An Act of Treason

could stay there as long as need be, and the only mild concern was whether his trapped body heat might melt the tunnel.

Forty-eight hours ago he had been with Lauren at a hospital run by the CIA. She had survived the attack in Bern, but barely. The major artery in her leg had only been nicked, and skilled Swiss doctors managed to suture it before she bled to death. The bullet in the back had chipped the collarbone and sent fragments tearing deep into her, perforating a lung. The doctors had to cut deeper than they wanted, leaving behind a heavy lacework of scars that were requiring plastic surgery. The flawless beauty of her face remained intact, which only amplified the torn places in her back and leg. She was visited each afternoon by a Company psychiatrist.

Kyle did not care how she looked; she was alive, and he would be her guide back to full health. Lauren was strong and was getting through the process as well as could be expected. He knew she would.

She had burst into tears unexpectedly when he told her he had to leave for a little while. One more mission. He would make it quick, then come right back. She asked, How many more missions would there be? Having come so close to death herself, she looked at life differently now. When he could not answer the question, Lauren closed her eyes in disappointment and kept them closed. He did not know what that meant. Kyle kissed her softly, then left the room.

He pushed those thoughts aside because he could not dwell on that now, or any other things in the past, or future. This moment, this instant in time, was sucking up all of his concentration until the only thing he was thinking about was the shot to come. All of his senses were alive and vibrant. It would have to be exact, because he did not want to kill Jim Hall immediately, only to incapacitate him.

In fact, it was so important not to kill him with the first shot that Kyle had chosen a little rifle that fired a small.22 caliber long bullet for the job. He had finished the computations, figured the angle of the dangle, as his pals called the mathematics of the sniper’s job, and was listing the likely damage that would be caused by such a gut shot when lights began coming on in the windows. Swanson readied the rifle and peered through the scope over the veil. Wisps of smoke came from the chimney. The door of the house opened.

Jim Hall appeared at the top of the stairs in a worn blue parka and unlaced boots. A puff of exhaled air came from him, and he looked around. A new light snow was falling. The days were already getting longer, and soon he would be able to leave this place. The sunshine was calling his name.

Kyle Swanson slowed his breathing. Nothing else in the world existed but the target below. Hall slowly gathered an armload of wood, balancing it on one arm, then two, and turned back toward the house. Swanson gently squeezed the trigger and the rifle fired, not much more than a loud snapping noise.

The little bullet hit Jim Hall low in the abdomen and drilled deep before smashing to a stop against a bone in his left leg. His arms flew wide, the logs dropped with a clatter, and Hall fell with a yowl of pain into the snow, face- first. The sudden pain had been excruciating and was intensified by the extremely cold weather. Hall was down and hurt and disoriented.

The initial shock would last about thirty-five to forty seconds, and Kyle had no time to waste. He dropped the rifle, drew his 9 mm pistol, and erupted out of the snowpack, charging to reach the stunned Hall and yelling, “If you fucking reach for a weapon, I’ll shoot you right in the ass!” It was not a joke, for a bullet in the butt also would be tremendously painful.

Swanson stomped a boot into Hall’s back to hold him down and made a quick search. There were no weapons. He peeled a few plastic zip-ties from the batch in a vest pocket and jerked Hall’s arms back so he could bind him. There was a trickle of blood coming from the stomach wound, and it stained the crust of snow. He rolled him onto his back, and Hall stared up at the sky, moaning in shock and pain. A flash of recognition cut through the pain. “Kyle,” he said.

Unable to grasp his wound, Jim Hall tried to curl into a fetal position. That wouldn’t do. Swanson grabbed the collar of the thick jacket and hauled him over to a tree, leaned him against it, and used lengths of duct tape to secure the ankles to some smaller stumps. “I’ll be right back, Jim. Don’t go anywhere.”

He was certain the cabin was clear; even so, he kept his pistol at his side as he walked in. The place was small but warm, and Kyle saw that the main heating source was a baseboard system that was fed by the big propane tank outside. Pale wood-paneled walls gleamed with polish and were dappled with reflections of the flames dancing in the fireplace. First thing in the morning, and Hall already had it burning at a comfortable size. A sofa, a small television set, and a low table littered with magazines dominated the living room. Another TV set showed the views from the outside cameras, all fuzzy and useless. He could barely make out the bound shape of Jim Hall.

Through one door was a small dining table surrounded by a few straight-back chairs. A modest kitchen was directly through the far doorway, and he smelled fresh coffee and saw the makings for a breakfast of eggs and wurst. Toast had been made and buttered, and Kyle picked up a slice and nibbled it while he strolled into the bedroom. The thick blankets had been kicked aside this morning. Swanson slowly ransacked the place until, in the garage, he found two large brass-bound steamer trunks filled with banded stacks of hundred-dollar bills and other currencies. He scooped up an overflowing armful of cash and went back outside.

Some of the shock had worn off Jim Hall. His stomach seemed on fire, and it felt like some animal was clawing at his insides. “Kill me, Kyle,” Hall said. “Please.”

“Shut up,” Swanson snapped and dumped the money at Hall’s feet. The paper currency thudded and fluttered and spun into an irregular pyramid. Kyle went back and got another load and tossed that onto the pile to make it larger. Then he grunted, satisfied.

Hall had regained some of his edge and said with a sneer, “You win, so shoot me. Go ahead and shoot me now.”

“I’ve already shot you, but whatever.” Swanson smoothly pulled the pistol, aimed, and squeezed the trigger. A loud crack jarred the forest stillness, followed by a primal scream as the bullet tore into Hall’s right thigh. “Gee, I hope that didn’t hit your femoral artery, Jim, because then you would bleed to death too soon.”

He holstered the pistol and walked back into the house, leaving Hall screaming. In the kitchen, he emptied his thermos and refilled it with the warm brew. There was a partially used block of cheese set out on the table, and he cut off a large slice. He grabbed a blanket from the bedroom and a chair from the dining area, then returned outside.

The pool of blood had increased around the sprawled body of Jim Hall and was caking fast in the cold. Hall’s eyes were rolling in torment. “My legs are gone, man. I can’t feel them.” He sucked in the cold morning mountain air. “God, this hurts. Take me back to the States and put me on trial. Put me in the SuperMax in Colorado. I’ll plead guilty to everything!”

Kyle did not reply. He put the chair beside the money, wrapped himself in the blanket, and sat down facing Hall. “This is what it was all about for you. Always was. You were always talking money, money, money.”

“We were friends,” Hall groaned.

Swanson barked a harsh laugh. “My friend Jim Hall died years ago. You’re just another asshole terrorist. You had everything, but even that wasn’t enough. You turned traitor to your country and worked to give nuclear weapons to the Taliban.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Okay, I admit it. Put me on trial, dude. One of those Gitmo tribunals, so it can be kept out of sight.” He sucked in more air, twisting in the snow, the pain from his stomach joining in increased agony with the pain in his thigh. He twisted at the flex-ties on his wrists and the ropes on his ankles.

Swanson continued as if he had not heard a word. “You betrayed me, and worst of all, you damned near killed my Lauren. You did not have to do that, but you did it anyway, and shot her in ways that you fucking knew would prevent me from chasing you. That girl had loved and respected you at one time, and you shot her down like a stray dog and didn’t care if she died.”

Hall just stared at Kyle. Swanson fumbled in a deep pocket and came up with a yellow can of lighter fluid, flipped open the little red nozzle, and squeezed. A liquid stream squirted onto the mound of money. He kept squeezing, saturating the paper. When the can was empty, Kyle put it back in the pocket, swapping it for a plastic cigarette lighter.

“You want a trial? You had it the day you shot Lauren. I was your judge and jury, and I decided right then to show you the same amount of kindness you allowed her.”

“Mercy shot, man.” Jim Hall’s eyes were glazed in pain. “Gimme a mercy shot.”

Swanson clicked the lighter, and when the little flame popped up, he touched it to the soaked pile of money, which erupted with a loud whoosh. Streams of flame immediately whipped out in paths created by the flammable fuel, and the money caught fire and burned brightly.