trees. Jon and Marty came behind with Peter and the Doberman bringing up the rear. Peter's H&K swept from side to side.
Jon looked at Marty. “You know anything about this `lodge' Bill was talking about? Lake Magua?”
“It's where they chained me in a room.”
“You know where it is?”
“Of course.”
Suddenly Peter's voice sounded over their conversation. “Bogies at six o'clock. They're coming after us. I'll keep them busy. Go!”
“Not without you!” Smith refused.
“Don't be stupid. You've got Tremont to finish off. I can take care of myself.”
At the sounds of feet approaching through the trees, the big Doberman stopped its loping trot and spun back to join Peter. He spoke low to the dog, then looked back at Smith.
“Go on. Now! Samson and I will cover your tails and buy you time. Hurry!” He gazed down at the dog. “You understand hand signals, boy?” He lowered his hand to his side and made a swift motion. Instantly the dog raced off into the woods to scout. Peter nodded, satisfied. “See, I won't be alone.”
“He's right,” Randi agreed. “It's what Bill would've wanted.”
Jon was frozen for a second. His high-planed face with the dark blue eyes looked ominous in the shadowy forest. His long, muscular body was tensed, ready to spring. Bill had just died, and now Peter was volunteering to stay behind where his risk of being killed, too, was enormous. Jon had devoted himself to saving lives, not taking them. And now, because of circumstances, he was caught in what seemed a hopeless loop of death.
He studied Peter's wrinkled, weathered face and the sharp eyes that had one message: Go. Leave me alone. This is what I do.
Smith nodded. “Okay. Marty, you follow me. Good luck, Peter.”
“Right.” Already the Englishman had turned, his gaze searching the forest behind as if his whole life were focused on this moment.
Jon stared a second longer. Then he, Marty, and Randi sped away through the timber. Behind them a long burst of gunfire sounded, followed by a cry of pain.
“Peter?” Marty's voice rose with worry. “Do you think he's hurt? Maybe we should go back?”
“It was his H&K's fire,” Jon assured him, although he was not sure.
Marty nodded uncertainly, remembering the endless days of too-close contact in the RV and Peter's tart humor and irritating habits. “I hope you're right. I… I've grown to like Peter.”
Grimly they continued on. The woods were quiet now, shocked as sporadic gunfire sounded. Each shot seemed to pierce Smith to the quick. Then there was silence. That was worse. Peter could be lying in his own blood somewhere, dying.
At last they emerged on a quiet residential street that paralleled Route 5. Grave and wary, they hid their weapons inside their clothes, trotted right, and turned onto the street where Jon and Randi had parked their rented car under the maple tree.
They split up and approached the car cautiously.
But no one was around, and no one tried to stop them. Marty heaved a sigh and climbed into the backseat. Jon slid into the driver's seat, Randi jumped into the front passenger seat, the mini-Uzi on her lap, and they headed for the Thruway. An hour later they arrived at the Oriskany-Utica airport, where they rented a light plane and flew into the vast wilderness of Adirondack State Park.
CHAPTER FORTY THREE
Victor Tremont's timbered lodge loomed enormous through the trees below. Here at the back of it, a narrow brick drive led from an oversize timbered garage deep among the trees. Three heavily armed men patrolled. On the far side of the lodge a pristine lake was nestled in the forest of pine and hardwood trees. Large white clouds hovered above, and the long light of the late-afternoon sun cast dark shadows across the wooded slopes.
Taking it all in from a rise in the forest behind the lodge were Jon, Randi, and Marty. They lay on their stomachs on the thick carpet of duff under dense pines as they carefully analyzed the lodge's layout and the bored actions of the trio of guards.
“I hope Peter is all right,” Marty worried quietly as he peered ahead, not sure exactly what he was supposed to be looking for.
“He knows what he's doing, Mart,” Smith answered as he recorded the sentries' routes.
Then Jon peered over at Randi, seeing her face intent on the scene below. She was stretched out on his other side and had been quietly listening.
She gave him a sympathetic smile.
With that troubled exchange, the three turned their full attention back to planning how to break into Tremont's mountain castle. One of the bored and yawning guards circled the log-and-frame building every half hour, checking doors and cursorily sweeping the grounds with a gaze that would have seen nothing that was not immediately obvious. The second man sat relaxed in a chair, smoking and enjoying the late October sunlight, his old M-16A1 assault rifle across his lap. The third was comfortably ensconced in a civilian Humvee beside the small clearing for a helipad fifty yards to their right, his rifle jutting up beside him.
“They haven't had any intruders for years,” Jon guessed. “If ever.”
“Maybe there isn't anything to guard,” Randi said. “Griffin could've been lying to us. Or just mistaken.”
“No. He saved us, and he knew he was dying,” Smith insisted. “He wouldn't lie.”
“It's happened, Jon. You yourself said he'd gone wrong.”
“Not that wrong.” He turned to Marty. “When they had you locked up here, Mart, what do you remember of the layout inside?”
“A big living room and a lot of small rooms. A sun room and kitchen. Places like that. They questioned me in a room downstairs. It was empty except for a chair and a cot, and when I woke up I was in a basement storage room chained to a wall.”
“That's all you can tell us?” Randi asked.
“I didn't exactly get a vacation brochure of the place,” he said huffily. Then he grimaced. “All right. I'm sorry. I know you didn't mean anything. Well, I did see some people in white coats, like doctors. Most wore white pants, too. They were going upstairs to the second floor, but I don't know to where exactly.”
“A laboratory?” Randi wondered.
“A secret lab.” Jon's voice was low but charged. “That's it ? one of the things Bill could've told us. A secret lab for research and development. The records of the experiment on the twelve victims from the Gulf War and whatever else they've been doing should be here. That's probably why nothing showed up on the Blanchard company computer. They never put anything there.”
“Some other company name and password, maybe,” Randi theorized.
Jon said, 'We'd better get in there and find out for sure. Marty, stay here. You'll be safer. If you see or hear anyone, fire a single shot to warn us.
“You can count on it.” Marty hesitated, his round eyes widening with shock. “I can't believe I said that. Especially that I said it enthusiastically.” He was gripping the Enfield bullpup in his plump hands with nervous distaste. He had taken a new dose of meds and was still calm, but the effect would wear off soon.
Jon and Randi decided to delay until the guard completed his next circuit and rejoined the one at the front for a relaxed smoke. Then they would take out the one in the Humvee in the clearing to the right, where the afternoon sun sent long, cool shadows through the tall trees.
They did not have long to wait. After a few minutes, one of the two at the front stood and vanished behind the lodge. Ten minutes later he reappeared, this time coming around the building's far side. He gave a cursory scan of the forest and grounds, logged in at the key station next to the main rear entrance, and finally circled back to the front to rejoin his companion.
