Damage Control

Gail smiled and walked off toward the elevators, tossing a casual “thank you” over her left shoulder. She noted that Officer Volpe was reaching for the phone, and wondered what the next layer of security in a place like this might actually be.

“Excuse me, Sheriff, but you can’t just go there.”

Gail didn’t slow. Call it the Badge Effect. What were they going to do? Tackle her? She imagined that there must be additional security up on the “pastoral floor”-and what peculiar breed of hubris must there be to even have such a thing?-but she was confident that she could deal with them

This was the effect that Jonathan Grave had on people, Gail thought. There was a thrill to breaking rules. His was an intoxicating view of the world: a place where justice is held hostage to personal ambition, and where the powerful are neutered by the simple act of individuals exercising their rights.

Once Gail arrived at the elevator lobby, she pressed the up button and waited.

Corbin strutted toward her. “Ma’am. Sheriff. I can’t let you go up there.”

Gail looked at him and smiled. “I understand that. I apologize for putting you in a difficult position.”

“No problem,” the guard said, and he started to lead the way back toward the security desk.

Only, Gail didn’t follow.

“Ma’am?”

“Yes?”

“I said I can’t let you go up there.”

The elevator arrived. “I know,” Gail said. She stepped inside. “And I apologized for putting you in a difficult position.”

As the elevator doors started to close, the guard thrust his hand out to stop them, and the doors rebounded. Gail locked eyes with the guard, daring him to make the next move.

“I’m a law enforcement officer,” Gail said after the door rebounded for the third time. “How much harm can I cause?”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

In calculating the travel time, Jonathan had woefully overestimated the quality of the roads through this part of the world. Mud holes, nonexistent pavement, tight switchbacks, and steep drops made thirty miles an hour feel like speeding. And the heat. Good God, the heat. During the ten hours they’d been at it, they’d encountered maybe a dozen other vehicles, split more or less evenly between those that came at them and those that were anxious to pass from behind.

For Jonathan, who’d never been a great fan of high places-parachute jumps notwithstanding-the sunlight made the trip more harrowing than it had been during the night. It’s one thing to know intellectually that the road dropped away, but something else entirely to see how far away the landing spot would be.

“How are you holding out, Big Guy?” he asked.

“I can do this all day,” he said. “We’re gonna need to stop again to fill up on gas soon.”

“How much longer?”

“The computer in the dash tells me sixty miles, but the way this engine’s screaming, I don’t know that I trust the computer.”

“Well, this isn’t the place,” Jonathan said. “Next time the road flattens out or widens up, we’ll take care of it.”

A chirping sound drew his attention to the Pathfinder’s center console. The satellite phone. “Oh, this can’t be good,” he said. He pressed the connect button. “Hello.”

He knew it would be Venice even before she said a word. She was literally the only person not in the Pathfinder who had the number. “Scorpion, we have a problem. SkysEye shows a military vehicle approaching you from the opposite direction.”

Jonathan sat up straighter in his seat, and motioned for Boxers to stop the truck. “What kind of military vehicle?”

Boxers made a growling sound. “This just friggin’ gets better and better.”

“I can tell you that it’s green, it’s bigger than you, and that it’s a vehicle,” Venice reported. “Sorry, Scorpion, but that’s the best I can do. It just happened to be passing through a clearing when SkysEye took its picture.”

“Stand by,” Jonathan said. He caught Boxers up on the details. “I’m open to suggestions,” he said.

“I got nothin’,” the Big Guy said. “I sure as hell can’t turn around here. I lay myself at the altar of your superb leadership.” That was Big Guy speak for Tell me what you want to do.

Jonathan surveyed the surroundings, hoping that the terrain itself might give him some ideas. On his left, the heavy underbrush was unrelenting, and on his right, the roadway fell off into a valley of rolling green that would have been beautiful if featured in a National Geographic photo spread, but was in fact an ugly problem that put them at a tactical disadvantage. Anytime you find yourself in a position where your only escape routes involve the same ones your enemies are using to attack, you can pretty much anticipate a really bad day.

He keyed his mike. “How far away are they?”

“Call it a half mile,” she said. “But they’re headed downhill. I give you three minutes.”

Shit.

“What’s going on?” Tristan asked from the backseat. His voice sounded thick with sleep.

“Park it, Big Guy,” Jonathan said. “Tristan, out. Now.”

“What are we doing?” Tristan squeaked.

“Yeah, what are we doing?” Boxers matched the tone perfectly.

Jonathan reached to the pouch on his vest behind his right shoulder and turned on his radio. “I’m switching to radio, Mother Hen,” he said, and then he closed the sat phone and slipped it into a different pouch. To Tristan, he said, “There’s another vehicle approaching, and I don’t want to be trapped in here.”

“Who is it?”

“Just get out and stay with me,” Jonathan said. “Big Guy, slide me my ruck when we get out, and keep the ransom bag with you.”

“What’s happening?”

“We’re taking cover.” Jonathan shouldered his door open and opened Tristan’s door from the outside. “Walk or be carried,” he said. “Decide.”

Tristan’s first effort to hurry out of the backseat was thwarted by his still-buckled seat belt. His second effort did the trick.

In Jonathan’s ear, Venice said, “Scorpion, the picture just refreshed. They’re on top of you. Thirty seconds, max.”

Boxers slid Jonathan’s rucksack across the hood of the car to Jonathan, and then headed south to the steep side of the roadway. Jonathan led Tristan north, past the front of the vehicle.

Venice said, “The picture hasn’t recycled yet.” The most annoying quirk of the SkysEye Network was its four- minute refresh rate.

Jonathan heard the sound of an approaching vehicle. They all heard it.

Tristan’s breathing changed to a huffing sound that Jonathan recognized as a precursor to panic.

“Move,” Jonathan commanded, “but don’t panic. We have some time.” It was a lie, but sometimes you just have to stay smooth to keep hysteria from taking root. He tossed a look over his shoulder to see Boxers disappearing into the weeds. If things went to shit, they’d be set to kill the bad guys in a cross fire.

He and Tristan were barely ten feet off the road. “Down,” Jonathan commanded at a whisper.

Tristan dropped as if his legs had disappeared.

Jonathan eased himself down more slowly, keeping his eyes on the road. To his left, Boxers had made himself completely invisible.

Jonathan stooped to his haunches, where his knees hovered above Tristan’s shoulders.

“No matter what happens, I want you to stay flat,” he said. “Understand?”

“Who are they?” Tristan whined. His face was hidden in the crook of his elbow.