Immune (32 page)

If Janet hadn't been quite as good as Jack knew she was, the task may well have been impossible. It was one of the reasons he had left her here, in the most secure location available to them, a place that provided no distractions from her task.

Janet pushed back from the laptop and glanced down at her stomach. She was starting to show. Somehow, Jack had seen it weeks ago. He had actually seemed pleasantly surprised that she was pregnant, a response that had shocked her to her core.

Not that she had expected him to fly into a rage or anything like that. Jack never lost control. Janet wasn't really sure what she had expected, just not happiness. But then again, maybe she had misread him.

Standing up, she moved outside the small hogan that had become her home, at least for the indeterminate future. The wooden windmill spun in the gusty afternoon breeze, the rise and fall of the pump shaft producing a rhythmic thumping sound as it performed its dual duty of filling the tank with water and driving the small electric generator, which provided the trickle charge to the batteries.

“
Ya’at’eeh
.”

The Navajo greeting turned Janet toward Tall Bear as he stepped out of the juniper thicket some thirty feet east of the hut. Over his shoulder, he carried a large burlap bag.

“Tall Bear. It’s good to see you.” Janet smiled as she moved toward him. She doubted if anyone else besides Jack could slip up on her unnoticed the way Tall Bear could.

“I figured you would be getting low on groceries,” he said, pausing just long enough to return her hug before ducking into the hogan to set down the heavy bag. Straightening once again, Tall Bear nodded. “I like what you’ve done with the place.”

Janet’s laugh brought the hint of a smile to his lips.

It had become a standard joke on these delivery visits. The hogan was a typical eight-sided female hogan with log walls, dirt-covered roof, dirt floor, and no windows. Its single door opened to the east in order to welcome the dawning of the new day. At one time, it had been the principal type of Navajo family abode, and although still common, they were rarely used for housing anymore. This far back on the reservation, the old building, the accompanying small mud sweat lodge, windmill, outdoor mud oven, and water trough might as well have been invisible, so well did they blend with the rugged canyon country that surrounded it.

The only furniture was the small square table, four wooden chairs, and a wood-post double bed. Janet had taken a couple of the tanned deer hides from the walls and spread them out as rugs. She had also fashioned a lampshade of sorts for the bare bulb, which dangled on a cord from the ceiling. A large pottery water basin and pitcher sat atop a crate against the north wall, the closest thing this place had ever seen to running water.

A refrigerator was out of the question. Even a small one would drain too much of the precious electrical supply that the windmill generator could produce. That was dedicated to her laptop, the single light bulb, and her one luxury, a small oscillating fan.

“So what goodies have you brought me today?”

“Well, let’s see.” Tall bear dumped the contents of the sack onto the floor.

“Hmmm. Meals ready to eat. Beans. Freeze-dried entrees. The works.”

“Don’t forget the toiletries. You know the elders didn’t have the luxury of those things.”

Janet raised an eyebrow. “Much as I love roughing it, TP is high on my priority list. But where are my manners? Thanks again for hauling all these supplies up here. Have a seat while I get you some water.”

Tall Bear slid onto one of the chairs as Janet grabbed the pitcher, filling a tin cup and setting it on the table in front of her friend. It was odd to think of him that way, but that was exactly what he had become. The tall Navajo cop, with his long raven hair hanging below his shoulders, had proven his reliability time and again. Not only had he guided them to this remote hideaway, but he had been their only means of getting critical supplies from town. While she and Jack were capable of sustaining themselves off the land indefinitely, Tall Bear’s help had given them a base of operation.

Besides that, Jack trusted the man, and Jack’s intuition about such things was never wrong.

“So what’s the news from civilization?” Janet asked, sliding into a chair across from him.

“Internet down?”

“You know what I mean. What’s the local gossip?”

Although she had access to all the news sites, Janet had found the Navajo a font of information. For one thing, he was a cop and a damn good one. More importantly, he was privy to a network of sources that stretched across the country and beyond, a web of communication links between native communities dotting North, Central, and South America. Despite all her years working with the CIA, DIA, and NSA, Janet was stunned by the true reach and capabilities of that network. As tightly secretive as was the cell structure within Al Qaeda and its affiliates, the cellular nature of these native communities put that to shame. And, invariably, within each grouping of native people there was a subgroup in which the old longing for independence ran deep.

Tall Bear leaned back in his chair, rocking it back until it balanced precariously on two legs, his hand interlaced in his long, black hair.

“It’s not good. This nanite goo is the new meth, only the world is addicted to this stuff even before they’ve taken a hit. Shit. Everybody wants it.”

Janet nodded. “From what I see on the net, the UN is pushing pretty damn hard to speed the public release. Luckily the president seems to have had a change of heart on how fast he wants to push it out the door.”

“Only because some of his right-wing base is in rebellion. But he won’t be able to hold back too long. There are whispers about a new black market source for the stuff, distribution through the drug cartels, that sort of thing.”

“It’s gonna get ugly.”

“Already is. Beheading has become the preferred gangland method of execution. They don’t know who’s on the juice, and they just aren’t taking chances.”

“So is the new source real?”

“Hard to say for sure. At first, the stuff was only available from the blood of someone who had undergone the treatment. But it seems like there is just too much available on the market. Of course, a lot of the stuff is probably fake.”

“It’s pretty easy to check whether someone got the real stuff or not. Just stick a knife in them.”

“And that’s the trouble. There are way too many reports of freak healers to think they are all false. For there to be a second source, someone might have reverse engineered the formula.”

“Or there is a leak in the Los Alamos security.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” Tall Bear frowned. “But I think something else is going on. I just can’t quite put my finger on it. This has the feel of powerful sponsorship within our own government.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Call it a hunch. The way this is being investigated by the FBI and Treasury feels wrong. The whole thing feels more like a cover-up than a real investigation.”

The rumble of thunder echoed through the canyons outside the hogan. Tall Bear rose from his seat.

“Well I better be getting back to the Jeep. It’s a two-mile hike, and it sounds like I might get wet if I don’t hurry.”

“You could wait out the storm here,” Janet offered.

“Can’t. I go on duty at six o’clock, and there are a couple of other errands I need to run before then.”

Janet followed him outside and hugged him again. “Well thanks for the supplies and the company.”

As Tall Bear stepped back, he glanced down at her stomach. “How’re you feeling?”

Janet patted her stomach and smiled. “Everything seems to be progressing normally.”

“Morning sickness?”

“Not yet.”

For just a moment, it seemed that a shadow passed across Tall Bear’s features. Then he smiled. “Not all women get it. Maybe you’re one of the lucky ones.”

“One can only hope.”

“Have you heard from Jack?”

“Not in over a week. When I need to get information to him, I encrypt it and post it on one of the public Internet sites we both monitor. Jack does the same.”

“Does he know you’re pregnant?”

“Yes.”

“Sorry. You can tell me it’s none of my business.”

“Don’t worry. I’m not shy.”

Tall Bear laughed as he turned away. “That thought never occurred to me.”

El Chupacabra. The blood beast of the shadows, a creature of the South American night, seldom glimpsed and never caught.

Eduardo removed the lens cover on the scope and settled into his hide position. He had not picked the nickname that now provoked such fear throughout the Colombian cartels, but it suited him. He was death incarnate. He didn’t just enjoy killing. It sustained him.

There were now only two other professional killers who could be compared with him. One was Carlos the Jackal, now rotting in Clairvaux Prison in Paris and hardly a worthy comparison. The other was still out there among the sheep, very much like himself. Hunting. But the one known as the Ripper would come for him. Eduardo would see to that. And then El Chupacabra would be the only name whispered in dark places.

But right now, business called. Below him, the George Washington Parkway rounded a gradual bend along the west bank of the Potomac, the heavy foliage ensuring he could not be seen from the ground, especially not from the highway. Two narrow windows through the trees provided twin sight lines to the road. The crosshairs steadied on the nearest section of highway.

Killing a president wasn’t supposed to be easy. The biggest problem was a general dearth of information critical to making the hit. The US Secret Service was very, very good at what they did, and one of the things they did was protect the specific information that made killing easy. Travel by motorcade was one of the times when the president was most vulnerable since the entire route could not be as thoroughly secured as the departure and destination points. Therefore, a combination of armor, deception, and misdirection were the primary tools used to ensure the president’s safety.

Which car the president was riding in, his seating position in the car, the exact route of the motorcade, the time of departure—all of these were zealously guarded secrets. But not today. Eduardo’s inside source had provided incredible detail, the last update coming in via encrypted text message just five minutes ago. Everything was go.

As the police escort entered his peripheral vision and then moved through the crosshairs, Eduardo felt the familiar tingle where his cheek welded itself to the stock of the AS500 sniper rifle, down along his arm and into his hand, terminating where his finger rested against the trigger. In rapid succession, the vehicles flashed across his sight line as he counted. Now!

Although it was secured to the thick tree branch in a vice and despite the weapon’s incredible recoil-damping mechanism, the recoil of the three incendiary, armor-piercing, fifty-caliber rounds rocked the weapon back into his shoulder. It didn’t matter. The killing pattern had been perfect, the first round entering through the forward edge of the armored limousine roof, each subsequent round four inches behind it.

Without waiting for any reaction from the convoy, Eduardo grabbed the handle that dangled below his branch and let himself fall outward. His momentum snapped the string that had secured the pulley in place and swept him down the steeply angled cable into a thicket on the water’s edge.

Filling his lungs with air, he slipped beneath the river’s murky surface, feeling his way along the rope that guided him down to the submerged scuba gear. Opening the valve on the tank, he cleared his mask, then grabbed the underwater sled that would pull him to safety.

As the propeller spun up, El Chupacabra smiled inside the scuba mask. Killing a president shouldn’t be this easy.

The cacophony in the White House briefing room made it difficult for the television audience to discern what was being said. In the midst of the melee, CNN’s star White House reporter, Rolf Larson, held sway.

“As we have been reporting for the last hour and a half, the president of the United States was assassinated this morning as the presidential motorcade made its way toward a political rally in Rockville, Maryland. Despite the best efforts of the staff at Walter Reed Army Medical Center, President Harris was pronounced dead at 10:25 a.m., leaving this city and the rest of the country in shock.

“Although details of the assassination remain unclear, sources within the FBI and the Department of Treasury indicate that it is only a matter of time before the killer is caught and brought to justice. Even now a broad net has been cast around the Washington, D.C., area, with all highways and airports shut down, ports and waterways sealed, so the assassin cannot escape.”

The reporter paused as the CNN anchor interrupted. “Rolf, this is Karen Whitcomb. Can you tell us if you are hearing anything from your extensive contacts within the administration and the Justice Department about who the killer might be?”

Rolf nodded into the camera. “Karen, although no one is willing to go on record at this early stage of the investigation, my sources are telling me that this is almost certainly the work of the same man believed to have conducted a string of recent assassinations. I am, of course, speaking of the man at the top of the most-wanted list of every law enforcement agency in this country. Jack Gregory, better known by his street name, the Ripper.”