Master shrugged. “It’s all a game. You just happened to get the upper hand this time.”
The sound of the helicopter could be heard again. Riley stood and, keeping an eye on Master, headed for the tower.
Master glanced down the trail, hoping to see his men coming up, but it was empty. He shrugged and sat down on a log.
Riley sprinted up the ramp and untied his sling rope. He looked down at Lisa’s body for a few seconds, then continued to the top. He climbed up on the outside wall, then onto the roof.
Giannini spotted Riley standing on the roof and pointed. “In and out fast,” she ordered Ferguson. They’d let off the couple in the middle of Andrews Bald. “There may be someone still up there wanting to take a shot at us.”
Ferguson didn’t need the urging. He raced in expertly, flared to a hover, his skids six inches above the roof. Riley hopped on board and settled into the backseat. Ferguson added power and they popped up into the sky.
Chapter Twenty-One
GREAT SMOKY MOUNTAINS
1 NOVEMBER, 2:23 p.m.
Two of Master’s men came up the path, Simon in the rear, breathing hard from the climb.
“Start securing the bodies,” Master ordered. “Dewar is down the ravine here. Kramer is up there somewhere. There’s one right there at the base of the tower and one on the walkway.”
“We ran into some Park Service people down at the gate,” one of the men said. “We gave them the cover story and they bought off on it.”
Simon took in the bodies and the blast marks on the concrete of the tower. “What happened?”
Master ignored him and flipped open his portable phone. “Three, have you got the helipad under surveillance?”
“Roger.”
“Give me a call when the bird lands.”
“Roger.”
Simon walked up to the tower and looked at the bodies there. Master followed him slowly. “This is Lisa Cobb,” Simon said, “but I don’t see Riley or Giannini.”
“We got them,” Master said coldly.
“Where?” Simon demanded. “I need confirmation.”
Master drew his Glock 10mm. “No, you don’t.”
2:42 p.m.
Ferguson brought the helicopter down low until he was barely skimming the surface of Fontana Lake. To the right the Smoky Mountains were a solid wall; to the left, the Nantahala Mountains loomed. The lake— more than fifteen miles long—was a dammed-up portion of the Little Tennessee River. The helicopter was moving along it from east to west, the dam less than five miles ahead.
Riley was leaning out the backseat, watching the terrain go by on either side, waiting. When they reached an area where there was no sign of habitation on either side, Riley finally spoke into the headset. “All right, this is it. Slow down to ten miles an hour forward speed.” He tapped Giannini on the shoulder. “Get on the skid. When you go, interlace your fingers behind your head and keep your feet tight together.”
Giannini looked over her shoulder at him. “Would it make any difference if I told you I couldn’t swim?”
“What?” Riley exclaimed.
“Just joking,” she said, holstering her revolver and taking off the headset. With a firm grip on the doorframe, she stepped cautiously onto the right skid.
“I’d recommend you forget everything that’s happened today,” Riley told the pilot. “Whatever bullshit story the people who are waiting at your landing pad give you, you probably ought to accept. I’m sure they’ll also tell you to forget about today’s events.”
“Sure,” Ferguson said, willing to agree to anything as long as it got these two off his aircraft. “Whatever.”
“Keep her low and level until we’re gone.” Riley took off the headset and joined Giannini on the skid. They were now about ten feet up and moving forward very slowly, at about ten knots. Riley tapped Giannini and she let go, doing as Riley had instructed, fingers interlaced behind her head, body tight. She splashed into the lake. The shock of the cold water took her breath away; then she was on the surface, swimming fiercely.
Riley followed suit, submerging briefly, then kicking to the surface. He pointed at the south shore and they began swimming.
2:53 p.m.
“Master here.”
“The helicopter landed but the targets weren’t on board.”
“All right. Pack it up and get over here. We need help cleaning up this mess.”
Master deliberated for a minute, then shrugged and dialed a long-distance number on his portable phone. He reached the voice mail and punched in an extension.
“Yes?”
“All targets are terminated,” Master said. “The contract is closed.”
“Excellent, but why are you calling? Where’s Simon?”
Master glanced down at the body at his feet. “He got caught in the cross fire. I lost two of my men also. It got rather messy.”
“Well, clean up the mess. Payment of the remainder of your fee will be made in the usual manner by close of business today.” The phone went dead.
3:05 p.m.
“How’s it feel to be dead?” Riley asked Giannini as they climbed the steep bank.
“Wet, tired, cold, and hungry,” she replied. She grabbed a branch, pulled herself onto relatively level ground, and sat down, water pooling around her soaked body. “We lost, didn’t we,” she said, looking at Riley as he sat down next to her. “Lisa’s dead, and the bad guys are still in business.”
“We’re alive,” Riley noted as he pulled out his pistols and started drying them off.
“But we have to spend the rest of our lives looking over our shoulders.”
“Not really,” Riley said. He explained his exchange with Master.
When he was done, Giannini shook her head. “We still lost. I can’t ever go back to Chicago, and you can’t go back to the army. We need new identities—just like the Cobbs.” She smiled at the irony.
“I know, but we do have each other,” he said, holding out his hand and pulling her close. “It’ll be all right.”
“It didn’t turn out all right for Lisa,” Giannini reminded him. She shivered as she leaned against him. “What do we do now? Do you have a plan?”
Riley stood up. “First thing we do is get warm, then I’ll have a plan.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
GREAT SMOKY MOUNTAINS
2 NOVEMBER, 8:12 a.m.
The Ford Explorer came to a halt on the dirt trail, and the front headlights flashed on and off four times. Riley was unable to see the driver because the windshield was heavily tinted, but the signal was correct, the location was correct, and the time was exact.
“Let’s go,” he said, tapping Giannini on the arm.
They moved out from the concealment of a stand of small pine trees where they had camped for the night. Reaching the Explorer, Riley got into the front passenger seat while Giannini slid into the back. The driver turned to Riley with a wide smile on his lined face. “Long time, no see, my friend.”
“Good to see you, sir,” Riley replied, noting without surprise that the colonel had not changed a bit in the three years since he’d last seen the man. Six feet tall and still thin as a post, Pike had a rugged, whipcord look about him. The thick hair above his weather-beaten face was perhaps a bit more silver than Riley remembered.
“And this is . .. ?” Pike asked, twisting in his seat and extending a hand to Giannini.
Riley made the introductions. Calling Pike had been the only thing he could think to do. The colonel had retired four years ago, right after heading the counterdrug operations into Colombia in which Riley had been involved when he was in the 7th Special Forces Group. Since then, Pike had established an international security company, headquartered in Atlanta, which in just three years had turned into a very profitable and respected business. Using his thirty years of experience in military special operations, and the innumerable contacts he’d made in that time, Pike had turned his company into one of the leaders in the field.
It was Pike’s contacts and experience that had prompted Riley to call him. If anyone could figure out what to do next, it would be the old colonel. And Pike was a person you could count on. As Riley expected, his friend promised to drop everything and come immediately to pick them up. He’d told Riley to save the details until he got there.
Pike turned the car around and headed out of the national park. “Start at the beginning and tell me all that’s happened.”
As the Smoky Mountains faded into the background, Riley and Giannini began relating the story.
FALLS CHURCH
2 NOVEMBER, 9:00 a.m.
“The Supreme Court has denied cert on the Cragg case,” Jamieson said, looking at the fax message in the file folder in front of her. “No possibility of appeal.”
“Then Berson won’t ever be called again to testify and is ready to go deep under?” Getty asked.
“Yes. Berson’s currently being held in the Third Section. He’s a good candidate for sanction,” Jamieson offered.
Getty looked out the window of the second-story conference room to the park across the street. “Any word of an outside party that would be interested in paying for sanction?”
“Not yet.”
Tucker stirred. “I’m not sure we should start that again quite yet.” He looked at Jamieson. “That affair in North Carolina was a fiasco. The director wants to know what happened to Simon, and the whole thing with the Cobbs was a mess. That helicopter pilot made some noise down there and we’ve had to answer too many questions from the FBI.”
Getty returned his attention to the room. “I can handle the director and the FBI. They’re not going to lose any sleep over a lowlife who testified against the mob, and they won’t get too concerned about someone like Berson. He’s a convicted killer, for Christ’s sake. And Simon obviously made a mistake and got too close to the action.” Getty paused.
“Go ahead and sanction Berson, even if we don’t have a supplemental contract. Speaking of which, have we received payment from the Torrentinos?”
“The money was deposited,” Jamieson said. “I’ve already made the breakdown to the individual accounts—after expenses.”
“What’s that come to?” Tucker asked, the greed evident in his voice.
Jamieson had the number readily available. “Sixty-one thousand four hundred and thirty-four dollars each. The Torrentinos were also quite appreciative of the information Master forwarded us about the contract D’Angelo put out on the Cobbs.” She glanced down at a piece of paper. “By the way, the annual income for keeping the Cobb file alive will come to slightly over eleven thousand dollars each.”
Jamieson flipped open another file. “What about the Rivers case?”
“Give me a little background on it,” Getty said, settling back comfortably in his chair.
CHICAGO
2 NOVEMBER, 10:30 a.m.
Charlie D’Angelo glanced up as Roy Delpino entered his office. D’Angelo knew right away from the look on his right-hand-man’s face that there was trouble. A second man was with Delpino—someone D’Angelo had never seen before. The second man went over to the window and stared out, whistling softly to himself.
D’Angelo focused on his old friend. “What’s wrong?”
Delpino stood in front of the desk, not quite meeting D’Angelo’s eyes. “The Torrentinos know.”
“Know what?” D’Angelo snapped, the sinking feeling in his gut belaying the bluster.
“About the contract you ran on the Cobbs. About how you been trying to run things without consulting them.”
D’Angelo leaned forward. “Then it’s time to make our move openly.”
Delpino shook his head. His hand appeared from the folds of his jacket, a pistol in it. “I’m sorry, Charlie.”
D’Angelo looked at the pistol, then raised his gaze. “Look at me, Roy. Look me in the fucking eyes and say that.”
Delpino met his gaze briefly. “I’m sorry. I got to do it.”
“Why? Just tell me why.”
Delpino jerked his head toward the door. “Because Mike put it to me real plain. I take you down or we both go down, and both of us going down don’t make no sense to me.”
The other man, still whistling a tune D’Angelo couldn’t recognize, came over and tapped D’Angelo on the shoulder, gesturing at the door. “We’re going for a ride. Don’t make it any harder than it has to be.”
MARIETTA, GEORGIA
2 NOVEMBER, 6:30 p.m.