Black Skies (29 page)

P
eter Conley was driving right behind Walker and the rest of the Lambda team in a metallic Nissan Versa along a forested stretch of road in North Carolina on their way to Washington, DC, when he got the call from Bloch. She explained Karen O’Neal’s theory about Wolfe’s complicity and Weinberg’s ultimate plan.

“It’s time for McKay to come out of hiding,” said Bloch. “We think you should go get her.”

Conley flashed his high beams for Walker to pull over, and then pulled in behind him on the shoulder. A car tore down the highway, bobbing Conley’s car in its wake as it passed. “I’m going to need her location,” said Conley.

“Sending it now,” said Bloch.

Conley pulled the hand brake and got out of the car. He breathed in the invigorating cool night air, made fresh by the dark, dense forest that bordered the highway. Walker, out of his own car, strode over to him.

“I’ve just spoken to Bloch,” said Conley. “She thinks I should collect McKay and escort her to a major city.”

“No problem,” said Walker. He squinted as a car approached with its high beams on. It passed them with a
whoosh.
“Why don’t I send one of the cars with you? We can spare a couple of guys to make sure she gets there safely.”

Clutch, who had been in the car with Walker, also emerged out onto the shoulder. Conley’s instincts made him uncomfortable. There was something shifty about him. “It’s fine,” he said. “There’s no need for either of you to come along. We have Lily Randall. And it’s best not to attract too much attention to myself.”

“Fair enough,” said Walker with a shrug. “Are those the coordinates on your phone?”

“Yes,” said Conley in a drawn-out syllable, holding his phone closer to his chest.

“Can we take a look?” asked Walker.

“I think I’d better just go,” said Conley.

Clutch drew a handgun from the back waistband of his pants and pointed it at Conley.

“How about now?” asked Walker.

“Hey, guys,” said Conley, bringing his hands up to his chest. “I don’t know what this is about, but I’m not your enemy here.”

“Give him the phone,” said Clutch.

“What’s your angle here?” asked Conley. “Do you want to be the big hero? ’Cause I can give you credit if you want.”

“I think the guy with the gun makes the rules,” said Clutch. “Now, are you going to hand it over?”

Both of them squinted at a coming headlight, and a deep bass horn told Conley that it was a semi truck.

“Shoot him,” said Walker, with eyes half-closed.

“With plea—”

Conley reared up and kicked Clutch hard in the chest exactly two seconds before the truck that had been barreling toward them passed. Clutch was thrust backward onto the highway, firing a wild shot upward, and was bashed by the truck’s grille. The driver slammed the brakes, and the acrid smell of burning tires wafted through the air.

Conley took advantage of Walker’s astonishment to throw a left hook, but Walker dodged and returned with a punch to the gut. He kicked Conley so that he fell over, and stepped on his hand until he relinquished the phone.

“You’re gonna pay for that,” said Walker.

“Hey!” someone shouted. It was the truck driver. Two shots rang out, and he was hit twice in the chest by one of Walker’s teammates.

The poor guy.
But a distraction was a distraction. Conley kicked Walker’s leg hard once, then twice. Walker toppled backward, and the phone tumbled toward Walker’s Hyundai.

The entire Lambda team was emerging from their two vehicles. Conley stared at the phone for a single beat, but it was lost. He had no hope of getting to it now.

He turned and dashed into the dark woods, hearing gunshots behind him. He ran as fast as he could without risking breaking his legs until he could no longer see the road. He felt confident that they wouldn’t come after him. They were in a hurry to get to McKay, and that stretch of road now resembled a butcher shop.

No, they would be going. But not before they had sabotaged his car and left him without a phone. Conley tried to remember where the last gas station was, but couldn’t. It must have been far away. He was stranded, with no transportation, no means of communication. And he was the only one who knew that a team of murderous bastards was on its way to kill Lily, Alex, and Senator McKay.

B
uck Chapman was awoken, partially clothed and with his arms embracing Cynthia Gillespie, by a sudden bustle in the outer work area. Cynthia opened her eyes as well, and pulled her clothes on without a word to him. Once she was dressed, but still turned away and with downcast eyes, she asked, “What the—?”

Chapman walked out of his office to find that two young people carrying heavy shopping bags had come into the outer office.

“What’s this?” Chapman asked the young man.

“Satellite-enabled smart phones,” he said. “We’re here to bring you out of the dark ages. We’re also leaving instructions here for you to log on to a secure network with the specific purpose of sharing information in the DC area. Congratulations. You’re all connected again.”

Chapman turned his on and followed the setup instructions. The network was a simple and clever system where anyone could share, though certain special subnetworks were only accessible to those with security clearance. As he looked it over, it seemed that the damage had not been quite as bad as he had imagined. He logged on to the secure network, and saw the top item on the list.

“Oh my God,” he said.

“I
t’s the President,” Shepard announced, raising a fist in victory. “And the Vice President. They’ve been found. They were on Marine One, the presidential helicopter, when they got the warning.”

The room in the Mandarin Oriental came alive with a burst of enthusiasm.

“Why hasn’t this information been released to the public?” asked Bloch.

“They made an emergency landing in the middle of the woods,” said Shepard. “They were incommunicado for hours. It’s been only minutes since a reconnaissance helicopter spotted them, and the pilot hasn’t found a way to land there yet. They’re holding off on releasing the information until they’re at a secure location.”

Bloch flopped into her chair with relief. The casualties of the day had not been as catastrophic as she had thought it had been. With the President located and Conley on the way to pick up McKay, this series of events might be drawing to a close.

Her phone rang: unknown number.

“This is Bloch,” she said, adopting her usual businesslike tone. “Who is this?”

“This is Cougar,” came the voice on the other line. She sat up, alarmed.

“Where are you? What is this number?”

“I’m at a gas station,” he said. “It’s Lambda. They’re working for Weinberg.”

“What?” she exclaimed, incredulous.

“I can’t explain it, either,” he said. “But they took my cell phone at gunpoint, along with the coordinates of McKay’s hiding place. They tried to kill me, and they mean to kill her, too. You need to warn them.”

“Hold on,” she said, while motioning for Shepard to lend her his phone. She dialed the phone in Lily’s possession. It rang once, twice, three times.

“Hello.” It was a man’s voice.

“Who is this?” she demanded.

“Bloch,” said the voice, in a reassuring tone. “It’s me. It’s Morgan.”

“Morgan, thank goodness. Are you still at the hotel?”

“Yeah, we’re here.”

“Get out,” she said in her commanding voice. “Get out right now. Lambda—they’re working for Weinberg and they know where you are. Get out and get as far away from there as possible.”

“I could do that,” he said. “But I think it’s better to end this right here, right now.”

“Morgan, the safety of Senator McKay—”

“Won’t be in jeopardy,” he said. “She’ll be far away when anything goes down. But I’m not running anymore. This ends tonight.”

W
alker was in a pissy mood, and when he was in a pissy mood, he drove too fast. Although, the truth was, he always drove too fast. Not that he loved the speed, but he resented the road and others on it.

He had lost Clutch, and he was not happy about that. Cougar had gotten away, and he was even less happy about
that.

He was aching for the feel of his Uzi in his hands. His mood had been improving as they approached their destination. In fact, Walker was downright giddy as he turned into the Ellery. The rest of his team followed in the other car.

The Ellery was a plain two-story motel with the corridor exposed to open air on one side. They parked in the lot, and everyone emerged from the cars with semiautomatic machine guns drawn and ready.

“We don’t want any survivors,” said Walker. “We’ll kill the entire damn motel if necessary. But out primary target is room twenty-one.”

He took the lead, going up the stairs and all the way down the hallway, with four of his team following him. He stopped at the door and tried to peek in through the large window, but the blinds were drawn. The lights were off inside. He signed for Bluejay, who kicked like a mule, to get it open. The former linebacker positioned himself in front of the door and stomped it in.

Walker let the others go in first, and then entered the room. In the light from outside he saw two beds and a cot, all of them occupied. He gave the signal to fire at will, and Lambda team let fly a hail of bullets into each of the figures in the beds.

Something was not right. There was no blood, no parts, just foam and feathers. Walker turned on the lights. Goddamn decoys! Pillows and blankets! They’d been fooled by elementary-school level deception.

“What the hell is that smell?” asked Bluejay.

 

Morgan stepped out of room 26 of the Ellery Motel. On his daughter’s cell phone, he dialed 911. Phone in hand, standing halfway down the upstairs hallway, he drew a Zippo lighter from his pants pocket.

“Nine-one-one, please state your emergency,” came the voice on the other line.

“I’d like to report a fire at the Ellery Motel,” he said. “Send help right away.” With this, he hung up, flicked the lighter, and dropped it.

Morgan had always appreciated the way that flames traveled on alcohol, in a way that was beautiful, smooth, almost elegant. He watched as the iridescent blue spread down the hall. It was a beauty to behold.

Of course, some rather more explosive materials were beautiful, too.

The door to room 21 erupted in a spout of flame, and this would not be the mild burning of alcohol. He felt the heat singeing his hair. He would rather not have to think about what it might be like for someone who was in that room.

It couldn’t have been pleasant.

A
s soon as Smith’s gunshot wound had stabilized, his connections had gotten him out of the hospital and into another: Johns Hopkins. He limped down the antiseptic corridor, as walking any faster would have hurt like hell, until he came to the checkpoint where Secretary of State Lee Irwin Wolfe’s security detail was standing guard.

“He’s expecting me,” said Smith, flashing one of his many fake identities.

One of them checked a list while the other spoke into his communicator. “Follow me,” the one with the communicator said after a few seconds. He led Smith farther down the hallway to a wide door that opened into a spacious private room. There lay the Secretary of State, haggard and unshaven but clean and in apparent health. He looked up at Smith, showing a weary and suffering expression with a hint of relief.

“Smith,” he said.

Smith looked to his right, where a bodyguard sat vigil on a chair. Wolfe took the cue.

“Give us a minute, Ryan, would you?” The man left the room. “Smith,” Wolfe repeated. “What happened? You’re hurt.”

“I was double-crossed,” said Smith. He watched Wolfe’s expression, but saw no sign of a reaction. “By Ken Figueroa, of all people.”

“Are you kidding?” said Wolfe, looking surprised. “Ken
shot
you?”

“Right.” Smith pulled the chair in which the bodyguard had been sitting to a spot on Wolfe’s bedside. “And then I shot him. And now I’m here, and he’s in a body bag.”

“Why the hell would Ken shoot you?”

“That’s a good question,” said Smith. “I’ve been asking myself that for the past twenty-four hours. Why the hell would Ken Figueroa shoot me? Why would his tactical team turn on my people and try to kill Senator Lana McKay? Why would they kill Haider Raza, unarmed, when he is the only person who could tell us about your whereabouts?”

Smith saw the alarm dawn on Wolfe’s demeanor.

“Do you have something tell me, Lee?”

“Listen, Smith, I—I don’t know what you’re getting at here.”

“All, coincidentally, as Gunther Weinberg attacks, simultaneously, the President, the Vice President, the Speaker of the House, and President of the Senate. Who, if all dead, would clear up the line of succession to the presidency directly to, well,
you.
Just, coincidentally, as you return from being held captive and tortured by America’s public enemy number one to receive a hero’s welcome. Am I leaving anything out, Lee?”

Wolfe chuckled. “You’re losing it, Smith. You’re so far into your own conspiracies that you’re seeing them everywhere.”

“Is that a fact?” Smith said.

“Yes, it is,” Wolfe said, anger creeping into his tone. “I’m back to my home country after going through hell in Pakistan, and you—”

“Save it,” said Smith. “I know you planned the attack on the line of succession. I know you planned your own abduction to make yourself into some kind of hero. But it’s over, Wolfe.”

“You pathetic little man,” said Wolfe. “ Do you know who you’re talking to? I will bury you. I will—”

“No,” broke in Smith. “You won’t. The Aegis board have been notified. They are unanimous on this issue. You’re done. You have two choices. You bow out and keep out, letting America keep thinking that you’re a hero—”

“What, no justice to be served? Aren’t you going to ask me to fall on my sword or something? Commit seppuku?”

“I do not care about justice,” said Smith. “I care about outcome. You are done, whether or not you live. No good can come of bringing this all to light. You have a choice. Leave public life forever. Retire, citing your recent captivity. Go to a ranch in Texas and spend the rest of your days hunting or horseback riding or whatever it is you do. Or die in the next few days.”

Wolfe stared out into the middle distance, abstracted. There was no guilt in his demeanor, Smith noticed. Only a hint of shame, and he had been given a way out to avoid it. That was what motivated people like Wolfe, all they would respond to—shame, and the drive to avoid it.

“I have just one question,” Smith said. “How does Gunther Weinberg fit into all of this? What was in it for him? Influence?”

Wolfe shook his head. “No. I mean, yes, that, too, but something else. He was . . .
bored,
I think.” He stared into the distance, as if he were somewhere far away. “I know how it sounds, but it’s true. He already had all the money he could possibly use. There was nothing he couldn’t buy. But it wasn’t enough for him. He needed more. He needed—something like this. A grand plan, something truly extraordinary. The way he talked about it, like it was going to be his masterpiece.” Wolfe turned his head to look at Smith. “This isn’t over yet.”

“If you’re going to threaten me, Lee—”

“No, not at all,” said Wolfe. “I mean Weinberg. He’s not done. He won’t let this failure stop him.”

“I’m sure we can manage—”

“You don’t understand,” said Wolfe. “He’s here, he’s still in the country, and he has a tactical nuclear weapon in his possession. He’s going to make his mark, and he’ll raze an American city if he has to.”