River of No Return : A Jake Trent Novel (9781451698053) (24 page)

Empty was good. Jake parked the car as far from the road as he could get, and in the shadow of a large cottonwood. He allowed time for the two poodles to walk out of view and then followed the tree line to the entry point he'd noted earlier.

In the woods the light was dimmer, and with it came a feeling of isolation. He crossed over the small creek and positioned himself so he could see into the kitchen and living room. He rested his back against the trunk of a tree and waited.

It didn't take long. At exactly 6:21 p.m. Senator Rick Canart pulled into the garage. Jake watched through the Steiners as the mark washed his hands at the kitchen sink.

46

WASHINGTON, DC. OCTOBER 29.

1:30 P.M. EASTERN STANDARD TIME.

“What's our endgame?” Divya was pushing Wright more than she should have.

He noticed. “How long have you been here?”

“With the agency? Six years.”

“Then you should know better than to be concerned with endgames.”

“With all due respect, sir, this affects a friend of mine.”

They were sitting in a coffee shop near the Library of Congress, debriefing after a meeting with Schue. The bustle of lunch hour concealed the subject of their discussion.

“The Office wants Xiao and the daughter for prosecution.”

Divya already knew this. “And what do we want?”

Wright was slowly spinning his espresso cup on its saucer. “Information, as always,” he finally said.

“The technology?”

He shook his head. “We have no real use for it. But for our national security, we need to be on top of developments like this.”

“Why not send in a team and take Meirong by force?”

“We need to stay abreast of
all
developments here, not just foreign. And we can't find her.”

“You mean, we need to know Canart's endgame?”

“Stop saying endgame. It attracts attention.” Wright smiled at a young busser who was observing the pair while he cleared the next table. The boy moved on.

“Is that it?” Divya hadn't touched her salad or coffee.

“We have to let this play out a bit.”

“Why?”

“Because Canart may indeed garner enough support to make this a reality. We want to know his true intentions.”

“Since when is it up to the CIA to influence domestic politics?”

“Look, if someone is a little misguided, we let him live his life. If he is a threat to national security, we intervene. It would've taken one well-placed bullet in 1933 to prevent World War II.”

Divya was silent for a moment. “That was Germany. This is the United States.”

“Either way, it takes only one rotten egg to spoil the carton.”

“What about Jake?”

“He can handle himself.”

“So we're just throwing him to the wolves?”

Wright shook his head and finished his espresso. “I've gotta run. Squash. Ladder.” He rose and walked to the door.

A minute later, Divya followed and hailed a cab.

“Langley, please.” The light-haired driver stubbed out his cigarette. She wished it were Rashi; she could have used some of his wisdom.

* * *

Divya was back at her desk by 1 p.m. She pulled up the information on Jake Trent that the Office of Special Investigation had emailed upon her request.

Well equipped was an understatement.
Jesus
Christ.
She'd never seen the real story until now.
Jake has seven hits to his name
? The Office, like all government entities, sterilized its dirty work, dubbing these killings “ad hoc” prosecutions.

Judge,
jury, and executioner.
No wonder he got out of the
business.

Divya suddenly felt sorry for him. The hidden beauty of any justice system was its complexity—the discrete layers of the process that allowed the executioner to sleep at night, the prosecutor to shrug off pushing for a death sentence, the judge to go home and forget his decision over a glass of wine.

The blame for a state-sanctioned execution was all about perspective. It was shifting, transient. The justification—the offender's crime—satisfied the executioner's guilt only theoretically. The real panacea was to blame it on the judge, who could blame the jury and the lawyers, who in turn could blame the criminal himself—what was it to them? They didn't take a person's life; they merely advocated for it.

Jake's job at the Office had no such insulation. When he found his mark, every role of the justice system was in his right hand. A cold metal fistful of justice.

To a thinking man like Jake, it must have been hell. Erased were pretty notions like due process. There was no way his diligent mind could forgive him for his “ad hocs.” How could a moral man unwind from a job like that?

Wyoming, fishing, separation—suddenly his trajectory made perfect sense. He was finished with it. And rightfully so.

47

IDAHO FALLS, IDAHO. OCTOBER 29.

10:30 A.M. MOUNTAIN STANDARD TIME.

Jake jogged up the stairs instead of taking the elevator. He'd just finished his workout: twenty reps of one-legged squats, ten butterflies, ten bench presses, ten shoulder shrugs, ten curls, and ten tricep extensions, all with forty-pound dumbbells. He cycled through five sets as fast as he could.

He wasn't as vigilant in his fitness as he had been when he was younger. The weightlifting taxed him. He shed his clothes, turned on the shower, and went to the bureau to check his cell phone, still panting.

Divya had called again. He didn't have much to report; the prior night's watch yielded nothing—the senator and his wife had chicken, heirloom potatoes, and asparagus with a bottle of Chardonnay. After dinner they watched TV for an hour before Mrs. Canart went to bed. The senator followed shortly after.

This morning, things had gotten only slightly more interesting: the senator left the house around 9 a.m., drove toward town, and pulled into his main office near Liberty Park.

Jake watched the door for an hour before he gave up. There was no way to hear what was going on inside, and the receptionist had started to look up curiously at the Charger. He stopped on the way back and grabbed a late breakfast, let it digest, and hit the gym.

He called Divya back as the shower water warmed.

“Nothing yet, except I can verify that the senator is here.”

“Good.” A pause. “Jake, I want you to be careful out there. You know how the feds can be.”

“No. Tell me.”

“The CIA is very interested in what's going on out there, but they can't overtly support you. They're worried about spooking Meirong and Canart back into the woodwork.”

“I've been on my own before.”

“I know that, Jake. Call me when you find the girl.”

Jake hung up.
How much danger am I in?

He jumped in the shower. Divya's warning didn't sound like general advice. She must have had reason to believe that the relationship between Xiao and Canart had eroded to the point that either side might be trigger-happy.

Jake dried off. He dressed warmly again, not knowing where he might end up or for how long.

He drove past the office building where he'd seen the senator just a couple of hours prior. The Lincoln was gone.

Jake made a U-turn into a gas station and drove back toward Ammon and the senator's residence. On the highway, a dull gray Ford Taurus peeled abruptly from the left lane into the right and settled in behind him. Jake eyeballed the sedan in the rearview
mirror. When Jake took a left off Route 20 at the Ammon exit, the car followed.

Adjusting the mirror, Jake took note of the license plate, typing the number into his phone. He pushed the accelerator and passed an old minivan. The Taurus did the same.

Shit.
So much for not spooking anyone.

The right turn for Sagebrush Court was coming up quickly. Instead of taking it, Jake continued straight, past the turn for Eagle Point Park and into the foothills on Sunnyside. The road straightened out and climbed out of the artificial verdure of Ammon and into rolling slopes of silver sage and rabbitbrush. He accelerated until the Taurus was out of view.

At the intersection with Bone Road, Jake pulled over and waited. He opened the center console, took out the Mariner, and set it on his lap.

The Taurus never came. After thirty minutes, Jake, confident he was alone again, spun the Charger around in the dust and headed back to the park.

Throngs of children frolicked through the playground, bundled up against the chilly air. Their days outside were numbered with the approaching winter. The weather shifted; the gusty wind from the prior afternoon brought with it low cloud cover and occasional snow flurries. A front was parked squarely over eastern Idaho. Jake parked and took a look around using his mirrors—plenty of SUVs and minivans, but no Ford Taurus. He opened the door.

Jake concealed the Mariner in his waistband but draped the binoculars around his neck. If anyone asked, he was spotting sandhill cranes. He walked slowly through the woods to his surveillance point.

Canart arrived at the residence at 2:30 p.m., leaving the Lin
coln in the turnaround. He spent a few minutes discussing something in the backyard with a gardener, then went into the house. He changed clothes and returned to the sedan.

Before the senator could get in the car, Jake was in a full-blown sprint back to the Charger. He ran through the strip of trees, ignoring the path for a more direct route. He had his hands out in front of him, deflecting low branches that aimed to sting his half-frozen face.

His pace coming out of the woods attracted the attention of the mothers at the park. He gave them a quick wave, hoping to quell their suspicion with a gesture of normalcy. They sent back puzzled looks.

Jake squealed out of the lot, taking a left out of the park to the stop sign. At his next left, he could see the terminus of Sagebrush Court. Jake waited a few seconds. No Lincoln. Had Canart beat him?
He must have.
Jake accelerated toward the main artery.

On Sunnyside Avenue, Jake passed slower traffic until the Lincoln was within view. He slowed to the speed limit, keeping a buffer between himself and Canart. No Taurus. So far, so good.

At the Idaho Falls city limits, traffic picked up. A procession of Saturday afternoon traffic, moviegoers, and early-bird diners. Jake lost the Lincoln in the snarl. All he could do now was watch the turning lanes and hope.

The intersection at Highway 26 was crowded with vehicles. The perfect place to lose his target. Sunnyside spread out into four lanes at the light and the highway was six lanes, both ways. If Jake guessed the wrong lane, it would be impossible to get back on Canart without giving himself away.

Luckily, it didn't come to that. At South Hitt Road, Jake watched the Lincoln turn north toward Grand Teton's mall and
movie theatre. The seven or eight cars between them did the same. Wind was gusting head-on at the Charger from the north, which usually meant an encroaching cold front from British Columbia or Washington, and a second wave of weather was fighting its way across the west.

Canart continued past the shopping center and took a left onto East Seventeenth, toward South Holmes. When he got there, he turned right at the light toward the highway again.

The Holmes intersection didn't concern Jake. The senator had to go right or straight—he would've taken Sunnyside the whole way out to access the highway between there and South Holmes—and the intersection was smaller, only three lanes.

Two cars stood between Jake and the senator when they hit the highway. The Lincoln went right and accelerated briskly back the way Jake had come the day before, east toward Teton Pass and Jackson.

The afternoon was increasingly dull and moody to the east, where the elevation rose. Only small, opaque windows of light shone through thin spots in the clouds. A grainy snow began to fall.

The Lincoln was some four hundred yards ahead, and Jake maintained that distance. Traffic lightened as they left town. A few miles out they passed Iona, and then Ririe. The speed limit was sixty-five now, but the Lincoln was beating that easily, making Jake wonder if the senator was headed the whole way into Jackson.

Ten miles east of Idaho Falls, the senator slowed and merged into the left turn lane toward Heise Hot Springs.

Jake stayed in the main lane of traffic. Following the senator here, when there were no other cars around, would raise eyebrows. In his rearview mirror, he watched the silver sedan make the turn, then flip on its right turn signal.

Got
ya.
Canart was turning into a small commercial complex.

Jake continued on 26 until a rest stop perched above the South Fork of the Snake, where he made a U-turn. He got on his cell phone and called Divya as he accelerated back toward Heise.

“Were the three offices the only real estate in the senator's name?”

“That and the house. I sent you all four.”

“You did. There's nothing else?”

Jake was eyeing an abandoned industrial park set back a quarter-­mile from the highway.

“No.”

“Where is his research team located?”

“We don't know.”

“Okay. I might be onto something.” Jake pressed End.
A shady senator visiting an unoccupied commercial park.

Jake slowed to make the right turn at Heise, but quickly got back on the accelerator.
The Taurus.
He exchanged momentary eye contact with the driver of the dull gray Taurus, a meatball of a man with military-cut gray hair. A bodyguard. He turned left toward Canart and the industrial park.

Shit.

Jake had no choice but to continue straight. He pulled off at a small diner on the right and parked in the back of the stone building, where the Charger wasn't visible from the highway.

He went inside and got a cup of coffee to go. Jake settled in, standing in the sharp, pelting snow at the back corner of the restaurant, looking west, where he could see Route 26. His gray and black attire matched the atmosphere. He was hoping to see a Taurus headed back toward town, and a Lincoln too, so that he could investigate the industrial park.

After three hours, Jake's hands and feet were frozen and his face battered by the early season storm. He got back in the Charger, again putting the loaded Glock on his lap, and pulled out of the lot toward Heise and the industrial park.

The main building looked recently built—the last five or ten years. Plain vertical aluminum siding adorned an exterior with few windows and zero frills. Taupe colored, with a dark roof. The Lincoln and the Taurus were side-by-side in the back corner of the lot.

Jake parked the Charger down the road a ways and across the street. The evening light was leaden, dulled by the cold front. He left the binoculars, opting for the Glock and the tactical knives.

There were three entrances to the building: one facing the highway, and one on either side. The entrance closest to the senator's sedan was lit up by a single incandescent bulb. On the right side of the heavy steel door, one of the building's few windows was lit from within. Jake concealed himself behind a hedge just a few yards away from the two parked cars and watched. Slat blinds made details difficult, but Jake could make out figures: One was surely Canart, with his small head and ballooned abdomen. The other had the rounded muscular shape of the man who drove the Taurus.

After a few moments, the security man left the room with the window and came outside to have a smoke and to check the perimeter. He looked agitated, on high alert. Jake was well hidden in the landscaping, though, and the guard seemed satisfied with his patrol.

Jake put his attention back on the window. The senator's shadow was perched atop a desk on the right. He was looking left, where the door toward the entryway must have been. He was gesturing excitedly, either on speakerphone or talking to someone just out of view. A third figure.

The gesturing turned to yelling, and Jake struggled to make out the words. They were too muffled. The security guard noticed the commotion too. He stayed outside, but shifted the revolver in his belt line, preparing for action.

The ruckus was coming to a crescendo. The senator's bellowing, though loud, was still indistinct. Looking anxious, the security man opened the door, peered in, and listened. He must have deemed his services unnecessary, because he resumed his post and lit another cigarette.

Silence. The senator had apparently said his piece. After a few quiet moments, a sobbing escaped through the walls. A woman. Jake's eyes were glued to the window, looking for Meirong's slight silhouette.

Movement. The senator was up and walking toward the middle of the window. His hand was out in front of him.

Canart's shouting resumed and the object revealed itself. A petite shadow. The two figures collided in the window in a tangled melee. The mass stumbled toward the window, knocking the slats of the blinds in every direction.

There were muted grunts and cries. The security guard had had enough. He flicked his cigarette into the halo cast by the outdoor fixture.

Jake saw the guard's form join the tangle, doubling its size. He stood up and drew the Mariner, then resumed his crouch.

Crack!

A blast of gunfire. The gathering fell to the ground. After a short moment the hullabaloo resumed, rowdier than ever. Pieces separated from the group. One was rushing to the exit. The door to the building was flung wide open. Jake dropped flat to the ground.

He spun and wormed his way behind the cement base of a light
post.
Crack! Crack!
The concrete disintegrated, leaving a curtain of dust. Jake couldn't see his assailant, though he had a guess. He relayed a few shots back at the bodyguard, who had no choice but to retreat toward the car.

Jake heard a car door open and close. He stood and fired. The engine turned over and the transmission thumped into reverse, followed by the screech of rubber on asphalt.

Damn.

Jake waited for a few seconds to make sure the attacker was gone. When he checked, the Taurus was missing.

He peered through the dust back into the senator's office. There were no figures visible. Whoever was left wasn't standing.

Jake backed off out of view, and ran to the Charger to call Divya.