Split Second (9 page)

“Could it be that Nathan
discovered what dark energy really is?” asked Blake after he swallowed a large
mouthful of orange liquid.

“Yes. I guess it’s possible.”

“What if he found a way to harness
this energy? That would have to be the holy grail.”

“Absolutely. The energy is everywhere.
Finding a way to use it would usher in an absolute revolution. Early man had no
concept of electricity and no way to tap it. Think about how much harnessing
this previously invisible source of energy changed civilization. This would do
the same. And then some.”

“So maybe that’s what’s on your flash
drive.”

She shook her head. “Can’t be.
Nathan told me he wasn’t sure of the real world uses for his discovery. If he
learned how to do this the practical applications would be obvious, and
immense. Nathan told me that physicists were making some progress identifying
this energy, but he was certain there would never be a way to use it. You could
tap in—maybe—but even if you managed this, Nathan’s calculations, and those of others,
showed you’d never be able to control it. It would be all or nothing. Drinking
from a fire hose. Tap it and the
minimum
energy you would release would be more than enough to vaporize the Earth,
possibly the entire solar system.”

Blake nodded, clearly
disappointed, and continued driving in silence, finally beginning the ascent up
the mountain.

In Jenna’s opinion, while this
had been a necessary exercise, they were right back where they started.
Scratching their heads.

“I know you were in the back of
a semi,” said Blake finally, changing the subject, “without any windows. But
any guesses where your truck left the road?”

“I’d say about fifteen or twenty
minutes up the mountain from where we are now.”

“Okay, but let’s both start
searching for it in five or ten minutes, just to be sure.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be able to
find it on my own. You can keep your eyes on the road. Believe me, when an
eighteen-wheeler becomes a toboggan, the aftermath is impossible to miss.”

Fifteen minutes later they heard
the unmistakable sound of chainsaws ripping through the otherwise still air. Blake
turned to Jenna and raised an eyebrow. “That’s interesting.”

As they came closer to the
source of the intermittent roar, Jenna continued to study the downward sloping side
of the road, while Blake’s eyes were constantly on the move.

Moments later his eyes stopped
moving and focused on the physical pavement ahead. His instincts told him
something wasn’t right, but it took a few seconds for him to put his finger on
what: the approaching section of road appeared just the slightest shade lighter
than the rest of the pavement they had been traversing.

Someone had scrubbed it. And for
this to be even a little bit noticeable they must have used industrial strength
power washers, obliterating any skid marks from any semis that may have braked
so hard their cargo compartments had fishtailed into the woods.

Blake slowed as he approached
this stretch of road and followed Jenna’s line of sight. Six men appeared on
the slope below. Four of the men were hustling about—one with a rake, several
with chain saws, and one shoving brush into a heavy nylon sack—while two of the
men appeared to be taking a break, their eyes turned up toward the road.

A large swath of the forest,
from the roadside down to where these men were positioned, had been laid bare,
with several of the felled trees still in evidence. Each man wore a bright
yellow shirt and white hard-hat, and they had patches on their arms,
green-bordered shields with the silhouette of a pine tree and the words
Forest Service, US Department of Agriculture
stitched inside.

“No!” shrieked Jenna as they
passed. “This is where we went off the road. It has to be. I swear to you,
every word I told you was the truth. But these bastards just destroyed the
evidence I was going to show you.”

“These
bastards
are all the evidence I need,” said Blake as the men
receded behind them. “Just incredible!” he added in awe. “They scrubbed the
road, airlifted a Hostess truck out of here, and cleared the area since
last night
. I thought I might have
overblown the situation with Greg, but now I don’t think so. What in the world
are we dealing with?”

Blake saw the despondent look on
Jenna’s face and winced. “Sorry. Not trying to make this situation worse. But
like I said in my apart—office—anyone capable of sanitizing the scene you
described would have to be absolute magicians. They must wield enormous
resources.”

“So you don’t think those guys are
really with the Forest Service?”

“The two who were watching the
road definitely aren’t. The others may be legitimate, but I think the odds are good
they’re military. Or at least they
were
—not
sure who they’re working for now. The military trains all kinds of specialists.
Men who can construct floating bridges in a single night half a football field
long, strong enough for heavy artillery to cross. Men who can build tunnels, or
even underground facilities, faster than you’d believe possible. And men who
can clear woodlands.”

“So this is about the worst
development we could ever hope for,” said Jenna.

Just as she said this, Blake spotted
one of the periodic turnouts in the road, which he was rapidly approaching. “Maybe,”
he said as he began braking. “But maybe not. If I play my cards right,” he
added with determination, “this might turn out to be a blessing in disguise.”

13

Blake pulled onto the turnout
and killed the ignition. “Wait here,” he said to Jenna. “Face away from the
road and appear to be, you know . . . communing with nature. I’ll try to be
back within an hour.”

“An hour?” repeated Jenna
worriedly.

Blake nodded. “My guess is that
I can get to a vantage point that looks out on the men we saw in fifteen to
twenty minutes,” he said. “I’ll take a video of them and snap some photos. I
have a friend who can run their faces through a database.”

“Aren’t you going to need a
really good telephoto camera for that?”

Blake laughed. He reached well
over onto her side of the car and popped open the glove compartment. He removed
a small but mighty Nikon telephoto camera that reeked of expense and
sophisticated electronics.

He returned his arms and torso
to his side of the car and gripped the door handle, preparing to exit. “As far
as I know,” he said, “this camera can only film cheating spouses screwing co-workers
or hookers. But I’ve always theorized it might be able to film people who still
have their clothes on.” He raised his eyebrows. “I guess there’s only one way
to find out.”

Jenna’s face wrinkled up in
disgust. “Ewww,” she said as she thought further about this seamy aspect of a
private detective’s life.

“Yeah,” he said in agreement. “Ewww
is right.” He paused. “So my plan is to get the shots I need and then remain in
place for fifteen or twenty minutes in the hope I get lucky.”

“Lucky how?”

“Maybe one of them will stray
from the herd. Doubtful, but you never know.”

“And if one does, you’ll go
after him?”

“Yes. This probably won’t happen,
but if it did, we could hit the jackpot. I’m not sure what these men know, but
it’s bound to be a hell of a lot more than
we
do. At minimum, whatever I could learn would at least suggest other directions
of inquiry. It’s a long shot, but worth an extra fifteen minutes.”

“I assume you’re well armed,”
said Jenna.

Blake smiled. “I’m probably
setting off metal detectors as far away as Lindbergh Field even as we speak,”
he said.

Jenna stared worriedly into his
eyes for several seconds. She continued to be convinced that this man was very
special. Not nearly as brilliant as Nathan had been, of course, but very sharp.
She had already developed an affection for him, and while she wasn’t into metaphysics,
if people really did posses auras, his was nothing but positive.

“Be careful, Aaron,” she said.

He nodded and opened the car
door. “You know it.”

Jenna followed his figure as he
rushed down the slope, but in less than a minute he was completely out of
sight.

“Good luck,” she whispered inside
the empty car. “And come back soon.”

14

Blake hustled down the mountain
at as close to a run as he could manage given the slope of the terrain and the
often dense foliage. He could still hear the faint sound of chain saws off in
the distance, although less and less frequently as the job was likely nearing
completion. Now it was probably only a matter of carving the main trunks of the
felled trees into smaller pieces for easier removal.

The faster he could find a good vantage
point and get the images he needed, the faster he could return to Jenna
Morrison. He should have left her at his apartment. He had expected, at
minimum, to be able to examine tread marks and a trail of crushed vegetation
and small trees the trailer had surely sheared on its slide down the hill, like
a butter knife of the gods. He had thought it likely that the trailer would
still be at its final destination, held in place by several thick trunks that
had refused to buckle.

While he knew there was a
possibility the Hostess truck had been extricated from the site, he could never
have expected a scrub this comprehensive, this fast. Nor that he would be
forced to leave Jenna alone as he was doing now. Maybe his skills were already
getting dull. Maybe too many divorce cases had softened him, muddled his
instincts.

Well, he had better sharpen up
quickly. Whatever he was involved with was big. Important. And it would likely
provide the adrenaline rush he craved, even though he knew this was something
he should be avoiding.

As an added bonus, he liked
Jenna Morrison quite a bit, which was a rarity, since so many of his clients he
found despicable. If there was a God, he sure had a sense of humor. When Blake had
wished for a more challenging assignment, he was pretty sure he wasn’t asking
for one
this
challenging.

The forest was cool and the air
crisp and refreshing. Uncountable needles and pine-cones littered the firm
ground, and the smell of sap and pine filled his nostrils.

At last he came to his
destination: a cut in the trees created by a twenty-foot wall of rock, bereft
of most vegetation, sticking out like a knee through torn green slacks. He had
seen this jagged wall from the road as he was passing the chain saw crew, being
sure to glance up the slope as well as down. His sniper training had served him
well, allowing him to assess possible vantage points in only a glance.

He lowered himself to the
landing above the rock face and peered over the edge and down the slope. The
road was thirty yards distant and the men he was after twenty yards farther
still. All six men remained where they had been, tiny in the distance but well
within range of his camera.

He used the Nikon as a spotting
scope, dialing up full magnification and clicking any number of still photos,
making sure to catch each of their faces in at least one shot. After he thought
he had reached his goal he filmed in video mode for thirty seconds.

Perfect. He had all the footage
he needed.

Blake considered staying put in
the hope that one of the men might peel away, as planned, but given the terrain
and the distance to his quarry, even if this happened it would take him too
long to take advantage. He sighed. It had been a long shot anyway. Time to
return to Jenna.

The underbrush rustled directly
behind him!

Blake wheeled around, his hand
instinctively reaching for his gun, but before he could draw he realized someone
had a bead on him at point-blank range and he wouldn’t have a chance if he
completed the move.

Blake knew his skills had
deteriorated, but not this much. Any man who could sneak up on him this
effectively had to be very good. There was an art to moving through a forest like
a wraith, not snapping a single twig or displacing a single pine-cone. If his
assailant hadn’t spooked a small animal hidden in the underbrush—which was
simply bad luck for him and unavoidable—he could have tapped Blake on the
shoulder before he would have known he was being stalked.

Blake shot his arms into the air
in a show of surrender. “What’s going on,” he blubbered fearfully, trying to channel
an innocent civilian who would be wetting his pants at this point. “You can
have my money. Take it. Just don’t hurt me.”

The man hesitated. “Who are you
and what are you doing?”

“My name is Don Barnes,” said Blake,
the wheels in his head turning at a furious pace. He had always done his best
thinking under pressure, which had saved his life on any number of occasions.

He nodded toward the Nikon still
in his hand. “I’m a birdwatcher. Please. I’ll give you my money. My ATM code. Anything!
I don’t want to make any trouble.”

“Birdwatcher, my ass!” snapped
the man.

Blake knew the man must be a
scout, working with the crew down below to be sure no one spied on them or sniped
at them from above. The fact that Blake was now in the precisely perfect spot
for either endeavor was too great a coincidence for this guy to buy. Still, the
longer he could play the innocent rube, the longer he could instill some doubt,
some hesitation in his adversary, the more chance the man might became lulled
by Blake’s harmless appearance and dismiss him as a true threat.

“You have five seconds to tell
me who you really are.”

“I’m a
birdwatcher
,” pleaded Blake, half hysterically. “Really. My club
put out a bulletin. There have been some spottings of—” he hesitated, realizing
that there was probably no subject he knew less about than birds. “In this area
here,” he added, pointing in the exact opposite direction from which the man’s
comrades were finishing up their work, to cover for his hesitation and in the
hope of sowing as much doubt about his motives as possible.

The gunman rolled his eyes.
“Spottings of what?” he said. “You didn’t finish.”

“I’ve never had a gun pointed at
me,” said Blake, stalling for time so he could manufacture some exotic sounding
bird name. “So I’m pretty stressed out. I was going to say
spottings
of Blue-tailed Russian Warblers. Very rare.”

The man removed a phone from his
pocket. “George,” he said, obviously addressing his PDA, “is there a species of
bird named the Blue Tailed Russian Warbler?”

“There are over seventy species
of warbler,” broadcast the phone seconds later. “But none are referred to by
this name.”

Blake blew out a long breath and
lowered his arms slowly to his sides. “Fucking Google,” he muttered, although
he knew he only had himself to blame. The old him would have thought quickly
enough to realize he didn’t know squat about birds and wouldn’t have walked
into this landmine. He should have kept it generic. He should have just said he
was looking for rare birds. Period. What an idiot. Not that his ruse would have
worked for long anyway.

“Toss me your wallet,” said the
assailant. “Carefully.”

The man caught the leather Frisbee
Blake sent his way and opened it hastily. Blake’s PI identification was framed
neatly inside a windowed compartment, impossible to miss. “Birdwatcher, private
detective, pretty much the same thing, huh Aaron?”

Blake didn’t respond.

“Draw your gun with two fingers
and toss it over to me.”

Blake considered pretending he
didn’t have a gun, but even the lamest of private investigator’s would be
carrying, so there wasn’t much point to the attempt. And if he cooperated the
man would be less likely to suspect he had another gun in an ankle holster.

“So what are you doing here?”
said the man after Blake had tossed him his Sig Sauer nine millimeter handgun.
“Wait, hold on,” he added, removing his phone from a pocket and performing a
few quick manipulations. When he was finished he dropped the phone gently on a
cushion of brown pine needles near his feet. “What are you doing here?” he
repeated.

“I office nearby,” replied Blake,
impressed that the man was savvy enough to have begun recording him so he could
detect even the slightest changes to Blake’s story during subsequent
interrogations. “I was here late last night and saw a truck slide off the road.
And today all traces of it are gone. Since I’ve never seen a Forestry Service
crew respond to anything this quickly, I was curious. I’m between clients, and
I’m trying to keep my skills sharp.” Blake shrugged. “And I love hiking. So two
birds with one stone sort of thing,” he added, realizing as he said it that
this was possibly the only thing he knew about birds: apparently, it was always
better to save ammunition while killing them.

“Sure,” said the man as he
tossed the wallet back to Blake. “Why don’t I believe you? She went and hired a
PI, that’s what she did. Very good,” he added appreciatively.

Blake remained silent.

“You’re working for Jenna
Morrison, aren’t you?”

Blake put on a confused
expression. “I have no idea who that is.”

The man drew his arm out to full
extension, the gun still pointed at Blake’s head. “The next lie I hear will be
your last. Got it? You’ll be able to search for your Russian Warbler in the
afterlife.”

The man’s face turned to granite.
“I say again, You’re working for Jenna Morrison, aren’t you?”

Blake gulped. “
Yes,
” he croaked, doing his best to emulate
a shivering bunny nearing a nervous breakdown. “Okay, okay. I’ll tell you what
happened. I have a practice near the Mexican border in San Diego. This chick
walks in, crazier than a loon, ranting and raving about all hell breaking loose
on this mountain last night. I didn’t believe her for a second, of course. A
real nutcase. But I’m new to this. I’ve only been doing divorce cases, and she
insisted she’d pay me a small fortune. So I humored her.”

“Where is she?” he said
severely.

Blake shook his head as the kernel
of a plan began to form in his mind. “I don’t know,” he whispered, his eyes
wide with fear. “She was driving a Ford Fusion. A blue one. She paid me five
hundred in cash to come up here and find evidence of a fucking Hostess cupcake
truck. But she wouldn’t tell me where she was staying. She didn’t trust me.
Said I should investigate and then she’d find me to tell me what she wanted me
to do next. That’s all I know. I swear it!”

“I’m not buying it. So you have
five seconds to tell me something I can use. Four. Three—”

A surge of triumph swept through
Blake. He had set the hook as deep as he had hoped.

“Okay!” he shouted, trying to
force a tear to his eye. He couldn’t quite manage, but he hoped he looked
properly freaked out and vulnerable. “I took some photos of her car as she
left. Including a close-up of her license plate.”

The man considered. “Another
bluff? To buy you some time?”

“No!” he pleaded. “I took the
pictures with this,” he said, holding up the powerful black camera. “Really.
See for yourself.”

He held out the Nikon. Just as
the assailant was about to take it, he let it go. The man was insanely fast,
instinctively catching the strap before the camera hit the ground, but as he did
so Blake executed a roundhouse kick that caught the man’s gun with precision,
sending it flying into the woods. In a continuation of the same motion, Blake rolled
to his left and drew his backup gun from his ankle holster.

“Freeze!” he shouted at the man,
who now dropped the camera. “Hands up!”

The man did as he was told.

Blake recovered his Sig Sauer and
camera from the ground and took several quick steps backwards, putting
additional distance between himself and a man no doubt well-versed in
hand-to-hand combat. He returned his backup gun to his ankle holster, his eyes
and gun never wavering from his target.

“Very good,” said the man. “You
got me to underestimate you. I won’t do that again. Obvious military training.
Jenna Morrison chose well.”

“Now
I’m
going to ask the questions,” said Blake.

His voice, which he had kept
meek and fearful during his attempts at deception, now conveyed nothing but
competence and self-assurance. “And if
you
lie, I’m not going to kill you. I’m going to
maim
you. Take out parts you need, one by one. Kneecaps. Testicles.”
He shrugged. “But don’t worry, nothing you’ll miss
too
much.”

Blake paused to let his bluff
sink in. “What’s your name?”

“Justin Hone.”

“Sure it is. I guess now it’s
your turn. Toss me your wallet.”

The man did as ordered.

Other than a driver’s license
the man had nothing to indicate who he might work for, or even if he was military
or civilian, not that Blake had any doubt in this regard. “Seems we aren’t
really being honest with each other. Says here your name is Mark Argent.”

Blake paused, not expecting a
reply and not getting one. “So who are you, Mark Argent? And what is this all
about?”

“First, you should know my
threat to kill you was only a bluff. I would never have really done it.”

“Easy to say when the gun is on
the other foot, isn’t it? But you haven’t answered my question.”

“You don’t know what you’re
dealing with.”

“No kidding,” said Blake,
rolling his eyes. “Which is why I’m asking you: what am I dealing with?”

“I’m with a government
organization that doesn’t officially exist. One that is only known to those who
are a part of it, and the president. Not even the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs
has been read in. We have virtually unlimited resources. You can’t win.”

“I have familiarity with Black Ops.
You aren’t invincible.”

“Yeah, well we’re blacker than Black
Ops. Compared to us, a standard Black Ops group is about as stealthy as the
Mickey Mouse Club.”

“So what are you saying, that you’re
like Sector Seven? Men in fucking black?”

The man sighed. “Look, I’m going
to level with you. Jenna Morrison’s story is true, which after all you’ve seen
and experienced here I’m sure you’ve figured out. She had a rough time of it
last night. We picked up her and her fiancé, but we meant them no harm. We
treated them well. The job was to deliver them to the top guy and let him
explain the situation.”