fallen shooter’s ankles, tearing up bone and cartilage in its wake. The man howled with pain and his fingers let go of the gun, which tumbled into Matt’s foot well. Matt threw the car back into drive and howled away in a squeal of rubber.
He threw a glance at the plane—the two bodyguards who were with Rydell’s daughter were rushing toward him, guns drawn. He floored the accelerator again and tore back up the apron, found the gate through which he’d sneaked in—it was closed—plowed right through it and tore down Hanscom Drive and into the shelter of its tree line.
“They knew we were coming,” he yelled at Jabba.
“What? How do you know that?”
“They knew. Maddox knew we were coming. They were waiting for us.”
“But . . .” Jabba’s mouth was stumbling for words, still in shock from the bullets slicing through the air right in front of him.
“Your phone—they’re reading it,” Matt stated flatly.
“No way,” Jabba objected. “I haven’t been keeping it on long enough—”
“I’m telling you they’re reading it,” Matt shot back angrily.
“There’s no way, man.” He held his iPhone up, examining it curiously. “No way they can lock onto it that fast, and I haven’t had it on long enough for them to download any spyware onto it and—”
Matt just snatched it out of his fingers, and was about to flick it out the window when Jabba grabbed it with both hands.
“No,” he yelled, “don’t.”
Matt looked at him angrily.
Jabba wrenched it out of his fingers and took it back. “My whole fucking life’s in there, man. You can’t just throw it away like that. Just give me a second.”
He looked around, checked the car’s side pockets, the ashtray, then opened the glove box and rifled through it. He found some paperwork in a plastic sleeve—service documents and a receipt—held together by the very thing he was looking for, a paper clip. He plucked it off, straightened it, and stuck one of its ends into the tiny hole on the top face of the phone. The SIM card tray popped out. He pulled the card out of its slot and showed it to Matt.
“No SIM card. No signal. For all intents and purposes, the phone’s dead. Okay?”
Matt frowned at him for a moment, then shrugged and nodded. “Okay.” He felt his pulse ratchet its way back. He’d just killed two men. Which should have felt bad, but—strangely—didn’t. It was, he told himself, a simple matter of kill or be killed. But he knew he’d have to be more careful if he didn’t want to fall on the wrong side of that equation the next time it presented itself.
Jabba sat quietly for a moment, just staring ahead, then asked, “What are we going to do now?”
“What do you think?” Matt grumbled.
Jabba studied him, then nodded stoically. “Rydell?”
“Rydell,” Matt simply confirmed.
Chapter 55
Wadi Natrun, Egypt
“ Iunderstand you’re looking to get out of there in a hurry,” Darby said in a casual tone.
Gracie stared ahead quizzically. “I’m sorry?”
Dalton leaned out and mouthed her a question. She gave him an uncertain glance back.
“You need a ride, Miss Logan,” Darby observed somewhat smugly. “And I’m calling to offer you one.”
Her mind scrambled to make sense of the call. She recognized the name, of course. She couldn’t exactly count herself among the pastor’s fans. Far from it, truth be told. But that didn’t really matter now, nor did it tell her what she needed to know. “How did . . . ?” she stammered. “Who gave you this number?”
“Oh, I have a lot of friends, Miss Logan. Well-connected friends. I’m sure you know that. But that’s beside the point, which is that you need to get yourself and my most esteemed brother in Christ out of danger. And I can help you do that. Are you interested?”
She tried to park his offer to one side while she dealt with the competing bits of information that were clamoring for attention and tried to figure out where they stood. Finch had called Ogilvy. The news director was supposed to be arranging a plane, but she hadn’t heard back. Hell, she hadn’t yet had time to tell him about Finch’s death. She didn’t even know what Ogilvy had told Finch exactly—whether or not he’d be able to get them a plane and, if so, how soon. She didn’t even know where they were headed. The embassy in Cairo? The airport? They didn’t have a specific destination—not in Egypt, and not beyond either. The overriding concern had been to put as many miles as possible between them and the mobs outside the monastery. The rest hadn’t been mapped out. It was all happening too fast, and besides, that was Finch’s domain, and he wasn’t there to sort it out.
She needed to know more. “What do you have in mind?”
The reverend breathed a smile down the phone. “First things first. Father Jerome is with you, right?”
“Of course,” she answered, knowing that was all he was interested in.
“Can you make it out of the monastery safely?”
Gracie decided to play it out on a need-to-know basis. “Yes,” she answered flatly. “We have a way out.”
“Okay, good. What I need you to do is get to the airport in Alexandria.”
“Why Alexandria?” Gracie queried.
Dalton gave her another mystified glance. She flicked him a hold-on gesture.
“It’s as close to you as Cairo is, but it’s quieter,” Darby told her. “More manageable. I’ll have a plane on the ground in under two hours. How soon can you get there?”
Gracie thought about it. Alexandria made sense. Smaller airport, off the beaten path, far fewer commercial flights, far less chance of being spotted. “Shouldn’t take too long,” she replied. “We can be there before that.”
“Perfect,” Darby shot back. “I’ll give you my number. Call me when you’re on your way.”
“Where are you thinking of flying us to?” she asked, feeling a stab of discomfort at the idea of giving up control and putting herself and Father Jerome in the reverend’s hands.
“Where else, Miss Logan?” he boomed. “The one place we know we can keep the good Father safe.” He paused, then proudly announced, “Home. You’re coming home, Miss Logan. To God’s own country. And you can take it from me, the people out here are going to be overjoyed to see you.”
Chapter 56
Brookline, Massachusetts
Darkness was moving in impatiently, crowding the low winter sun against the horizon as Matt slowed down and pulled over by the side of the road.
The area was heavily wooded, the traffic sparse. Just ahead, two waist-high stone posts marked the entrance to the municipal service center, which nestled between the forest of Dane Park and the thickets of oak trees that shielded the Putterham Meadows Golf Course. From where he was parked, Matt could make out the low, warehouse-like office-and-garage structure of the Brookline Municipal Service Center, set way back from the road, the drive leading up to it lined with parked cars and lingering thin patches of dirty snow. There wasn’t much going on in terms of activity, which suited Matt just fine.
They hadn’t driven there directly from Hanscom Field. First priority had been dumping the battered, bloodstained Camry. Which wasn’t too much of a problem. They’d ducked into a mall, pulled up to a far corner of its
