Exodus 2022 (32 page)

Anger flared inside Ella.
So we’ve wasted our time here. We should have gone to a doctor—to a hospital—in the first place. We’ve wasted our time!

Joe read the thought and said “No. That’s not true.”

Ella burst into tears and Joe took her in his arms. “I know you’re upset,” he whispered, “and I’ll go to the doctor now. But this was
not
a waste of time.”

Ella’s tears flowed and she lifted her eyes to his. “I saw you shaking, Joe—in the restaurant. I didn’t say anything because we were almost here. Because I thought we’d get some answers here. But this is…We have nothing.”

Joe held her tight. Let her cry.

Dieturlund watched them, tears in his own eyes now.

“Ella,” Joe said gently, “I had to come here, okay? I had to know what was going on. Try to understand. This was the only way.”

She nodded miserably, like she grasped what he was saying but loathed his reasoning. She cried some more. “I love you,” she said. “I don’t want you to die.”

 “Shh,” Joe said as he stroked her hair. “I have no intention of dying, okay? I’m strong. Obstinate. You know that better than anyone.”

Ella laughed, then cried some more.

Joe said, “I plan to fight like hell. And I’m a lot better armed now than when we walked in here.”

They said good-bye to Dieturlund. Hugged him. Thanked him.

It was getting dark at last. The
pop
and
shriek
and
boom
of fireworks was all around now, as if a war were starting in the neighborhoods on every side. The big official city displays would be underway soon.

Hand in hand, Joe and Ella made for the exit in silence, both of them focused on what lay ahead. Doctors. Tests. Hospitals. They knew what they had to do, and there was nothing else to say—for the moment, anyway.

The receptionist—Jordan—had apparently gone home, and the front desk sat empty. Neat and tidy. Papers and supplies aligned just so, ready for the next attendant.

They passed through the front doors, into the gathering darkness, but never made it to the van.

FBI AGENTS SWEPT IN
from all sides, converging on Joe and Ella with authority. Boxing them in and stopping them in their tracks.

“Mr. Stanton, Ms. Tollefson, I’m Special Agent Chen with the FBI.”

Joe stared blank-faced at the man presenting his badge and ID, unable to process the agent’s words. He was exhausted. Wrung out. The agents’ appearance now struck him as a bizarre mistake. An annoying delay that couldn’t possibly have anything to do with them.

“We’re placing you under arrest for conspiring to possess classified government information. We need you to come with us. Please.”

Fireworks popped and boomed in the distance. Pedestrians stopped to watch the bust. A Bellingham cop—one of a contingent providing support for the arrest—headed toward the gawkers, ready to move them along.

“You’ve got the wrong people,” said Ella. She took a step forward, like she meant to keep walking, but another agent blocked her path.

Chen spoke calmly. “We have eyewitness testimony and video surveillance related to your visit to the USS
Nimitz
earlier today.”

“But—”

“You cited classified information during your exchange with Admiral Houghton, and we’d like to know how you came by that.”

“We can explain,” said Joe, wondering as he said this how he
would
explain.

The Kanaga sonar? Oh, I learned about that from an orca whale. A telepathic, genius orca whale. And she in turn got part of it from a frail old recluse in a retirement home. Also via telepathy. Of course.

Chen said, “You’ll have plenty of time to explain everything back at our office.”

Ella clutched Joe’s hand, on the verge of tears again. “But we can’t go with you,” she said to Chen. “Joe is sick. We’re on our way to the hospital now. To the emergency room.”

Chen regarded Joe. “What’s wrong with him?”

“Severe neurological issues, as a result of…an accident. Please. It’s an emergency.”

Joe said, “She’s telling the truth.”

Chen seemed to consider it. Studied Joe. “You look fine to me.”

“That may be,” said Ella, low and controlled. “But you’re not a doctor and you don’t know his history. I’m a registered nurse and I’m telling you, he is gravely ill.”

Chen nodded, and his body language changed slightly. “I’ll ask for a doctor to meet us in Seattle. Check him out there.”

“But—”

“I’m afraid that’s the best I can do right now.”

They were searched. Handcuffed. And led to a black Suburban double-parked in The Willows’s fire lane.

Joe noticed more people—presumably more FBI agents—searching the St. Anthony’s van. They were wearing latex gloves. Working methodically. All business. The doors of the van stood open, the inside lit up like a convenience store.

Joe turned to find Agent Chen reciting Miranda rights from a note card. He finished and asked if they had any questions. Anything to say.

Ella nodded and spoke calmly through her tears. “Like I said, my friend is sick. Please. He needs medical treatment right away.”

Chen replied, “He’ll be evaluated in Seattle.”

Ella started to argue but Joe caught her eye. “Baby, it’s okay.” He smiled, wanting to reassure her. “I’ll be fine. I can wait that long.”

The agents eased them into the back bench of the Suburban and shut the door.

Arrest accomplished, the police cleared out, leaving the FBI to manage prisoner transport on its own.

As the Suburban merged onto the road, a Buick LaCrosse followed—a couple hundred feet back.

Collins drove alone in the rented LaCrosse. Beck’s right-hand man was satisfied—for the moment at least—because the Suburban was taking the route he’d hoped it would take. Predicted it would take. The quickest, most logical route back to I-5. The route leading straight through the city’s industrial zone.

Collins had come up with the plan. Talked about it with Knox and Drucker. Sketched it quickly out on a sheet of paper while sitting in the F-350 in front of The Willows. They’d agreed there was no sense getting into a gunfight in the retirement-home parking lot. That was a battle they could easily lose. Would likely lose. The Feds had too much support.

They needed better odds, and given the direction the Suburban was heading now, Collins figured the odds had just improved mightily.

Watching his GPS and talking to Knox via cell phone at the same time, he called the approach:

“Six blocks. Five blocks. Four blocks…”

Knox, behind the wheel of the idling F-350, watched for approaching headlights and kept his foot on the brake. Lights off.

Knox had departed The Willows five minutes ahead of Collins and the FBI. He’d raced to the industrial zone and staked out a spot on the main drag. An intersection with a narrow dead-end drive that terminated in a warehouse loading dock. It was poorly lit. Empty as a graveyard.

Knox sat in the Ford, windows down, hoping the Feds would stay on the anticipated route, but ready to move out and pivot to plan B if they altered course.

Drucker was outside, crouched behind a parked car, pulling on gloves. He wore a hood that covered his face and head. Like a ski mask.

Knox gripped the wheel. Put the big truck into low gear and kept his foot on the brake.

The phone buzzed, but Knox no longer needed Collins’s updates. He could see headlights now. The government Suburban coming on fast.

There was no stop sign at the intersection. Knox would have to time the collision just right.

He straightened his back, braced his head tight against the headrest. Felt for his gun.

He saw Drucker tensing his body behind the parked car. He had his gun out. Ready.

Knox breathed. The air bags would deploy—in the Ford and in the Suburban. But unlike the Feds, Knox knew what was about to happen and had thought it through. Rehearsed it in his head.

Knox listened to the rumble building in the surrounding neighborhoods. The cacophony of amateur fireworks was steady now—a constant barrage of booms, zings, pops, whirs, and whistles, on all sides.

There was nothing going on close-by though. The industrial zone was deserted. A no-man’s-land for the remainder of the holiday weekend, Knox guessed.

Knox tracked the Suburban with his eyes, saw it glide quickly closer, windshield and shiny black hood glinting under the streetlights. He figured it was going about thirty-five.

Knox hit the gas and the F-350 roared forward and smashed into the Suburban. Four hundred horsepower, eight hundred pound-feet of torque, the three-ton truck bulldozed the Chevy across the intersection. Into a light pole.

Glass shattered. Air bags blossomed. Bumpers clattered onto asphalt.

The Suburban’s alarm shrieked, then died, as the LaCross screeched in behind the wreck, swinging broadside and slamming to a stop.

Drucker was at the Suburban in seconds but the agents were already moving. Drawing weapons. Reaching for radios. Battling for control of themselves and the situation. They were disciplined. Superbly trained. Fast.

Unfortunately for them, so were Beck’s men.

Drucker shot the agent who tumbled—gun drawn—from the right rear door, and then Collins and Knox were there, weapons ready, bellowing commands, ordering the others out and down, onto the pavement. They took the agent’s guns, wallets, badges, shoes, cell phones, and radios. Threw everything into the LaCrosse’s open trunk.

There was the hiss of radiators. The
tick, tick, tick
of cooling motors, the sound of fluid dripping onto the ground. The smell of gas—but not too strong.

Agent Chen lifted his head, and Drucker kicked him in the chest. Hard.

“Down,” Drucker growled. “Don’t make me say it again.”

They worked fast, Collins, Drucker, and Knox. Silently.

They handcuffed the agents and duct-taped their mouths, yanking them up by the hair and running tape tightly around their heads.

Collins checked the agent Drucker had shot and found him groaning in pain, but not bleeding. The outline of a Kevlar vest was visible through the man’s shirt. Collins cuffed and taped him as well.

And then they were lifting the agents to their feet and shoving them into the Suburban’s cavernous cargo hold, locking them to the posts anchoring the vehicle’s steel prisoner cage.

Heart thudding, Collins checked Sixth for the umpteenth time. No cars in either direction.

Fireworks were booming everywhere now. Continuously. On all sides. It sounded like a war.

“Follow me,” said Collins. He sprinted for the open door of the LaCrosse. Drucker jumped behind the wheel of the Suburban, and Knox climbed back into the crumpled F-350, shoving a flaccid air bag out of his way with one hand.

Collins breathed when the Suburban and F-350 started.

The plan was working. The plan was on track. He drove a half block down sixth—the two battered, hissing, leaking vehicles close behind—and took the first available drive, a narrow lane between two utterly unremarkable warehouses. Behind the buildings, the lane bisected two parking lots. Collins chose the right-hand lot because it was darker. Just one dreary halogen in the far corner.

He drove to the darkest corner of the lot and got out. The truck and Suburban parked nearby.

Collins, still wearing his mask, opened the Suburban’s undamaged rear door and leaned in, holding his gun loosely in his right hand. He surveyed Joe and Ella closely for the first time. Ella had a small cut above her eye where she’d slammed into the side panel on impact. The blood was already drying. Joe looked dazed but unharmed.

Ella started to speak. Collins cut her off.

“Not a word,” he said through his mask. “Not a sound. Or I start shooting the guys in back. Blowing their brains out while you watch.”

Ella shut her mouth, and Collins said, “Good.” He waved his gun. “Both of you. Out. Now.”

JOE AND ELLA WERE HUSTLED
into the back of the LaCrosse. Ella smelled bleach and caught a glimpse of another man working furiously in the front of the big truck. A spray bottle in one hand. Wiping everything down with rags.

And then doors were slamming all around. Ella heard quick chirps as Beck’s men—she was sure they were Beck’s men—locked the truck and the Suburban and piled into the LaCrosse. And then they were leaving the lot, exiting the lane and speeding back down sixth, crunching over broken glass in the intersection where the collision had occurred.

The men began removing their masks. Casting them aside.

Ella stared. They were big guys. Thick necks. Heavily muscled backs and shoulders. Flat, unemotional faces. Tough-looking.

The guy in back—seated next to Joe—checked his gun with practiced ease. Inspected it, removed and reinstalled the magazine, and tucked it into a shoulder holster with the fluid grace of a magician. A Vegas blackjack dealer. As if he’d done the same thing ten thousand times before.

Ella leaned across Joe and said, “Where are you taking us?”

The guy ran his hands through his hair but made no reply. Didn’t turn, as if he hadn’t even heard her question.

Joe and Ella looked at each other and silently agreed to let it be. For the moment, at least, it didn’t seem like there was any other choice.

Ella looked at Beck’s men again. Studied them. They were calm. Polished. Aloof. Professional soldiers, every one.

She recalled with horror that—in the immediate aftermath of the accident—she had almost said Beck’s name. Almost said, “You’re working with Beck.” It had been on the tip of her tongue.

They would surely have killed the FBI agents if she had said that. If she’d identified them, in the heat of the moment, they would have felt compelled to do so.

She hadn’t said anything. Joe hadn’t said anything. And the agents were still alive. It was a miracle. She guessed that someone would find them the next day. By midmorning, probably.

Then a new alarm rang in her mind.

Beck’s men had removed their masks. They were no longer hiding anything. They’d concealed their faces from the Feds, but such secrecy no longer seemed important.