MORTAL PURSUIT
MICHAEL PRESCOTT
writing as
BRIAN HARPER
1
Cain pulled on the black ski mask and checked the pistol’s clip.
Seventeen rounds. He nodded, satisfied.
“Rack ‘em back.”
Five clicks as the slides were cycled on five Glock 17s, his own and four others, each feeding a 9mm Black Talon round into the chamber.
“Let’s move.”
He slung a black duffel bag over his shoulder and headed out of the clearing, pursued by a low tramp of boots.
Moisture fogged the air, a breath of mist carried from the lake. The buzz-hum of every cicada, the rustle of every leaf, was sharp in the stillness. There was no other sound, even on a Saturday night in August-no traffic noise, no car alarms or boom boxes, not even the distant barking of a dog.
Cain thought of the places he had lived when he hadn’t been in prison, the one-room holes in urban war zones where the thump and howl of ghetto music chased a man even in his dreams.
Nothing like that here. This was a peaceful place.
But not for long.
At the edge of the road he looked back, squinting into the last sparks of twilight.
The dark green GMC Safari van, parked in the clearing, was screened from sight by a stand of ponderosa pines. The four figures treading in single file behind him were nearly invisible also.
Like him, they were outfitted in black. Black Magnum Hi-Tech SWAT boots, high-cut. Black nylon sweat pants with elasticized drawstring waists. Black leather gun belts, the stainless steel buckles covered in electrician’s tape to cut glare.
Clipped to each belt, a ProCom M54 handheld transceiver, brushing lightly against the sheath of a Cold Steel Tanto combat knife.
On the opposite hip, the holstered Glock, its sound-suppressor tube poking through a hole in the swivel holster’s base. Adjacent to the holster, a cartridge case holding two spare magazines.
Black nylon jackets, Velcro-fastened, the manufacturer’s decals taped over. On each left wrist, an Indiglo digital watch, the steel band replaced with black leather, a red filter taped over the LED display to preserve night vision.
Black Isotoner gloves. Black ski masks-no mouth cutouts. Black camouflage paint around the eyes, striping any visible portions of skin.
All four toted knapsacks and backpacks. The backpacks contained miscellaneous equipment-rope, padlocks, a length of chain, extra flashlights, other things.
The knapsacks were empty. Soon enough they would be filled with treasure, the haul of a lifetime in a single night.
Yet only a minor bonus, a fringe benefit when compared with the ultimate payoff.
Mindful of that payoff, Cain had spared no effort or expense in mounting tonight’s operation. Clothes, radios, guns, silencers-all of the highest quality.
Every detail had been reviewed, every tactic rehearsed. Nothing could go wrong. Failure was not merely unacceptable. It was unthinkable.
He would succeed or die. There was no other option.
Drawing slow breaths through his mask, Cain looked down the road. A mountain road, rutted and winding, lightless, empty of traffic.
It dead-ended fifty yards beyond the gated entrance to the Kent estate, directly across the way.
2
Late and running scared.
Trish Robinson shrugged off her pullover as she crossed the ladies’ locker room. The room was empty, the silence ominous.
She opened her locker, then sat on the bench, quickly shed her clothes, and began to change.
Normally she was never late-certainly not for work during her first week on the job. But this was a case of circumstances beyond her control.
At seven P.M., just as she was leaving, her toilet had overflowed … again. The landlord had ignored her repeated pleas to fix it, and her jury-rigged repair job hadn’t lasted.
By the time she found the shutoff valve, the bathroom was flooded. It took ten minutes to mop up the mess.
Then naturally her car wouldn’t start. She spent an additional ten minutes cranking the ignition key before the engine finally turned over. The ‘79 Honda badly needed a tune-up-or something-but after her recent moving expenses, she didn’t have the means to pay for it.
Bad apartment, bad car, no money. She supposed life was meant to be like this when you were twenty- four.
Roll call was at 7:45. She checked the clock on the locker-room wall. 7:42.
Pull on trousers, then a short-sleeve shirt. Button down. Tuck in. Hurry.
Trousers belt. Shoes.
7:44.
The leather gun belt hung from the inside of the locker door. She snugged it over her hips, hooking it in place.
Rapid check of her gear. All there. The Smith .38 heavy in its high-ride swivel holster.
Her badge was already pinned to her shirt. She slipped her I.D. holder in the back pocket of her pants.
Anything else Her hair.
She wore it shoulder length when off duty, but was required to keep it above her collar while in uniform.
From a shelf in the locker she grabbed a barrette, wound her blonde hair in a chignon, clipped it in place.
Done.
The locker slammed. Padlock clicked.
7:46.
Go.
She sprinted out the door, through a puzzle of windowless corridors lit with fluorescent panels.
Rounding a corner, she nearly collided with two plainclothes officers. One of them put a fatherly hand on her shoulder.
“Whoa, darling. No running in the halls.”
He and his partner laughed.
Jerks.
She continued, walking at a brisk clip, red heat on her face.
The roll-call assembly room lay at the end of the corridor. She eased open the door.
Sergeant Edinger paused in his remarks as she stepped into the room.
He made no comment, didn’t even look at her, but in the momentary interruption of his monologue, he communicated an unmistakable reproof.
She sat in a chair in the last row. Pete Wald, her training officer, cast a glance in her direction, then turned coolly away.
