Swords Of Exodus Part 13

"It's me," Reaper said quickly. "I've intercepted some traffic. They're keeping the details hushed up, but there's been an alert out of Montana. Dude, they know."

I can't get Valentine out of North Gap. The only other person alive who knows about Blue is the final operative. Majestic was looking for him in a place called The Crossroads, he's tied to some sort of mythical figure known as Sala Jihan, the Pale Man. I've got to find the final operative. It is the only way to destroy Majestic once and for all.

"Boss, are you listening? The government knows!" Reaper insisted.

"Okay. I've got to go." I put my phone away. I had to get this stuff out of here, fast. The goons outside would probably move as soon as they got the word. I looked for something to shove paper into, and spotted a small garbage can. It would have to do. I dumped the can's contents on the floor. At the very top was a crumpled letter from the FBI telling Bob that he was fired from the bureau for gross misconduct.

CRASH! I cringed at the sound of the front door splintering open.

Discretion is the better part of valor. I comforted myself with that plat.i.tude as I ran away like a coward. I've done my fair share of fighting, but I always try to fight on my terms. I always have a plan. I always ambush. And when I don't have the element of surprise, I retreat. I'm a thief first and foremost, and thieves who pick fights tend to die young.

The Majestic goons got the call and moved right in. At least two hit the front door, and the third circled through the backyard. I hid behind the fridge, my 9mm in one hand, garbage can full of paper in the other, and waited for the Majestic goon to kick in the back door, stomp through the kitchen, and run right past me.

They were expecting a woman and some frightened kids, an easy target, probably lots of screaming and crying, real obvious stuff. I waited for the man in the suit to leave the kitchen, and he headed down the stairs to the bas.e.m.e.nt. I slipped across the floor without a sound, paused briefly at the back door to scan in both directions, figuring correctly that they'd rushed in rather than form a perimeter, and then took off in a full sprint for the fence. It was wood, five feet tall, and I vaulted it without slowing.

I landed with a grunt on the neighbor's lawn, having forgotten about my swollen ankle. The yard was dark, a couple of big bushes, a swing set moved slightly in the breeze, but it appeared to be clear. I hadn't been spotted. Seventy feet and I would be back to my stolen Jeep and out of here.

"Move and I'll shoot you down where you stand," a man said from behind me, utterly calm. I hesitated, my pistol at my side. I could spin and dive, factor in his reaction time. Ca-click. The sound of a hammer being c.o.c.ked was piercingly loud. "You're fittin' to get tumped. Drop your piece."

The voice had a slow drawl to it. My trained ear told me probably Arkansas, and somebody who meant business. The gunman was ten feet behind me, and was just another shadow in the bushes. He had me dead to rights. I tossed my STI on the gra.s.s. "I'm guessing you aren't the guy that owns this house."

"Nope. Turn around real slow-like." I did as I was told.

The man moved forward, the glint of a revolver coming out of the darkness. He was keeping his voice down. "Well, if it ain't Bob's kin, his brother, the thief."

"I know you?"

"Nope. And you never will. I asked around about your rep after Bob met you last, so I don't think we'd make good friends. I only recognize you because of the old family pictures on his wall. Bob's a sentimental type . . . I watched you go in his house, all sneaky. Real smooth."

I had been pretty sure that n.o.body had been watching. This guy was good. "And I'm a.s.suming that you're not with them," I said calmly, nodding back toward the house. "Who're you?"

"Let's say I'm a friend of the family." He moved closer. He was probably in his early fifties, tall and lean, his face weatherbeaten and creased, long hair tied back in a ponytail, and eyes that scanned me like a wolf. His revolver was cla.s.sic blued steel and polished walnut, and the front sight never wavered from my heart. "I owe Bob a favor. Me and him share some mentors, if you know what I mean . . ."

"You're an agent? Some sort of operator?"

He snorted. "I'm no G man."

"You're the one that helped Gwen and the kids get away?" Our voices were barely whispers. On the other side of the fence I could hear the angry shouting of the Majestic men as they found the note left for them.

"That's what I do. Where you take things, I hide them. Where you hunt things, I protect them. The family's safe. I aim to keep them that way. That's all you need to know, brother."

"Tell Gwen I'll bring him back," I stated.

"I reckon you will." He lowered the hammer, tucked the gun back under his nondescript denim shirt, and faded back into the shadows. "My gut tells me Bob underestimates you about as much as you underestimate him. Nice to meet you, Uncle Hector. You won't see me again." He was gone as suddenly as he came.

I retrieved my gun and files, made it to the Jeep in record time and drove out of the neighborhood as fast as I could without drawing undue attention to myself. Even then I almost managed to run over a fat guy out power walking. A yellow Mustang left the cul-de-sac a moment after I did, headed in the opposite direction.

The man in the shadows . . . I had only spoken to him for a moment, but from what he said, and the steel in his eyes, I knew exactly what he was. I had dealt with his kind before. They were my ant.i.thesis.

A black Suburban with red and blue wig-wag lights flashing inside its windshield pa.s.sed me as I left the subdivision. I turned onto the main road and headed for the highway. I left no trace that I had been in my brother's home, so the road south should be clear. I had only slept a couple of hours in the last two days, and I was a long way from Mexico.

My thoughts returned to the man in the dark. I'd spent most of my career in countries that didn't have much in the way of professional law enforcement, and men like that always appeared eventually. They were the ones who took care of problems society couldn't, protecting innocents and their valuables from men like me, and usually disregarding the laws to do it. They weren't organized, but the sorts that drifted into that line of work inevitably knew each other, and shared information about my kind. That fellow with no name had probably dealt with a lot of people like me, and more than likely left them in shallow graves.

Majestic would never find that family. Bob had chosen well.

LORENZO.

Santa Vasquez, Mexico February 16th The sun was approaching its high point as I rolled into the Santa Vasquez airport. At this point I was running on nothing but energy drinks, and my brain was twitchy from fatigue and caffeine. The trip across the border had been uneventful, and the only people that had seen me take a cow trail across were a couple dozen illegals. The last time I had been through those hills, I had ended up running into some Chechens. Heading south was a lot easier than heading north.

Airport was a generous term for an asphalt strip surrounded by corrugated tin shacks. It didn't look like much, but I knew there were probably a good thirty to fifty flights landing here every day, and I was willing to bet that almost all of them were somehow drug related. Mexico had calmed down a bit since the revolution, but it had been business as usual here the whole time.

My nose was a.s.saulted with the burning chemical stench of Santa Vasquez as soon as I stepped out of the Jeep. It was winter, so it was only in the nineties. Good old Mexico.

I spotted the Exodus Cessna parked in one of the sheds, and started toward it, still holding the garbage can under one arm. I saw the hulking form of Antoine first. A broad smile split his face when he saw me.

"Glad to see you, my friend," he shouted.

"Let's go home," I said simply.

Chapter 9: House Guests.

VALENTINE.

Location Unknown Date/Time Unknown When my eyes opened next, I was staring at an unfamiliar ceiling. I was lying in a clean, soft four-poster bed. A ceiling fan lazily rotated above me. It was a much more pleasant setting than the last place I'd woken up in. My head began to spin as soon as I sat up. As I waited for the dizzy spell to pa.s.s, the sounds of water running, or rain, resonated in the background.

The last thing I remembered was being in the snow. I'd been in pain. I remembered fear, then rage, then violence. I'd been trying to escape from . . . where had I been? I rubbed my face and tried to think. My head throbbed. My body ached. I had gaps in my memory and thinking hurt. It was like the worst hangover ever.

Had I really escaped? Gone were the cold cinder block walls and concrete floors. There was no hint of chill in the air. Instead I found myself in a cozy wooden bungalow with nice furniture. The windows were open, but covered by screens, and shaded from the sun by low hanging eaves. There was a screen door at one end of the room. Beyond it was a wooden deck and a cl.u.s.ter of tree trunks.

Where the h.e.l.l am I? Is this another one of Dr. Silvers' tricks? Pain shot through my leg as I stood up. It had been bandaged, and my clothes had been changed. Instead of my blue sweats, white T-shirt, and shoes with no laces, I was wearing only a t-shirt and a pair of gaudy swim trunks. I had no idea where my shoes were. My body protested with each movement as I hobbled toward the door. The pain in my right leg calmed to a dull throb after the initial shock, nothing I couldn't deal with. Barefoot and confused, I quietly pulled the door open and stepped onto the deck. What lay beyond took my breath away.

White sand stretched out in front of me until it met clear blue water. The sound of gently rolling waves filled the air, and I could hear the cries of seagulls. I stepped off the deck and onto the sand; where the deck had been rough and cool, the sand was warm and soft. I kept limping forward, out from under the shade of a clump of palm trees, toward the water.

I felt the sun on my neck for the first time that I could recall. I looked up into the deep blue sky, squinting in the light as puffy white clouds drifted overhead. I looked back at the bungalow, and then again toward the water.

This isn't real, my mind protested. Scattered memories came back to me; I'd been deceived before, by Dr. Silvers' machines, her mind games, her tricks. But the sand was warm between my toes and the wind was gentle on my face. I could smell the salt in the air. It certainly seemed real.

I wandered across the beach, not at all sure where I was going. No one else was around. I hadn't gotten very far before exhaustion caught up with me. I had no idea how long I'd been in that bed, and it was obvious that I was in bad shape. I focused on a clump of palm trees ahead of me and made my way toward them. My head still ached and I wanted to get out of the sun.

In the shade, the sand was much cooler. I sat down, facing the water, and just stared into the distance. I'm not sure just how long I stayed there, listening to the waves, trying to clear my head.

"Michael!" someone cried. The woman had a clear soprano voice. I rolled my head and saw a woman standing on the beach, holding something in her hand. I couldn't tell who she was, but she turned in my direction and began to run toward me. "Michael!" she repeated as she got closer. I rubbed my eyes. When I looked up again, the woman was kneeling next to me.

"Ling?" I croaked. It couldn't be real. I refused to accept it. Yet I was looking into the dark, almond eyes of someone I never imagined I'd see again. She threw her arms around me and pulled me against her. The last time I'd seen her, we were on a different beach, and she certainly hadn't given me a hug. "Is it really you?" My voice was a hoa.r.s.e whisper. Her neck was smooth and soft against my cheek; her hair was wet and smelled nice. She squeezed me tighter and rubbed her hand up and down on my back.

"It's really me," she said. "I'm sorry I wasn't there when you woke up. I was in the shower."

"Can I have some water? I'm . . . I'm really thirsty."

"Here, drink," she said, handing me a plastic bottle. I lifted it to my lips and reveled in its icy coldness. I downed the whole thing, coughing when it was empty.

"Jesus," I said, my voice clearer now. "That's good. What happened? How . . . where are we?"

"Someplace safe. Our host would prefer I not tell you the name of this place."

"You helped me escape from . . . from . . ."

"North Gap. The place you were held is called North Gap. It's in America, in Montana. We got you out." The concern was apparent on her face. Ling gently placed a hand on the left side of my face. I recoiled slightly as she touched me, but fought the urge to pull away. "Are you all right?"

I tried to speak, tried to answer her, but I didn't have the words. "Thank you," I said. It was all I could manage. I was suddenly too emotional to say much more.

"You are safe now. It is a long story, and you need to rest."

Ling and I sat there, looking out over the water, for a long time. The waves rolled in and out. A sailboat slowly moved across the horizon. Part of me was still expecting to wake up any time, to find myself attached to one of Dr. Silvers' infernal machines. I'd been so far gone that I'd been talking to the dead. The rational part of my mind never expected to actually escape. I was just trying to give them a reason to kill me, to end it all.

A seagull landed nearby and studied us greedily with its beady little eyes. I was free. I was alive. Ling, like a guardian angel, had come to my rescue. The gull was soon joined by one of his friends, then another, then another.

"Are you ready to go?" Ling asked.

I was free. Tears welled up in my eyes.

"No."

LORENZO.

St. Carl Island February 17th "Looks like sleeping beauty's awake." I put my bare feet up on the banister and leaned back in the wicker chair. The ocean breeze was cool, and the palm trees around the front of my house swayed gently.

"Really? Oh good," Jill said as she came out of the house, drying her hands on a towel. "He's even walking? Good for him."

I gestured with my drink toward the beach. "Yeah, I think he's lost, but Ling found him." Valentine and Ling were sitting under one of the trees, facing away from us, and looking out over the gentle waves. The ocean was a brilliant blue beyond them, and they appeared to be deep in conversation. Some seagulls had surrounded them, preparing to attack. St. Carl had some aggressive seagulls.

"Oh, they make a cute couple. I like Ling, she seems really nice. A little intense, but nice." Jill said as she sat down next to me. She had pulled her hair up into a bun while she had been cleaning and organizing gear. I couldn't help but smile when I saw the grease smudge on her cheek.

"He's a schizo mercenary, riddled with PTSD, and she's a terrorist with ice water for blood. Cute isn't the first word that comes to mind. I'm sure they'll have a bunch of beautiful little sociopathic killing machines someday."

"Like you have any room to talk," Jill said curtly. "How many countries are you wanted in again?"

"Fifteen. Well, sixteen, but I don't think Somalia is technically a country right now." She had me there. Jill was the most normal person currently residing at Casa De Lorenzo, but that wasn't saying a whole lot. She'd been dragged into my world against her will, just a witness who'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Jill was a survivor, and she'd taken to it well enough. Though it pained me to admit it, if it hadn't been for that kid lying down there on my beach right now, Jill would certainly be in a shallow grave in Quagmire, Nevada.

"You know, you don't need to be so p.i.s.sy about this. I really like Val. You did a good thing getting him out of that horrible place."

"I didn't do it for him," I said sullenly. "He better be worth it."

Jill laughed at me. Her dark eyes twinkled when she laughed. "You know, you can actually admit to doing a good deed once in a while. It won't ruin your image."

I didn't respond to that. Jill was an honest-to-goodness decent person. She saw the best in everyone, even me. Of course, she was wrong about me. I wasn't a good person. I certainly wasn't worthy of her, but she seemed to disagree. I made a show of finishing my drink, sat the gla.s.s down, and stood. "Well, I'm going to have a few words with Mr. Valentine."

Jill's hand clamped down on my wrist. She was not a very big person, but she had the iron grip of someone who had grown up in a martial arts studio. When most little girls were playing with dolls, Jill's dad had her punching speed bags. "No," her voice was firm.

"Jill. I just killed like a dozen people. He owes me, and the son of a b.i.t.c.h is gonna talk."

She didn't let go. "Sit . . ."

"Honey . . ."

". . . down."

She wasn't going to budge on this one. I could tell. I flopped back into the chair with a pensive grunt. "Let's not fight in front of the terrorists."

Jill didn't take the bait. "First off, if those men in Montana were anything like the ones that had me in Nevada, they don't count as people. Second, you're going to leave him alone. Val's been through a lot of trauma. They need some time, and the last thing they need is you going in there and being your usual pushy self. You're not exactly in touch with your emotions."

"I've got plenty of emotions." I started to count on my fingers. "Anger, hate, revenge-"

"Revenge is not an emotion."

"You've been watching those relationship shows on cable again, haven't you?" From the look on her face, my attempt at evasion was going down in flames.

"I'm serious, Lorenzo. Leave them alone. You can hara.s.s him later, and when you do, you'd better be nice."

I sighed. "I'm not good at nice."

"You're nice to me. Besides, we have a few days before Reaper completes our covers anyway."

I bit my lip and watched a seagull land on the porch railing. It looked at me with its evil little rat eyes, contemplating where to p.o.o.p. "On our covers . . . The Crossroads is one of the most dangerous places in the world."

"We've been over this," Jill said sharply. Meaning that we'd already had a fight once. "I'm going with you. You need somebody you can trust. And besides, I do okay at this stuff, remember?" She stood, kissed me gently on the forehead, and headed back into the house. "End of discussion."

This domestication thing certainly had its ups and downs. With few exceptions, I had spent most of my life only looking after myself. It was hard to deal with having to protect somebody else who was just as bullheaded as I was. Half of me was proud of her, wanting to help save my brother, to watch my back, and though she wouldn't admit it, I knew she wanted revenge on Majestic for shattering her life. The other half of me was kind of p.i.s.sed that she wouldn't just agree to stay home where it was safe.

In the distance, Ling snuggled closer against Valentine. I wanted nothing more than to go down there and get an answer as to just what in the h.e.l.l made him so d.a.m.ned special. The seagull c.o.c.ked its head at me.

"Little f.u.c.ker," I said as I pulled my STI with my right hand and my Silencerco Osprey suppressor with my left. I started to screw them together while the seagull stared stupidly at its coming demise.

"No killing gulls on the porch!" Jill shouted from inside.

s.h.i.t. "Yes, dear," I answered as I stuck my gun back in its holster. "It's your lucky day, punk." The gull emptied its bowels all over my porch, squawked at me, and flew off. It's a sad day when a man gets no respect in his own house.

VALENTINE.

St. Carl Island February 18th It was all a lot to take in. The thing that really boggled my mind was the fact that it was February. Between not having any way to keep track of time and Dr. Silvers' mind games, I had no idea I'd been in North Gap for so long. And now I was on Lorenzo's island. According to Ling, he owned most of it. That was just weird.