“It was my daughter’s car, but she’s shacked up with a long-haired freak who plays guitar in some rock and roll band, and I told her that if I was going to be paying the insurance I’d be keeping it. Her asshole boyfriend kicked out one of the headlights when he got drunk one night.” Alexander was explaining all this as he showed Riley the souped-up Camaro. “I know it isn’t exactly the best vehicle for going incognito or whatever, but it’s all I got.”
Riley eyed the yellow car with bright red flames painted along the hood and sides. “I appreciate your help. You might want to report it stolen to cover your own ass.”
Alexander shrugged and glanced up at the night sky. “I don’t know what shit you’re into, and I really don’t want to know. If anyone asks, I’ll just say I thought my daughter came by and appropriated it and I didn’t report it because I didn’t want her to get in trouble.”
“Thanks, Sergeant Major.”
Riley settled in behind the wheel and drove away from the sergeant major’s house, cringing at the racket the mufflers made. His first stop was to pick up the MP-5 from the overpass on Skibo Road. Then he took a chance, driving down Yadkin, past his apartment complex. No police cars with lights flashing; no ambulances; no sign that two men had died there less than a couple of hours ago. Riley frowned in thought as he continued his way onto post. First Lisa’s account of a major gun battle on the interstate and now this—both events covered up very efficiently.
He drove to the ACFAC and did a circuit around the building, checking for any surveillance. Other than the cars scattered in the parking lot from students and instructors deployed out to Mackall, there was no sign of life. Riley went in the main entrance and signed in with the guard on duty. He took the stairs two at a time to his office area. From his wall locker he pulled out his field gear and laid it out on the floor.
He packed carefully; on the teams he’d served with he had been known for his packing abilities. He always had the smallest rucksack, although not the lightest. This night, Riley evaluated every piece of equipment and how it would fit into the rudiments of the plan he had worked out in his mind while waiting for Alexander to show up. The rucksack filled up quickly: short sleeping pad; Goretex bivvy sack; poncho liner; camouflage poncho; Goretex rain parka and pants; a fifty-meter length of 10mm nylon rope; climbing rack with assorted nuts, friends, camming devices, and load of snap links; a figure eight, used to help rappel; climbing harness; two twelve-foot lengths of army-issue nylon rope; altimeter; Goretex gaitors; a compact folding saw; and various other items he felt might be useful.
Riley opened the file drawer on the desk and searched until he found the folder he needed. He took out several map sheets and placed them in the protection of his map case, which he put in the top of the rucksack.
Done, Riley took his load back to the car and threw it in the backseat. He drove out Community Access Road onto Reilly Road and entered Fayetteville from a different direction.
He worked his way through the revitalized downtown area to a decidedly less trendy street, lined on both sides with strip clubs, which had just closed down. He rounded the corner and drove up to the back door of one club. Before leaving the car he checked his pistol, making sure a round was in the chamber. He went to the back fire door and entered the building.
“What do you want?” asked a man seated at a desk, his hands suspiciously out of sight beneath the scarred wooden top.
“I need to see Porter.”
“Who are you?”
Riley took out his military ID card and placed it in front of the man. “Dave Riley. I’m assigned to the Special Warfare Center.”
The man checked the card and then Riley. “How do I know you’re not CID?”
“You don’t, but Porter can make a few calls and check to see that I’m who I claim to be.”
A new voice interrupted from Riley’s left. “Yes, but you still could be working for CID.”
Riley looked at the newcomer. Porter was a slim, gray-haired man. His left arm was wrapped around a young girl wearing a skimpy swimsuit.
Riley reached under his shirt, pulled off the money belt, and dropped it on the table. “I want to do business. Get rid of the girl.”
Porter took in the belt, then jerked his head at the girl. “Get lost.” With a pop of gum, she was gone. “Strip,” he ordered.
Riley complied, first placing his pistol, then clothes, on the desktop. Porter and the guard observed the accumulation of weapons without comment as the layer of clothes came off. Finally Riley stood there naked. The guard went through his clothes, searching for a mike. “He’s clean.”
“All right. What do you need?”
Riley reached over to his shirt and pulled out the slip of paper he had prepared at the office.
Porter looked at it, then at Riley. Their gaze locked for ten seconds. “Get dressed. We need to take a ride.”
FORT BRAGG
31 OCTOBER, 3:54 a.m.
Three thousand dollars poorer, but better equipped to face the uncertainties of the situation, Riley drove back onto Fort Bragg. He cruised along Chicken Road toward Camp Mackall for five miles, then pulled off onto one of the hundreds of firebreaks that ran through the pine forest. Going in far enough so that he couldn’t be seen from the road, he parked the car.
He got out and locked it, then made his way into the trees about twenty meters away. He gathered together a cushion of pine needles, then sank down and threw a poncho liner over himself. The MP-5 was at one side, the pistol on the other. He stared up at the stars visible through the tree limbs and tried to make sense of all that had happened. After ten minutes, he gave up and was asleep almost immediately.
Chapter Twelve
CUMBERLAND COUNTY
31 OCTOBER, 6:23 a.m.
Lisa woke to the gentle nudging of Hammer’s hand on her shoulder. “Come on, get up. We’ve got to get going.”
For a brief moment she felt panic, not knowing where she was. She blinked at the sunlight streaming through the broken windows of the trailer and tried to orient herself.
“Let’s get some coffee and we’ll head over to Mackall. I want to make sure the area is clean before Riley comes out,” Hammer said.
Lisa struggled to her feet, the weight in her chest, which she’d grown accustomed to over the past couple of days, settling back in place. “All right-”
Hammer led the way out to his pickup truck, Lisa following wordlessly. At a quick-stop he bought them both cups of coffee and plastic-wrapped cinnamon rolls, then continued the drive in silence. Lisa ate the meager breakfast and sipped at her coffee, watching the low-lying North Carolina countryside slip by. They passed a sign indicating they were entering a military reservation, and soon came to a triangular intersection. Hammer veered to the left.
Lisa finally spoke. “What are we going to do once we link back up with Riley?”
Hammer shrugged. “I don’t know. That’s sort of up to him.”
“Don’t you have any ideas?” Lisa asked. “Riley’s last plan didn’t work very well.”
“It worked quite well,” Hammer contradicted calmly. “You’re still alive, aren’t you?”
“Why can’t we just drive into a town and go to the nearest police station and ask for their protection?” Lisa demanded.
Hammer turned onto a dirt road. “You can. In fact, you could have before you ever linked up with Riley, but you didn’t. Is that what you want to do now?” he asked, sparing her a quick glance.
Lisa sat back in the worn vinyl seat and stared out the windshield. After a long silence she answered. “I don’t know what I want anymore. Everything I had is gone—my old life, my husband. Even the new life they promised us seems to be gone. Everything has gotten so complicated so quickly.”
“That’s the way it goes sometimes,” Hammer said. “We don’t control as much of our lives as we like to think we do.” He made a left onto another dirt road. “We could go to the cops, but since we don’t really know what’s going on, they certainly won’t either. Proving your story won’t be easy. And going to the cops will advertise your location—something that hasn’t worked well so far. Let’s wait and see what plan Riley has come up with.” He paused for a second, then asked. “Who’s this Donna Giannini that Riley keeps talking about?”
“She’s a friend of my brother’s. I called my brother and he got her involved, and then she got Riley involved in all this.”
“She’s in Chicago?”
“Yes.”
“How come she’s doing all this checking on stuff. What does she do for a living?”
“She’s a homicide detective with the Chicago Police Department.”
That caught Hammer’s attention. “How does Riley know her?”
“I don’t know.”
“Hmm” was Hammer’s only comment.
They broke out of the trees into a large open field stretching as far as they could see to the left and right. The trees on the far side were more than three hundred yards away. A dirt runway was in the center, surrounded on both sides by high grass and scrub vegetation.
“This is the airstrip,” Hammer announced. “Let’s find a place to sit and watch.”
FORT BRAGG
31 OCTOBER, 7:30 a.m.
The parking lot outside the ACFAC was packed with the cars of students and instructors. Riley left the souped-up Camaro and made his way across the lot, passing a formation of students preparing to board the “cattle cars” to go out to a range. It was possible the building might be under surveillance by whoever had been outside his house the previous night, but Riley doubted that anything would happen with so many witnesses around. And if they were watching, that was fine with Riley, because he had a plan for dealing with anyone curious enough to follow him.
He entered the building and went to the A Company area. Major Welch was in his office, surrounded as usual by stacks of paper. Riley knocked on the open door and entered.
“Chief, what’s up?”
Riley shut the door and took the chair across from his commander. “Sir, I’ve got a problem and need to burn some leave time. I’ve got forty-five days saved up; I only need to take about a week, though. My team is off cycle right now and everything’s covered, so that won’t be a problem.”
Major Welch put down his pen. “You mind telling me what kind of problem?”
“It’s personal, sir.”
Welch accepted that without comment. “Anything I can help with, other than giving you leave?”
“No, sir. I can take care of it.”
“You have a leave form?”
Riley slid the form, which he’d taken out of the admin clerk’s desk, across to the major.
Welch picked up his pen and scrawled his signature in the indicated block, then handed back the form. “You need any help, you be sure and give me or the sergeant major a call, okay?”
“Thank you, sir.”
At least now he wouldn’t have the army after him for being AWOL, Riley reflected as he left the building and returned to the car. He drove out of the parking lot and headed for Chicken Road to go out to Mackall, checking his rearview mirror constantly. There was no sign of anyone following. After passing the intersection of Chicken and Plank Roads, he proceeded another three miles until he went over a slight rise in the road. He immediately slammed on his brakes and pulled off to the right, parking the car facing the road along a firebreak. He checked his watch and waited for ten minutes, MP-5 at the ready. Nothing. Satisfied, Riley restarted the car and continued on his way.
7:45 a.m.
“Master here.”
“We spotted Riley on post at his workplace.”
“What’s his present location?” Master asked, indicating for the van driver to get them rolling.
“He’s heading west.”
“Is he tagged?”
“Yes.”
“How long was he at the academic facility?”
“About ten minutes.”
“I’m on my way.” As the van moved out, Master dialed.
The phone was picked up on the first ring. “Yes?”
“This is Master. We relocated Riley. He’ll probably link up with our target.”
“Good. Make a clean sweep of it, then close this thing down. No more fuckups.”
Master didn’t bother responding. He pressed the off switch on the phone.
CHICAGO
31 OCTOBER, 7:45 a.m.
Giannini entered Guyton’s office without knocking and took the seat directly across from him, the cluttered desk separating them. “What do you want?” Guyton asked irritably, closing a file.
“I want some answers.”
He snorted. “What makes you think you got a right to ask me questions?” Giannini leaned forward.