“Please, Jack. Let’s go out for a little while.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Have I fallen asleep on you in the car?”
“No.”
“And I won’t. I’ll stay right with you all day tomorrow. I’ll do half the driving, and I won’t sleep when I’m not driving. I promise. I know you’re thinking I’ll pass out, but I really won’t. I’m good at that kind of stuff.” She eased down onto the floor, crawled over to where he was sitting, and rested her arms on his thighs so that her face and those beautiful lips were very close to his. “I just want to have some fun. Come on. Please.”
He gazed into those dark eyes of hers. He wasn’t going to turn down that invitation even if he had to keep his eyelids pried open with toothpicks tomorrow.
From the bridge of the massive ship, the man gazed past the huge domes and into the darkness ahead. Then he looked up and cased the sky for any moving lights. But there were none.
The Pegasus was only two days from Virginia Beach, and he was getting nervous. He was prepared to die in the inferno they would create when they blew up the ship. But he couldn’t take the thought of being stopped and boarded. He couldn’t take the thought of living out the rest of his life in some awful prison somewhere, tortured every day.
He moaned in a low voice so the other man on the bridge wouldn’t hear him. He wanted all those virgins he’d been promised on the other side. He only hoped that his contact in the United States was as crazy and bitter as he claimed to be.
CHAPTER 32
MADDUX AND Carlson were sitting in the same room of the central Virginia farmhouse in which Maddux had welcomed Ryan O’Hara into the Falcon division of Red Cell Seven. The only difference was that tonight Carlson was sitting behind the desk and Maddux was out in front where O’Hara had been.
They were the only people in the house. Carlson’s driver was waiting outside in an idling Town Car, and Maddux had sent O’Hara to California yesterday to prep for his first assignment. It was the most important first assignment any Falcon ever had.
Carlson spoke up first. “Hello, Red Fox One.”
It had been a long time since Carlson had called him that, but it didn’t necessarily strike Maddux as strange. “Good evening, Roger.” Maddux hadn’t slept in three days. Despite that, he felt good. All in all, things were going well. There were challenges, but there were always challenges in this line of work. One way or the other, he’d overcome them. He always did. “I hope you’re doing well.”
“Doing fine.”
“Do you have the information we talked about?”
President Dorn was going to Los Angeles and would be making two very public outdoor appearances while he was there. Carlson had acquired the details of the trip, including a dossier of the president’s minute-by-minute schedule. Carlson had promised to bring that dossier with him tonight. Having those details would enable Ryan O’Hara to get in perfect position to take a clear shot at Dorn’s head from no more than three hundred yards while the president was standing unprotected behind a waist-high dais. It would be a slam-dunk shot for a marksman of O’Hara’s caliber, and Dorn’s blood would end up splattered all over the California stage.
Maddux was disappointed he wouldn’t be able to kill Dorn himself, but he had to get to Alaska quickly and there was no telling how long he’d be there.
He’d already informed O’Hara of who the target was, and O’Hara had claimed that he wouldn’t be deterred from firing his rifle because he was aiming at the president of the United States. Several times during the briefing O’Hara had reaffirmed his absolute loyalty to Red Cell Seven—and, more importantly, to Maddux—and sworn that he understood the need to take such an extreme action during such an extreme time in the country’s history. In fact, O’Hara seemed enthusiastic about using his skills so early in his career at RCS for such an important purpose.
But Maddux wasn’t stupid or gullible. Another RCS agent who Maddux was close to and who hated President Dorn just as much would accompany O’Hara to Los Angeles to make certain the assassination went off as planned. That man would stand beside O’Hara to make certain the kid took the kill shot. To make certain O’Hara understood the grave consequences he would face should the president’s blood end up not being splattered all over that California stage. He was the same man who’d gone to Mexico to talk to Troy after Troy had killed that bull in Nuevo Laredo.
“It’s all right here.” Carlson tapped his chest above his shirt pocket as he leaned over the desk. “Everything you need.” He hesitated. “But before I give it to you, we need to talk about something.”
“Oh?”
“We have a problem, Shane, a serious problem.”
Maddux glanced up. He’d been checking one of his cell phones for another message from Rita Hayes, but nothing else had come in yet. She was doing her best to break Bill Jensen, but he was deflecting all her questions.
Maddux had been tempted to tell Rita to stop asking because Bill was no fool. He’d figure out what was going on sooner rather than later, and that could spell trouble. But now that Hunter Smith and Lisa Martinez were dead ends, Bill was their best shot at finding out quickly if Troy had survived his ordeal of being hurled from the Arctic Fire. And if Troy had survived, where he was. If Bill would just give them a clue about where Jack Jensen was headed, Maddux would feel so much better. Jack, Maddux was certain, would lead them straight to Troy.
Maddux had recruited Rita ten years ago to keep an eye on Bill, and until now she’d never let him down. He was confident she wouldn’t this time either. Bill had too much to lose in all of this.
“What is it, Roger?” Maddux asked as he thought about how Bill owned the farmhouse he and Carlson were now meeting in. How Bill owned a lot of things Red Cell Seven used. They’d have to kill him if he figured out what Rita was doing or that RCS had killed his son, and replacing a man like Bill Jensen wouldn’t be easy. But so be it. “What’s the problem?”
“Remember I told you we shot down the G5 that was supposed to blow up the Olympian after she made it into Boston Harbor?”
“I remember,” Maddux answered. “You said one of our pilots off the Reagan shot it down out in the Atlantic. He played with the G5 pilot a little bit while he was trying out some new high-tech stuff, but he took the guy out before he ever got close to Europe.”
“I also told you that we had a recon crew heading for the crash site to see what they could find.”
Maddux made certain to stare impassively at Carlson. “And?”
“And they found some documents.”
Carlson’s eyes were flashing in a way Maddux had never seen them flash before—which wasn’t good. The old man was furious. “Oh yeah?” This was bad. “So?”
“Anything you want to tell me, Shane?”
Maddux leaned down to brush something off his shoe. “What are you talking about?” he asked innocently as he rose back up after a few moments.
“We’ve known each other too long to go through this stupid song and dance,” Carlson hissed. “You know more about the Olympian than you’ve told me, don’t you, Shane?”
“What the—”
“I can’t believe it!”
“Can’t believe what?”
“You were going to let that ship sail into Boston Harbor and blow it up. You got them the clearances they needed to get into the harbor, didn’t you?”
“There were foreign terrorists aboard that ship. The CIA confirmed the identifications of several of the bodies from the Olympian. They were foreigners, and they were members of a terrorist group based in Syria that our people are very familiar with.”
“You helped them,” Carlson said accusingly. “You facilitated it. You got them their clearances,” he repeated.
“I was the one who blew the whistle on what was happening, Roger. I was the one who told you the Olympian had to be stopped. This is ridiculous.”
“It’s not ridiculous at all,” Carlson snapped. “You blew the whistle on tha
t ship because you had to. Because someone else would have if you hadn’t, and then you would have been identified as a traitor. I saw the documents they recovered from that G5. I knew the rat was you as soon as I saw the papers.” He hesitated. “One of your Falcons figured out what you were doing, right? Is that what happened?”
“No.”
“Was it Troy Jensen?”
“No!”
“You little bastard.”
Maddux clenched his teeth together hard. “What the hell did you just call me?”
“How dare you go outside the chain of command, Shane? How dare you put me and Red Cell Seven in jeopardy like that? After all I’ve done for you.”
“Look, I—”
“I know what you were thinking, Shane. You figured you’d blow up that LNG tanker, that some terrorist group would get credit for the disaster, and then we’d have another 9/11 on our hands. You figure the intel world gets anything it wants after that, and David Dorn has to bend over and take it up the ass when we want to tap people’s phones and study people’s credit card bills and torture anyone we want to torture whenever we want to.” Carlson shook his head. “But you can’t kill millions of innocent Americans, Shane. Those are the people we’ve sworn to protect. I mean, maybe a few could be sacrificed every once in a while. Maybe I could understand that. But if you’d been successful and the Olympian had blown up in the harbor, you would have destroyed one of the most important cities in our country. That’s insane. You’re insane.”
The old man needed to settle down. He wasn’t thinking straight. Somehow President Dorn must have gotten to him, Maddux figured. That was the only explanation for all of the treason spewing from Carlson’s mouth.
“Roger, you don’t know what you’re talking about.” Deny, deny, deny. It was all Maddux could do right now. Carlson wasn’t going to calm down, so he had to keep denying and hope the man would just let it go.
Carlson pointed at Maddux accusingly. “Was Charlie Banks really washed off the Arctic Fire by a wave a year ago? Or was he thrown off that ship by the crew?”
“That’s not relevant right now, Roger.”
“Tell me, you midget,” Carlson snarled.
Maddux could feel himself losing control. “Don’t go there, Roger.” He knew what Carlson was trying to do, and he couldn’t let himself be driven out of control to the point of admitting everything. He was still hoping they could get past this.
“Did you have Charlie thrown overboard?” Carlson demanded. “Did you have Troy Jensen thrown overboard too?” The old man reached inside his suit jacket and pulled out his cell phone. “I think I better talk to Sage Mitchell myself.”
Maddux stood up slowly from the chair. “Don’t do that, Roger. Don’t call Sage Mitchell.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“I’m begging you not to make that call.”
“You couldn’t beg hard enough, Shane,” Carlson retorted as he began to push buttons on the phone. “Nothing could keep me from making this call. I can’t wait to hear Sage’s answer.”
“Roger.”
Carlson glanced up angrily from behind the desk. “What?”
“I love you. I’m sorry about this.”
Maddux raised his right hand, aimed the tiny dart gun at Carlson’s neck, and fired. Carlson’s eyes opened wide when the razor-sharp end of the dart hit his skin.
A moment later the old man rose unsteadily from the desk chair, staggered a few feet toward Maddux with his arms outstretched, and collapsed to the floor with a loud moan.
Maddux shook his head grimly as he gazed down. Carlson had actually been dead before he’d hit the floor. The shit really worked.
The dart inside the gun was filled with a concoction that perfectly simulated a heart attack. The bright orange liquid was basically an incredibly powerful shot of adrenaline that even a healthy young heart wouldn’t have been able to handle. Carlson’s heart had exploded in his chest almost instantaneously. The best thing about it: all remnants of the concoction would dissipate well before anyone could detect them during an autopsy.
Maddux knelt down, removed the dart from Carlson’s neck, and began to perform CPR. The illusion had to seem real. Maddux’s DNA needed to be in Carlson’s throat, and Carlson’s chest had to be bruised by his fists.
When he was done, he glanced at where Carlson had been sitting. The old man hadn’t brought a cane tonight, and suddenly Maddux felt no guilt at all for what he’d done. Roger Carlson had been lying to him for twenty years.
Maddux reached into Carlson’s jacket and pulled out an envelope. Inside it was the dossier for President Dorn’s trip to Los Angeles. Now Dorn really was a dead man.
It was midnight and the bar was going crazy. The place was packed, the rock-and-roll band was in high gear, and alcohol was flowing freely. The clientele was a mix of locals and students because Missoula was home to the University of Montana, and right outside of town huge cattle ranches extended in all directions throughout Big Sky Country. So cowboys were dancing with coeds, and everyone was having a hot time.
Jack grinned as he watched Karen lean over the pool table to line up the last shot. She was wearing a sexy top, a snug pair of jeans, and cool suede cowboy boots. He’d bought her the outfit at a boutique in Bozeman, where they’d eaten dinner a few hours ago.
He took a long swallow of beer as he watched her stretch across the green felt to make the shot. His grin grew wider. He was glad she couldn’t wait to wear her new clothes, because he couldn’t wait to see her in them. And he hadn’t been disappointed when she’d come out of the motel and he’d seen her in them the first time. She looked incredible.
He took another swallow from his mug. He was going to be exhausted when they pulled out of Missoula at dawn, but she’d been right to want them to go out. He’d had a great time for the past hour. She was awesome.
“Damn!”
The cowboys he and Karen had been playing for the last few minutes shouted their disappointment together as she dropped the eight ball in the table’s far corner pocket.
It turned out he and Karen had something else in common. They were both excellent pool players. They’d held the table for the last forty minutes. No one had come close to beating them. And they’d won several hundred bucks.
Karen tossed her cue on the table, ran up to Jack, threw her arms around him, and gave him a huge hug. “I love this game!” she shouted over the music as she leaned back and gazed up at him.
He chuckled. “Me too.”
“Know what else I love?”
“What?”
“That you’re so damn handsome!”
He couldn’t possibly have heard her right. “What?”
She smiled and shouted while she twirled around in front of him. “I think you’re handsome, Jack. I love your dark hair and your eyes and how tall you are. I love everything about you.”
“But you—”
“No, no, I said you and Troy looked different. I never said anything about who I thought was better looking.” She stopped twirling and pointed at him. “I saw that face you made when I said it, even though you tried to turn away.”
Jesus, she was amazing. It was as if she could read his mind.
She slipped her arms around his neck again and kissed him deeply. “Gotcha,” she murmured when she pulled back. Then she kissed him again even deeper.
CHAPTER 33
JACK COULDN’T believe his eyes when Ross Turner emerged from the seaplane at the dock on Puget Sound. For a few seconds he didn’t think it was really his old friend. He figured the huge man squeezing through the narrow door and stepping down onto the plane’s pontoon was actually a pilot Turner had hired to fly down from Alaska. The man didn’t look anything like the tall, skinny, clean-cut kid Jack had known at Denison.
Jack didn’t believe it was Turner until Turner stepped up onto the dock and introduced himself loudly to Karen, then gave Jack a bear hug that squeezed most of the air right out of his lungs. And the friendly
slap on the back after the hug was so powerful Jack almost took an unplanned plunge into the sound’s icy cold waters.
The last time Jack and Turner had seen each other was eight and a half years ago in New York. It had been a month after graduation, and they’d met for lunch in Manhattan at the Racquet Club, thanks to Bill, who was a member of the exclusive establishment. The next day Turner was leaving for Alaska. A year of hunting and fishing, and then he was coming back to the lower forty-eight to go to Harvard Law School. At that lunch Turner had still looked like the guy Jack had met in the Denison dormitory on the first day of college. He had still been a toweringly tall string bean with stooped shoulders.
But now Turner looked like the massive brown bears he hunted. He had a huge chest and broad shoulders, his brown hair fell well below his collar in the back, his dark red beard was full and curly, and his voice had gone lower. He even looked an inch or two taller to Jack.
After taking off from Puget Sound, they’d flown over open ocean with the Canadian and then Alaskan coasts off the right wing in the distance—until they’d reached Dutch Harbor. The town had less than four thousand full-time residents and existed solely to support the fishing fleet.
“So, tell me why you drove all the way across the country to Seattle instead of flew,” Turner said as the three of them walked down a side street of Dutch Harbor through a raw, late-afternoon mist. Turner’s seaplane was secured to a dock a few blocks behind them. “Why take all that extra time, Jack?”
“I was worried that if Karen and I flew commercial and I used a credit card to pay for the ticket—”
“Somebody would spot you,” Turner interrupted. “Yeah?”
“Bingo.”
There were only a few bars in Dutch, and, according to Turner, they were all dives. But at least the one they were headed for right now—the Fish Head Pub—was off the beaten track, Turner had claimed.
As much as anything around in Dutch Harbor could really be just off the beaten track, Jack had figured as they’d taxied to the dock a little while ago. As far as he was concerned, everything in this tiny town was way off the beaten track to begin with.
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