Stephen Frey (22 page)

“Good.” Wallace unlocked another door and flicked on a light. “Wipe your feet, will you?”

Scully wiped his shoes on a mat beside the door, then stepped into RANSACK's brain—an immaculate room lined with the most technologically advanced supercomputers in the world, commercially unavailable even to the few companies that could have afforded their outrageous sticker prices. Available to Wallace through his contacts at the Pentagon and his years on the Armed Services Committee. “Jesus,” Scully whispered, gazing through the eerie blue light at the stacks of servers. Wallace had never allowed him in here. “This is incredible.”

“Yes, and it's directly linked to Online Associates in Virginia.” Wallace locked the door behind them. “Have a seat,” he directed as he sat down himself in front of a console. “What about Michael Mendoza?” he asked, typing on a keyboard. “What happened to him?”

Scully sat down beside Wallace. “That was the only clusterfuck of the weekend,” he said hesitantly.

Wallace stopped typing for a moment. “What do you mean?”

“Apparently the incendiary device went off prematurely.”

“Apparently?”

“Mendoza was rushed to a New York City hospital by medevac helicopter.”

“But he's not dead, is he?”

Scully shook his head. “Not yet. He's hanging on.”

“What about Bo Hancock? The initial report I received was that he was hit by the same blast.”

“Yes.”

“What is his condition?”

“He was choppered to the same hospital.”

“And?”

Scully hesitated. “I received an initial report that he had died on the way, but I was informed later that the report was inaccurate. I don't know the truth yet. I'm to receive an update in an hour.”

“I hope it's good news.” Wallace punched the
ENTER
button on the keyboard. “Frank Ramsey reports that Bo has been rooting around in the Warfield private equity portfolio.”

“I'm sure Jimmy Lee buried the cutout too deeply for anyone to find. It was there before Bo was sent to Montana, and he never found it.”

“He wasn't looking.” Wallace rubbed his pocked nose. “He could find the funding source as well, the investor link. That wasn't in place until after Bo left. That's partly why Jimmy Lee kicked him out.” Wallace typed another command. “He knew Bo would never go along with the program. He's too smallminded to understand the incredible importance of what we're doing.”

“So we take Bo out if the news from the hospital isn't good.”

“We need to lay low for a bit. Someone might start piecing things together if Bo turned up dead too.”

Scully frowned. “We'll have to do something if Bo continues to dig.” He gazed at the blinking computers all around him. More than anything, he wanted to know who sat at the top of the cell. Who was running the show.

“I guess you won't need your update after all,” Wallace said, pointing at a screen.

“What do you mean?”

“Bo Hancock has been upgraded from critical to stable.”

“How do you know?” Scully squinted at the screen.

“It's all right there.”

“That information is coming from the—”

“From the hospital's mainframe computer,” Wallace explained triumphantly. “The people in Fairfax are good, let me tell you that.” He typed another command. “Looks like Mendoza might make it too,” he observed, as Mendoza's update appeared on the screen. “There will be some unhappy people if he does,” he said, glancing at Scully.

“We'll try again. We won't miss this time. I'll give the order tomorrow.”

Wallace shook his head. “You will wait for my orders before you try again. Are we absolutely clear on that?”

Scully glanced up. There had been an unmistakable sharpness to Wallace's tone. “Yes, sir.”

M
eg guided the Explorer into a narrow space between two economy-sized cars, hopped down from the cab, and walked quickly toward a stairwell located in a far corner of the midtown Manhattan parking garage. On her way into the city from the estate she had detoured to Long Island for a few minutes to see her mother, who had caught a cold over the weekend. After leaving her parents' house for the city she had encountered unexpectedly bad traffic on the Long Island Expressway. Then she'd been forced to drive up seven levels of the garage before finding an open spot. So now she was late. As she broke into a trot, her hard-soled shoes clicked on the cement floor.

At first she believed the second set of footsteps behind her was an echo, but as she reached the stairwell and glanced back over her shoulder, she realized she was wrong. The man wasn't physically imposing, but the look in his eye brought terror to her heart. Somehow she knew he had come for her, and even as she tore down the first lonely flight of stairs, she was aware that he seemed vaguely familiar.

Meg took two and three steps at a time, racing downward in panic, but she sensed that he was gaining on her. She could hear his heavy footsteps churning after her. As she reached the fifth floor she caught sight of him to her right in her peripheral vision, then instantly felt talonlike fingers grabbing for her shoulder from over the railing. She screamed and careened into the wall to avoid him. He was only a few feet behind now.

As Meg turned at the top of the stairs on the fourth floor, her foot slipped. For an instant she hung there, balanced precariously on the edge of the step. Then she pitched forward and tumbled down, her legs unable to keep pace with her upper body. Just before her head and shoulder slammed into the brick wall on the third-floor landing, she remembered where she had seen her pursuer. He had been behind her on the sidewalk outside Grand Central Station just before she had been pushed in front of the oncoming taxi. Then the world went dark.

“
B
o?”

Bo looked up. An overnight bag was lying open on the bed. “Hello, doctor,” he said, smiling despite the dull ache that enveloped his entire body.

“What are you doing?” Silwa asked, shuffling into the private room.

“Packing.”

The doctor rolled his eyes. “They brought you in here on a stretcher less than eighteen hours ago. Why don't you at least stay tonight to be safe? I'd like to run some more tests on you.”

“I'm fine,” Bo assured Silwa. He had no intention of spending another hour in the hospital.

“You're being—”

“Stubborn?” Ashley interrupted. “Was that what you were about to say, Dr. Silwa?” She sat in a chair by the window. “Are you surprised? Imagine, Bolling Hancock, stubborn. What a shock.” She stood up. “Just say the word, Doctor, and I'll make him stay.”

Bo flashed her a grin. They had spent the whole morning catching up on twenty years apart. He had missed her more than he'd realized. “Pay no attention to my sister,” Bo instructed. “She talks a big game but her bark is worse than her bite. I mean, look at her.”

“I may be small,” Ashley warned good-naturedly, putting up her fists as if she wanted to fight, “but I can hold my own with anyone.”

Bo chuckled. Five two and a hundred pounds dripping wet, Ashley had jet-black hair, dark eyes, full lips, and perfect, creamy skin. A natural athlete, she had captained the field hockey team in high school, then at Harvard. She had a feisty personality that never allowed her to let things lie. Good or bad, you always knew where you stood with her. It was a trait Bo had appreciated since their childhood. “Back off, little girl.”

Ashley stuck her tongue out as she dropped her hands.

“Let me see your arm,” Silwa demanded, moving to where Bo stood beside the bed.

“I told you, I'm fine.”

“Let me see it. If you don't, I'll keep you here for a week.”

“You can't do that.”

“I most certainly can. I'll have you quarantined. I'll explain to the state board of health that you are displaying symptoms of an exotic virus.”

“You wouldn't.”

“Try me,” Silwa dared, rolling up Bo's sleeve. “I know you're hiding something bad.”

“What do you mean?”

“This is the first time I've seen you with your sleeves rolled down.” Silwa gingerly peeled back a bandage covering most of Bo's left forearm, revealing a grisly mass of burned flesh.

Ashley glanced at it, then quickly looked away. “Does he need to stay, Doctor?” she asked seriously.

“That's like asking a barber if you need a haircut,” Bo cut in, reattaching the bandage with a roll of medical tape he had picked up from the bed.

“He should stay,” Silwa advised.

“But I'm not going to.”

“Mr. Hancock?” A nurse stood in the doorway, a wheelchair in front of her.

“What's this?” Silwa asked.

“Transportation I don't need,” Bo replied. “Thank you, nurse, but I'll be walking out of here under my own power.”

“Hospital rules,” the woman said firmly, rolling the wheelchair into Bo's room.

“I haven't even signed a release form,” Silwa protested.

“But I knew you would.” Bo pulled a pen from his shirt pocket and handed it to Silwa. “Get to it.”

Silwa hesitated, then moved to the end of the bed, picked up a clipboard hanging from the bed frame, and scribbled his signature.

“Good man.”

“You're lucky, Bo.”

“Why do you say that?” Bo asked, tossing a shirt Meg had brought to the hospital for him last night into the bag.

“Michael Mendoza is down the hall hooked up to all kinds of tubes.” Silwa pointed at Bo's arm. “That burn you sustained is nasty as hell, but it isn't life-threatening. When they brought Mendoza in here, they weren't sure he was going to make it. It's still touch-and-go for him.”

“Why was I so lucky?”

“The blast threw you back onto the lawn. It blew Mendoza against the side of the house. He has critical head injuries.”

“Can I see him?” Bo asked, his voice subdued.

“No visitors,” Silwa replied.

“Have the authorities found out anything yet?”

“I don't know.” Silwa tossed the clipboard with the signed release form onto the unmade bed.

“Ready to go?” the nurse holding the wheelchair asked.

Bo checked his watch. “My wife was supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago. I don't want to leave without her. It's not like Meg to be late.”

“Well, I have other patients to attend to. Can you call her on her cell—”

“Doctor!” Another nurse appeared in the doorway and beckoned to Silwa. “Please.”

“Excuse me, Bo.” Silwa hurried from the room.

“Look, I'll be fine,” Bo said, turning to the woman behind the wheelchair. “I won't tell anyone that you—”

“Bolling!” Silwa reappeared in the doorway, a grave expression on his face.

“What is it?”

“Come with me quickly. It's Meg. She's in the emergency room.”