Legacies

  "I can find out for you real quick," Baker said, aiming his pistol at one of the man's knees.

  "No," Kemel said. "No shooting in this place."

  He had to be very firm here. He could not let this situation get out of control. Not with success now in his grasp.

  It did not matter if the Oriental spoke. Kemel was certain he was Japanese. Who else could he represent? Ronald Clayton had been on his way to that country with a promise of a wondrous technology. They had to suspect foul play in the crash.

  "All right," Baker said. "Then we'll take them outside." He bared his teeth as he approached Alicia Clayton's man. "Especially this one. He's gonna die real slow."

  The man clasped his hands above his head and dropped to his knees. He hung his head and sobbed. "Please… please don't hurt me!"

  One of Baker's men stepped forward and pulled his leg back to kick the man. "Why you sniveling pussy—!"

  "Barlowe, no!" Baker said, grabbing him by the collar and pulling him back. "That's just what he wants you to do, asshole! He'd have you down and your weapon on us before you knew what happened."

  With a half smile twisting his mouth, Alicia Clayton's man abruptly ceased his pleading and returned to his feet. He gave a little nod of acknowledgment, which seemed to please Baker very much. Baker took a single step closer to the man.

  "We start off long distance on you, then move in close for the fun stuff."

  "Not yet, Baker," Kemel said. "He may have information I need."

  "Like what? What is this place, anyway?"

  Kemel ignored the question. The less Baker knew, the better. "Disarm them and guard them. You may do whatever you wish when I am through with him."

  He had to hold that out to Baker. During the trip into these hills, Baker and his two remaining men had talked of little else than what they would do to the man who had killed their fellows. But Kemel also had to make sure that what he saw before him now was all of it, that there was no other transmitter. He would learn from the Clayton woman and her hireling how they located this one, and if they knew of any others.

  And then…

  And then they would all have to die.

  Kemel did not relish that. In fact, he had been dreading this moment. He had known about the bomb on JAL 27, but that hadn't been his idea. It had disturbed him that so many innocent lives had to be sacrificed in order to take one, yet he had also understood the absolute necessity of preventing Ronald Clayton from reaching Japan. And what were 247 lives compared to the well-being of the entire Arab world? A relative few had been sacrificed for a far greater good. Was it not so throughout all history?

  But at least those faceless deaths had occurred far away, and by the impersonal agency of an explosive device. Today would be different. The dead would have names and faces, and their killers would look into those faces, watch them die. By his order.

  But he had his orders, and agreed with their wisdom, their implacable necessity: No one outside of Iswid Nahr must know about this technology.

  He watched Barlowe hold his assault weapon to the Oriental's head while Baker's other man, the one he called Kenny, took the lamp from him and removed two pistols. They followed the same procedure with Alicia Clayton's man who, surprisingly, was unarmed. Baker moved them and the Clayton woman to the side, allowing Thomas Clayton access to the file cabinets.

  Baker had finally proved useful. In fact, despite all the setbacks, he finally had accomplished what he had been hired to do. The little transponder he'd placed in the bottom of the woman's handbag had allowed them to stay miles behind as they'd followed her here. But he would not be rewarded with the huge bonus and lifetime of easy employment he anticipated.

  Baker and his men would dispose of these three and bury their bodies far from here. And not long after today—as soon as tomorrow, perhaps—Kemel was sure that Iswid Nahr would pay Baker in his own currency.

  Thomas Clayton would have to go as well, Kemel suspected.

  No loose ends.

  "It's all here," Thomas Clayton said, looking up from an open filing cabinet drawer. "Everything you need to know to broadcast power. And it uses solar energy. You owe me big time. I think I underpriced our deal."

  "You should feel lucky you're getting a dime," his sister said.

  Thomas looked at her with raised eyebrows. "Oh, really?" he replied, drawing out the words.

  "The minute you walked through that door," she said, "you went from asset to liability. They don't need you anymore. You've become as disposable as the rest of us."

  "No," he said, turning Kemel's way. "We've got a deal, right, Kemel?"

  Kemel held his gaze and tried his best to give nothing away. He found Thomas Clayton a reprehensible human being, but did not want to deal with him now. Let Iswid Nahr handle him.

  "Of course. And we will honor our word."

  But some hint of what the future held must have seeped into his eyes, for Thomas's expression hardened.

  "I was afraid of that," he said, reaching into his pocket.

  He withdrew a pistol and pointed it at Kemel.

  6

  Tommy-boy, Jack thought as he saw the little .32 appear, you're a class-A jerk, but I love you.

  All eyes—Alicia's, Kemel's, Baker's, and his men's—were on Thomas now.

  Almost all…

  Jack glanced at Yoshio and found him looking his way. A quick lift of one of his eyebrows told Jack that he knew it too: This just might be their chance… the only one they'd get.

  "That is not necessary, Thomas," Kemel said.

  "Yeah," Baker told him. "Put that away before you hurt yourself… or someone hurts you."

  Jack had gathered from talk between their captors that Baker's two men were Kenny—the redhead—and Barlowe—the dark-haired guy with the big nose.

  "No," Thomas said. His voice wavered as much as the muzzle of the .32, but the little weapon remained trained on Kemel, who was only half a dozen feet away. Jack doubted even Thomas could miss at that range. "I think it's very necessary. I half suspected that I might get the short end of the stick once we found this. But that's not going to happen."

  Jack slid his left foot a few inches toward the door. Then, making it look as if he was merely shifting his weight, he leaned left and brought his right foot over to it. Before leaving this morning, he'd stashed a Tokarev 9mm under the front seat of the Taurus. If he could get out the door alive, he had a chance to make it to the car. And then it would be a whole new ball game.

  "Do not be silly, Thomas," Kemel said, holding his hands palms-out like a supplicant. "That is not what anyone was thinking. You will be paid just as we promised."

  Another slide left… another weight shift…

  "Damn right I will. This is mine, not yours. Mine. And I deserve it. So I'll be dictating the terms."

  "We have terms," Kemel said.

  "New deal," Thomas said. "It's my deck, and I call the game. But first…" He licked his lips. "First I want all the guns on the floor."

  Another slide… Jack was closer to the door… a few more feet and he could risk a break. He saw Yoshio give him a barely perceptible nod, as if to say, Tell me when, so I can time my move with yours.

  "Forget it," Baker said as if the words tasted bad. He was coiled and ready to spring, his pistol pointed at Thomas.

  Thomas took a step closer to Kemel. "If you don't, I'll shoot your paycheck here."

  "And when he's down, what do you think'll happen to you?"

  Jack had a sudden feeling that Baker might be thinking of becoming management. He might not know what this was all about, but he must have figured out that the contraption taking up most of the space here was pretty damn valuable to someone.

  "Tell them," Thomas said to Kemel. "You're paying them. Tell them to put their guns down and lie on the floor."

  Kemel turned to Baker. "Perhaps you should—"

  "Fuck that," Baker said, and shot Thomas.

  The loud report was a starter pistol for Jack—he was off
to the races. As he ran he saw a spray of red from the exit wound in Thomas's back and heard Alicia scream. Then another shot, half as loud as Baker's, as Thomas's pistol went off. Kemel grunted and clutched his abdomen. Thomas and the Arab hit the floor about the same time.

  Jack ducked past the one called Kenny and grabbed his Tec-9 before he could bring it to bear. The assault pistol fired a line of slugs through the ceiling as Jack tried to wrench it away, but the merc had the strap wrapped around his forearm like a good soldier and it wouldn't come free. Jack had to settle for putting him down with an elbow to the face.

  And then Jack was through the door, cutting hard to the left and heading down the slope for the trees. The path to the Taurus was off to his right across the clearing, but all that open space would make him an easy target. The trees were closer down the slope. They'd provide cover as he worked his way around to the car.

  The clouds had thickened overhead, darkening the afternoon sky. He remembered that this was one of the shortest days of the year. The light would be fading fast. And that could only help him.

  More gunfire behind him, and another scream from Alicia. He risked a glance over his shoulder and saw Yoshio pop through the door going full tilt, his arms and legs pumping wildly as he veered toward Jack. And his empty hands showed he'd had as much luck as Jack in capturing a weapon.

  Jack reached the trees then and had to slow because of the underbrush and the branches. He put the six-inch trunk of an oak between the cabin and himself and stopped. Crouching in the brush, he looked back. Yoshio was almost down the slope to the trees—the guy was fast—when the merc called Barlowe leaped through the door and started firing.

  "Come on," Jack whispered as Yoshio began weaving left and right. "Come on!"

  And then Yoshio let out a short, sharp cry and went down, clutching his thigh. But still he kept crawling toward the trees. Baker and Kenny joined Barlowe as he caught up to Yoshio and planted a boot in his back, pinning him to the ground.

  Jack watched Baker give some orders. Barlowe and Kenny split, one to the right, the other left.

  Good move, Jack thought. These guys were experienced. Kenny's heading would cut Jack off from the car while Barlowe circled around to get behind him.

  Jack held his ground, watching Baker who remained behind with Yoshio. He saw him say something to the prone man, then bend and position his pistol about an inch from the back of Yoshio's head.

  Jack pounded back the urge to shout, to charge—he was too far away to do any good. He heard a 9mm crack! and saw Yoshio's body jerk, spasm, then lie still.

  Jack closed his eyes and swallowed, then took a deep breath and opened them. Yoshio's body lay facedown where he'd fallen, and Baker was walking back toward the cabin like a gardener who'd just pulled an annoying weed and left it lying on the lawn.

  Jack had kind of liked Yoshio, even though he'd only spoken to him that one time in the car. Some sort of kinship there; he thought they'd both sensed it. But Yoshio was no innocent bystander. He was a killer by his own admission. And he'd known the risks.

  But still… the way Baker had seemed to relish that head shot…

  Okay, Jack thought. Now we know the rules of the game.

  And from what he'd gathered from Baker's comments back in the cabin, a bullet through the brain might be a blessing compared to what the mercenaries wanted to do to him if they caught him.

  The prospect of capture was like a clump of these cold wet leaves slapped between his shoulder blades. Bad enough to have two well-armed goons after him anywhere, but out here, in the woods… this was about as far from his home turf as he could get. What did he know about the great outdoors? He'd never even been a Cub Scout.

  One thing Jack knew: He had to move.

  To his right he heard Barlowe crashing through the underbrush. Jack sensed the contempt behind all that racket: I've got a cool assault pistol with thirty-two rounds in its clip, and the jerk I'm after ain't got dick. So why bother with sneaking around? I'll make as much noise as I can and flush him out like a pheasant. Then I cut him down and drag his carcass back home.

  Keeping low, Jack took advantage of all the noise and began making his own way through the brush, moving away but on an angle he figured would eventually intersect Barlowe's path. He wished it were summer, or spring at least—with all this growth in bloom, it would be a cinch to hide until nightfall evened the odds a little. At least his sweater was mostly brown, but the light blue of his jeans wasn't exactly an earth tone. With everything bare like this, sooner or later—probably sooner—they'd spot him.

  His foot caught on a vine, and he fell, landing on a slim path through the brush. He had a close-up view of its packed soil, pocked with hoofprints. Jack knew next to nothing about hunting, but he'd lay odds this was some sort of deer trail. He disengaged his foot from the tough, flaky-barked vine strands—the underbrush was laced with the wiry stuff—and got to his feet. The path seemed to head in the same general direction he was going, so he followed it.

  The trail allowed him to move faster. He stopped every so often to get a fix on Barlowe's racket, and figured the merc ought to be crossing the deer trail soon himself. Would Barlowe be able to resist the path of least resistance? Jack doubted it.

  Which meant he should set up somewhere along here.

  7

  "Broadcast power, huh?"

  Alicia watched Baker from her spot in the corner by the filing cabinets as he paced up and down before the banks of electronic equipment.

  He'd wanted to know what it did—"What is all this shit, anyway?" as he put it—and she'd told him. Why not? She didn't care who knew. She just wanted to keep him distracted from her, and herself distracted from the bodies on the blood-spattered floor.

  Thomas was gone. So quickly. One moment he'd been standing there talking, the next he was dead. She tried to dredge up some grief, but could find none. Compassion… where was her compassion for someone who shared half her genes, even if it was the wrong half?

  Gone. Like Thomas. And what did genes mean anyway? Why should you care for a poor excuse for a human being just because you share some genetic material?

  But even Thomas deserved better than to be shot down like a dog.

  "Wireless electricity," Baker said, rubbing his jaw. "Christ, that's got to be worth—"

  A moan snapped Alicia's attention to the floor. The Arab, the one Thomas had called Kemel, was moving, curling into a fetal position as he clutched his bloody abdomen.

  "Please," Kemel moaned, his voice barely above a whisper. "I must have a doctor."

  Baker waggled his pistol at Alicia and then the Arab. "You're a doctor, right? Fix him."

  "With what? He needs a hospital."

  "Check him, dammit!"

  "All right."

  Alicia stepped over to Kemel and knelt beside him. From this angle, she could see Thomas's gun on the floor next to his body. Baker couldn't see it from where he stood. But it was far beyond Alicia's reach. Still, it was good to know it was there.

  She stiffened as she saw one of Thomas's hands open and close. She glanced at his face and saw his eyes open, stare unseeingly for a moment, then close again.

  Still alive, she thought, but not for much longer.

  The Arab cried out when Alicia tried to roll him onto his back, so she was forced to examine him on his side. Gingerly—all her experience with infectious diseases screamed warning at the very possibility of contacting blood—she pulled his hands away from his wound. She saw the hole in the crimson wetness of his shirtfront, saw the blood oozing from it, caught the fecal odor.

  Her mind ran the probabilities: perforated intestine, internal bleeding but aortic and renal arteries probably intact or he'd be dead by now. And there was absolutely nothing she could do to help him.

  Kemel let out another agonized moan.

  "He's critical," she said.

  "I could've told you that," Baker said. "I've seen gut shots before. Ugly way to go. What can you do for him?"

>   "Nothing here," she said, rising. "He needs emergency surgery."

  "Well, then," Baker said with a shark's smile as he pointed the pistol at her. "I guess that makes you pretty damn useless, doesn't it?"

  Alicia fought panic. How much did he know? She swallowed, searching for moisture.

  "Not if you want to sell the broadcast power technology," she said.

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Because I'm the only one who can make it work."

  She saw Baker's eyes narrow as he stared at her. Her insides were heaving with grand mal shakes. She prayed they didn't show.

  "Yeah? Why should I believe that?"

  How much does he know? Had he seen the will? No… odds were against that But considering the Greenpeace clause in the will, he'd probably been told from the start not to hurt her. At least she hoped so. If she was wrong, her next words could buy her Thomas's fate.

  "You mean you weren't told to treat me with kid gloves?"

  She watched him consider that, then saw him lower the pistol.

  "All right," he said. "We'll find out what's what after we finish off your boyfriend."

  "He's not my boyfriend."

  "I guess not. Not the way he took off without you."

  Alicia wondered about that. She'd been shocked to see him run rather than attack, but when she considered his chances of defeating three armed men, she couldn't blame him. She just hoped he planned on coming back for her.

  She realized with a start that she didn't have to hope. She knew he'd be back.

  She had to start believing in someone.

  Suddenly she heard the rattle of gunfire from somewhere in the woods.

  "Sounds like my guys have found your boy," Baker said with that grin. "I wouldn't want to be in his shoes. Not even for all the money this stuff's worth."

  Another burst of gunfire.

  "Listen," Baker said, his grin broadening. "It's like music."

  8

  Jack hid behind a big oak. At least he thought it was an oak. All he knew for sure was that its trunk was about two feet across—barely enough to hide him—and bordered the deer trail. Jack held one of the lateral branches of a smaller tree growing between the big oak and the trail. He'd used his Swiss Army knife to trim most of the branch's twigs, leaving only one-inch stubs jutting out like nails.