The Navigator banged and thumped along the rough brush, each jolt forcing Scarponi’s hands deeper into his adversary’s neck. Payne struggled to maintain his own grip on Scarponi’s throat, but he felt his grasp weakening. Thoughts screamed through his oxygen-deprived brain.
Do something now or die
Squeeze harder or pry his hands away
He chose the latter.
But the instant he released his grip from Scarponi’s neck, he realized it was the wrong decision.
With Payne’s arms no longer restraining his head, Scarponi coiled back, then rammed his skull into Payne’s forehead.
DeSantos watched with a gaping mouth as he saw the assassin’s hands around Harper Payne’s throat. But not until Waller screamed did he realize just how awful the situation really was.
“Engine’s on fire!”
Flames danced from beneath the Navigator’s hood as the SUV plowed through the dense underbrush.
“How fast are they going?” Knox asked.
DeSantos glanced at his airspeed, which was holding at 70 knots. “About eighty,” he shouted.
Waller leaned into the front seat. “We’ve got to stop it and get Payne out of there before it blows.”
“I’ll bring us about, you take out the tires,” DeSantos said. As the chopper maneuvered alongside the SUV, Waller leaned out the doorway and fired off several rounds, puncturing the radials and sending the vehicle into a frenzy, bouncing hard as it slowed to a still-torrid fifty-five miles per hour.
“Trees!” Knox said.
DeSantos pulled on the cyclic and the helicopter immediately strained skyward. Knox’s face sagged in anguish when he turned and saw the thicket up ahead of the Navigator, seconds away from impact. As they ascended above the height of the trees, DeSantos closed his eyes and waited for the sound of crunching steel, knowing there was absolutely nothing he could do.
Knox motioned toward the clearing in front of the thicket. “Get us down, get us down!”
DeSantos lowered the craft rapidly and set it amongst the brush thirty yards from the Navigator. The SUV was a crumpled mass of metal, its engine compartment wrapped around a large-trunked spruce. Smoke billowed up into the soupy night air as flames engulfed the entire front end and seared the lower branches of the neighboring trees.
Knox remained in the helicopter and radioed their position as DeSantos and Waller ran toward the flaming wreckage, guns in hand, anticipating... just about anything.
Waller knew there wasn’t time to follow established procedure, and judging by the look on DeSantos’s face, he was not alone in that thought. They hurdled a fallen fir tree and were immediately hit by a plume of thick black smoke. DeSantos fell to his knees in a coughing fit. Waller stumbled but continued on, approaching the wreck in a crouched position.
He grabbed the door handle and pulled it open.
Harper Payne fell out of the SUV’s front seat amidst the deployed airbag, and landed against Waller, who was knocked backward to the ground. Waller gulped a mouthful of air, filling his lungs with smoke. He rolled to his side, attempting to move out from beneath the weight of Payne’s body, knowing that Scarponi could emerge from the interior at any second, firing at will. But his lungs exploded in a fit of violent hacking, and he was unable to move.
Just then, DeSantos appeared through the thick black fog and grasped Payne’s body by the armpits. Freed of the weight on his chest, Waller was able to get to his feet and help pull Payne twenty yards from the wreck, where the density of the smoke was thinner. The cleaner air helped, as Waller’s coughing subsided enough that he was able to catch his breath.
DeSantos groped for his comrade’s wrist to check for a pulse. Satisfied that Payne was still alive, he nodded at Waller and they shifted position, each grabbing one of Payne’s arms and slinging it over their shoulders. They carried him between them another ten yards, toward the helicopter.
“Medevac is on the way. ETA two minutes,” Knox shouted above the noise of the rotors. “He okay?”
“He’s unconscious,” Waller said. “But he’s got a pulse.” They set Payne’s body on the ground, face up.
“I’m going back in,” DeSantos said, disappearing into the black fog in search of Scarponi.
“I hope he knows what he’s doing,” Waller said to Knox, the thump-thump-thump of the chopper’s blades nearly drowning out his words.
“I owe Hector the opportunity to prove that he does.”
Waller drew his Glock and kept his back to the Black Hawk, guarding Knox and Payne. Scarponi was still unaccounted for, and although it was unlikely he was in any condition to attack, Waller was not taking any chances.
With a handkerchief acting as a crude—and only minimally effective—filter for his nose and mouth, DeSantos fought through the smoke, groping his way around the interior of the Navigator. His Beretta was in his right hand, ready to fire. He attempted to slow his respirations to maximize the amount of time he could remain in the toxic environment. If all went as he hoped, he would find Scarponi’s dead body, then retreat to safety.
But his desires faded quickly as he found the interior of the SUV to be vacant, aside from a couple of corpses in the backseat that did not fit Scarponi’s description. DeSantos began coughing, his makeshift filter no longer effective. He turned and began running, but tripped on a thick object—a fallen branch? Apiece from the wreckage?
A leg?
Waller was crouched next to Payne’s body, again checking his pulse. While standing guard, he performed a cursory exam—from what he could recall of his first aid training—and found a potential fracture of Payne’s left forearm along with fresh abrasions and bruising about his face. His pulse was weak and his skin clammy.
Waller resumed his watch, then felt the rumble of another helicopter. He looked skyward and saw the spotlight of a medevac chopper emerge from behind the canopy of the trees. As the emergency vehicle began to descend, someone came running toward them from inside the swirling plume of darkness.
Waller aimed his weapon—but in that instant a deafeningly loud explosion of heat and light burst from the smoking wreck. Metal pieces blew upward and outward, fiery pieces of the SUV’s interior blasting in all directions as two smaller explosions ripped through the wooded area.
The approaching helicopter retreated, quickly gaining altitude. Waller was using his body to cover Payne while Knox was somewhere to his right, hugging the ground. As the metal and rubber fragments landed, small fires began burning in a scattered pattern throughout the field. A few smoldering pieces struck the idling Black Hawk before impotently falling to the ground.
DeSantos emerged from the periphery of the explosions, his clothes torn and his face covered in black soot. He stumbled toward the Black Hawk as the medevac attempted to land forty yards to the east.
Knox got to his feet, met DeSantos at the cockpit door, and yelled, “Scarponi?”
“Not there. Two other bodies, best I could see.” DeSantos climbed into the helicopter and began throwing switches. The rotors began accelerating to full speed. Out of the corner of his eye, Knox saw the medevac personnel approaching on the run from their own helicopter, a stretcher spread between them. To their left was another figure, breaking off from the paramedics and heading toward the Black Hawk.
“Where are you going?” Knox shouted to DeSantos.
“To pay off a debt.”
“Hector—”
“I’m going to find the son of a bitch.”
Just then, the approaching man came up alongside Knox. Knox grabbed his arm and pulled him close so he could be heard over the spinning rotor blades. “Rodman, go with Hector. I want Scarponi
alive
.”
Troy Rodman nodded, then ran to the other side of the cockpit and climbed into the front passenger seat. He lifted a pair of infrared goggles off a knob on the control panel and fastened the visor to his head.
Knox banged on the window beside DeSantos’s face. “Alive, Hector, I want him alive!”
Knox backed away and the bird lifted off. He ran toward Payne and Waller, where the paramedics had assessed Payne, started an IV line, and hooked him up to oxygen.
“I’m going with Payne in the medevac,” Knox said to Waller. “You stay here. Backup should be here any minute. Fill them in on what happened.” Knox trotted off toward the other helicopter, following the medics as they loaded the stretcher into the chopper. He had known when he signed on as FBI director there would be a certain amount of risk. But he had always thought the risk would be more from a stress-induced heart attack than from racing above the Virginia countryside in a helicopter chasing an escaped felon. That just wasn’t part of the job description.
As the bird lifted off, he was still feeling the pump of adrenaline. What other FBI director would get himself into a situation like this?
The lift from the blades brought the sensation of weightlessness, of being outside his body... kind of the way he felt when taking his morning runs. In response to his own question, he shook his head. The answer was obvious: no other director would do such a thing. But then again, no other FBI director had been army Special Forces in Vietnam.
No other director was Douglas Knox.
The medevac helicopter descended from the dark, windswept heavens and hit its mark on the helipad beside the Vandenheim Air Force Base Security Police Building, a stone’s throw from the adjacent military hospital. Knox leapt from the rear door of the chopper into intense brightness, as a circle of round mercury spotlights were trained on the landing pad. Before he took a step, he was met by several FBI agents and a contingent of Security Police in crisp, well-turned-out uniforms and polished boots. Bringing up the rear were two fatigue-clad men who headed straight for the director.
“Hodges and Ventura,” Knox yelled above the din of the Black Hawk’s blades, “when you’re done with Agent Payne’s body, meet me at Hangar Three-Fourteen.” The two OPSIG agents, colleagues of DeSantos, Archer, and Rodman, nodded and proceeded into the rear compartment of the helicopter.
Surrounded by the agents and police detail, Knox was ushered into the Security Police Building and through the armory, a rectangular room that was rimmed with stalls outfitted with military garb: bulletproof vests, helmets, two-way radios, and an assortment of paraphernalia a small troop would need heading into an emergency situation.
Knox entered the large assembly room and stopped. He gave a quick look around at the mass of security personnel and nodded.
“Okay. Bring our guests in here,” he said to one of the security cops.
Lauren Chambers sat beside Nick Bradley on a wooden bench in a small anteroom. When they had been escorted there shortly after their arrival, they were told they had to wait, as Harper Payne was being brought via ambulance to rendezvous with them at the base. Security Police were abundant, guarding every Entry Control Point and select areas in between.
They had sat for almost two hours without receiving so much as one update from the security cops. Lauren repeatedly asked for information, but each time she was told to sit down and wait patiently—or leave. Still, she knew they would not have allowed her to come there if they hadn’t intended to reunite her with Michael. Otherwise, what was the point? The government had their witness back, and whether or not Michael wanted to testify, at least he was safe. He could do his deed for the U.S. Attorney and then be free to go wherever he wished. Or so she hoped.
Suddenly, movement was everywhere. Several security cops moved into the room and two moved out. Three converged on one another near the far doorway and spoke in hushed tones, their rigid postures a sign of their training rather than the particular urgency of the situation, she figured. A moment later, one of the policemen turned to face them.
“Come with me,” he said, then ushered them down a long, spotless hallway.
They entered the assembly room and were led to a tall, silver-haired man, who was pacing in front of a closed door. His face was stern and stressed. He stopped in his tracks and looked at Bradley, completely ignoring Lauren’s presence. He nodded at two agents who had come up behind Bradley, then simply said, “Take him away.”
“What’s this about?” Bradley asked as one of the men snapped handcuffs on his wrists.
“You’re under arrest.”
“For what?”
“Wait a minute,” Lauren said, “he’s with me. There must be some kind of mistake.”
Another agent took hold of her arms and pulled her backward, out of the way. “There’s no mistake.”
“Please, Dr. Chambers, don’t interfere,” the man with the silver hair said.
The agents pulled a struggling Bradley through a set of doors ten feet away as he continued to argue with them. “I didn’t do anything...”
The metal door closed behind them and the room was suddenly quiet again.
“What’s going on? Who are you?” Lauren said.
“FBI director Douglas Knox.”
“Where’s my husband, where’s Michael?”
“It gets very complicated, Dr. Chambers.” Knox placed a hand on the crook of her elbow and indicated he wanted her to walk with him to a bench along the far wall. “If you’ll take a seat and allow me to explain—”
“I’m not interested in sitting,” she said, yanking her arm away. “And I’m not interested in talking. I just want to know where my husband is, Mr. Knox. I’ve been waiting here for two hours. Now either tell me where Michael is or I’ll go to the press and tell them what I know.” Her face felt blush red.
“And what exactly is it that you know?” Knox asked quizzically.
Lauren thought for a moment before answering. “I know that my husband isn’t dead.”
“Interesting. You’d tell them that, without knowing the whole story?”
“I’d tell them just about anything if it would make you tell me the truth!”
“Fine,” Knox said, his brow bunched with anger. “We’ll do it your way. You want to know where your husband is? He’s dead, Dr. Chambers, that’s where he is.”
Knox’s voice echoed in the painted cinder-block room. The scores of agents and Security Police were still. No one moved, no one spoke, no one seemed to breathe.