Fractured State: Rogue State Part 32

Neither of them asked a follow-up question or made a suggestion, which sealed it. They had no intention of finishing the job. They'd move against him this morning, at their first clean opportunity. They'd probably try to leverage Gleason's location for some kind of guaranteed truce with Flagg. Maybe he'd made a mistake by cutting Nissie out of the electronic loop. The tablet in Ross's hands was the only device linked to the tracker. They could kill him now and try to negotiate with Flagg.

Gleason's Jeep backed out of its s.p.a.ce and back to Oxford Street, disappearing the way it had arrived.

"We'll stay a few blocks behind them. Farther on the open road," said Riggs, reaching his hand over the seat for the tablet. "I'll do the honors."

Ross didn't look happy to hand it over, but refusing outright or putting up a fight would have been too obvious. Tex just stared through the windshield as he drove, pretending to pay no attention to the little power play that had just gone down. Now they couldn't drive him into the woods twenty miles in the opposite direction and shoot him in the head. G.o.d forbid if they had to be creative and think on their feet. He caught Tex glancing at Ross through the rearview mirror. Riggs would have to play this one perfectly to survive.

Fifty minutes later, after an uneventful trip east of Missoula on Interstate 90, Gleason's Jeep exited the highway in Drummond and headed south on Highway 1. Three minutes later, their SUV arrived at the Drummond exit. The off-ramp dumped them onto the state highway, which ran flat as far as he could see on the southern horizon. Farther south, gentle hills rose on both sides of the road.

His operational instincts told him to tell Tex to pull over to the side and give Gleason a few more minutes to open the gap. They'd traveled twice the distance on the highway that the Jeep covered in the same time on this road. His survival instincts reminded him that stopping in the middle of nowhere with two mutineers was undeniably bad for his health, so he didn't say anything. He couldn't see the next car south of them, anyway.

About fifteen minutes later, the Jeep turned right onto an unmarked road two miles ahead of them. He switched the tablet to satellite overlay, seeing a Jeep path intersecting the highway at the point where the tracker departed the road. They had pa.s.sed dozens of similar paths since leaving the interstate. That was pretty much all they had seen, beside a few one-story homes and trailers set back from the highway. This was about as isolated as it got. He could definitely picture some kind of survivalist camp up in the hills.

"They just turned off the highway onto an unmarked trail," said Riggs. "Slow us down a little."

The SUV decelerated without any acknowledgment from Tex. Riggs widened the map view, trying to gauge the distance from the highway to the edge of the hills. He estimated two miles. They'd probably have the camp a few miles back from that. Maybe farther. He'd have to be careful with Tex and Ross once they turned off the highway. Ready at a second's notice to strike first.

When they turned onto the Jeep trail several minutes later, he scanned ahead of them with the binoculars. The trail ran down a gentle slope for a quarter mile or so, pa.s.sing through a stand of low-lying trees before rising again. A simple, timber ranch gate spanned the trail just below the top of the brush-covered rise.

"Looks clear," he said, pa.s.sing the binoculars to Tex. "There's a gate just below that rise out there. We'll pa.s.s through and take a look from the top. See if we can get closer without being spotted."

That would be the end of the road for Tex and Ross. He'd open the gate and shoot them dead when he returned to the truck after closing the gate behind them. They wouldn't expect him to make a move this soon. Tex nodded, handing the binoculars to Ross.

"Sounds like a plan," said Ross, returning the binoculars.

Enjoy your last few breaths, gentlemen.

Tex stopped the Jeep farther from the gate than he'd expected. They were at least three times the distance required to swing the gate inward. Looked like this was it. They'd probably try to shoot him as they drove through. He'd have to make his move before that. Probably as soon as he walked the gate over to the side. Drill Ross full of holes first, then Tex. He wouldn't have the best angles, but it would have to work.

"I'll close the gate behind us," said Riggs. "Meet you on the other side."

"Yep," said Tex.

Riggs stepped out of the SUV, taking the MP-20 clipped to the side of the foot well with him, and walked toward the gate. He'd gotten three-quarters of the way when he heard a door open. Spinning to face his attackers, he recognized his mistake instantly, unable to stop his hands from lining up the wrong target.

Tex was behind his open door, his pistol pushed through the open window but not yet fully aimed. Ross's absence could only mean one thing. The operative was covering him from inside the vehicle, in case Tex wasn't fast enough. Before Riggs could pull the trigger, Tex's head jerked sideways, a fine red mist exploding over the top of the SUV. Almost simultaneously, Riggs's view through the windshield disappeared, replaced by another bright red spray, and the rear door window behind Tex's still upright body exploded outward.

Riggs stood still, instinctually knowing that he'd die if he moved. A sound drew his attention to the right.

"That's right, not a muscle," yelled a voice, freezing him in place. "Now release the weapon. Just drop it."

Riggs did what he was told. An older man wearing a brown ball cap and casual street clothes rose from a thick clump of bushes less than thirty feet from the trail. He pointed a suppressed, short-barreled rifle at Riggs's chest.

"Kick the weapon to your left," the man said, walking slowly toward him. "And put your hands on your head."

"How did you know I was following you?" said Riggs, kicking the MP-20 several feet to his left.

"You weren't following me," said the man. "You were following my friend, who drove to the hills to find us a nice quiet place to talk."

"You're that Quinn guy."

"In the flesh," he said.

"Who fired the other shot?"

"I'd rather talk about the tense little drama that just unfolded. Looked to me like you had a little disagreement with your friends," said the man, walking behind him.

"You could call it that."

"I was half tempted to let the whole thing play out, see who was still standing at the end. But with my luck, you'd have all shot one another dead. What's your name?"

"Chris."

"Chris. Here's the deal. You killed a good friend of mine, and you were plotting to kill another good friend of mine."

Riggs briefly considered trying to explain that Jon Fisher's death had been a mistake, but dismissed the idea. There didn't seem to be a point. There was no way Quinn was going to let him live. His road had come to an end.

"It wasn't personal," was all he could think to say.

"It never is for people like you," said Quinn, reappearing on his left side to s.n.a.t.c.h the MP-20 off the ground, then disappearing behind him again.

"You're going to kill me," said Riggs.

Quinn didn't respond right away.

"Yes, Chris. I'm going to kill you," he said. "Eventually."

A shock radiated from the middle of Riggs's back to his limbs, locking his body with rhythmic pulses of agonizing pain. He fell forward, twitching. The pain lasted a few seconds, quickly subsiding. As it dulled, he felt a tug at his right hip. s.h.i.t.

"Back on your feet, Chris. There's no easy way out of this for you."

He struggled to his feet, his legs weak. "Let me guess," he said. "I can tell you what I know right now and get a clean, painless death, or I can hold out and get a painful death."

"That about sums it up, Chris, but here's something to consider. We're not going to start by slapping you around, waterboarding you. I've been in this business for more than thirty years, and I find the buildup phase to be a huge waste of time."

He didn't like the sound of this at all. Maybe there was a way out of this. "I can give you the man that hired me."

"At Cerberus?"

"Yes. At Cerberus."

"But you don't work for Cerberus," said Quinn.

"I do work for them."

"As an independent contractor."

"No. I'm-"

"You just said 'the man that hired me,' Chris. If you're not getting your health insurance through Sentinel, there's no way you can give me the man that hired you. He's a voice on the phone. An e-mail. A text message."

"We can work something out."

"Chris. Listen to me. Nothing can save you. You have to accept that."

"I don't want to die."

"n.o.body wants to die," Quinn said, "but everyone wants the choice between-say-pa.s.sing away in his sleep or burning to death in a house fire. Right? I'm giving you that choice. Quick and painless, or endless and painful."

"That sounds like a poem."

"I might put that in my memoirs," said Quinn. "So what will it be?"

Strangely enough, Quinn's words had put him at ease. Looking back at the morning, he could see that his fate had been decided long before arriving here. All roads led to his end. In light of what he did to Quinn's friend, he was lucky to get a choice.

"Quick and painless."

"You have my word," said Quinn. "After we verify the accuracy of the information you provide."

"Always a catch."

CHAPTER 52.

Stuart Quinn dialed his son's satphone again. He'd called five times since they'd left Riggs in the not-so-gentle care of Scott Gleason and one of his buddies in the hills a few miles beyond Highway 1. He was starting to get worried. David should have answered at this point, regardless of the situation, or at least sent him a quick text. When this call went to voice mail, too, he left a brief message.

"Hey, bud. It's Dad. Give me a call as soon as you get this, or text me if you can't call. I need to talk to you about something," he said, hanging up and sending a text with the same message.

"Nothing?" said Blake.

He shook his head and took a deep breath. If anything had happened to his son, he'd reconsider his promise to Riggs, regardless of what they found inside the motel.

"He's probably just busy," said Blake.

"That's what I'm worried about."

"I meant focusing on the road and staying out of trouble."

"I know what you meant," said Stuart, nodding at the motel beyond the windshield. "What do you think?"

"The place is empty. I think we just kick the doors in at the same time and get it over with," said Blake. "Sounds like our target shouldn't be too hard to identify."

"Don't count on it."

One of the room doors they planned to kick down opened, and a woman resembling Nissie Keane's description stepped outside. She pulled the door shut and walked to the metal exterior staircase in the middle of the motel. Moments after disappearing beneath the stairs, a white stream of smoke drifted up through the steps.

"Is that her?" said Blake.

"The right side of her head was shaved. Tats up her neck. Sure as s.h.i.t looked like her."

"Riggs said they all looked pretty f.u.c.ked up."

"But we agree she's a she?"

"I saw t.i.ts."

"Keane is the only female in the group."

"Then that would have to be her," added Blake. "This would be a painfully easy s.n.a.t.c.h-and-grab-"

"If we didn't need all of her gear, too. At least it'll be quieter than kicking the doors in."

They crossed the Albertson's parking lot and walked straight into the motel's lot. They approached Keane just as she took a final drag on her cigarette and tossed it to the cement next to the stairway. She'd just stood up and taken a few steps toward her room when she noticed them. Her eyes went wide at the sight of Blake's weapon, quickly narrowing into slits. For a moment, Stuart thought she might run, which would seriously complicate matters. Blake raised the suppressed MP-20 a little higher.

"I knew that idiot would land us in deep s.h.i.t," she said, her shoulders slumping. "We had nothing to do with his little stunt."

"That little stunt killed a good friend of mine," said Stuart.

"Oh . . . s.h.i.t."

"Oh s.h.i.t is right. You have a room key?"

She nodded, her eyes never leaving the suppressed weapon.

"Slowly hand the key to me," he said.

Keane reached into the front pocket of her ripped jeans and took out the key card, extending it as far in front of her as possible. She was trying really hard not to get killed, which gave him an idea. He took the card and gave it to Blake.

"How badly do you want to survive this little encounter?"

"Very badly," she said. "This is just a job. They pay well."

"I can think of less dangerous jobs."

"This is the first time we've had a problem like this."

"There's a reason for that," said Stuart. "Cerberus f.u.c.ked up with this one, and not just this op. They're taking hits like this from here to Mexico."

"I'm not aware of any other ops."

"I don't suspect you are-or you'd never have returned Flagg's message."

She tried not to react to the name, but Stuart had been doing this for years. He could read a face.