Bolthole

by Jeff Mariotte

  The helicopter was still climbing, but the winds were chasing it, lashing at it. The pilot pushed the cyclic and they started to pick up speed, heading back toward the city and out of the hills. “Okay,” Kensi said, though she knew her permission made no difference. She had to let the pilot make the call. She’d have risked almost any danger to find Betsy Peabody and Hal Shogren, but she couldn’t let him risk his livelihood and his life.

  Deeks took her hand, seemingly reading her mood. “It’s okay, babe. We’ll come back on the ground. We’ll find her, don’t worry.”

  Nice words, she thought, but empty ones. Yes, they could come back in ground vehicles. It would still be a dangerous business, but they wouldn’t be endangering anyone other than themselves.

  But there were hundreds, if not thousands, of homes in those hills. Some were in high-end developments, others scattered in relative wilderness. And for the most part, they were empty, because of the evacuation orders.

  Shogren and Betsy could be in any of them.

  How did you find a needle in a haystack when you didn’t even know which haystack to search in, and the whole farm was ablaze?

  42

  Granger stopped the truck and climbed down from the cab.

  That had looked a lot like Blye and Deeks in the helicopter, but the downwash from the rotor threw up so much dirt it was hard to be sure. Then someone had thrown out an object, which had landed just off the road a dozen or so yards ahead of him. Since it hadn’t exploded, he had to assume it wasn’t a bomb. He walked along the right edge of the dirt road, scanning the fringe for whatever it was. Finally, he spotted a gray cloth bag with a knotted drawstring. It wasn’t covered in road dust and ash, so it was most likely whatever had been thrown.

  He picked it up, undid the knot.

  Inside was a satellite phone. On the side was a sticky note, in Hetty’s distinctive handwriting. All it said was, “You never call.”

  Granger smiled, for what might have been the first time in the last twenty-four hours or so.

  He walked back to the truck. The sun was pounding down on the hilltop, the smoke only filtering it so much and doing nothing to mitigate the heat of the day. The truck’s cab was the only shade available. He’d stopped running the air conditioner, to save fuel, so shade and water were his only friends.

  He dialed Hetty’s direct line, and she answered right away. “Owen. Good of you to get in touch.”

  “It’s been a little difficult, Hetty. There aren’t exactly a lot of payphones around here, and no cellphone signal at all.”

  “I know all about it,” she said. “Are you all right?”

  “Hot and filthy,” Owen replied. “And hungry. But otherwise I’m okay.”

  “And the horses?”

  “They’re fine, too. I’m sure they’re thirsty. Water’s kind of at a premium, as you might imagine. I’ve found some empty houses with garden hoses, so we’re doing okay, but we’re being conservative.”

  “How safe are you?”

  “Fine, for the moment, but I have to keep trying to outrun the fire. I’m above it, now, but it’s hard to stay that way because fire climbs.”

  “I’m well aware. Can you get to Mulholland from where you are?”

  “I’m not sure. I don’t think I’m very far from it, but I’m traveling on dirt roads. It’s been a while since I’ve seen blacktop, or any kind of road sign.”

  “According to Ms. Blye, you’re about three miles south of it. Keep going north, and you’ll get there. Mulholland is closed on both sides of you, because the fire has crossed it, but there’s not much on the road’s surface to burn, so you might be able to get through in either direction.”

  “That’s what I’ll shoot for then.”

  “And, Owen?”

  “Yes, Henrietta?”

  “I hate to ask—”

  “But you will anyway.”

  “Well, yes. There have been a number of developments in the case that revolves around the murder of Navy SEAL Bobby Sanchez, the attempted murder of former SEAL Kelly Martin, and the shooting of LAPD officer Tony Scarlatti. I’ll spare you the details, but the crucial point is this: the only remaining suspect is somewhere in those hills, and he has a hostage, an elderly woman who is tangentially related to the case. They escaped in her gold Buick LeSabre. Please keep an eye out, and if you see them or the car, let us know immediately. Don’t be a hero, Owen. The man is Hal Shogren, a former Army Ranger and what’s colloquially known as a really bad dude. I’m sure you’re beyond exhausted. If you see them, just give us a location and we’ll do the rest.”

  “I’ll watch for them, Hetty. I can’t promise more than that. I’ve been hauling these horses around for a long time; I don’t want them to die of thirst now that I’ve rescued them from the fire.”

  “I’m not asking you to promise more than that. And, Owen?”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re a good friend. I don’t know what the owner of those horses ever did for you, if anything. But whoever it is owes you big-time.”

  “I’m working off a debt that can’t ever be repaid, Hetty. This is just a small token.”

  “You’ve risked life and limb. I’d say the debt is settled, whatever it is.”

  “Thanks for the phone drop,” Owen said.

  “You’re welcome. I can’t get another helicopter in there until the fire’s more under control, or I’d have you airlifted out.”

  “I can’t leave the horses behind, anyway.”

  “I never thought for an instant that you would. Keep in touch, Owen.”

  “I will. Got to be moving again now, though. The fire’s headed up the hill.”

  “Get out of there, then. Get to Mulholland. That’s your best chance at this point. And, Owen? If you find yourself in a corner, let me know. I’ll extract you, one way or another. Promise me.”

  Owen looked at the trailer, heard the horses shifting around inside. Could he leave them, if there was no other choice?

  That was a hypothetical, though. He thought he knew the answer, but he couldn’t say for sure unless he found himself in that position. Until then, he would do everything possible to avoid it.

  “Gotta go, Henrietta. Thanks for the phone.”

  “Stay safe!” he heard her say as he lowered it from his ear and disconnected.

  “I’m trying,” he said to the empty cab. “I’m doing my best.”

  * * *

  Betsy wasn’t accustomed to taking orders. Sometimes Hugh tried, but long years of training had taught him to phrase them as suggestions or requests, and he always got better results that way.

  But when Shogren issued a command, she did her best to obey instantly. Every time he barked something out, her heart leapt in her chest and her breath caught. She never knew which moment might be her last, which directive she might respond too slowly to. The higher into the hills they climbed, the shorter she expected her lifespan to be. Surely he didn’t need her to drive anymore. There were no more roadblocks, no passing police cars. There was nobody. There were only flames and smoke and emptiness all around. Why keep her alive at all, at this point?

  They’d found pavement and were making good time up the hill when he suddenly snapped, “Pull over! Off the road, under those trees!”

  Startled, she almost lost control of the car altogether. She managed to brake, though, and crank the wheel to the right. She saw the trees he meant, a few feet from the blacktop. Cautiously, she left the road and drove across the dirt shoulder to them. “Stop here?” she asked. Her voice sounded foreign to her, quaking and timid, a stranger’s voice.

  “Yes, damn it!” he shot back. “Here! Shut off the engine!”

  She came to a halt and turned the key. The shade was a blessing, but she was sure that wasn’t why he’d told her to pull over. A minute later, she heard what he must have sensed long before. A helicopter, flying low over the hills.

  Now she understood. If they’d been on the road—the only thing made by man that was moving
for miles in any direction—they’d have been easy to spot. He couldn’t have that, couldn’t take a chance that the helicopter wasn’t law enforcement of some kind. Smoke screened them from most aerial observation, but from the sound of it, the helicopter was traveling close enough to the ground to have seen them.

  As it turned out, it never even came over the crest of the mountain. It was steady for a while, as if sitting still, then it moved away quickly in the opposite direction. Only long after its sound had faded to nothingness, at least to her ears, did he tell her to start the car again.

  He got out of the backseat, stretched his legs, then got into the front passenger seat. He was still holding the gun. A couple of minutes after they were back on the road, he spoke in a calmer tone of voice. “You look awful familiar,” he said. “Do I know you?”

  Was it possible that he hadn’t recognized her and Hugh? She’d been certain that he had, probably right from the start. The fury he’d shown in punching Hugh and hurling him to the street made her think he knew then who he was dealing with, and was expressing some long-held rage at them.

  She didn’t think he’d let her live, either way. But if he hadn’t taken her because of who she was—if she meant no more to him than a hostage to get him past the authorities—then her chances might be ever-so-slightly improved. And she’d thrown her wallet out of the car with her purse, so as long as he didn’t search the glove compartment and find the vehicle registration and insurance paperwork, there was nothing to give her away.

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “I can’t imagine how you would.”

  “I don’t know. You seem familiar.”

  “I think I just have one of those faces.”

  That time, her voice had taken on an almost squeaky quality, she was so nervous. Could he tell she was lying? What would he do to her if he found out she’d known him all along? How much worse could he make things for her?

  That was a question to which she didn’t ever want to find out the answer.

  She tried to console herself with the knowledge that at least Hugh was safe. If he’d still been with them, he would have tried to do something, and would have gotten himself killed. As it was, he’d been banged up but not seriously hurt.

  That consolation only went so far, though. If he was indeed edging into dementia, as she was convinced, who would take care of him? Who would share his memories, store them for when they were lost to him? Who else knew his habits, his likes and dislikes? Steak medium well, no onions in the salad or the potatoes, coffee strong, with sugar. Who would laugh with him at corny old movies and contemporary rom-coms, when he was the oldest in the theater by at least a couple of decades? He would be lost without her.

  Somehow, she had to make it out of this alive. She didn’t know how—that seemed the most hopeless task she could set for herself. But so much depended on it. If making sure Shogren never knew who she was would help, she would become somebody else entirely.

  But, but…

  Hugh liked silly comedies, but her tastes ran more to cop dramas, the grittier the better. And she had seen enough of them to know one thing about hostage situations—if TV shows and movies could be believed—the key to getting through it was to make the hostage-taker see you as a human being, not as simply a means to an end.

  She had to try to appeal to him as a person, but she had to do it without letting him know the person she really was.

  Well, she thought, here goes nothing.

  “Now that you mention it,” she said, “I suppose we should get acquainted.” She racked her brain for a name. “I’m Katherine Hep… umm, Hepworth.”

  “I don’t need to know your name, lady,” he said.

  “It looks like we’ll be spending some time together. I’d rather you called me ‘Katherine’ than ‘lady.’ Or ‘Kathy.’”

  “I’ll call you whatever the hell I want.”

  “That works, too, I guess. I don’t see any reason to be antagonistic, that’s all. I mean, we’re more or less in this together now, aren’t we?”

  “There’s no together here. There’s me, and I’m the guy with the gun. And there’s you, and all you have to do is drive and keep your yap shut. Think you can handle that?”

  “Well, I’ll certainly try.”

  “Good. Start now.”

  She shut her yap. Hard to tell if that had been at all productive. But he hadn’t shot her, so that was something.

  Anyway, talking made her marginally less nervous. She felt more confident at the wheel, now, more secure in the knowledge that he still wanted to keep her around, for the moment.

  It wouldn’t last, she knew. But it was a start.

  43

  Callen and Sam rode in one vehicle, Kensi and Deeks in another, and in still others were officers from the LAPD and the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Office. The ones the NCIS agents used were Forest Service vehicles, designed for the rugged landscape, and loaded with emergency provisions.

  Hetty had told them about her conversation with Granger, and Sam was relieved to know that he was okay. For the moment, at least. Fire crews were doing the best they could, given the conditions. Hot, dry, and windy were ideal for spreading fires, not so good for fighting them. But on the ground they were cutting firebreaks, setting backfires, doing everything they could to contain the blaze. In the air, though conditions were too hazardous for helicopters, air tankers were still able to drop loads of retardant.

  Watching the red gunk billow out of an airplane was an impressive sight; equally impressive was the chemical mix that included fertilizer, so the retardant would not only cool and slow the fire’s advance, but help the landscape recover from the inferno.

  “Do you like fire?” Callen asked.

  “That’s kind of out of left field,” Sam said. “I guess in limited quantities, sure. Candles at the dinner table are romantic. So’s a fire in the fireplace on a cold night. Or a good fire to get the coals lit in a barbecue grill.”

  “You’re not a propane guy?”

  “Propane’s okay. Nice even burn. But nothing beats the taste of something cooked over charcoal or wood.”

  “Hot dogs on the grill,” Callen said. He might have been salivating a little.

  “Yeah,” Sam agreed. “Tubes of mystery meat, but so good.” He remembered what the original question had been. “But this much fire? No. Fire’s scary stuff. It’s like when nature gets angry, she might throw a hurricane or a tornado at you. But when she’s really pissed, just enraged, then it’s fire. The way it can just roll over everything in its path, incinerating whatever it touches. Fire gets its mitts on you, you might survive it, but you’re never gonna be the same.”

  “That’s how I feel too,” Callen said. “Still, there’s something fascinating about it. A primitive fascination, probably. The way it’s never the same, from one instant to the next. If you’re watching a flame, there’s just no predicting what shape it’ll have five seconds from now. I think if I could watch a wildfire from a safe vantage point—and know that it wasn’t actually damaging the ecosystem it was tearing through—it’d be more interesting than any movie.”

  “Sometimes it’s good for the ecosystem,” Sam pointed out. “It’s a natural force, after all. It thins out forests so trees can grow bigger, helps certain kinds of seeds germinate. In the moment, it’s destructive, but in the long run it’s healthy.”

  “Tell that to Bambi.”

  Sam chuckled. “Well, Bambi’s kind of a special case. Being a cartoon and all.”

  Before Callen could respond, Sam heard Eric’s voice in his ear, and knew that Callen did, too. “Guys,” Eric said. “I have some bad news.”

  “What is it?” Sam asked.

  “I just scanned the video feed from the safehouse. It’s been kind of crazy in here, so I know I should have been looking more often, and I’m sorry. Our guest has checked out.”

  “He’s gone?” Sam said.

  “I backtracked until I saw him leaving. Ninety-six minutes and fourtee
n seconds ago, give or take.”

  “Give or take,” Callen echoed.

  “But you’re tracking him, right?” Sam asked.

  “Yeah… no. I had him on a couple of traffic cams, but then lost him. Somehow he ditched that tracker you put on him, Sam.”

  “He’s a pro,” Sam said. “Probably knew it the minute I planted it.”

  “Let us know if you pick him up again, Eric,” Callen said.

  “I will. Sorry again for losing him.”

  “Like I said, he’s a pro,” Sam said. “If he didn’t want to be kept, there was no keeping him.”

  When Eric was gone, Callen said, “Any idea where he’d go?”

  Sam tilted his chin toward the vista ahead of them: a forest laden with smoke, flames faintly visible in the higher elevations. “I know just where he’d go.”

  “You think?”

  “Sure. Dude’s a warrior. Shogren killed his swim buddy, or is responsible for it one way or another. That calls for payback, and he doesn’t want it to be second-hand.”

  “I guess you’d know.”

  “Yes,” Sam said. “Yes, I definitely would.”

  * * *

  He’d had enough of sitting around.

  Maybe he would never serve in uniform again—though any of the services would probably try to find a place for an ex-SEAL, if he pushed it—but that didn’t mean Kelly Martin was used up. After he did what he meant to do, he would have violated every oath he’d ever taken, and he wouldn’t be able to bring himself to put on a uniform again.

  But he had to do it. Loyalty demanded that he take action. The warrior’s code allowed nothing less. And he no longer had to worry about being killed if he went home. He flushed the tiny tracker Hanna had planted on him, left the safehouse, and went to the nearest major road. There he was able to flag a cab. At his place, he loaded a pack with weapons, ammunition, binoculars, and the gear he’d need for a couple of nights in the woods. He had a car stashed in the garage, so even though he’d left his primary ride in Texas, he had wheels.

  He knew he was taking a risk. The fire was far from contained, for one thing. If the NCIS agents spotted him, they just might shoot him to save themselves the trouble of detaining him again. And if he found Shogren, then of course Shogren would try to kill him.