Rostan behind, Richards made a discovery.
“What the hell is this.”
They stopped, and Simon looked where she was pointing. A mere five minutes earlier, rain had reduced visibility to nothing, but not a drop fell now, and a sliver of sun peeked through the clouds. Even with all the mud, several bloodstains adorned the bushes like a piece of abstract art.
“Jaime! He must have come this way.” Braxton's face was animated.
“Come on, let's see if we can find his trail.”
They looked for more blood, footprints, anything that might help them. They found a torn piece of Cortez' turquoise shirt. Simon had teased him about it earlier, suggesting that he wanted to stand out in a crowd. The possibility of finding him alive provided a burst of energy as they continued their search.
“None of you move a muscle.”
The woman's voice made Braxton and Richards jump. Simon tensed his legs for movement. “Mr. Gray, don't even think about it. You've got four M95's pointing at your head. Drop your weapon. Now!”
Simon complied. Andrea Schmidt motioned to two of her soldiers, and they handcuffed Simon and Braxton. One of them grabbed Richards by the upper arm, but did not cuff the President.
“I must say, you've been a huge pain in the ass. Keep in mind that these four gentlemen just saw you kill eight of their buddies. They're itching for an excuse to give you a third eye, and I'm not sure how much weight Cimil's order to keep you alive is gonna carry.”
Andrea spoke in a matter-of-fact tone. No drama, no emotion. Simon recognized a fellow professional. He resigned himself to going along, but he'd keep looking for an opening. Five to three odds and all that firepower recommended against it. But he did have at least one ace up his sleeve.
Braxton's shoulders slumped, and he stared at the ground. Richards still stood up straight, with a scowl and burning eyes.
“I wonder if Cimil has any idea of the shit-storm that's gonna rain down on him. And it makes no difference if I survive. Either way, he is totally fucked.”
Andrea smiled. “Can it, toots. This meeting was your idea, remember? When the dust settles, I don't think my boss will have anything to worry about. Now move.”
Less than five minutes of walking found them back at the road. Andrea shoved them into the back seats of a Toyota Land Cruiser and slammed the doors. She got behind the wheel, with one soldier on the passenger seat. The tires spun, and they started moving uphill once again, towards Cimil. The other three soldiers drove a second Land Cruiser behind them.
They came to the crater with the Suburban half in and half out. It seemed like days since they'd abandoned it. Richards looked at Simon, “I wonder how we're gonna get by that.”
Andrea must have overheard. “Watch and learn, Ms. Richards. You better buckle up.”
With that, she mashed down on the accelerator. The Land Cruiser
popped over the lip of the crater, and Simon prepared himself for a sharp drop. Instead, momentum carried the front wheels through the air and onto the roof of the Suburban. The Toyota bounced and rocked, but stayed upright. With a lurch, they dropped back onto solid ground. Richards muttered under her breath. “Forget I asked.”
In another five minutes, they went through a giant gate. Simon estimated that the concrete fence on either side of it was more than twenty feet thick. Satellite imagery had shown this, but seeing it in person provided extra appreciation. Formidable protection, but not relevant to his current predicament. He was only gonna have one shot at any kind of escape. Without a diversion, it was almost hopeless. But how was he gonna create a diversion?
Braxton provided the opening. As he stepped out of the car, he stumbled and fell to the ground. Instead of getting up, his face turned bright red, and he gasped for air. Andrea bent to check on him, and Simon dived out the other side of the car. He rolled onto his feet, hands still cuffed. He reached into his pants and extracted a small thirty-eight automatic.
He'd found the gun, a ceramic model designed to avoid detection, strapped to Felix Rostan's lower leg. He had to admire the balls on the guy, sneaking a gun onto Air Force One. The x-ray machine should have found it anyway. Maybe it was one of those high tech gadgets that disassembled into parts that looked innocuous by themselves. Lord knows the Agency had stuff like that. In any case, it was his one chance.
He came up firing. Andrea would have been the ideal target, take out the leader. Unfortunately, she was on the other side of the car. He turned and unloaded four shots towards the second Land Cruiser. Three bullets met their mark. Three guards went down. He turned towards the first Toyota and—
A massive pain spread through his upper back. He crumpled to the ground, his mind flashing images of Wile E. Coyote grabbing an anvil from the Road Runner. He started to get up, but the barrel of a handgun pressed at least a centimeter further into his left nostril than such an object had any business going. He heard Andrea's voice.
“I've got him covered. Mr. Gray, please don't make any sudden moves. That object has other uses besides a nasal swab.”
The gun pulled out of his nose, and he turned his head. Slowly. He saw the green eyes and black curls he remembered from so many years ago. The familiar anger burned in his chest, but he dared not move again. The brown skin of Yum Cimil's lips curled into a welcoming grin.
“Simon. So nice to see you again after all these years.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
August 6th, 2012: Washington D.C.
“We may have caught a break, ma'am.” FBI agent Jason Andrews took a seat in Linda Yarrow's office. Yarrow's face was flushed, worry lines sprinkling her face. Her eyes darted around the room, seemingly unable to focus on any one thing. He'd met with her twice a week for over two months, and had never seen her like this.
“Is something wrong?”
She directed her gaze at him. “Huh, no, no, nothing. Just a hell of a lot going on. Listen, Jason, we gotta make this quick today.”
She'd never used his first name before. You didn't have to be an FBI investigator to read the signs, but it wouldn't do to push. He focused on the task at hand. “I'll try. But things just got complicated as hell.”
He looked down at the folder and notes in his lap. “We've got some DNA.”
Yarrow's nervous movements ceased. “DNA? Hell, that's great. But I don't see how it's complicated. I'm guessing there's no match yet, but it's a huge step in the right direction. Did we get it from the tears?”
“Ah, no. The lab guys tell me they may be able to do that, but at this point, I figure it's a dead end. No, we think we found a scene where the killer was interrupted before he could attack. The potential victim fits our profile with one exception. Apparently her dead husband has made a remarkable recovery.”
“Would you care to explain that last remark, or are you gonna make me guess?”
“Sorry, ma'am. As far as anyone knew—her doctor, her friends, everyone—the victim's husband died three years ago. At the time, they were facing bankruptcy and the loss of their house in Denver. She collected a hefty insurance settlement that solved the financial problems. We're still workin' out how they faked the death certificate, but the point is, the killer expected a single woman. They installed a high-tech alarm system to help protect their secret, which the killer disabled with ease. However, it appears he panicked when he saw the two of 'em, and he took off.
“A neighbor reported seeing a figure running from the house, but couldn't make out a gender or race. The neighbor called 9-1-1, and the cops showed up and found signs of damage to the back door. The woman tried to explain that nothing was wrong, but they didn't believe her, and they insisted on going in. The full story came out when they found the husband.
“As you know, the Bureau monitors local law enforcement databases. Fortunately, this happened in a major city, so our systems picked it up within a couple hours. We've been casting a pretty wide net, lookin' for any kind of break-in or assault involving single women in their fifties or sixties with height and weight parameters within fifteen percent of our target. The Denver SAC personally headed out with a forensic team and scoured the scene. We found a small amount of a substance later identified as saliva. Thus the DNA.”
Yarrow waited a beat after he finished. “OK, so good news it seems.”
“Here's where it gets complicated. We got a match almost right away. A person of interest in a cold case from the nineties, a guy named Amos Schmidt. The case involved a brutal double murder of Schmidt's parents, about two dozen stab wounds each. With one of those skewers they use for roasting wienies at your neighborhood barbecue. And one of the parents was no slouch, a sniper in the Army if you can believe it. The local cops in Malibu were sure Amos was the guy, but they had no evidence.
“Our guys were really stoked. Textbook case of a young serial killer, offing his parents. But a wider search revealed that Schmidt had an alibi for at least one of the recent murders, the one in Stockton, California.”
“What kind of alibi? Are we sure about it?”
“Sure as we can be. His alibi is that he was committing a murder in Mexico at the same time. Some prominent politician who refused to take bribes from the druggies down in Mexico City. They found Schmidt's DNA.”
“Hold on. His alibi for the killing is that he was killing someone else at the time?”
“I told ya it was complicated. The cops in Mexico wanted to extradite him. But he got a good lawyer—he inherited mucho bucks when mommy and daddy died. The murder in Stockton and the one in Mexico both happened in the evening, maybe 8:00PM. He was in a traffic accident in Malibu around 2PM. No way he could have gotten over the border and into central Mexico.”
“But he coulda made it to Stockton, right? Malibu to Stockton is what, two hundred miles?”
Andrews nodded, and ran his hands through the remains of what had once been dark curls. “Yes, he coulda made it. But if we picked him up, he'd claim that his DNA was in Mexico, and he'd walk. And there's one more thing.”
“Jesus, I'm not sure I wanna know.”
“Amos Schmidt used to have a twin sister, Andrea. A couple years before his parents met their maker, Andrea disappeared. It was around the same time they moved down to southern California. She was seventeen at the time.”
“Any chance Amos killed her?”
“Well, we spoke with the locals and they wondered about it at the time. But what proof did they have? The kid just lost his parents, so they let it go.”
Yarrow stood up, pacing behind the desk. “Tell me if I'm off-base, but I think this guy deserves a serious look. Have you checked his alibis for the other murders?”
“We've started the process. It took over ten hours after the Denver break-in before we had Schmidt's name. When we sent someone to his place in Malibu, he was at home. Doesn't mean he couldn't have caught a flight under a fake name, though. Out of the other six murders, he was at a conven
tion in Miami during the Tampa murder, and some sort of business trip in D.C. during the Connecticut murder. Both within driving distance. We don't know his whereabouts for the others. He doesn't seem to use credit cards except when he travels on business. We'll keep looking, though. At this point, we don't wanna tip him off by asking him directly. Unless we can place him at one of the scenes, we can't touch him.”
Yarrow stopped her pacing and looked at the ceiling. “But maybe … nah, forget it. I was thinking that with the threat to the President combined with the Mexico murder, we can make the case for terrorism and get a FISA warrant. But after 9/11, those idiots at HSA used it to listen to soldiers talking dirty to their wives, and the FISA court isn't quite the rubber stamp it used to be. We need something more. Is there any more to this ridiculous tale, or is that it?”
“That's it. Schmidt's our best lead, and we're gonna stay on him. I've got some agents on rotation following him, so we should be able to prevent any more murders if he's our guy. He's never gone more than a month in between killings, so we'll give it thirty days and see what happens. The big problem is if he's the suspicious type, it's difficult to maintain surveillance for that long without him getting wise to it. Oh, there is one more thing.”
“Spit it out.”
“It seems the press has gotten wind of this. Some young snot from the St. Petersburg Times figured out there was more than one similar murder. He called the Bureau, outlined what he knew and asked for comment. He knows about the cereal and the positioning of the bodies and the similar ages and builds. He doesn't know about Richards. Yet. He's going to print next week unless we grant him a scoop twenty-four hours before we release to the public.”
“Give me the little prick's name. I'll have a coupla agents pay him a visit and show him photos of the location where he could be spending ten to twenty at the state's expense for endangering the President. I'll also call his editor and the publisher and inform them that if they go to press, they'll be joining him. If that doesn't work, we'll waterboard the bastard.”
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