Crashers (43 page)

“Why there?” Tommy asked. “Why not L.A.? We thought that's where the ambush was planned.”

Susan said, “I don't know. Maybe they know something we don't.”

“Like that'd be a fucking change of pace.”

He rang off and told Isaiah Grey the news. “Should I head there?”

Ray said, “Seems as good a place as any.”

As Isaiah began calculating for the course correction, a thought tickled Tommy's brain. “Hey. What'd you mean earlier, when you said the delegates were lining up for the Rapids?”

“A little pilot humor. There's a corridor of airspace in the middle of California, over the Bristol Mountains. Everyone flying from the Midwest or the East Coast flies the same route. Commercial pilots used to call it the Rapids. The traffic can get a little busy around there.”

Ray perked up. “Can you show us?”

Isaiah turned to his alleged copilot. “Bring up a display of the whole state, will you?”

She tapped keys. California came up on the GPS screen.

“See that little blob of yellow, east of San Bernardino?” Isaiah pointed. “That's a combat training center for the marine corps. And that blob of yellow up and to the right? That's Fort Erwin and—”

“China Lake,” Kiki cut in. “It's the Naval Air Warfare Center. Part and parcel with White Sands and Point Mugu. I did six months at China Lake. We were testing a new sonar array.”

“They're all restricted airspace,” Isaiah said. “No-fly zones. So every commercial job bopping in from the east climbs to thirty thousand feet and flies the Rapids, right between those two bases. After you get out, TRACON—the regional air-traffic control—lines you up for LAX or John Wayne or wherever you . . .”

The words died on his lips.

“That's it,” Tommy said. He reached over Kiki's shoulder and prodded the map monitor. “That's where the ambush is. Right in the middle of the Mojave Desert.”

Tommy ran his finger from the bright dot that was Albion Air Flight 326, just leaving Nevada airspace, between the two military bases with their no-fly zones, on to L.A. On the way, his finger slid directly over the cross that represented the tiny Victorville Airport.

And five miles to the west, the tiny hamlet of Boca Serpiente.

Lucas Bell said, “Would someone tell me why the hell that bitch is still alive?”

O'Meara glowered at him. “Mind telling us how she kicked your ass in L.A.?”

Lucas turned his reflecting sunglasses toward the Irishman, no emotions on his face. He didn't even look all that hot. “I entered the apartment building to warn you that the FBI was onto you, but she clocked me. Also, as I've told you, she killed Riley.”

O'Meara nodded.

“I tried to get that damn message machine in Atlanta back online, so I could tell you about her. But I'd hoped you'd taken the initiative and killed her long before now, just to be on the safe side.”

“Shut up, you.” O'Meara's fist squeezed the butt of his .357. “The situation's devolved and I fucking well know it, don't I. But the geek is on his way with his flipping box of wonders. The delegates are on their way. Everything's going by the book, except this lot.”

He waved the revolver toward the motel's office. “Believe me, Bell. Everything's under control.”

They heard the low rumble of a car engine, heard gravel crunch under tires. Lucas turned and pushed aside the faded, filthy curtain.

A California Highway Patrol unit rounded the building, pulled into the parking lot.

Lucas Bell said, “Everything's under control? Well, that's a relief.”

“Albion Air Three Two Six. Three Two Six. This is November Tango Sierra Bravo One. Come in, Three Two Six. Over.”

Isaiah waited for his hails to be acknowledged. Tommy said, “What are you gonna tell them?”

“To divert to Las Vegas. Once they get between those two bases, there isn't enough room to turn these big wide-bodies around.”

Teddy McCoy activated the communications array and reached forward to tap the copilot, Eloise Pool, on her left epaulette.

“November Tango, this is Albion Three Two Six.” You wouldn't know she was from Cardiff because she almost never spoke, but when she did, her elongated vowels gave her away. “We know about your situation. You are ordered to leave this airspace. Over.”

After a crackle of interference, the Vermeer responded. “Say again, Three Two Six. Over.”

“November Tango, we have been alerted to your status,” Eloise said. “You are in a stolen airliner, and you're on some sort of renegade mission. LAX has informed us to ignore your hails. As one pilot to another, sir, I advise you to land that aircraft as soon as possible and turn yourselves in to the authorities. Three Two Six out.”

In the left-hand seat, David Singh made the throat-cutting gesture and Teddy disconnected the call.

“Cheeky bastards!” the captain marveled. “Stealing an airliner!”

Silence held court in the cockpit. Ray reached for his cell phone. “Taking this bird was a risk, but someone's overreacting. I'll take care of it.”

ANOTHER CAR ENTERED THE parking lot but Daria couldn't get close enough to a window to see who it was. She looked around the apartment, counted one doorway and three windows, one each in the living room, bedroom, and kitchen. Each was a potential threat.

Keeping low, she returned to the kitchen and gulped more water. She'd begun sweating again; a good sign. She'd been perilously close to heatstroke. She returned to the living room, kept low, and hit the light switch, cutting off the room's only lamp and the country music radio station.

Now the only question was, would they lay siege to the office, or would they trap her in there and go on about their business? After all, they had the advantages of numbers and weapons. It could go either way.

She started to worry about how Agent Bell had known that there were only two Irishmen left. It had to mean he was there, and that he was running with the villains. How was he involved? Who else in the FBI could be trusted?

No.
She waved those thoughts away. How didn't matter. Time enough to worry about that when Ray got there.

Get here, Ray.

.   .   .

Lucas Bell presented his FBI credentials to the trooper who stepped out of the dusty prowl car and donned his wide-brimmed hat. “Got yourselves a situation here?” the trooper asked.

“Situation and a half,” Lucas admitted sheepishly. “And I've only got these two undercover agents with me. How soon can you get us some backup?”

The trooper puffed up, excited to be asked. Other than traffic tickets, this had been the dullest of weeks. “Nearest station is in Barstow. That's thirty-five minutes away. I can scramble half-a-dozen units.”

“Thirty-five minutes?” Lucas said. “Great. That's all we need.”

He shot the trooper in the forehead.

Ray drew his cell phone and balanced himself as Isaiah eased the jet into a soft, portside turn. He hit speed dial number two.

Ding
. “Under the auspices of the Patriot Act, this number has been temporarily disconnected.”
Click.

What the hell?
The others didn't notice the confused look on Ray's face. He hit speed dial again. Got the same message.

He dug out his wallet and found a laminated card. He called Henry Deits's direct number.

Ding
. “Under the auspices of the Patriot Act, this number has been temporarily disconnected.”
Click.

He tried Lucas's direct line.

Ding
. “Under the auspices of the Patriot Act, this number has been temporarily disconnected.”
Click.

“Guys?” he said, and the others turned. “We have a complication.”

 

Kiki went online and found the number for the nearest FBI field office, in San Francisco. Ray reached a voice tree and asked the computer for Dale Hiroda. They'd worked together before.

“Hiroda.”

“Dale? Ray Calabrese. Hey, there's a problem in L.A. There's either been an earthquake or someone's drawn a firewall. Can you—”

The man on the other end hissed, his voice low to avoid anyone else hearing, “Christ almighty, Ray! What the hell do you think you're doing?”

Ray said, “I'm on a tight clock here. Something's wrong in L.A. Lucas—”

“D.C. has transferred operational authority to San Fran. Now get that damn jet on the ground! This stupid incident will cost you your job, but if you come to earth now, it doesn't have to land your ass in prison.”

“There isn't time for this shit, Hiroda! The ambush isn't in L.A. It's out in the Mojave. You've got to tell that Albion Air flight to turn around and head to Vegas. Tell them—”

“Get out of the air now, Calabrese. That's a direct order.”

“Get Lucas Bell! He'll—”

“Shit,” the agent on the ground cut in. “Bell's the one who told D.C. you went rogue. We don't know who in L.A. you've dragged into this, but as of now, that field office is in the tall grass. San Francisco is in charge. And we're not listening to your shit. I don't know how you hooked up with these terrorists, but you've had your last warning. Land. Now.”

He hung up.

Ray almost fell into the fold-away chair behind Isaiah.

Daria duckwalked to the kitchen, holding her side. She dug around under the sink and in the cupboards and found an old, mustard-yellow blender. She tossed the lid aside and emptied the entire pot of bitter, burned coffee into it. She found glass salt-and-pepper shakers with tin tops, unscrewed them, and emptied them into the blender.

 

Lucas Bell climbed into the prowl car and came back out with the trooper's Remington 870 magnum shotgun, plus a box of shells. Kelly emerged from their motel room with two of the Benelli shotguns. He tossed one to O'Meara.

Lucas said, “Where the hell's the geek?”

“He should've landed in Victorville by now. He's cutting it close.”

“Where's the ambush?”

O'Meara pointed to a mesa, a half mile away. It was perfectly flat and roughly the size of a soccer pitch, only twenty feet higher than the land where they stood. As he did, a Jeep appeared, right where he was pointing. “That's him, now.”

.   .   .

On the mesa, Dennis shut off the engine and squinted down at the motel, half a mile away. “What are they waiting for?”

He climbed out, stunned again by the heat, and began to set up his transceiver.

 

Lucas watched Dennis climb out of the Jeep. “We don't need surprises from the Gibron woman,” he told O'Meara and Kelly. “I'll take this side. You guys go around to the other two. Fifteen shells each. Let's see if she's awake.”

 

The men stationed themselves to the east, south, and north of the office and began firing shotgun shells. Thick, ragged holes appeared in the aluminum siding and the poorly insulated, thin wooden walls within.

The sound echoed and reverberated for miles in every direction. Nobody in the nearby town of Boca Serpiente, less than a mile away, was stupid enough to go see who was shooting what.

 

Daria cried out in pain when she shoved the refrigerator away from the wall. She created an opening maybe a foot wide and knelt there, head buried in her arms. Theirs wasn't a bad strategy, she admitted. It lacked subtlety but, as the kitchen began disintegrating all around her, subtlety seemed a cheap commodity. A shotgun blast slammed into the Formica countertop opposite her and a sleet storm of debris wafted down from the ceiling.

Horizontal shafts of late-afternoon light began filling the apartment, dust and smoke and shrapnel glittered in the beams.
With my luck,
Daria thought,
it's probably filled with asbestos.
A hail of shot pocked the fridge, made it rock back against her, knocked the freezer door off its hinges. It clattered to the floor along with a half brick of Neapolitan ice cream.

 

On the mesa, Dennis twitched as the first shot echoed past him, falling on his ass. “What the hell are they doing down there?” he groused, rubbing dirt off his palms.

Ray sat in the fold-away seat, a crease bisecting his forehead. He punched Lucas Bell's personal cell-phone number for the fourth consecutive time. There was no answer.

“This guy's your friend?” Tommy asked softly. He was leaning against the right-hand seat, his hand absently resting on Kiki's shoulder.

“Yeah,” Ray said. He couldn't take his eyes off the phone. “He is.”

The others were quiet for a time. Isaiah said, “We'll pass Albion Three Two Six in about ten minutes, folks. Do we have any options?”

Ray just stared at his phone.

“Could John use his . . . ?” Kiki said, then blanched, a hand over her mouth, eyes wide. “Oh God. I forgot.”

Tommy squeezed her shoulder. “Wish to hell the Mad Bomber was here. Ray, I'm sorry, I know this Lucas fella is your friend, but he screwed us royally.”

Ray just stared at his phone. “Yeah. He did.”

 

Lucas Bell and the Irishmen fired their last shells into the apartment, then drew handguns and approached the perforated remains of the motel manager's apartment. No window was unshattered, no wall complete. The tiny office and the apartment had been separated by the front desk and a door. The desk had been chewed into kindling, revealing the dead manager's body behind it. The door had been blown off its hinges. A haze of dust and smoke hung in the building, glistening dully in the air.

Kelly entered the office, sweeping his Springfield Armory V-10 automatic in front of him. It felt good to be out of the sun, but his eyes weren't adjusted to the gloom inside.