The Sword of God - John Milton #5 (John Milton Thrillers) (41 page)

More voices.

He ran across the backyard to the porte cochère that had been built on the eastern side of the house. There was a dirt bike propped up there, a Honda CRF450R, a light and powerful bike that Milton knew would pack a punch. That was good.

The keys were in the ignition. Milton pulled it away from the wall, surprised that it was so light, straddled it, and then twisted the key. He fired the engine with the kick-start, hearing it growl and whine as he fed it revs, and then held on tight as it bucked out from beneath the shelter and started across the yard.

Two uniformed soldiers were right in front of him.

“Stop!”

Milton swerved around them both, the back wheel sliding out, the tyre cutting through the sludge until it bit on the mud beneath. The unexpected jerk almost unseated him, and the effort of clasping hard with both hands sent a blast of pain up his damaged arm.

Milton settled his balance again, not daring to look back, and aimed the bike for the fields that spread out to the south of the farm. More corn, tractor trails bisecting the field right down the middle. He heard the sound of the warning shot fired just above his head, ducked down and squeezed out more revs. The bike shot ahead at forty and then fifty, raced through an open gate and leapt off a furrowed slope, slamming down onto the uneven surface of the field ten feet farther on. Milton was sprayed with mud as he fought to control the bike. He squeezed the brakes until he was comfortable and then aimed for the passage between the crops.

He raced between the tall shoulders of the stalks, deeper and deeper into the field.

ELLIE RUBBED her sore wrists and crept low to the window, daring a quick glance outside. The Black Hawk had come down in a field to the west of the farmhouse, the branches still shaking and the tremendous noise rattling the panes of glass. A bright searchlight swung around from the open doorway of the chopper, a blinding yellow light that played across the farmhouse, fixing on the window and lighting up everything inside, the darkest shadows painted on the wall behind them.

“What are we going to do?” Mallory asked fretfully.

“You heard what Milton said. We need to let them know we’re not the bad guys.”

“How—”

“Let me talk to them, Mallory. Stay here with Arty. We’ll need to get him some help. Make sure Michael Callow stays here, too.”

She went to the hallway. She put her shoulder behind the French dresser and pushed it aside so she could open the door wide enough to squeeze through.

She walked out into the yard.

The searchlight played out through the trees, throwing spectral shadows against the walls of the farmhouse. She saw the silhouettes of men crouched down low, running away from the field where the Black Hawk had landed. The dark figures parted, some going to the left of her and some to the right. They spread out around her, adopted firing positions, and aimed their rifles at her. The searchlight jerked around again, finally fixing on her, and she had to raise her arm in front of her eyes so that she could see.

“Put your hands up!” a harsh voice called out.

She raised her left hand, the light flooding into her face again.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Ellie Flowers. I am an FBI agent.”

“On your knees!”

“I’m FBI.”

“Do it now!”

She lowered herself to her knees.

One of the soldiers took a step in her direction. He had a pistol in his hand, and it was aimed straight at her head.

“Identification?”

“No, sir. It’s been taken from me.”

“Name?”

“I just told you: Ellie Flowers.”

“Field office?”

“Detroit. 477 Michigan Avenue. My partner’s name is Orville Clayton. Call him.”

“Anyone else in that house?”

“Yes,” she said. “Mallory and Arthur Stanton. They’re local kids. Arthur has been shot and is going to need a medic. There’s a man tied to a table in the kitchen. His name is Michael Callow. You’ll want to speak to him.”

“You want to tell me what in the name of God is going down here?”

“Secure the area, soldier. I’ll need to talk to your C.O.”

“Where’s John Milton?”

“I need to talk to your C.O.”

MORTEN LUNDQUIST was shrewd, an old soldier, and Milton guessed that they would make similar tactical assessments.

So he considered what he might have done had the roles been reversed.

Time, first. How much time would he have as a head start? Milton would have assumed that the situation would mean the compromising of his headquarters and with that, his plan. That would have told him that he only had a limited amount of time. Not long enough to gamble with a safer, but slower, journey to the south on quieter roads. Speed would be very important.

Milton’s first assumption: Lundquist would follow the quickest route south.

Milton remembered the map and plotted a route from Truth to Green Bay. He would have driven to Stannard and then picked up the US-45 to the south.

How much of a start did he have? A new Freightliner was a big, powerful semi with 450 horsepower, turbocharged engines which would top out at, what, eighty miles an hour? He had seen the truck, though, and it was old and tired. The engine had sounded worn, and that would mean that it would lose compression and, thus, power. So reduce the top speed by twenty miles an hour: call it sixty. And the load was unstable. Too many bumps and jolts might make for an unfortunate accident. Milton settled on fifty-five, a little less if the roads were bad.

He pictured the map in his head. A thirty-minute head start, fifty to fifty-five miles an hour, that might give him a lead of twenty or twenty-five miles.

The bike was comfortable at sixty, but Milton cranked out more speed, bringing it up to seventy.

Lundquist was probably in Union Bay right now. In an hour, he would have swung to the south and would be on US-64, maybe down in Bergland.

After an hour, Milton ought to be able to make it to Iron Mountain.

He should be able to catch him around there.

He held the throttle wide open, almost maxing it out until he thought the piston was going to blow through the head. He backed off a little, racing around the side of another big eighteen wheeler hauling freight, the trucker pulling down on his air horn as Milton went by him in a blur.

THE HUMVEE had arrived soon after the Black Hawk had touched down and soon after that, another two parked alongside. The soldiers had secured the perimeter of the house and had started to fan out into the outbuildings. A shout went up as they reached the barn and found the body of Magrethe Olsen.

Ellie was taken to the first Humvee. A soldier in soaked olive fatigues dismounted.

“I’m Lieutenant Colonel Alex Maguire,” he said, extending his hand.

Ellie shook it. “Special Agent Ellie Flowers.”

“I’m sorry for the confusion.”

“You’ve confirmed my ID, Colonel?”

“Yes, ma’am. We’ve raised your partner on the radio. He wants to speak to you.”

Ellie took the handset that Maguire offered her and put it to her ear.

“Orville?”

“Ellie?”

“Yes.”

“Jesus, Ellie, what the fuck is going on up there?”

“I’ll explain. Just—”

“You find those boys?”

“Yes, Orville. I did. Just listen to me, please, for once. I need you to listen very, very carefully.”

There was a pause on the line, a clatter of static. When he finally spoke, he sounded abashed, even with all the interference. “Okay. Go ahead.”

Ellie ran through what had happened as quickly as she could. The colonel was listening, too, which was good; it would save her telling the story twice. She left out the details that were unimportant, like the treatment she had received. That, she knew, would just inflame Orville’s guilt and that would mean she’d have his paternalism to deal with, and she could do without that right now. She left out anything about her and Milton because his jealousy would be just as bad. Instead, she told him about the arrests of the gang, the murder of Lester Grogan, how the bank jobs had been funding the militia, the truck bomb, and that Morten Lundquist was driving it to a target right now.

The colonel waved for his number two, anxiety all over his face.

“Jesus,” Orville said. “You know where he’s going?”

“I think Green Bay. The federal courthouse.”

“You think? Be specific.”

“That’s what one of the militia told us”—she paused, searching for the right euphemism—“in circumstances that suggest he wasn’t lying when he told us.”

“What the hell does that—”

“That’s the most likely,” she cut across him, “but it could be anywhere within a four- or five-hour drive. Your guess is as good as mine where he might go.”

He swore. “I need to make some calls. Can you handle the Guards? They need to find him.”

“Don’t worry, Orville. I’m on top of it.”

“Christ, you know what’ll happen if he gets that truck into a built-up area?”

“He won’t.”

“How could you possibly know that?”

“Someone’s already gone after him.”

“Who?”

“Milton.”

“Who the hell
is
this guy
?
”

“Never mind. Make your calls. We’ll speak later.”

She handed the radio back before he could press her any further.

The colonel looked concerned. “That all true?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“I’m sorry about before, ma’am. I kind of feel we’re three steps behind on this.”

“It’s all right. I know the feeling. How did you know we were out here?”

“We picked up a couple of fellas in the woods. Watts and McClennan? You know them?”

“No.”

“They were part of the posse that went after this Milton guy. Their stories didn’t tally. Watts told us if he got out of the woods, he’d come down here.”

“They’ll be a part of all this.”

“They’ve just been put in custody. But this Milton guy, you want to tell me whose side he’s on?”

“Ours,” she said.

“For sure?”

“He saved my life. And he’s gone after Lundquist now.”

“You should see the mess he’s left up by the lake. Dead bodies left and right. Police are going to have one hell of a job working that out.”

“I’ll explain it in the air.”

He gaped. “I’m sorry, ma’am?”

She nodded in the direction of the Black Hawk. “Can you give me a ride?”

MILTON SAW the truck as the lights of Watersmeet were visible on the horizon. The US-45 was long and straight, cutting between the green shoulders of birch and fir that clustered on either side. There had been almost no traffic, just a few trucks making early deliveries and the cars of hunters heading up into the woods so that they could get started at dawn.

He had hammered the bike as hard as he dared, but now the engine was beginning to strain a little. It was running up at seventy, and, at that speed, it was as skittish as a frisky colt. He had been riding with the headlamp off so as not to betray his approach, and that made it even more challenging. The asphalt was decent, but there were patches, now and again, that were littered with potholes. There had been moments when he had passed across them with no warning, sure that the front wheel was going to jerk out of control and that he would be thrown from the seat. He managed to hold on and keep the bike pointing down the road. His left arm throbbed from the continued effort of grasping the handlebars, and his right wrist was sore from twisting the throttle all the way around to its stops.

He saw the lights of the truck when he was a mile behind it. It was too far away to be sure that it was Lundquist, but he was travelling faster than it was, and he closed rapidly until he was three hundred yards away and could recognise the livery in the light of the wan moon. He was driving carefully, observing the speed limit, nothing out of the ordinary.

They passed isolated houses and businesses as they approached the town, and then the buildings started to come closer together. There was a crossroad, where US-2 met US-45, and there were gas stations on both sides of the road, a diner, a strip mall. Milton throttled right back. If Ellie was right and the truck had been loaded with explosives…

He had seen truck bombs go up before, and remembered one blast in particular in Kunduz, the Taliban detonating a dump truck that was smaller than the semi. The neighbourhood had been levelled, scraped off the face of the Earth, and what had been left had been a field of rubble and debris so bleak and desolate as to be almost lunar.

He let the truck pull ahead.

MAGUIRE LED Ellie to the chopper, approaching from three o’clock to avoid the forward tilt of the rotors. She was pelted with mud, sticks, and leaves from the wash and, without a step to help her into the waist-high doorway, she accepted Maguire’s helping hand. She took one of the canvas-covered seats and locked herself into the four-point harness.

Maguire handed her a pair of headphones and indicated that she should put them on.

The turbines throttled up, and the chopper lifted into the air, whipping the branches of the trees as it climbed above them.

Maguire’s voice came over the headphones. “You think south?”

“That’s right.”

“We’ll follow Highway 28 and then the US-45,” the pilot said as he dipped the nose and the Black Hawk pulled away from the farm. “When did he leave?”

“Half an hour ago.”

“So he couldn’t have gotten far. We can push this all the way up to one hundred and fifty knots. It won’t take long to catch him up.”

“If he is going south,” Maguire said, looking at Ellie.

“Green Bay,” she said. “That’s what we were told.”

Maguire nodded. He looked ill at ease. His orders had changed radically over the course of the last hour, and he looked a little uncomfortable with the new responsibility that he had been given.

“Is this helicopter armed?”

“Sure,” Maguire said. He nodded to the belted machine guns that had been fitted on either side of the Black Hawk. “We got two 7.62mm machine guns up here. We use them for suppressing fire normally, but they’ll make a mess of anything we point them at.”