“I guess he couldn’t.” Griffin looked down at the flashing red dot on the tablet’s screen. “Take that dirt road off to the left. We’re close now.”
The road ended at an open field at the edge of the forest. It was nearly seven o’clock in the morning, but it seemed earlier with the sky a pewter gray, spitting down a light warm rain. Savich pulled the Porsche as close to the edge of the field as he could.
They shrugged into rain ponchos and checked their Glocks. Savich looked over at Griffin. “Let’s go catch us a madman.”
The rain was coming down harder, warm against their faces, blurring the thick gray sky. It was weather for boots, not loafers. Thankfully, the ground wasn’t soggy yet. The field had looked flat from a distance, but it wasn’t. They had to cut around rocks, rises, and ditches that made the going slow. When they finally reached the edge of the woods, they saw a narrow overgrown trail ahead of them, weaving through a stand of tall pine trees pressed so closely together that very little rain got through.
“Brakey’s in the forest, no more than fifty yards away. He’s not moving, Savich.”
They unholstered their Glocks, moved to opposite sides of the narrow trail, and walked slowly forward. They heard only the rustling of the leaves as the rain spattered off them, the scurrying of squirrels or field mice. There was no sign of Brakey.
The trail ended in a small clearing no more than ten by ten, the trees forming a nearly perfect circle. Savich froze. He knew this place—Dalco’s dreamscape. All it was missing were scattered piles of snow and frigid air. There was even a faint smell of smoke. A nearby smoke stack? Savich saw a small stump in the clearing, on top of it Brakey’s ankle bracelet.
Savich grabbed Griffin’s arm. “It’s a trap—get down!”
Both men hit the ground and rolled into the trees as half a dozen fast shots rang out. Dirt kicked up around them, and a bullet mangled the bark of a pine tree beside Savich’s head. They returned fire blindly. Griffin knew if Savich hadn’t seen the bracelet, they’d both be dead.
The shooting stopped.
“So far only one shooter,” Griffin whispered. “A semiautomatic pistol. He’s changing magazines. I put him at eleven o’clock.”
“We’ll flank him. I’ll take the left about twenty feet out, then turn. One of us should be behind him.”
They separated, moving as silently as they could, bent over from the waist, using the thick trees for cover. They heard another seven rounds fired in a burst, but behind them now, toward where they’d been crouched. The shooter was as blind as they were.
Did the shooter have a third magazine? Savich hoped it was Dalco himself, but he didn’t think so. It wasn’t his style to dirty his own hands. He hoped it wasn’t Brakey.
Savich and Griffin waited and listened. There was an eerie silence now, no animals or birds were moving; even the patter of the raindrops on the pine needles had stopped, as if time itself was holding its breath.
The man couldn’t be more than ten feet ahead of them, unless he’d been moving, too, trying to circle them. They saw only each other, no trace of movement in the trees. Savich wiped the rain from his face, whispered low, “Fan out wide.”
Griffin heard movement from up above, from in the trees. He shoved Savich away from him as hard as he could. “Savich, he’s above us!”
Shots rained down again, kicking up dirt and wet needles around them. They dove for cover, spraying suppressive fire into the tree above them even though they didn’t see anyone.
Savich raised his head and shouted, “Up in the tree, you’ve used three magazines. You’re nearly out of bullets, if you have any left at all. Climb down out of that tree and we won’t hurt you. Do it now.”
They walked back toward the tree, their guns fanning the branches. They saw no one until they heard a crackling sound overhead, branches rustling and breaking. A man crashed through the branches to land on Savich, taking him down hard. His Glock went flying. Savich twisted, looked up into a young face whose mouth was open, teeth bared, his eyes hard and nearly black with ungoverned rage in the rain-blurred light. Savich struck him in the throat with his fist, sent him careening backward. A teenager, he thought, wearing a ball cap, the bill pulled low over his forehead to protect him from the rain. He landed hard on his back, clutched his throat and wheezed for breath. Savich saw the pistol the young man had dropped at his feet. It was a Kel-Tec PF-9, seven rounds, not all that common. Where had a teenager gotten hold of it?
Savich thought the kid was down, but he jumped at Savich, a knife raised in his hand. He was slashing down with it viciously when Griffin shot him.
Griffin leaned over him. “Don’t do anything but breathe.” He said blankly to Savich, “He’s only a kid.”
Savich looked down at the boy, who was staring hard back at him. He didn’t look like a would-be assassin, but he still had the look of blind hate on him, even with a bullet in him. Savich slammed his hand down on the wound on the boy’s shoulder. He struggled and heaved. “That’s enough! Stop it or you’ll bleed to death. Now, who are you? Why did you try to kill us?”
The young man looked up at him, now he looked as if he was confused, his brow furrowed—in pain? In question? He opened his mouth, groaned and closed his eyes as his head fell back.
Griffin was on his cell—thankfully, there were bars—and called 911. When he hung up, he leaned down and looked into the slack young face. “How bad is it?”
Savich pressed bloody fingers against the pulse in the boy’s throat. “Bad enough. Go through his pockets. If he doesn’t live in Plackett and know Brakey and Walter, I’ll give up my season tickets to the Redskins. Thanks, Griffin, for saving my hide.”
Griffin pulled a wallet out of the young man’s jeans pocket. “His name is Charles Marker, and yes, he lives in Plackett. He looks younger, but in fact he’s twenty-four years old, same age as Brakey. The ambulance should be here in ten minutes; we’re a long way out.”
Savich heard the anger in Griffin’s voice, knew he was praying Charles Marker wouldn’t die. “He would have killed both of us, if he could have managed it.”
“The ankle bracelet,” Griffin said. “Dalco had Brakey cut off the ankle bracelet and give it to Marker. Then he told Marker to lay it on top of that stump and wait for us, knowing we’d come. I don’t know why he left it in clear sight. Why not hide it?”
The young man moaned, opened his eyes. They were dark blue now in the morning light. They looked clear before they widened and glazed with the shock of pain. “Why? Why did you shoot me? Who are you?”
His head fell back to the side. Savich was relieved he was out again. “Go, Griffin, bring the paramedics here.”
Fifteen minutes later, Griffin led the paramedics to them. Savich raised his bloody hands when a paramedic pulled out a pressure bandage and took over for him. “You ride with him to the hospital, Griffin. I’ll call Sheriff Watson, to meet you there.” He looked up at the paramedic’s grim face. “You think he’ll make it?”
“A word to the Big Guy wouldn’t hurt,” the paramedic said. The two of them hefted Charles Marker onto a gurney and headed back out to the ambulance.
COLBY, LONG ISLAND
Saturday morning
Special Agent Todd Jenkins sat outside Jamil Nazari’s cubicle in the SICU, his hand resting lightly on his thigh, close to his Glock. It was already busy, even on a Saturday morning, a lot of new faces to learn after the shift change, new IDs to check before he let any of them near Nazari. He heard Nazari moaning as Nurse Collins checked him out, smiled when she said quite clearly, “You’re getting all the morphine ordered for you, moaning won’t get you any more.” Everyone knew he was a terrorist and Todd had heard Collins say she wasn’t going to put up with any guff from him. Todd thought about asking her out to dinner.
He looked over at a TV monitor tuned to a news channel on the far wall and saw a cut-in pho
to of Agent Sherlock labeled GUTSY HEROINE OF JFK, with a talking head from CNN next to the photo. He’d bet she’d be getting more than her share of grief from her fellow agents for having a moniker like that.
He saw a man walking toward him in a long white coat over black pants, an open-collared shirt, and no tie. He was tall, middle-aged but fit, not much hair left on his head. He wore a stethoscope around his neck and held a tablet in his hand. A second later, Todd was on his feet, his right hand on his Glock. Wrong shoes.
The man barely spared him a glance, kept walking to the central nurses’ station, tossing off a comment to a nurse as he passed her. But his shoes—a doctor wouldn’t wear black running shoes over white socks, would he? Well, it was Saturday and perhaps he’d been out running. Todd kept his eye on the man until he walked out of the SICU ten minutes later, whistling.
Todd was looking forward to getting relieved at eight a.m. The FBI had learned early on that it was difficult to stay focused doing guard duty for more than four hours at a stretch, particularly at night in a place like this, with so many people shuffling in and out. Besides the staff changes, there were the patient transfers, respiratory therapists, blood drawing teams, food delivery service, and the list went on and on. He’d studied them all carefully, assuming each of them was there to kill Nazari, until they proved otherwise. One dead terrorist in FBI custody was more than enough.
Todd heard Giusti’s voice before he saw her striding through the SICU, Sherlock at her side, the other agent from Washington, Cal McLain, behind them. Giusti was smiling real big. What had happened?
“Hi, Todd. Any bad guys overnight?”
He started to tell her about the doc with the black sneakers, but thought again. He smiled. “Everything’s fine.”
“Silicon said to tell you she’ll be here to relieve you in ten minutes. Stay sharp, okay, Todd?”
Todd nodded, reminded himself to talk to Nurse Collins after Silicon showed up. Silicon was really Special Agent Glynis Banks, a fanatic Trekkie. She liked nothing more than to yammer on about the silicon-based life-forms in her favorite old episode, earning that nickname.
The three of them slipped inside the cubicle, and he heard Agent Giusti say, full of bonhomie, “Good morning, Jamil. I hear you’ve been complaining quite a bit, unhappy with our fine service. Do you want to tell your sister Jana about all your grievances?”
They saw he tried hard, but Nazari couldn’t get enough spit in his mouth to have a go at her. “You are not my beloved sister! Where is my lawyer? I have requested a lawyer. I do not have anything to say to you, to any of you. I want you to get out of here. Tell my nurse to bring me pain medication. I am dying of pain!”
Kelly clicked off on her fingers. “No more pain medication, you can’t have a lawyer, and we’re not going to leave. If you don’t know, you can’t have a lawyer because you’re a terrorist. Now, you don’t have to talk, but you will listen.
“Do you remember Agent Sherlock? She’s the one who arrested Nasim Conklin at JFK, kicked him in the head, actually. You knew him. He’s the man you were sent to murder, the man you did murder. Were you one of his handlers in New York? Were you one of the men who showed him how to fire off the grenade, who told him if he didn’t sacrifice himself, his family would die?”
They could tell he wanted to yell at them, but he was in too much pain, something Kelly hoped would play to their advantage. All he could do was glare at Kelly.
“Alas, you’re right, I’m not your sister Jana, though being your sister would make me so proud. I’m Agent Kelly Giusti, and I strongly recommend you rethink your options. You might want to consider me your confidante, your very best chance at staying alive.
“Nothing to say? Well, then, let me finish the introductions. This is FBI Agent Cal McLain. He’s brought down a number of your brethren. He’d love to stuff your teeth down your throat. I’ll tell you what, though. I’ll hold him off you for the time being, unless you really piss me off.”
Jamil cursed her under his breath again, but without much heat. He turned his head away from them.
Kelly leaned over him. “Jamil, come on, now, don’t be rude. I really do think it’s to your benefit to hear what I have to say about your future.
“Let’s start off with a first-degree murder with special circumstances, attempted murder of federal officers, conspiracy to commit terrorism—already more than enough for the death penalty. Or we could send you up for life without parole in a maximum-security federal prison, which might be worse, given what prisoners think of terrorists. It’s right up there with child molesters. Or, if we really want to be cruel, Jamil, we could arrange to send you back to Egypt. I’m sure you wouldn’t enjoy the experience of what they call questioning and punishment.”
At last she got a response. He whipped his head back around to stare up at her. “Your threats are ridiculous. You Americans do not know anything. I’ve listened to you, now go away. Leave me alone. No, get that stupid nurse to give me morphine.”
“Then again,” she said right over him, “we could simply let you go, after we let it out that you gave up the Strategist’s first name, that you told us all about how he’s a family friend from Algeria. How long do you think you would last before your own comrades found you, sliced you up like a Christmas goose? Without our protection, it would be over like that.” She snapped her fingers in his face.
“So the FBI would protect me if I talked.” Jamil sneered. “Like you protected Nasim from me?”
“We know your people embedded a GPS chip in Nasim’s body, the chip you used to find him. Yes, we failed Nasim, but do you know he wanted you to shoot him? He made it easy for you, so he could save his family.
“You’re a murderer, Jamil, a coward, a puppet whose strings are pulled by the Strategist, by Hercule.” She leaned down again, said against his cheek, her breath feathering his skin, “Still, I am willing to make a deal with you. There are two things I can do for you. First, think about what your family could do with one hundred thousand dollars. All you have to do is tell me the last name of this man your sister Jana wanted to marry. How long ago was it, Jamil? Ten years? Longer?”
He gave her a thoughtful look. “You said there were two things you would do for me. Money—one hundred thousand dollars for my family—and what else? What is the second thing?”
Kelly touched her hand to his arm, right above an IV line. “You won’t be executed. And the biggie? I won’t let it be known you’re a terrorist, so the other prisoners won’t stuff a bar of soap down your throat in the shower. Hey, I’ve got a couple photos we believe might be the Strategist taken at Heathrow, one at Gatwick. You want to take a look for me?”
“Heathrow? The Strategist would never fly in one of those places where people are cattle, herded through the ridiculous security, and the cameras everywhere, he wouldn’t—” He closed his mouth, turned his face away from her.
He didn’t see her quickly smile toward Sherlock and Cal. “Come on, now, Jamil, if you do not tell me Hercule’s full name I really don’t have any impetus to want to keep you breathing, do I?”
His mouth remained tightly seamed. He stared up at the ceiling, ignoring her, ignoring all of them. Finally, he said, “Do you think I fear for my fate after ridding the world of that useless scum Nasim? Nothing but a rich little whiner, who’d forsaken his religion, turned his back on what he should have willingly done for our cause. I have not. I will put my trust in Allah, not in you.
“I do not care what you do to me. I would never give up the Strategist. He knows already that I have been wounded or killed, and he trusts me to keep silent, and I will. You will never find him. He will stay a ghost, a shadow, until he is ready to kill whichever of you he chooses. He is a great man, a man to follow.” He looked at Sherlock. “He was surprised to hear you were visiting with Nasim again, woman. He was already angry with you. Now he will avenge me.” He looked at each of their f
aces. “He will kill all of you.”
ALCOTT COMPOUND
PLACKETT, VIRGINIA
Saturday morning
The rain had stopped, but dark clouds hung low, no sunlight to penetrate the thick trees surrounding the three Alcott houses. It would rain again soon. There wouldn’t be any children outside playing football on this dreary Saturday morning.
Savich turned off the Porsche’s engine in front of the main house. When he pressed the bell, it played the beginning of what sounded like a Gregorian chant, without the voices. Savich knew whoever was here had to have heard the Porsche, but there was no sound from inside the house. He tamped down on his anger, anger because a young boy had tried to kill him and Griffin only an hour before and that boy was now in the hospital. And someone in this house knew exactly who did it.
He rang the bell again. Oddly enough, the chime didn’t start at the beginning, it continued on with the same chant. It brought to mind monks at matins, or perhaps witches in a circle around a bonfire.
He finally heard footsteps, the sounds of children’s voices.
A man he didn’t know jerked the door open. He was big, mid-thirties, muscular, with the look of an aging football player or prizefighter. He was wearing faded jeans, a flannel work shirt, old worn boots. It had to be Liggert, the bully who’d tried to beat on Walter Givens. He looked a lot like Jonah, both bruisers, probably resembled their dead father, only Liggert was running to fat. Savich hadn’t yet met Liggert, because he drove a truck for Alcott Transportation out of Richmond and had been gone for two weeks. Jonah worked in the front office, probably being groomed to run the company someday. Savich had wondered why that was. After all, Liggert was older.
“Yeah, what do you want? We’re having breakfast and we’re not buying anything you’re selling.” Savich heard lots of mean beneath the velvet southern drawl.