72 Hours (A Thriller) (40 page)

There was a narrow door at the rear of the building, several long paces behind the alter.
 
Archer turned the doorknob and tramped down a second set of ancient, warped wooden steps to a weed-covered landing adjacent to a small, tidy cemetery.
 
The cemetery was enclosed by a low wrought-iron fence, with a swinging gate cut into the southwest corner.
 
Archer lifted the latch and shuffled sideways through the narrow opening.
 
The little graveyard was overrun by weeds and grass.
 
Some of the grave markers were stone with names and dates chiseled in block lettering, while others were simple wood crosses with names and dates crudely carved into the grain.
 

He could see no fresh graves.

He loitered for a few minutes, reading names and dates.
 
The most recent he spotted was dated August of 1981.
 
The woman had lived a hundred and two years.
 
Archer thought that to live a life like that in a place like this was really saying something.
 
He wouldn’t have wanted to hang around there for more than a month, even in the best of times.

Archer drifted along the perimeter of the burial ground and then let himself back out through the gate.
 
He drifted around the backside of the church building and followed a well worn footpath up the side past weeds and discarded cigarette butts to the parking area where the Hummer sat awash in bright morning light.

He studied the compacted dirt for signs of new tracks.
 
Signs of a presence within the last few hours.
 
But there’d been nothing for days, at least.
 
They were clearly the first visitors of the morning.
 
He studied the surrounding horizon, then returned to the Hummer.
 
Stood at her door.
 
Tapped a knuckled against the glass.

The window buzzed down.

“They haven’t been here,” he said.

“Are you sure?”

“No one has been here for a while,” he said.
 

“What now?”

“Let’s get out of here before we have company.”

“Are you still confident?”

Archer looked at her.
 
A long, intense, sincere gaze.

“I will never let anything bad happen to you,” he said.
 
“And I’m not going to let anything bad happen to Penny.
 
I owe that to both Simeon and Raj.”

She smiled, wearily.
 
“OK, then.
 
I trust you.”

Archer started the engine and bumped the Hummer back onto the narrow dirt road, turning back for town.
 
A cloud of dust rose up around the tires.
 
Lindsay held his hand as they drove.

*
   
*
   
*

Noella Chu watched the black Hummer through the lens of the powerful Schmidt & Bender scope mounted to her sniper rifle.
 
She held the reticle steady.
 
Calculated the speed and distance of the vehicles, then she raised her head, squinting against the crisp morning light.
 
Interesting, she thought.

The Hummer was speeding down the dirt lane back towards town through the cloud of red dust.
 
They were surprisingly early, though this actually pleased Noella Chu very much.
 
It provided her an excellent opportunity to assess the enemy and to confirm her target.
 
She had watched them from the moment they turned off the highway to the dirt lane.
 
She assumed that the man from the Hummer was Ryan Archer.
 
Noella Chu was pleased to finally put a face with the name.
 
She had been able to see him quite clearly through the powerful lens of the sniper scope.
 
His was a face she would not forget.

Noella Chu was positioned on the rooftop of the three-story apartment building along the main drag in town.
 
It was easily the highest point within the little community.
 
She rotated into an upright sitting posture and stashed the rifle away in the shadows beneath a bulky air-conditioning unit bolted to the tar-covered roof.
 
She hurried back across the roof.
 
Descended the fire escape ladder quickly and quietly.
 
Then jogged back through to the end of the short alley to where she had parked the Kia minivan with Penny Lockwood bound and gagged inside.

She turned onto the highway and followed the black Hummer from a discreet distance until it turned off at the little roadside motel at the edge of town.

CHAPTER 112

The operation had to be put together and carried out in absolute secrecy.
 
Gaston Dunbar was a celebrity inmate.
 
A big media draw.
 
Easily recognizable on the street.
 
If word got out that he was being temporarily released from prison to lead police to the bodies of his wife and daughter, there would be news helicopters circling all over the place.
 
Reporters and paparazzi everywhere.
 
It would become a circus in the blink of an eye.

So Kline had to keep the lid clamped down tight.
 
Dunbar’s trip to the emergency room would actually work to their advantage.
 
He was already away from the prison grounds.
 
And the hospital staff would think nothing of him being transported away, making the educated assumption that he was being shipped right back to his cell.

Kline wanted the excursion to last no more than three to four hours.
 
And if it became clear that Dunbar was playing games again, they would shut him down and simply turn around and head back to San Quentin.

Dunbar would have to be disguised because he was too recognizable to simply haul out into public.
 
They would slap a beard and wig on him.
 
Give him some street clothes.

They would airlift him by FBI helicopter out of Marin County.
 
A car would be waiting to pick up Dunbar and Special Agent Kline, and a heavily armed security detail would meet them on the ground, ready to shadow their every move.
 
Dunbar wouldn’t be able to breathe without a dozen or more M16’s shoved down his throat.

The young Dr. Ghinnish visited his patient one last time before reluctantly clearing him for discharge.
 
Dunbar had thick, clean bandages around both his wrists.
 
His color was slowly returning, and his blood pressure was back to within an acceptable range.
 
A buxom redheaded nurse pushed him in a wheelchair out through the emergency room exit and down a short ramp to the sidewalk.

Dunbar turned his face up to her as she set the brake.
 
He made a show of licking his lips.

“I’d give anything for a few minutes alone with you before they give me the needle,” he said, grinning devilishly.

The nurse looked at him with revulsion.
 
Face reddening.
 
She flattened her lips and hurried away.

Dunbar glanced at Kline.

“Got to love the ladies,” he said.

“Let’s go,” Kline said.

Dunbar’s hands were cuffed behind his back.
 
He rose from the wheelchair and traveled the three short steps to the rear of the prison van.
 
A prison guard rode opposite him with a Remington 1100 tactical shotgun resting across his thighs.
 
A metal screen separated them from the front seats of the van.

Kline spoke briefly with the driver of the van, issuing instructions.
 
The driver nodded.
 
Kline climbed into the passenger seat and glanced back through the metal screen at the inmate.

They detoured away from the prison.

The FBI helicopter was waiting on the concrete apron of the airport.
 
The van rolled up close to the chopper and the driver came around and opened the rear doors.
 
Dunbar dropped to the concrete and glanced around.
 
It was the most open space he had experienced in four years.

“Let’s go,” Kline said again.

The prison guards escorted them to the chopper.

A beefy FBI agent in a Kevlar vest strode toward them from the chopper and shook hands with Kline.
 
His name was Blackwell.
 
Blackwell stepped up alongside the inmate and took him by the arm.
 
Walked him to the chopper and loaded him inside.
 
Shackled his arms and ankles so that his limbs were completely restricted from movement.

The guards stood and watched Kline and Blackwell load into the chopper.

The turbine whined as it received power.
 
The rotors began to slowly paddle against the warm breeze.
 
The chopper lifted off the tarmac.
 

Special Agent Kline popped the radio headset over his ears.
 
Turned in his seat to face Dunbar.
 
“You got your wish,” Kline said.
 
“Where are we going?”

“Los Angeles,” Dunbar said.

“Stop with the games.
 
Give me something specific.”

Dunbar smiled darkly.
 
“No, we’ll start with Los Angeles,” he said.

*
   
*
   
*

Raj was stable.
 
Dr. Fay had thoroughly cleaned and treated the wound and applied a proper splint to the break.
 
He had a morphine drip running to Raj’s arm.
 
Raj looked content to just lie on the table and soak up the drugs.

The kids were asleep at the motel.
 
They had crashed on the beds with the TV on and the sound turned all the way down.
 
Archer chose to not wake them.
 
He simply opened the door a crack and peeked in at them.
 
Then he locked the door and pulled it shut.

He returned to the Hummer.
 

“How are they?” Lindsay asked him.

“Out cold.”

“Poor things are exhausted.”

Archer put the SUV in gear and tooled out of the parking lot to the highway.

“Let’s find some coffee,” he said.

They picked one of the two diners at random.
 
Archer gave the menu a cursory scan, then quickly lodged it back behind the wire rack filled with condiments.
 
A waitress materialized, a woman with the look of someone who had abandoned her dreams the day of her high school graduation.

“Start with coffee,” Archer said.
 

The waitress returned with two ceramic mugs and a heavy glass carafe and poured the mugs full to the brim.

“I’ll take eggs and sausage,” Archer said.

Lindsay pushed her menu aside.
 
She nodded at the waitress.

“Same,” she said.

Archer had brought the satellite telephone into the diner with him.
 
He set it on the table between them.

“When will she call?” Lindsay asked.

“Soon.”

“Who is she?
 
Is she working with someone or alone?
 
What does she want?”

“First answer is easy.
 
She wants the five hundred million.
 
She’s an assassin.
 
And she’s good.
 
That’s pretty clear.
 
She might be part of a team, or she might be working alone.
 
No way of knowing at this point.
 
But if she is working alone, she’s very good.
 
That means she’s very smart and very dangerous.”

“How are you going to do this?”

“One step at a time.”

Breakfast was delivered to the table.

They stared out the window at the other lonely diner facing them from the opposite side of the road.
 

“Do you think Penny is still alive?”

“Yes,” he said.
 
“I think this woman is smart enough to know we will want to see what we are trading for before we turn you over to her.”

A shiver sparkled up Lindsay’s spine.

“Makes me very nervous when you say it like that,” she sighed.

Archer offered a small, comforting grin.

“Yeah, sorry about that.
 
But don’t worry, I’m not handing you over to anyone.
 
It’s all about strategy and trying to predict what the enemy will do.
 
We have to set it up so that it appears we are following through with the deal.
 
Then when I can see her opening move, I will make the necessary adjustments.”

Archer finished his eggs and drained his third cup of coffee.

“I think this coffee was made fresh last Tuesday,” he said, pushing the mug aside.