Damage Control (19 page)

Try being a Chicago fan
, Gail thought. Even after so many consecutive years without any professional sports team that couldn’t be vanquished by a marginally talented college squad, the bitterness never faded.

“Excuse me,” Gail said. “Where might I find Reverend Jackie Mitchell?”

The smaller of the two regarded Gail with undisguised annoyance. “Who are you?”

“I’m Tess McLain,” Gail said, stating her alias of the day aloud for the first time. She pulled out a badge next—the very one she’d used when she’d been sheriff of Samson, Indiana. “But most people call me Sheriff.”

The badge had the desired effect, rocking the guards back just enough to give her the psychological edge. “You were about to tell me how to find Reverend Mitchell,” she prompted.

The small guard—she could see now that his tag read VOLPE—turned to his buddy, Corbin, who puffed up a bit when he asked, “Do you have an appointment?”

Gail made a show of pulling the badge back closer to her face and looking at it before pivoting it around for the guards to see again. “You see this, right? It’s a badge.”

“But this isn’t your jurisdiction,” Volpe said. He seemed proud that he’d read a comic book that mentioned laws. And, you know, stuff.

“Exactly,” Gail said. This was all one big bluff that ran opposed to every oath she’d ever sworn, but Jonathan’s life was at risk. She had no idea what
exactly
would mean in this context, but it sounded good.

Corbin reached for the phone. “I should call up there first.”

“Actually, no,” Gail said. She found herself falling back into her former role all too easily, and this guy was beginning to piss her off. “You should call up there after you tell me where Reverend Mitchell’s office is.”

It was Volpe’s turn. “Well, Sheriff, Reverend Mitchell has a full schedule. You pretty much need an appointment to see her.”

“Are you her secretaries?” Gail asked.

They recoiled in unison. “No, ma’am.”

“So that means that you’re not the keepers of her schedule, right?”

Corbin said, “No, ma’am, we’re not. Harriett Burke is Reverend Mitchell’s assistant. She’d have best access to the pastor’s schedule.”

“And where might I find Ms. Burke?”

“The pastoral offices are on the fourteenth floor, but—”

Gail smiled and walked off toward the elevators, tossing a casual “thank you” over her left shoulder. She noted that Officer Volpe was reaching for the phone, and wondered what the next layer of security in a place like this might actually be.

“Excuse me, Sheriff, but you can’t just go there.”

Gail didn’t slow. Call it the Badge Effect. What were they going to do? Tackle her? She imagined that there must be additional security up on the “pastoral floor”—and what peculiar breed of hubris must there be to even have such a thing?—but she was confident that she could deal with them

This was the effect that Jonathan Grave had on people, Gail thought. There was a thrill to breaking rules. His was an intoxicating view of the world: a place where justice is held hostage to personal ambition, and where the powerful are neutered by the simple act of individuals exercising their rights.

Once Gail arrived at the elevator lobby, she pressed the up button and waited.

Corbin strutted toward her. “Ma’am. Sheriff. I can’t let you go up there.”

Gail looked at him and smiled. “I understand that. I apologize for putting you in a difficult position.”

“No problem,” the guard said, and he started to lead the way back toward the security desk.

Only, Gail didn’t follow.

“Ma’am?”

“Yes?”

“I said I can’t let you go up there.”

The elevator arrived. “I know,” Gail said. She stepped inside. “And I apologized for putting you in a difficult position.”

As the elevator doors started to close, the guard thrust his hand out to stop them, and the doors rebounded. Gail locked eyes with the guard, daring him to make the next move.

“I’m a law enforcement officer,” Gail said after the door rebounded for the third time. “How much harm can I cause?”

C
HAPTER
S
IXTEEN

I
n calculating the travel time, Jonathan had woefully overestimated the quality of the roads through this part of the world. Mud holes, nonexistent pavement, tight switchbacks, and steep drops made thirty miles an hour feel like speeding. And the heat. Good God, the heat. During the ten hours they’d been at it, they’d encountered maybe a dozen other vehicles, split more or less evenly between those that came at them and those that were anxious to pass from behind.

For Jonathan, who’d never been a great fan of high places—parachute jumps notwithstanding—the sunlight made the trip more harrowing than it had been during the night. It’s one thing to know intellectually that the road dropped away, but something else entirely to see how far away the landing spot would be.

“How are you holding out, Big Guy?” he asked.

“I can do this all day,” he said. “We’re gonna need to stop again to fill up on gas soon.”

“How much longer?”

“The computer in the dash tells me sixty miles, but the way this engine’s screaming, I don’t know that I trust the computer.”

“Well, this isn’t the place,” Jonathan said. “Next time the road flattens out or widens up, we’ll take care of it.”

A chirping sound drew his attention to the Pathfinder’s center console. The satellite phone. “Oh, this can’t be good,” he said. He pressed the connect button. “Hello.”

He knew it would be Venice even before she said a word. She was literally the only person not in the Pathfinder who had the number. “Scorpion, we have a problem. SkysEye shows a military vehicle approaching you from the opposite direction.”

Jonathan sat up straighter in his seat, and motioned for Boxers to stop the truck. “What kind of military vehicle?”

Boxers made a growling sound. “This just friggin’ gets better and better.”

“I can tell you that it’s green, it’s bigger than you, and that it’s a vehicle,” Venice reported. “Sorry, Scorpion, but that’s the best I can do. It just happened to be passing through a clearing when SkysEye took its picture.”

“Stand by,” Jonathan said. He caught Boxers up on the details. “I’m open to suggestions,” he said.

“I got nothin’,” the Big Guy said. “I sure as hell can’t turn around here. I lay myself at the altar of your superb leadership.” That was Big Guy speak for
Tell me what you want to do.

Jonathan surveyed the surroundings, hoping that the terrain itself might give him some ideas. On his left, the heavy underbrush was unrelenting, and on his right, the roadway fell off into a valley of rolling green that would have been beautiful if featured in a
National Geographic
photo spread, but was in fact an ugly problem that put them at a tactical disadvantage. Anytime you find yourself in a position where your only escape routes involve the same ones your enemies are using to attack, you can pretty much anticipate a really bad day.

He keyed his mike. “How far away are they?”

“Call it a half mile,” she said. “But they’re headed downhill. I give you three minutes.”

Shit
.

“What’s going on?” Tristan asked from the backseat. His voice sounded thick with sleep.

“Park it, Big Guy,” Jonathan said. “Tristan, out. Now.”

“What are we doing?” Tristan squeaked.

“Yeah, what are we doing?” Boxers matched the tone perfectly.

Jonathan reached to the pouch on his vest behind his right shoulder and turned on his radio. “I’m switching to radio, Mother Hen,” he said, and then he closed the sat phone and slipped it into a different pouch. To Tristan, he said, “There’s another vehicle approaching, and I don’t want to be trapped in here.”

“Who is it?”

“Just get out and stay with me,” Jonathan said. “Big Guy, slide me my ruck when we get out, and keep the ransom bag with you.”

“What’s
happening
?”

“We’re taking cover.” Jonathan shouldered his door open and opened Tristan’s door from the outside. “Walk or be carried,” he said. “Decide.”

Tristan’s first effort to hurry out of the backseat was thwarted by his still-buckled seat belt. His second effort did the trick.

In Jonathan’s ear, Venice said, “Scorpion, the picture just refreshed. They’re on top of you. Thirty seconds, max.”

Boxers slid Jonathan’s rucksack across the hood of the car to Jonathan, and then headed south to the steep side of the roadway. Jonathan led Tristan north, past the front of the vehicle.

Venice said, “The picture hasn’t recycled yet.” The most annoying quirk of the SkysEye Network was its four-minute refresh rate.

Jonathan heard the sound of an approaching vehicle. They all heard it.

Tristan’s breathing changed to a huffing sound that Jonathan recognized as a precursor to panic.

“Move,” Jonathan commanded, “but don’t panic. We have some time.” It was a lie, but sometimes you just have to stay smooth to keep hysteria from taking root. He tossed a look over his shoulder to see Boxers disappearing into the weeds. If things went to shit, they’d be set to kill the bad guys in a cross fire.

He and Tristan were barely ten feet off the road. “Down,” Jonathan commanded at a whisper.

Tristan dropped as if his legs had disappeared.

Jonathan eased himself down more slowly, keeping his eyes on the road. To his left, Boxers had made himself completely invisible.

Jonathan stooped to his haunches, where his knees hovered above Tristan’s shoulders.

“No matter what happens, I want you to stay flat,” he said. “Understand?”

“Who are they?” Tristan whined. His face was hidden in the crook of his elbow.

“Trouble,” Jonathan said. “Let’s hope that’s all it is. I’m moving away from you. If there’s shooting, I don’t want you to be in the way. Don’t go anywhere, and try not to move.”

That brought a panicked look from the boy.

“I’ll stay close,” Jonathan promised. He didn’t wait for an answer.

Jonathan let his carbine fall against its sling and drew his MP7 from its holster on his left thigh and extended the collapsible butt stock. The M27 was a great weapon at longer ranges, but its sixteen-inch barrel could get unwieldy in close quarters. With a barrel length of only seven inches, the MP7 was a cross between an assault rifle and a bad-ass pistol. It fired its wicked little 4.6-millimeter bullets at a rate of 950 rounds per minute with a muzzle velocity of over two thousand three hundred feet per second, and the bullets themselves were essentially steel penetrators that rendered even advanced body armor useless. For CQB—close-quarters battle—the MP7 had all but replaced the Mossberg twelve-gauge that had long been Jonathan’s good friend.

He moved at a crouch through the tangled undergrowth, putting more distance between him and both Tristan and Boxers. That was the plan, anyway. Ten paces and as many seconds later, the jungle revealed a Mexican Army Sandcat winding its way down the hill, its engine screaming in too low a gear. Jonathan had never seen one of these vehicles up close, but he’d read about them. It looked like a cross between a Humvee and a Jeep, but with an outer skin that jutted at odd angles, giving it a stealthy appearance. He remembered reading that the Sandcat might or might not be armored. It looked to be designed for eight people, but probably could hold up to twelve in a pinch.

Jonathan craned his neck to check on Tristan, and was pleased to see no trace of him.

Out on the road, the Sandcat slowed as it approached Jonathan’s parked Pathfinder. When they were still thirty feet away, it stopped and held its position. For a good twenty seconds, no one moved. A bug in the back of Jonathan’s brain calculated what would be left of him if this turned out to be some kind of rolling car bomb. It wasn’t pretty.

It also wasn’t logical, so he pushed it aside. Even if it turned out to be true, he’d never know it.

When the doors opened simultaneously, and the vehicle disgorged six soldiers, Jonathan pressed the MP7’s butt stock more tightly into his shoulder.

They wore green jungle camouflage uniforms, and carried assault rifles that Jonathan recognized by their bizarre shape as FX05s, the standard-issue rifle for the Mexican military. Ugly as sin, the weapons were more or less unique to Mexico, and fired a 5.56-millimeter NATO round that was identical to those fired by Jonathan’s slung M27.

“The Pathfinder’s blocking my view,” Boxers whispered into Jonathan’s earpiece. “Are we in trouble?”

“Too soon to tell,” Jonathan whispered back, though these guys were evidently expecting trouble. Flashes of green on the epaulettes told him that they were members of
La Justicia
—the Mexican military police. He also noted that none of them bore the markings of a commissioned officer. He wasn’t sure what that meant, exactly, but he found it interesting that a truckload of noncoms happened to be on this stretch of road.

The soldiers took defensive positions on their respective sides of the Sandcat, their weapons trained on the woods, waiting to shoot. Jonathan offered up a silent prayer that Tristan wouldn’t choose this moment to sneeze.

“Are you sure this is the right vehicle?” one of the soldier asked his comrades in Spanish.

“One hundred percent sure,” another one answered. “It belongs to the church. This is the fugitives’ vehicle.”

Jonathan’s heart skipped. Father Perón had gotten that one right, though the betrayal had come faster than Jonathan had anticipated.

So, were these guys real cops on a real manhunt, or were they more terrorists on a murder mission? Jonathan figured he’d know soon enough.

One of the soldiers approached the Pathfinder while the rest of his team covered him. Jonathan kept the red dot of his sight on a spot just in front of the point man’s left ear as the man reached out and touched the hood. “The engine is warm. They must have heard us coming.”

“That means they’re still here,” said the soldier who’d been riding shotgun. Jonathan figured him to be the leader. The words made them all shrink by two inches as they crouched a little deeper and pressed their weapons more tightly into their shoulders. The posture spoke of fear.