Authors: Kyle Mills
She nodded, but couldn't bring herself to look at either Beamon or Erin. "You're right. I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry. Just keep it together, okay?"
"Oka "
y.
"Mark!" Fournier shouted, jogging back up to them a bit out of breath. "The company that owns this place just rented a building in Calgary and had a bunch of lab equipment shipped to it." He slapped his hands together and rubbed them against the cold. "We've got them."
Chapter
39.
"We have people stationed here and here," Fournier said, pointing to a couple of blurry figures on the screens lining the inside of the van.
Beamon tried to adjust himself into a position where Erin's elbow wasn't digging into his ribs, but could barely move in the confines of the vehicle. "That's it? Two people?"
"It's the best we can do, Mark. It's more or less an industrial area with no sidewalk and a street that doesn't go anywhere. If it was suddenly full of pedestrians, it would be obvious. Just getting these cameras in place was a nightmare."
"Which building is it?" Jenna asked.
"The green one on the right. It used to be a veterinary clinic and a lot of the medical infrastructure is still inside, so it's ideal for Teague and his people. None of the neighbors have seen anyone go in or out, but they admit they haven't been paying much attention."
It started raining, the heavy drops ringing against the top of the van and partially obscuring the images.
"Any sign of life inside?" Erin asked.
"Nothing at all," Fournier said. "But with the shades closed there's no way to be certain."
"Then what are we waiting for?" Jenna said. "They could be in there right now. Why are we just sitting here?"
Beamon watched the rain running down the rear windows of the van, once again trying to come up with a plan that didn't involve getting everyone killed. And, once again, drawing a blank.
"Okay," he said finally. "Send your guys in."
"We're a go," Fournier said into his walkie-talkie.
Screens that had been blank suddenly came to life as the helmet cameras of men waiting a block away were switched on and began following their careful progress toward the target building. The two people Fournier had in the street moved as casually as they could in the direction of the vet clinic, their slow pace somewhat forced in light of the rain. If Beamon was right, though, it wouldn't matter if they went in with a high school marching band.
"This is Team Leader. We're in position," came a voice over the van's speakers.
Beamon shrugged. "Go ahead."
Fournier's men were better than he had expected. The two people in front rushed the door, kicking it in on the first try as a group of well-placed men with assault rifles swept out to cover them. The sturdier rear door was collapsed with a battering ram only a few seconds later, and a number of the screens took on the dim, jerky feel of a computer game as the tiny building was efficiently searched.
"We're clear," came the voice over the speakers. "There's no one here."
"Shit!" Fournier said as Beamon leaned back against the wall of the van and glanced over at Erin and Jenna. Her head sunk into her hands and she stared at her feet, trying to control her breathing. Erin seemed far away -- as though he'd given up on all this long ago and was trying to find another way out.
"Did you get the stuff I asked for, Carl?" Fournier nodded. "But I'm not sure they're going to be able to walk."
before enough rain got in her mouth to force her to swallow. "There could be something in there that'll tell us where Michael is. We don't have time for this!"
Fournier attached the back plate to the body armor she was wearing and her knees sagged dangerously. It was soaking wet, adding to the weight, but in the end, the rain was a gift from God. One of the few Beamon had received lately.
"Better safe than sorry," Fournier pointed out.
Erin grimaced as shin guards were strapped to his legs. "Yeah, if we were expecting a fucking air strike. If this is so dangerous, why isn't Mark wearing any of this crap?"
The light, police-issue vest Beamon had on looked anemic beside the full military armor covering Erin and Jenna. With the unfortunate exception of their heads and a few joints necessary for movement, they were more or less bulletproof -- assuming normal bullet varieties and muzzle velocities, of course. But what choice did he have? A tank would be a little obvious.
"Walk for me, Jenna. Let's see how you do."
She scowled, but did as he asked, teetering unsteadily alongside the van. She looked a bit like an old wind-up children's toy, but by the time she turned and started back, her gait wasn't much worse than his had been after letting Carrie talk him into playing tennis.
"It'll do."
The car stopped about twenty yards from the veterinary clinic and Jenna threw the back door open, swinging her legs to the ground only to find herself stuck. The weight of the body armor had been manageable, but the addition of the fireman's jacket that Beamon insisted she wear to cover it up put her over the edge.
She started to take it off, but then felt Beamon's foot in her back. With that lessthan-gentle nudge, she managed to haul herself onto the pavement and stand there swaying unsteadily in the strengthening wind. Fournier was a few yards away, talking heatedly with a uniformed man holding the leash of a Labrador retriever.
"What've we got?" Beamon said, joining Fournier as Erin came around the car and took a position next to Jenna. Not too close, she noticed, but not as far away as the day before.
"We've run a check for incendiary devices, but didn't find anything."
"Incendiary devices?" Erin said. "Bombs? Why would there be bombs?"
"Relax," Beamon said. "There are certain procedures we follow in situations like this. That's just one of about fifty." He glanced back at them through the rain, the relaxed smile on his face looking less reassuring than it did desperate. Not all that surprising after listening to their bleak prediction for the future. Or, more precisely, the lack of one.
"Okay, let's get you to work," Beamon said, motioning them forward. "See if there's anything in there that can help us."
Erin started toward the building, moving quickly, but Jenna had to break into an awkward jog in an effort to catch up.
"Jenna, wait!" Beamon shouted. "Don't run!"
Other than that warning and the rain, no sound preceded the explosion of pain in her left shoulder blade. She pitched forward, her increased weight magnifying her momentum as she crashed into Erin's back. He managed to turn and get a hand beneath one of her arms and would probably have been able to keep them from falling if it hadn't been for a second impact from behind.
Erin went down first, partially sinking in a deep puddle as she landed on top of him. A moment later, Beamon's weight came down on the both of them and she realized that he was responsible for the blow that had actually sent them to the ground. She was aware of shouting and a barrage of gunfire that turned the raindrops into flashing crystals. But it all became increasingly distant as her mind focused on the seemingly impossible task of getting air into her lungs.
At first she thought it was because of Beamon's weight pressing down on her back, but then realized that had nothing to do with it. The reason she couldn't breathe was that she'd been shot. She was dying.
The police closed in on a Dumpster with the lid thrown open and she saw someone firing a gun from inside, causing small chunks of asphalt to explode around her. She paid no real attention, though, trying to move into a position from which she could see Erin. Since the bullet's impact had nearly lifted her off her feet, she doubted she had much time left.
A hand grasped the collar of her coat and she felt herself being dragged slowly across the wet pavement. A moment later, someone Erin she guessed -- grabbed her wrist and nearly ripped her arm from its socket in his effort to help get her to cover.
Another flash from the Dumpster and Erin toppled forward, landing hard and not moving. The image of his still body sent a surge of adrenaline through her powerful enough to overcome her slow suffocation. She managed to get hold of his coat and crawl on top of him in an effort to protect him from the gunfire.
"Goddamnit, Jenna!" she heard Beamon shout. "Let go! I can't pull you both!"
But she continued to spread herself out across his back as her peripheral vision slowly went blank.
"He shot himself," Fournier said, showing a phenomenal grasp of the obvious as Beamon peered into the Dumpster at the body of Jonas Metzger. His changed appearance and the blood splattered across his face should have made him difficult to identify, but his eyes gave him away. Even staring sightlessly into the dark sky, they had lost none of their fanatical intensity.
"Shit!" Beamon shouted, and kicked the side of the Dumpster. It felt so good that he did it again. And then he found he couldn't stop.
"Mark, are you alright? You should try to
He held up a hand, silencing Fournier, and then limped off toward an ambulance idling in the middle of the parking lot.
The rain had stopped and Jenna was lying face down on a stretcher with a couple of paramedics hovering over her. Erin hadn't been hit as cleanly and was sitting on the wet asphalt a few feet away.
When he spotted Beamon, he jumped to his feet and rushed forward, only stopping when he found himself staring into the barrel of Beamon's pistol.
"You son of a bitch! You knew! You knew that he was going to try to kill us!"
"Not now," Beamon said, looking down at Jenna and feeling a flood of relief when she lifted her head.
"You alright?"
A weak nod.
"I want a fucking explanation," Erin said, his anger overcoming his judgment as he took a step forward.
"Oh, come on, Erin. Teague knows we're all over the tar sands and then suddenly he uses the same front company that owns a building we know about to deliver sinister-sounding lab equipment here? A little obvious, don't you think?"
"So you put us out as bait?"
"Yeah," Beamon said, keeping his gun trained on Erin, who was now shaking with rage. "But I felt bad about it."
Chapter
40.
The pounding on the door matched the pounding in Beamon's head, both in volume and tempo, but instead of getting up, he leaned back in his chair and put his stockinged feet on the bed. The empty bottles from the room's minibar were lined up on the table next to him, starting with bourbon, moving to gin, and ending with vodka. The beer bottles were yet unopened.
Instead of stopping, the banging on the door intensified until it was impossible to ignore.
"It's not locked for Christ's sake! What?"
It was immediately thrown open and Erin stalked into the room with Jenna in tow. He spun her around by the arm and yanked up the back of her shirt. "Have you seen this?"
The bruise was reminiscent of a sunrise, almost black in the middle, radiating out to purple, red, and finally fading to yellow as it passed beneath her bra strap.
"That's a good one," Beamon said, leaning over to fish a beer from the minibar. He held it out to Erin, but the peace offering just made him angrier.
"I notice you're not shot," he said, dropping Jenna's shirt. "What if he'd aimed for her head?"
"Head shots are unreliable. You'd be surprised how often the bullet just deflects off your skull."
"That's it? That's your fucking explanation? Head shots are unreliable?"
"And the part about your skull deflecting them."
Erin lurched forward, but Jenna saw it coming and stood between the two men. "Forget it, Erin. Okay? It doesn't even hurt anymore."
An obvious lie, but told convincingly enough to save Beamon from getting his ass kicked again. He opened the beer in his hand and took a pull. "A few days ago, you were standing around telling me that billions of people are about to die. Today you're complaining about a little bruise. I played the hand I had, Erin."
"You could have told us."
"What would have been the point? You'd have said yes."
Erin opened his mouth to protest, but instead just flopped down on the bed and propped himself against the headboard.
"Are we going home?" Jenna asked, taking a seat in the only other chair in the room. Judging by her expression as she sat, her back not only hurt, it hurt a lot.
"These guys are here, not in the States," Beamon said, feeling a twinge of guilt for hanging them out as targets. Fortunately, it was numbed by the alcohol. "There's nothing left for us at home."
"What about your fiancee and her daughter?"
"You sure I can't interest either of you in a beer?" he said, pretending he hadn't heard. But he could see from Jenna's expression that she wasn't going to let it go.
"On the surface, oil getting cut off sounds so trivial," he started. "But then you sit down and really start thinking about it and . . . I guess I'm not sure what I would say to them. 'Sorry I couldn't figure this thing out, but maybe you'll be one of the lucky ones -- maybe you'd die in the violence and not slowly starve to death.' "