by Jon Land
“I knew.”
“And you came hoping to see me, preferring my company to that of the woman you had me guard from the Dutchman.”
“How did you know …” Kimberlain stopped the question in mid-sentence. Clearly there was no reason to pose it.
“You prefer to face me, Ferryman, because I remind you of everything you are. The woman reminds you of that which you can never have.”
“Nietzsche again?”
“Merely Peet, Ferryman.” And he smiled. “My work is done. I am at peace. I told you if I succeeded you could return me to The Locks. I’m here to book passage.”
“The Ferryman only ferries the dead, Peet.” He sighed. “I won’t take you back there. I can’t because I know you’re not the same man who got sentenced three years ago. You’ve earned your freedom. Besides, you’re right about the size of the jails we make for ourselves. It really doesn’t matter where the cell is, because we’re all our own jailers and each of us is the only one with the key.”
“You’re granting me my freedom?”
“No, because you’re already free. You finished Quail and saved my life in the process. I’d say that did the trick.”
Peet looked confused.
“I’ve got this cabin in Maine,” Kimberlain continued. “I think you know it. Built it myself and haven’t used it in years. Thought you might be interested in taking out a lease. Only neighbors you’ll have are squirrels.”
Peet nodded. “And fine neighbors they’ll be. And what of you, Ferryman? What of your prison?”
“I’ve got the key all right. I just can’t always find the door, and as you said, I’m not really sure I want to. I haven’t been nearly as good at slaying my demons as you have. With each payback I get one, but another’s always waiting to rise. I thought after all this I might be able to finally walk away. Now I doubt it.”
“And what if they ask you to take up the search for me?”
“There is no search. You’ve been declared officially dead. You don’t exist.”
The prospect of that brought a gleam to Peet’s face. “How fortunate. How very fortunate indeed.”
“Let’s go,” Kimberlain told him, car keys in hand. “It’s a long trip.”
“Yes, Ferryman. I suppose it is.”
A Biography of Jon Land
Since his first book was published in 1983, Jon Land has written twenty-nine novels, seventeen of which have appeared on national bestseller lists. He began writing technothrillers before Tom Clancy put them in vogue, and his strong prose, easy characterization, and commitment to technical accuracy have made him a pillar of the genre.
Land spent his college years at Brown University, where he convinced the faculty to let him attempt writing a thriller as his senior honors thesis. Four years later, his first novel, The Doomsday Spiral, appeared in print. In the last years of the Cold War, he found a place writing chilling portrayals of threats to the United States, and of the men and women who operated undercover and outside the law to maintain US security. His most successful of those novels were the nine starring Blaine McCracken, a rogue CIA agent and former Green Beret with the skills of James Bond but none of the Englishman’s tact.
In 1998 Land published the first novel in his Ben and Danielle series, comprised of fast-paced thrillers whose heroes, a Detroit cop and an Israeli detective, work together to protect the Holy Land, falling in love in the process. He has written seven of these so far. The most recent, The Last Prophecy, was released in 2004.
RT Book Reviews honored Land with a special prize for pioneering genre fiction, and his short story “Killing Time” was shortlisted for the 2010 Dagger Award for best short fiction and included in 2010’s The Best American Mystery Stories. He is also the author of the Caitlin Strong series, starring the eponymous Texas Ranger, a female character in a genre that Land has said has too few. The second book in the Caitlin Strong series, Strong Justice (2010), was named a Top Thriller of the Year by Library Journal and runner-up for Best Novel of the Year by the New England Book Festival. His first nonfiction book, Betrayal, written with Robert Fitzpatrick, tells the behind-the-scenes story of a deputy FBI chief attempting to bring down Boston crime lord Whitey Bulger, and was published to acclaim in 2011. The Blaine McCracken novel Pandora’s Temple won the 2013 International Book Award for Best Thriller/Adventure, and was nominated for a 2013 Thriller Award for Best E-Book Original Novel.
Land currently lives in Providence, not far from his alma mater.
Land (left) interviewing then–teen idol Leif Garrett (center) in April of 1978 at the dawn of Land’s writing career.
Land (second from left) at Maine’s Ogunquit Beach during the summer of 1984, while he was a counselor at Camp Samoset II. He spent a total of twenty-six summers at the camp.
Land with street kids in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, which he visited in 1987 as part of his research for The Omicron Legion (1991).
Land on the beach in Matunuck, Rhode Island, in 2003.
In front of the “process trailer” on the set of Dirty Deeds, the first movie that he scripted, which was released in 2005. The film starred Milo Ventimiglia and Lacey Chabert.
Land pictured in 2007 with Fabrizio Boccardi, the Italian investor and entrepreneur who was the inspiration for his book The Seven Sins, which was published in 2008.
Land emceeing the Brunch and Bullets Luncheon to benefit Reading Is Fundamental at the Renaissance Hollywood Hotel in the spring of 2007.
Land and his classmates and fraternity brothers celebrating their thirtieth class reunion during Brown University’s Commencement Weekend in 2009. He was a member of the Delta Phi fraternity.
In the fall of 2010, Land attended the first ever Brown University night football game, which he coordinated in his position as Vice President of the Brown Football Association. Brown beat rival Harvard 29-14.
Land’s most recent publicity shot, taken in late 2010, when he was having, he says, a good hair day.
Acknowledgments
THE HELP AND ASSISTANCE of so many becomes more important and valued with each book. For several of those listed below, mere mention is hardly sufficient to express my thanks and appreciation.
I must start appropriately with the wondrous Toni Mendez, as great a human being as she is an agent. The creative support of Ann Maurer makes all of my books far better than they have a right to be. But, of course, they wouldn’t be books at all, if not for the Fawcett family under Leona Nevler and Dan Zitin, who publish people as well as books.
Thanks to Dr. Mort Korn more than ever this time for being the only person to suffer through this book in its most infantile stage, and to the brilliant Emery Pineo for helping it grow up.
Thanks as always to Shihan John Saviano for help with the choreography of the many fight scenes, and to Colin Burgess, Alan Foster, Andy Stearns, Andy Lewis, and Dr. David Bindleglass for assistance with geography. I am also indebted to David Schecter and Tony Shepherd for their contributions along the way.
Last, I must acknowledge John White* and Richard W. Noone** for a pair of excellent books which figured prominently in my research. Their devotion and commitment to their field enriches and enlightens us all.
*Pole Shift, A.R.E. Press, Virginia, 1986
**5/5/2000 Ice: The Ultimate Disaster, Harmony Books, 1986
A Sneak Peek at Strong at the Break
Turn the page for a sneak peek at Jon Land’s new book Strong at the Break, coming in 2011
Chapter 1
Quebec; the present
FROM THE STREET THE house looked like any other nestled around it in the suburban neighborhood dominated by snow cover that had at last started to melt. A McMansion with gables, faux brick and lots of fancy windows that could have been lifted up and dropped just about anywhere. The leaves had long deserted the tree branches, eliminating any privacy for each two-acre spread had the typical neighbors been around to notice. Problem was the neighborhood, part of a new plot of palatial-style homes, had been erected at t
he peak of a housing boom now gone bust, so less than a third were occupied.
Caitlin Strong and a Royal Canadian Mountie named Pierre Beauchamp were part of a six-person squad rotating shifts in teams of two inside an unsold home diagonally across from the designated 18 Specter, the marijuana grow house they’d been eyeballing for three weeks now. She’d come up here after being selected for a joint U.S. and Canadian Drug Task Force looking into the ever-increasing rash of drug smuggling across a fifteen-mile stretch of St. Regis Mohawk Indian Reservation land that straddled the border.
Beauchamp lowered his binoculars and made some notes on his pad, while Caitlin looked at him instead of raising hers back up.
“Something wrong, Ranger?”
“Not unless you count the fact I got no idea what we’re trying to accomplish here.”
“Get the lay of the land. Isn’t that it?”
“Seems to me,” Caitlin told the Mountie, “that the DEA got that in hand already. You boys too.”
“It’s Task Force business now. We need to build a case for a full-on strike.”
“You telling me the Mounties couldn’t have done that already, on their own?”
“Not without alerting parties on the other side of border who’d respond by dropping their game off the radar, eh? When we hit them, the effort’s got to be coordinated and sudden. That doesn’t mean two law enforcement bodies working in tandem, it means two countries. And that, Ranger Strong, is never a simple prospect.”
“So we’ve got to tell both sides what they know already.”
Beauchamp shrugged. “Put simply, yes.”
“I guess I’m just not cut out for this sort of game,” Caitlin said and sighed.
The thunk of car doors slamming froze Beauchamp’s response before he could utter it. Both he and Caitlin had their binoculars pressed back against their eyes in the next instant, watching five big men in black tops, black fatigue pants and army boots approach the grow house from a dark SUV lugging assault rifles and what looked like gasoline cans.
“Uh-oh,” said Beauchamp.
“Hells Angels?” asked Caitlin, following a bald pair of black-garbed figures who looked like twins.
“Yup.”
“What exactly they doing here now, while there’s people and drugs still inside?”
The Mountie moved his gaze back to her, his expression flatter than she’d seen in the three weeks they’d been working together. “Only one thing I can think of.”
Chapter 2
Mohawk Indian Reservation; three weeks earlier
THE DEA’S LEAD AGENT, Frank Gage, drove Caitlin out to the St. Regis Mohawk Indian Reservation first thing when she reached St. Lawrence County in upstate New York, her unpacked bags stowed in her motel room. They turned off Route 37 down a bumpy road formed of cracked pavement lost to the snow the further they drew into the woods. March was the absolute dead of winter in these parts, and Caitlin had never seen so much snow and ice in her entire life, enough of it to make the trees sag under its weight.
“Peak of the season, this road’s got more snow than you can imagine,” he said, finally snailing his car to a halt in a clearing that opened into a picturesque, white-encrusted scene of a frozen river that somewhere contained the border between the United States and Canada.
Caitlin followed Gage out of the car and down a slight embankment atop snow that crunched underfoot before hardening into ice. Her boots had the wrong tread for this kind of ground and she found herself slipping, unsure exactly of where the land ended and frozen water began beneath them.
“Welcome to the source of our problems, Ranger,” Gage told her.
“Where’s the border exactly?”
“There isn’t one. That’s the problem,” he said, pointing across the vast whiteness to the woods on the other side. “That’s Canada over there, but it’s also part of the Mohawk Reservation on their side of the border too.”
Caitlin followed Gage’s gaze and spotted an old Indian man cutting a hole in the ice. He had a fishing pole resting on a foldout chair behind him and, if he was aware of their presence, chose not to acknowledge it.
“Who’s that?”
“Old tribal cop. A legend in these parts who hates the druggers almost as much as he hates us. Comes pretty much every day to catch his dinner. Locals say he might be as much as a hundred years old.”
Caitlin watched the old man plop down in his chair and ready his pole over the perfectly circular hole he’d fashioned in the ice.
“That all makes this a virtual sovereign nation the Canadian authorities are reluctant to violate even more than we are,” Gage said, picking up where he left off before Caitlin had been distracted by the old Indian. He turned toward her, breath misting in front of his face. “More drugs come into the country over this and other frozen rivers, what we call ‘ice bridges,’ than any other spot in the country.”
“Excluding Mexico.”
“No, Ranger, not excluding Mexico at all, no offense to you.”
“None taken,” Caitlin said, trying to make sense of what the DEA man was telling her.
“We estimate fifty-five billion dollars a year in drugs now comes in through Canada. Compare that with forty-five, maybe fifty, through Mexico.”
“You telling me we been fighting the war on drugs in the wrong place?”
“I’m telling you a new front’s opened up in that war over the past five years or so and you’re looking at it. Starts with the grow houses, pharma and meth labs organized throughout Quebec and parts of British Colombia by the Hells Angels.”
“Same biker gang we got?”
“They operate on both sides of the border. An elaborate network of fully franchised businessmen backed up by the usual armed sons of bitches riding Harleys. Angels are responsible for manufacture and shipment across Mohawk land here with the Natives’ full blessing, since plenty of them end up as major distributors of the product themselves. I’ll show you some of the homes of biggest suppliers later. Goddamn mansions sitting just down the road from shacks generally unfit for human habitation. Tribal dealers use runners to sell their product to networks loyal to Russian organized crime throughout New York, Ohio, and Michigan. And that’s just for starters since it doesn’t even include the truck loads bound for other suppliers.”
“You’ve sold me on the severity of the problem,” Caitlin told him, feeling the wind sift through her hair. The air was bitingly cold, the bright sun offering a measure of respite, though not very much. “But I don’t really see how the Texas Rangers can help you solve it, sir.”
“Rangers can’t; you can.”
“Come again?”
“You’ve become a real authority on the subject, Ranger Strong.”
“Not by choice, I’ll tell you that much.”
“All the same, you’ve been fighting your own war on drugs for more than two years now.”
“Sure, back where it’s smuggled in through tunnels dug out of the desert floor or old irrigation lines. Where I come from, we still got drug mules carrying product in rucksacks or on the backs of donkeys.”
“While up here,” picked up Gage, “it’s driven by the truckload across frozen rivers by men who speak French instead of Spanish. You can see what I’m getting at.”
“Not really, sir, no.”
“Problem’s the same; only the language and geography’s different.”
“I speak Spanish, not French.”
Gage gave her a longer look this time. His thinning hair blew about in the stiff breeze, exposing a swatch of bald patches. He smoothed it back into place as best he could, but then a fresh thrust of wind tousled it once more.
“Only language drug people speak is money. Accents don’t matter a whole hell of a lot to them. Where we’re at now is the planning stage. Trying to handle this piece meal’s gotten us nowhere. What the Task Force is putting together is an overall strategy, kind of a master plan.”
Gage had continued to kick at the gathered snow, revealing a de
ep symmetrical, crisscrossing pattern cut in the ice. Caitlin followed the pattern further out onto the ice, convincing herself it ran from one side of this frozen swatch of the St. Lawrence River all the way across to the other.
“What is it?” Gage asked her.
“These trucks of yours carry enough weight to need snow chains?”
“Never thought about it.”
Caitlin rose from her crouch, brushing the snow from her gloves. “You should, sir. What we got here looks to be big freight jobs running on double tires with only the outer ones chained. You’re talking about some haul, if it’s drugs they’re carrying in those cargo bays.”
Gage finally looked up from the chain marks and studied Caitlin for what seemed like a long time, long enough for her to note his cheeks had gone cherry red in the cold while his nose remained milky pale, like his whole face was out of sync.
“I’m operating on a shoestring here,” he told her. “Six agents, some locals and state cops out of New York, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, a tribal policeman, and now you.”
“Well, now that makes me feel a whole lot better.”
“It’s like this,” Agent Cage explained. “The growers buy homes at foreclosure sales mostly across Quebec and British Colombia as well as outside Toronto and other venues. They pretty much gut the interiors to turn them into grow houses for an especially potent strain of marijuana known as BC Bud. The head growers get all the soil laid down, seeds planted, lighting and environment set up and turn things over to immigrants to handle the tender loving care.”
“Did you say immigrants?”
“I did indeed, Ranger. Chinese mostly, totally beholden to the druggers for their very lives after being smuggled out of their home countries. A separate syndicate charges a fee to get the immigrants into Canada and then turns them over to the druggers to work off the rest with a ticket to the good old USA when the time comes. Poor bastards can see the American Dream across the border and will do pretty much anything they’re told.”