by Wil Mara
“Yeah, so? It’s nice to know who you’re working for, but what does it change?”
Hammond could only stare in fascination. How can anyone be this far removed from rationality? How does a person reach this point? Shaking his head in disgust, he said, “Birds of a feather, I guess.”
Once again Birk’s smile fled. He walked over, gun out, and delivered a vicious kick to Hammond’s stomach. Hammond dropped to all fours, gagging.
“I’ve got my money from you and plenty more coming when I send you and your friends to the afterlife. How I choose to do it is my business, so you might want to think about showing me a little respect.” Birk motioned toward Sheila. “See that little sweetheart of yours? She didn’t know how to show respect. One of the nastiest pieces of work I’ve ever met. Scratched my face and kicked me where it hurts the most.”
Hammond, still trying to catch his breath, peered up at Sheila and found she was at a point in her rotation where she could return the glance.
He smiled and winked. “Good girl.”
Birk kicked him again, harder this time. Hammond rolled onto his side and struggled to keep from crying out.
“Yeah, and now you get to see your good girl die. Try to smile about that.”
Hammond shook his head and tried to say no but was unable to summon the breath. Clemente, kneeling at his side, held out a pleading hand. Birk ignored them both and swung his arm up, taking careful aim at the rope over Sheila’s head.
“Have a nice swim,” he said.
Then the lights went out.
Nothing happened for a brief moment as each character in the play tried to make sense of this unexpected change in the script.
Then Birk cursed and started firing. Each shot produced a flash, creating a silent-movie strobe effect. Hammond and Clemente instinctively dove away from their current positions—where Birk would expect them to be—and dropped to the ground with hands over their heads. More shots went off, and at first Hammond thought, He can’t have that many left. Then he realized more than one person was firing. Two more reports were issued from close range—from Birk—then Hammond heard a mighty splash.
Sheila . . .
Disregarding the gunfire, Hammond got to his feet and took several blind steps until his foot found the edge of the frame that outlined the boat launch. He took the deepest breath of his life and dove in.
The frigid water attacked him with a million tiny needles. He growled in pain, the sound fragmenting like tissue paper in the greenish, murky darkness. He groped wildly for the chair, the rope, Sheila herself, but nothing was there. He did a split-second calculation, estimating where he had been in proximity to Sheila when the lights went out, then adjusted for where he had relocated to avoid taking a bullet from the enraged gunman. I need to go left, he decided. Left and down.
He cut a diagonal path in that direction, flailing his arms after each muscular stroke. Precious seconds burned away, and alarm began flooding in. His lungs began to tighten, then burn. He kept moving but still found nothing. He screamed out—“SHEILAAAAA!”—knowing the effort was futile. Now his lungs felt like they were about to explode. God, please . . . Please help me. He moved farther down, the pain in his chest unbearable. He reached out, swirled his arms around madly. Still nothing . . . nothing at all . . .
Then his foot struck something solid.
He turned, reached out, and grabbed onto the corner of the chair. He felt farther and found the contour of her face. He moved in close, wanting to let her know he was there. Then he saw that her eyes were closed.
Oh no. . . . Jesus, no. . . . Please. . . .
In spite of the adrenaline and the rage and the overwhelming desire to save her, he simply could not go another second without oxygen. He rocketed up and found he had been only four or five feet beneath the surface.
Breaking through, he produced a sound that eclipsed all others in the vicinity. Then he saw them—several men in dark suits and ties.
“SHE’S HERE! RIGHT DOWN BELOW ME! HELP ME, PLEASE!”
When he went under this time, he could hear others diving in. Then there were hands and faces everywhere, taking hold of different things, lifting Sheila and moving her toward the shore as the others hurried over to help them. Hammond saw her face again, kept screaming, “HURRY! HURRY!”
The next minute would be forever burned in his mind as a blur. They reached the muddy shore and eased her down. Someone produced a flashlight, someone else a knife. Once Sheila was cut free, Hammond began performing CPR. She did not respond at first, and her head rolled hideously to one side. Some of the suited men took a step back, their faces grim.
“Come on,” Hammond said, tears rolling down his face. “Come ON!”
Then she jerked forward in a fierce belly crunch, filthy river water exploding from her mouth. Hammond cradled her in his arms, slipping one leg behind her back for support. She continued to cough and sputter for a time before her eyes fluttered open. There was enough fear and confusion there to last ten lifetimes.
When she looked up and saw who was holding her, a smile began to form. Then, abruptly, it vanished again. “What took you so long?” she demanded.
Hammond had never laughed so hard.
45
RYDELL NAVIGATED through the darkened suburb until he reached Pitney Avenue. The street was lined with massive sycamores and transversed the neighborhood’s grid of right angles in a broad southwesterly curve. He was pleased to see no late-night stragglers about, no fortysomethings taking health walks or teenagers cruising around on bicycles. Everyone was tucked into bed and sleeping the just and noble sleep of America’s working class.
He desperately needed sleep as well; the stress of the day had drained him. He had spent the last several hours in the multistory parking lot of a busy shopping mall, tucked in a corner with the driver’s seat fully reclined as he waited for nightfall. Since the car was unknown to authorities, he judged that the odds of being discovered were virtually nil. He collected his thoughts, calmed his nerves, and ate two power bars—and never once noticed that the Lexus that had been tailing him earlier was parked about a hundred yards away. Just as Rydell required darkness to move forward with his plan, so did his pursuer.
As Rydell approached his destination—house number 194—he turned off the headlights and allowed the vehicle to roll quietly into the driveway. The house was an unremarkable ranch, cream yellow with black shutters and a great belly of a bay window next to the front door. The agency kept the property as a third-tier safe house but was now considering selling it due to lack of use. The story they had circulated through the area was that it was owned by a wealthy developer in North Carolina who was considering razing it in favor of a split-level prefab. That seemed to satisfy the local gossips, who so helpfully made sure to spread the word even further. In the meantime, good taxpayer dollars went to its upkeep, including basic landscaping in the spring and summer, snow removal in the winter, and minor repairs as needed.
Rydell got out, fished the keys from his pocket, and entered the garage through a side door. He lifted the bay door as quietly as possible and pulled in the car. Then he went through the house to make sure all blinds and curtains were closed. He returned to the car and retrieved the duffel bag, groaning as he picked it up. He took it into the basement, which was finished with Sheetrock and carpeting and, most importantly, a small bathroom with no windows.
Outside the house, the white Lexus sat under one of the sycamores, lights off but engine still idling. The driver, now wide awake with a mixture of both excitement and apprehension, watched and waited.
Hammond sat on the rear fender of the ambulance with Sheila huddled next to him and a heavy woolen blanket wrapped around them both. They had been given fresh clothes and strong black coffee. Red lights swirled around them, agents moved about in every direction, voices on radios cut in and out. They, in the center of it all, seemed to have been forgotten.
“No, she’s okay, Noah,” Hammond said into his phone. “
They’re taking her to the hospital to run some tests, but she told me she feels fine.”
“I’m fine, Noah,” she said into the mouthpiece.
“Okay,” the older man replied, still sounding unconvinced. “What about Mr. Clemente?”
“They’ve taken him into custody,” Hammond told him.
“You didn’t—?”
“He wanted to go. He was eager to. I called Chip Frazier, and he’s already agreed to represent.” Frazier had been Hammond’s attorney and friend for years.
“You’re not worried about . . . you know? Something happening to him while in the government’s hands?”
“I’m not. I think Vallick is a good and decent man who is making a real effort to scrub the CIA’s reputation wherever he can. But just in case, I made sure to let it slip that I had Clemente’s deposition on video.”
“That must’ve had them jumping.”
“It was suggested that I turn the files over as evidence. Chip told them to get stuffed.”
“Very good. And what about this mental case who almost killed all of you?”
Hammond sighed. “No sign of him.”
“He got away? With all those agents around?”
“Yeah. They think he had an escape route planned out. That would make sense if you think about it from his perspective. There were other openings in the floor that led to the river, and they think he just dove in.”
“Too bad.”
“Tell me about it. However, some blood was found inside that has to be his. We assume he was wounded because no one else was.”
“Oh, well, they can use the samples and maybe make an ID on him.”
“Exactly. And he left the money behind.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No. When you’re running for your life, I guess you don’t stop to pick up heavy bags. That’s what he gets for asking for so much. If it had been fifty grand, he might have been able to stick it in his pockets.”
“Incredible. By the way, how did the agents know to go there in the first place?”
“They received a text message.”
“From whom?”
“Me.”
“Excuse me?”
“No, I’m kidding. One of them told me he received a text from someone pretending to be me.”
“Rydell, I take it?”
“I don’t know for sure, but I’m willing to bet on it.”
“Yeah, it sounds about right. Does anyone know where he is?”
“No, no sign of him, nor did I expect there to be. When the heat’s on, the man’s a coward. That’s the bottom line.”
“Who knows where he could be by now.”
“Smart guy, but still human. Maybe they’ll pick him up.”
“I hope so.”
“Yeah. So let me get going. I have to call our curious friend and give him an update.”
“I’m very relieved you’re both all right.”
“Thanks.”
“Keep me updated too.”
“Always.”
Hammond replaced the phone in his pocket, checked to make sure no one was within earshot, then took Sheila by the shoulders. “You’re sure he didn’t . . . you know?”
She smiled. “No. As strange as this might sound, I would rather have died fighting him off than let him get away with anything.”
Hammond shuddered. “Nutcase.”
“And a half.”
One of the EMTs appeared. “We should bring you to the hospital now, Ms. Baker.”
She looked to Hammond. “Coming along?”
“I’ll be there shortly.”
“Okay.” She reached up and kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks for saving my life, by the way.”
“My pleasure.”
“Mine, too.”
After she was gone, he took out the phone again and dialed a number with a Dallas area code. It rang seven times before going to voice mail, which Hammond found highly unusual. If the phone was turned off, or if he was already talking to someone, it would’ve gone right to voice mail. So why isn’t he picking up?
He tried a text instead.
Hey—A lot has just happened. Are you there?
He waited a few minutes, as the recipient in question was always prompt with his responses. When none came, he went to plan C—the home number. It was picked up on the second ring.
“Hello?” The voice belonged to a woman, late twenties or early thirties.
“Hi, Crystal. It’s Jason.”
“Hello there.”
“Can I speak to the old man, please?”
“Excuse me?”
“Your dad—can I please speak to him? There have been some interesting developments in the last half hour, and I want to give him—”
“Isn’t he with you?”
“With me?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He got on a plane right after you called the first time.”
“What are you talking ab—?”
Then he understood, and the nightmare scenario rapidly unfolded in his mind. There had, in fact, been one or two moments when he’d envisioned the possibility, but he never believed it would actually happen.
Crystal was speaking again, but Hammond didn’t hear a word of it.
“You’re sure he left?” he said, cutting her off. “You’re absolutely certain he came here?”
“Yes. I made the travel arrangements while he packed his bag. And he called me when he arrived.”
“Oh no. . . .”
“What, Jason? What’s happening?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe it’s nothing. Let me call you right back.”
He launched the phone’s GPS tracking software and entered the unresponsive cell number. Nothing happened for several moments. Then a street map appeared on the screen, a red dot blinking in the center. He didn’t recognize the neighborhood, but the town—Lake Barcroft, Virginia—was less than thirty minutes away.
Hammond brought the phone to the agent standing closest to him. “Excuse me, does this area look familiar to you?”
The agent, a young guy who looked like he still had parties in his dorm room every Friday night, studied the map and shook his head. “Lake Barcroft? No, I don’t—”
“Barcroft?” someone else cut in. “What about it?”
This was an older individual, silver-haired and serious. An in-charge type of guy.
Hammond brought the phone to him, and the map was appraised again.
“What’s this red dot?”
“It’s a friend of mine,” Hammond said. “He apparently has some interest in this particular area. Can you think of a reason why?”
The agent seemed hesitant to answer. His eyes went over Hammond, scrutinizing him. Then, “The CIA has a safe house there, an old one that hasn’t been used in a long time.”
“On . . . ?”
“Pitney Avenue, yes. Right where your friend is.” In-Charge Guy looked at the screen again to double-check. “Do you mind telling me how he would know about it?”
Hammond did, leaving out nothing. Then they were on Route 395, heading southwest at galactic speed.
46
RYDELL STARED into the mirror of the basement bathroom, and a stranger stared back.
It was a most remarkable job, he thought. Particularly gratifying considering his lack of expertise. He had known hundreds who lived and died with their ability to alter their appearance, but he had never conversed with any of them on the subject. No casual lunches in the agency cafeteria to pick their brains, no invitations to dinner and drinks on a Friday evening. He got his information, as so many did these days, off the Internet. As such, he’d been forced to absorb and apply it far too rapidly. And yet . . .
I can barely recognize myself, he thought with a satisfied grin, turning his head back and forth.
His hair, formerly in the transitioning-from-black-to-silver phase, was now uniformly iron gray. And the respectable combed-back style was gone, rep
laced by a more unkempt, almost-frazzled look. The false mustache was particularly effective—he had been concerned that it would look ridiculously bogus, like something attached to a set of the plastic Groucho nose and glasses found in every gag shop in the world. But this one was so convincing, it looked like it might start growing. Best of all, it matched the new hair perfectly.
Of the six alternate personas he’d created over the last two years, the one he decided to go with was named Louis Cooper. Cooper was what he thought of as “an old man who worked with his hands all his life.” Lower income, minimal education, generally ignorant toward world affairs, and not too concerned about his appearance. To that end, Rydell decided the most appropriate costume would be a pair of work boots, jeans, and a plaid fleece coat. He’d also keep the glasses and hat he’d been wearing since he left the house. He liked that the aging Chevy Malibu seemed a credible choice for the character. Best of all, this alter ego was far enough removed from his actual self that it would just about eliminate any chance of his being spotted as he carried out the crucial next phase of the escape.
That phase had but one objective—to get out of America. This would be accomplished by road travel, he’d decided, on a southwesterly route that could cut through Virginia, Tennessee, Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana, and then Texas. The newly minted Mr. Cooper had a birth certificate, driver’s license, and passport, so a border crossing wouldn’t be a problem. Besides, Rydell thought, it was a rare occasion indeed when anyone cared if you went from America to Mexico.
At first he thought it might be best to travel only at night. But that could cause problems, like attracting the attention of some bored cop on an otherwise-empty stretch of highway. So he would drive during the day, mostly while the rest of the country was hard at work, and maybe some evening hours as well. He would get his food at drive-throughs, go to the bathroom at rest stops and gas stations, sleep in small, out-of-the-way motels, and pay for everything in cash.
When he reached Monterrey in Nuevo León, he could begin the next phase of the plan. This was his favorite by far—taking a flight to the Caribbean island of St. Eustatius, buying a villa, and spending the rest of his days with a straw hat propped over his face while he snoozed under the afternoon sun.