Sea of Crises (8 page)

The other man shook his head. “There was definitely contact,” he said, “but I thought it was incidental.”

“No,” the Evansville captain exclaimed, “he hit me on the arm.” And he again pointed at Matt.

“Sorry, son,” the older official said, “I’m afraid…”

“Ask him,” the Evansville player interjected.

The official shook his head. “That’s not the way it works.”

“To hell with that,” the Evansville coach said. “Why not just ask him? He can speak for himself.” He looked at Matt. “Did you foul?”

“Now hold on a second,” Coach Hamilton said. But everyone had turned to look at Matt.

Nate looked back again at his brother as the senior official said, “Son, you’re not obligated to respond to that.”

Matt had set his jaw.

Oh, no, Nate said to himself. No. He opened his mouth to speak, but Matt beat him to it.

“Yes, sir,” he said. “I think I did.”

“There you go,” the Evansville coach said immediately, throwing his arms in the air once again. Looking at the head referee, he added, “You’ve got to call it now.”

The official looked at his colleague, who simply shrugged.

Coach Hamilton said, “I’ve never heard of anything like this.” But it wasn’t very compelling, and he seemed to know it.

The senior official took a deep breath. “Ok,” he said, and he turned toward the scorer’s table, blowing his whistle. “We have a foul on Jackson. Number five. Number one for Evansville is at the line shooting two.”

After a moment, he added, “Put three seconds back on the clock.”

It took a couple of minutes to clear the court. The public address announcer tried his best to explain the situation. As it dawned on the Evansville fans that their team still had a chance to win the game they’d just lost, a great cheer went up. The reaction from the Jackson supporters was much different. Nate could hear the boos and catcalls through the general euphoria of the Evansville crowd.

Peter had brought with him a series of hand-painted signs that he’d been flashing throughout the game to the delight of the Jackson faithful, his theme apparently somewhat loosely inspired by the mythical snow creature of the Himalayas. Nate had seen a couple during the game. “Sas-squash Evansville.” “It ain’t over Yet-i.”

Now, as the head official blew his whistle and handed the ball to the Evansville captain at the free throw line, Peter stood defiantly, holding over his head a sign Nate hadn’t yet seen.

“Abominable”

Nate had taken up position along the side of the lane, hoping for a miss and an opportunity to snag the rebound. He felt a tap on his hip and turned to see Matt, an intense expression on his face.

“Get me the ball, Nate.”

All Nate could think to do was nod. Then Matt turned and jogged up the court.

The Evansville captain bounced the ball a couple of times. Then he flexed his knees, lifted the ball up in front of his face and flicked his right wrist, sending the ball upward in a pretty arc. Nate knew it was good from the moment it left the boy’s hands. It passed through the rim without drawing iron and barely ruffled the nylon of the net hanging below. The game was now tied.

“One shot,” the referee reminded them all, then he again tossed the ball to the Evansville player. As before, the boy bounced the ball a couple of times before lifting it up, taking aim and giving the same flick of the wrist. This time the flight of the ball carried it further, and, when it came down, it struck the base of the rim, bouncing up high. Nate had stepped into the lane with the motion of the shot and peered upward, willing the ball to miss. Behind him, Everest pushed, trying to get position for a rebound, but Nate braced himself and held his ground.

The ball struck the front of the rim at an angle that sent it ricocheting toward the backboard. Nate tensed, ready to leap. But, to his chagrin, the ball bounced straight back and through the hoop.

Again, the arena erupted.

Nate wasted no time. As the ball cleared the net, he grabbed it and flipped it to one of the officials while stepping over the end line and preparing to inbound. The man immediately blew his whistle and tossed the ball back. Everest stepped in front of Nate and began hopping up and down, his long arms extended and waving, seeking to deny Nate the ability to make a clean pass. To Everest’s surprise, however, Nate suddenly dashed to his right along the baseline, an unusual, but legal, move after a made basket. Everest was caught in mid-jump, and was left behind.

Looking down court, Nate saw that Matt, who’d started out under the far basket, was now sprinting in his direction. His defender - the other Evansville guard who had not been previously matched up against Matt and who had apparently not anticipated Matt’s quickness - had been left flat-footed. Nate planted himself near the end of the base line and, with one hand, heaved the ball in Matt’s direction as if it were a baseball. At a spot about thirty-five feet from the basket, Matt and the ball arrived at the same moment, Matt jumping up slightly and grabbing it out of the air. He came down and immediately pivoted on one foot, squaring himself with the basket. The Evansville guard was closing, but not quickly enough.

Matt bent his knees, and, in one graceful motion, pushed himself upward and let the basketball fly.

For Nate, time seemed to slow to a crawl. As the ball rose in a high arc, rotating slightly backwards, the clock at the far end of the court ticked down to zero, and the red light behind the backboard illuminated. The crowd’s roar morphed into a collective scream as the orb passed through its zenith and began its downward track. Nate thought it might strike the front of the rim. But instead it passed unscathed through the iron with a satisfying swish of the net.

Jackson had won.

This time there was no stopping the crowd from charging the court, and, for the next few minutes, it was a sea of happy bedlam. Several people slapped a somewhat dazed Nate on the back. A few grabbed him in exuberant embraces. Peter had helped Gamma down from the stands, and, when she reached him, she gave him a mighty hug.

“I’m so happy for you Nate.”

As the players eventually made their way to the locker room beneath the stands, Nate found himself walking next to Matt. His brother wore an expression of pure joy, and he gave Nate a friendly punch on the arm.

“Nice pass.”

Nate nodded in appreciation. But, as they turned into the long corridor leading to the visitor’s locker room, he gave Matt a serious look. “Why did you admit it?”

Matt’s own face turned serious, and, for several seconds, the two brothers said nothing, the hoots and hollers from their teammates echoing off the concrete walls around them. When they reached the door to the locker room, Matt stepped to the side, and Nate did likewise, allowing the others to pass. Neither said anything. Finally, Matt shrugged. “If I hadn’t, it wouldn’t have been right. Would it?”

Nate wasn’t sure what to say. He couldn’t help wondering whether, had he found himself in the same situation, he’d have been able to do the same thing.

Then Matt’s grin returned. “And anyway, it’s better like this, right?”

Nate considered his brother for a long moment. Finally, he nodded, turned and put an arm over Matt’s shoulder, and together they walked into the boisterous locker room.

The echoes faded as Nate opened his eyes, and he was back in the quiet SUV, the silence broken only by the intermittent swish of the windshield wipers and the sound of tires on the wet pavement. Minutes passed.

Matt finally broke the spell. “So this guy on the phone, you said he had a southern accent at one point?”

Nate nodded.

“There are lots of southern accents,” Matt said. “Can you be more specific? Was it a drawl, did it have a twang to it?”

“Neither,” Nate replied. He re-played the conversation in his mind. “I don’t know if it means anything, but the first thought that came to mind was Hampton Roads.”

As youngsters, the boys had moved around quite a bit. Their father, who was a naval aviator before joining the space program, had been stationed at different posts across the country. Nate spent part of the first grade attending a school in Norfolk, Virginia, where his father was assigned to a squadron at the nearby Naval Air Station. The soft southern accent of the man on the phone had conjured memories of the accents he’d heard during his time in Virginia.

At the mention of Hampton Roads, Matt turned and looked at him quickly before returning his attention to the highway. Nate could see that he was working his jaw.

“That mean something to you?” Nate asked.

“Maybe.”

Matt was again quiet for a long moment. He adjusted his hands on the wheel. It seemed to Nate as though he might be tightening his grip. Then he said, “If it’s who I think it is, we’re dealing with someone very dangerous. Not that the others aren’t. But this guy?” He paused. “He takes it to a whole new level.”

“Who is he?”

“His name is Raen. And there’s something wrong with him. Seriously wrong.”

Nate had thought he couldn’t be more scared. But Matt’s words, and the way he said them, induced a terrifying chill. It took him a minute to find his voice.

“Matt, what are we going to do?”

“We’re going to follow through on your first instinct. Your gut told you we needed to go to Minneapolis, to see the Gale women?”

Nate nodded, though it was more to himself.

“It was a good instinct,” Matt said. “If those women have been told to keep their mouths shut, they obviously have something to say, something that we need to hear.

“And now we need to get to them before they do. Before
he
does.”

#

Raen held out his palm and allowed the black stallion to sniff it. Then he reached back and patted the animal’s neck at the point where it met the withers. Sliding his hand up, he scratched along the neck. Nickering softly, the big animal lifted his head and stretched as if to offer encouragement.

As a boy growing up on a farm in southwest Virginia, Raen had spent a great deal of time around horses. Of course, those had all been work animals, plugs for the most part. Nothing like this magnificent specimen.

In the garage, Raen had found a bag of carrots. He pulled one now from his pocket and held it out with his other hand. The stallion took the treat gently, biting into it only after pulling his muzzle back safely from Raen’s fingers, the sign of a well-mannered, well-trained animal. Raen reached around with his other hand and scratched the far side of the neck. The horse lay his head softly on Raen’s shoulder, gratefully accepting the ministrations.

Raen watched as Parker’s men carried equipment from the garage and loaded it into one of the Suburbans that had been driven around to the site. They had dismantled the computer setup concealed behind the garage workbench, as well as the one in the house and in the escape tunnel near the barn. It would all be taken to the nearest lab in Denver, where it would be analyzed in an attempt to glean information that would assist them in tracking down Marek. It was a waste of time, Raen knew. Marek would not have left them anything of value.

He didn’t envy Parker. He and his men had spent a long night deconstructing the site. And this was not going to be an easy after-action report to write. Failure was not something The Organization frequently experienced, or readily tolerated. Parker was a competent operative, but he’d more than met his match with Marek. Raen wondered idly whether, had he been the one leading the assault, he’d have anticipated the back door that Marek had installed. Then he dismissed the thought. No value to it.

Dacoff appeared. He held out a small device for Raen to see. “He had the whole mountain covered with these,” the man said. “Top-of-the-line equipment, and well concealed. Hell, even when I knew where each one was supposed to be, they were hard to find.”

Raen nodded but said nothing. He certainly wasn’t surprised. Marek hadn’t become Marek without being extremely thorough and prepared. Parker simply hadn’t realized what he was up against. It suddenly occurred to Raen that maybe Parker hadn’t known
who
he was up against. Was it possible they hadn’t told him his target was Marek?

Marek. There were a few operatives who had achieved legendary status within The Organization, men who had proven themselves to be truly extraordinary among an already extraordinary elite. And then there was Marek.

He’d started out ordinarily enough. There were, Raen knew, even still a handful of men in The Organization who had served in the field with him. But they were a dwindling lot. After only a couple of years, Marek had completely dissolved into the shadows. He did have a tactical team, one that he’d held together for almost two decades. Hell, even those two guys were revered. But he also worked a lot on his own. Jobs to which an entire action team might have otherwise been assigned were routinely given to him. And some of the successes he’d had were, to this day, considered highlights in The Organization’s history.

Raen had never met the man, at least not to his knowledge. Couldn’t have picked him out of a police line-up. If there ever were photos of him, they’d long ago been purged.

All of the men in The Organization strove to be invisible. Marek was the only one who’d actually achieved it.

Raen glanced over at the two other horses, then took in the three saddles perched on the nearby wooden platform and the three bridles hanging from hooks attached to the exterior of the garage. Had the other two Cartwright brothers made it here first? Probably. Which meant they were now together. Fine, he thought. He wouldn’t have to spend a lot of time rounding them up. He could kill them all at once.

The other two horses, he noticed, were also fine animals, but not as superb as the stallion. This, he knew, had to be the one Marek had ridden. It was too spectacular to have been offered to anyone else.

“Is Ozaki ready?”

Dacoff nodded in the direction of the road. “He’s waiting for us in the car.”

Raen patted the stallion’s neck on both sides, and the horse lifted his head off Raen’s shoulder. With his right hand, Raen reached under and softly scratched the area of the neck just behind the throat latch. With his left hand, he reached inside his jacket and withdrew a .45 caliber pistol. He placed the muzzle of the handgun against the animal’s forehead, withdrew his right hand and pulled the trigger.