Deadlock (23 page)

“What's Plan A?”

“There's only one way to handle someone who just won't stop coming at you.”

Ian waited, while Page checked his cigar tube and found it empty.

Page tucked it back into a pocket and said, “You
stop
him. Hard. Right in his tracks.”

THIRTY-THREE

Jim was bleeding out fast.

Twenty minutes after fleeing the motel, Hutch pulled onto a dark dirt road. Jim had been unconscious. His pulse was weak, his breathing fast and shallow. Hutch ripped off his own shirt and secured it to the wound with his belt.

Now, in a blood-smeared white T-shirt, he was back on the road. He punched prompts on the portable GPS unit suction-cupped to the windshield. The closest hospital was the Kirkland Medical Center, about twenty minutes out.

“Hang in there, buddy,” he said. “We're almost there.”

Every time he passed a convenience store or gas station, he fought the urge to pull over. He had to reach Laura
. Had to
. His need to find out what had happened, to get the cops to his house, to make sure everyone was okay, made him dizzy. He kept thinking he could
do
something for them—if he only knew the situation. For the hundredth time, Hutch mentally kicked himself for the outburst that had destroyed Jim's phone.

He had to get home as soon as possible. It was necessary to his heart. Hearing Logan's scream, followed by Page's thrusting Hutch into blind oblivion, then sending killers after him . . . His insides felt wrenched completely out of place. His chest hurt, his throat, his stomach. Forget the firefight he'd just gone through. Forget that he was a terrible aim and it had almost got him killed. Even forget—
God help me
—Jim's galloping ride toward Death's eternal parade. What made Hutch ache on every level was the terror that something had happened to his kids and to Dillon and Laura. Every second without knowing they were okay was like being in the dark with creatures that swooped down to gouge his flesh with their claws and teeth.

His eyes kept flipping to the rearview mirror. He kept the van moving at just over the speed limit, which kept cops off him but reduced his ability to detect trouble. At faster speeds, headlights closing in on him would spell trouble. Now it simply meant other drivers knew the road better and were impatient.

The last thing he wanted to see was an Outis team of soldiers bearing down on him. The second-to-last thing was a cop. It wouldn't take Colombo to figure out he'd been part of the chaos at the motel. Even if he could prove his innocence, they would detain him for questioning. And even the thought of delaying his access to Logan, Macie, Laura, and Dillon made him nauseated.

It was obvious the soldiers had stolen the van. A child seat was strapped to the rear bench. The floor was littered with potato chip bags, candy wrappers, and the packaging of other fat-inducing fare he couldn't imagine those soldiers putting into their systems. Of course, the definitive evidence was the lack of an ignition key. Instead, a strip of metal the size of a Popsicle stick protruded out of the ignition.

He had not inspected the complete interior, but he thought the soldiers had left nothing behind. No spare ammo, no maps or notes about their operation. Not even a medical kit. They likely carried everything they needed. That way, they'd have it wherever they were, and if they had to leave the van without returning to it, no evidence would lead to Outis.

The one exception was the GPS. It made sense they would use one. Their success depended on quick ingress and egress, probably into unfamiliar places. Only the motel's address resided in its memory. Undoubtedly, wiping it clean was on some checklist of their post­mission duties, along with cleaning their weapons, stitching their cuts, and cleaning blood spatter off their clothes.

He jumped at the sound of a female voice. “In one mile, take exit 211, on the right.” He found the GPS's volume dial and muted it.

He hoped the hospital was a small, quaint place, where Jim's trauma would demand the attention of the entire staff, leaving him to use their phone all he wanted. But Kirkland was an upscale suburb of Seattle, which meant it was probably modern, large, and busy. After wheeling Jim away, there would be plenty of people to ask questions and call the police.

He drove on, following the GPS's directions. When the hospital came into view, he realized no one would have had to call the police; they were already there. Two cruisers crouched near the ER entrance. A uniformed cop stood outside the doors smoking a cigarette. From Hutch's vantage point across a parking lot, he could see another cop inside. The man was leaning over a counter, talking to a nurse.

If anyone from the motel had given the police a description of the van, these two may already have half an eye peeled for it. He found it curious they seemed so nonchalant, since the hotel was only thirty miles away. It was out of Kirkland's jurisdiction, but how often did businesses within earshot get hit with grenades and machine-gun fire? Such pyrotechnics should have drawn cops from around the entire state. At minimum, wouldn't these guys be chattering about it, listening to their radio for more information? Either whatever constituted law enforcement in Gold Bar had not yet responded, which didn't make sense, or Page had something to do with keeping it quiet.

That whole area out there was Outis territory, so the idea of local public servants being on Page's payroll wasn't too far-fetched. According to press releases, Outis's twelve-hundred-acre facility trained thousands of young men and women annually in all aspects of military disciplines.

News agencies continually reported on recruits being seriously injured and killed. The way Page operated, Hutch had no doubt the circumstances around those casualties were not always aboveboard. If he had learned anything during the months he'd spent investigating Page Industries, it was that power purchased silence.

He hoped that producing a gunshot victim—who was not only a civilian but also a vocal father of one of Outis's recruits—would stir something up.

Dream on
, he thought.

He swung the van around to a side parking lot and pulled into an extra-wide handicapped space. He left the engine running and climbed out. He slipped into his jacket and zipped it up. Most of this side of the building was brick. The few windows he could see were dark. He opened the side door. Jim was still breathing, but only barely. Blood had saturated the shirt Hutch had belted over the wound. He maneuvered Jim from between the seats and lifted him. He carried him to a grassy lawn between the building and the front of the van. He settled Jim into it, then reached under the man for his wallet. He verified the presence of a driver's license—the emergency room staff or police would contact his family. He replaced the wallet.

Jim wheezed. His eyelids fluttered. He called out, “Michael!”

“Shhh,” Hutch said. He gently laid him down.

“Michael,” Jim repeated.

“It's Hutch, Jim. It's going to be okay.”

Jim's eyes opened. “Hutch?”

“Yeah, buddy?”

“It hurts.” But he attempted a smile. The expression was infinitely sadder than had he grimaced in pain.

Hutch squeezed the man's shoulder. “We're at a hospital. I have to leave you here, right outside, but I'll tell them where to find you.”

“Those men,” Jim said. “That's what my boy is dealing with.” He closed his eyes and began to weep.

“Jim? Just hang in there. When you're well enough, I'll help you any way I can, you and your son.”

When Jim didn't respond, Hutch brushed his fingers over the man's forehead.

He climbed in the van and backed out, trying not to look at the man he had left lying in the grass. A few blocks away, he pulled into a convenience store and called the emergency operator from an outside pay phone. He described Jim's location and his condition, then hung up and drove away.

Several miles farther, he found another pay phone at a gas station. He used his credit card to dial Logan's mobile phone number. A woman answered.

“Laura! What happened? Are you—”

“Who is this?”

“What . . . I . . . Laura?”

“Laura who? Who are you trying to reach?”

“Who is this?”

“Detective Mia Tierno.”

Hutch squeezed the phone. For a few moments, all he could hear was his heartbeat pounding in his ears. He said, “This . . . is my son's phone number. Is he there? Where are you?”

“Your son's name is Laura?”

“She had his phone. Is he there? Is she?”

“Sir, what is your name?”

“John Hutchinson. They were supposed to be at my house.” Feeling as though he was in one of Dante's circles of hell, and this woman was his tormenter, he said, “
Where is my son!
”

“Sir, where are
you
?”

Hutch was certain she could hear his teeth grinding together. He said nothing, and she let him. Finally, his voice small, almost gone, he said, “What's happened?”

She said, “I believe I'm at your residence. No one is here, except for four dead cops outside and a lot of blood in here.” Beat. “Not the officers' blood.”

“No one else?” Hope sparked within him like a lighter searching for a flame. But
blood
. . . she'd said blood.

“None that we found. What do you know about this? John, I need you to come—”

He placed the handset into its cradle. He did not dare release his grip on the phone, however; it was the only thing keeping him upright.

Dead cops. Blood. No one there.

That spark, but no flame.

Before Page had cut off the monitor, he had seen the soldier grab Logan. Had Page's men taken all of them? Was the blood the result of a struggle? Whose was it? Given Laura's history, he gave the odds of the blood being a soldier's or hers fifty-fifty.

A siren wailed in the distance. He didn't know if pay phones transmitted their numbers. It probably didn't matter, considering that he had just spoken to a police detective at the scene of a multiple homicide, where cops had been killed. If anyone was motivated to track him down, she was. Until he knew where the people he loved were, he did not want to be tracked down. Sixty seconds later, he was in the van, trawling for another phone.

THIRTY-FOUR

Operators answered calls to Page Industries headquarters twenty-four hours a day. Its employees—engineers, programmers, and janitors alike—were renowned for working at all hours. Business gurus relished debating the benefits and dangers of encouraging workers to spend so much time on the job. The
Wall Street Journal
had once praised the conglomerate for innovatively providing free gourmet coffee bars, NoDoz, and sleep chambers. A year later the publication decried the practice as being antifamily and ultimately unproductive because of the burnout factor. Through it all, Brendan Page stayed true to form, neither basking in the praise nor defending his company's practices. He was more interested in end results than in how his people achieved them.

In turn, Page kept a staff of personal assistants around the clock. Hutch had read a
Time
magazine profile that claimed the man slept only four hours a day. His business was global. “Daylight's burning somewhere,” he had told the reporter.

Hutch waited for the operator to connect him to one of these assistants now. He was at a pay phone in the customer service area of a grocery store. He thought the clerk was eavesdropping, the way he leaned on the counter without moving. Then the man's head slumped down, and he jerked it up with a wide-eyed expression.

A female voice came through the phone. “Mr. Hutchinson?”

Hutch turned his back to the tired grocery worker. “Is this Candace?” He'd spoken to her many times, trying to get an interview.

“This is Mrs. Avery. Ms. Davis is off for the evening. How may I help you?”

“I need to speak to him.”

“I'm afraid Mr. Page isn't available.”

“Tell him it's me.”

“Mr. Page is unavailable to anyone.”

“He wants to talk to me.”

“One moment, please.”

You'd think that with a billion bucks you could find somebody who could mask her disgust over the phone.

He looked over his shoulder and saw that the clerk had fully succumbed to the pull of slumber.

Hutch thought about getting home. When he had made the reservations the night before, all the late-night flights had been full, or their routes to Denver had been so circuitous that it wasn't worth trying to get back the same night. Now he would pay any price and allow a layover in London if it got him home quickly.

“Mr. Hutchinson?” Total boredom.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Page is indeed unavailable.”

“You told him it was me?”

“I spoke to him directly, sir, and I did tell him that Mr. John Hutchinson was on the phone.”

Hutch shifted the handset to the other ear. What he really wanted to do was smash it into the phone box, as though it were Page's head. “What did he say?
Exactly?
”

“That he would contact you tomorrow.”

“I need to talk to him
now
! Do you understand?”

“Sir, I—”

Hutch slammed the phone down. It was as though nothing had changed, as though he were still just a journalist vying for a scoop with the great Mr. Page. The man had attacked him and his family and refused to take his call. He leaned his shoulder against the phone. What was Page doing? Was it his way of pounding his chest? Was he telling Hutch that he could do whatever he wanted? Through the monitor, Page had said he wanted only to frighten him. Then his men had attacked.

Hutch did not know how to reconcile Page's words and his actions. It made him feel like he was wandering in an alien world, where the laws of physics as he understood them did not apply.

Page obviously intended to kill him. Perhaps his not taking Hutch's call was part of that. Distancing himself. Page was good at that. Hutch had to get home as fast as possible, and he had to do it without running into Page's men or being detained by the police.