Authors: J.D. Rhoades
Phillips almost told her what a ridiculous waste is was to have one person driving such an enormous vehicle, but he held his tongue. He tried to leave few memories of himself behind as he moved toward an assignment. He took the keys and thanked the rental agent. As she walked him out to the vehicle, she gestured at the rifle case. “Doing some hunting?” she said.
“Thought I might, yes,” he said.
Her brow wrinkled. “But wait a sec. Deer season doesn’t start till September. That’s a month off.”
“Oh dear,” he said, “I must have been misinformed.”
***
When they reached the parking area, Lisa brushed the pine needles and leaves off the window of the old pickup. She fished a set of keys out from beneath the front seat. “Hey, buddy,” she said to Ben, tossing the keys in the air and catching them deftly. “You want to ride with me?”
Ben looked at Marie. “Can I, Mom?”
She looked reluctant for a minute, the glanced at Keller. “Yeah,” she said. “Sure.”
They headed back out on the old logging road. Keller drove the Crown Vic, with Lisa and Ben following behind. They were silent most of the way. Marie looked out the window, chewing at her lip.
As they approached the area of the cabin, Riggio called them to a halt. “We’d better go check it out,” he said. “Make sure we don’t have any unwanted company.”
Keller nodded. Powell and Riggio fetched their weapons from the trunk and slipped off into the woods. Keller got out and sat on the hood. He lit a cigarette. Marie came up and sat beside him. “Jack,” she began, then stopped.
He looked at her. “What?”
“I’m scared.”
“Yeah,” Keller said. He slipped an arm around her shoulders. “So am I.”
“When we get to the cabin,” she said, “are you still going after him? After DeGroot?”
“Yeah.”
She reached up and took his chin in her hand. Slowly she turned his face toward her until she was looking into his eyes.
“Jack,” she said, her voice shaking a little, “I want you to find him. And I want you to do anything you have to do to stop him. Anything.”
Keller looked back at her steadily. Her eyes were fierce and unyielding. “You know what that could mean,” he said.
“Yeah, Jack,” she said. “I do. I wouldn’t ask you to do it for me. But that bastard tried to kill my son.”
“I know,” Keller said. “Don’t worry. I’ll find him.”
She kissed him. “I know,” she said.
Riggio was back. “All clear,” he said. “Come on ahead.”
Keller pulled out of the long gravel driveway onto the hardtop road. The shotgun rode upright in its rack beside him. He snapped on the radio and began seeking through stations, looking for a news-talk station.
He finally found one, even though the reception was shaky and faded in and out. Next he flipped on the police scanner slung beneath the dashboard. He adjusted the volume of each of the radios until they were roughly equal and just below the threshold of his immediate conscious attention. If something relevant came over the air-waves, he knew from experience, his subconscious would pick it up and alert him. He drove as if on autopilot, paying barely enough attention to keep the car from plunging into the chasms on one side or scraping the rock faces that loomed above. Most of his mind was concentrated on the hunt.
Most men on the run seek safety in the familiar—old haunts, old girlfriends, old acquaintances. That made them easy to find. DeGroot offered none of these. He was a stranger in a strange land. But that gave Keller another angle to work. DeGroot would stand out. His accent would mark him. So would the fact that he was traveling alone in an area where most strangers traveled in groups of families or friends. The only difficult question would be where to start.
Something on the radio caught the edge of his hearing. He turned the news station up. Authorities were seeking the arrest of a man who had escaped after attacking and killing several FBI agents in a gun battle at a Blue Ridge Parkway overlook.
Gun battle, Keller thought. There was no mention of explosives. Interesting.
The announcer went on to state that the FBI was seeking the arrest of a South African national for involvement in the murders. However, the announcer stressed, the FBI was not considering this an act of terrorism.
Trying to keep the panic down, Keller thought. Or maybe, he thought more cynically, they just won’t call it terrorism if white guys do it. He turned the radio back down and returned to his thoughts. A man on the run needed things. Gasoline. Food. Rest.
Keller decided to head back to the Parkway exit near where he had last encountered DeGroot. If the man had decided to wait until he reached one of the bigger towns like the college town of Boone, he knew the trail would probably turn cold. But if DeGroot’s need had been sufficient to risk the smaller towns, there might be some hope. He’d check along the highways and in some of the smaller communities. The fear in him was gone. The uncertainly and worry was gone. All Keller felt was the eerie combination of adrenaline and mental calm that accompanied the hunt.
***
“This,” DeGroot said as he laid a silver cylinder on the table, “is what we’re looking for.”
They were crowded into the tiny hotel room. DeGroot was seated at the table, with Caldwell seated at the only other chair. Holley was reclined on the bed, his legs crossed at the ankles. Patrick and Phillips leaned against the walls.
“What the hell is it?” Patrick asked.
Caldwell answered for him. “USB flash drive,” he said. “You stick it in a computer. Holds a lot of data.”
“So where’s the money?” Holley said.
“In a bank in Indonesia,” DeGroot said. “At least that’s what my source told me.”
“And this source was reliable, I trust,” Phillips said in his quiet, precise voice.
DeGroot nodded. “He wasn’t going to lie to me. Not then.”
“Wait a minute,” Patrick spoke up. “No one said anything about going to fucking Indonesia.”
DeGroot sighed. He reminded himself that Patrick had been selected for his capacity for violence, not his intelligence. Before he could explain, Holley spoke up.
“We don’t need to go to Indonesia,” he said. “At least not in person. All we need’s a computer and a Net connection. And that little gizmo right there.” He looked at DeGroot. “Unless I’m mistaken, that there is the key to the vault, right?”
“One of them,” DeGroot confirmed. “My former associates have the other one.”
Patrick clearly still didn’t understand, and it was making him angry. His jaw clenched and he began opening and closing his fists. Holley grinned at him.
“That money’s everywhere, dude,” he drawled, “and nowhere. All at once.”
“Stop baiting him, Holley,” DeGroot snapped. He turned to Patrick. “With both keys,” he explained patiently, “we can go online. With the crypto…with the codes on these keys, we can get into the computers of the bank where the money is.”
“And get them to send the money anywhere in the world,” Caldwell said.
Holley nodded. “Slick.”
Comprehension dawned on Patrick’s face. “So where are these guys?” Patrick asked.
“First,” said Caldwell, “I want to know who they are.”
DeGroot had considered not telling them, but had finally decided they needed to know the truth. “A pair of Special Forces soldiers. Deltas.”
Holley sat up. “Whoa. Whoa. We’re going up against those guys?”
“So fucking what?” Patrick sneered. “Those cocksuckers aren’t as tough as they think they are. They got their asses kicked in Somalia. By a bunch of fucking savages.”
“Took a few thousand fucking savages to do it,” Caldwell said glumly.
“There are only two, yes?” Phillips said.
“They may have another pair with them,” DeGroot said. “A man and a woman. But they’re amateurs.” He glanced at Caldwell and decided not to mention the child. Caldwell was a family man, DeGroot knew, and he already looked dubious. “I don’t believe they have any heavy weapons,” he said. “Which is where Mr. Caldwell comes in. You brought the items I requested?”
Caldwell nodded.
“Awright,” Holley said. “I get to blow shit up!”
“Thought you’d like that, bru,” DeGroot said.
“So where’s this party at?” Patrick asked.
DeGroot unrolled a map on the table. “There’s a cabin on the edge of the national park boundary,” he began.
“Naw,” the old man behind the counter said. “Ain’t seen nobody like ’at.”
The roadside store was tiny, with a pair of rusting gas pumps out front. Fishing lures and other small items hung from a pegboard behind the battered sales counter. A drinks cooler with a cracked front glass rattled and wheezed at Keller’s elbow.
“Thanks anyway,” Keller said. He took out one of his business cards and laid it on the counter. “If he turns up,”
Keller said, “I’d appreciate it if you’d call and let me know. My cell phone number’s on there.”
The old man looked at the card on the table distaste-fy, as if Keller had laid a fresh turd there. “You a bail bondsman?” he said. “What’s this feller s’posed to’ve done?”
Keller read the suspicion and the skepticism in the man’s voice. This was not a place, he realized, where law enforcement, even unofficial law enforcement like himself, had ever been much welcomed.
“It’s not a bail matter,” Keller said. “This guy tried to kill a friend of mine.”
The old man’s eyes brightened a little at that. Personal vengeance was something closer to his heart. He picked up the card and stuffed it in a pocket in his creased overalls.
“Awright,” he said. “I’ll keep an eye peeled.”
“Thanks,” Keller said. “And let me have a pack of Marlboros.” The old man reached up and pulled a pack down from the plastic rack that hung over the counter.
“You catch this fella,” he asked casually, “you aim to bring him in to the law?”
“Guess that depends on him,” Keller said as he handed the money across.
The man grinned, revealing several missing teeth. “I heard that,” he said. “Good luck, now. And have a nice day.”
“You, too.” Keller walked out and got in the car. He punched the lighter and tapped a cigarette out of the pack.
He sighed. This was getting him nowhere. He had ruled out the tourist traps peddling gimcracks like flimsy Taiwan-made “Indian” dolls. Even so, there were dozens of places DeGroot could have stopped for gas or food, assuming he needed to stop at all. It was easy to disappear into these mountains, even for a man traveling the roads. He needed some way to narrow his search.
The police scanner crackled on the edge of his hearing. He leaned forward and turned it up. The dispatcher spoke in the harsh mountain twang that made a jarring contrast to the familiar cop talk.
“All units, be on th’ lookout,” the voice said, “fer a 2004 Tiyota four bah four, Tenn’see license MJH 4490, ref’rince stolen vee-hicle, in conjunction with homicide at Folger’s Gap campground on the Parkway. Approach subject with caution.”
Keller reached up above the visor and pulled out the Parkway map he had bought at one of his roadside stops.
The Folger’s Gap campground was only a few miles from the overlook where DeGroot had escaped. The radio crackled again. “Dispatch,” a laconic voice said. “10-21
Highway Patrol reference that Toyota. I think they got a 10-78 on ’at one near Banner Elk.”
Keller started the car.
***
They stood silently looking down at the map. The plan seemed simple enough. “Any questions?” DeGroot asked. There were none. “Tell it back to me, then.” He looked at Patrick. “You.”
“Markey and I take the front,” Patrick said promptly.
“If we can get close enough without being seen, we force entry. If not, we suppress.”
Caldwell spoke up. “DeGroot and I take the thumper out back,” he said, using the slang term for his weapon of choice, the grenade launcher. “If there’s a back door and we can get to it undetected, we force entry. If not, we use the thumper or the LAW.”
“I ingress first,” Phillips said. “I start by taking out anything in this tower. Then I move to provide overwatch from this tree line.” He ran his finger along the edge of the forested area on the left side of the clearing. “I aid in suppressing fire coming from inside the house, and mop up any strays outside.” He looked at DeGroot. “I’d feel better if there was a bit of higher ground. The way the terrain slopes away from the house, I’m always firing uphill.”
“I’ll be sure to ring you up a nice hillside,” DeGroot said. “Any other questions?” He looked around. Again there was no answer. “Fixed up, then. Everyone grab a quick graze. There’s a café down the road. We leave right after.”
***
Keller hit pay dirt in a tiny café in one of the valley towns.
“Sure,” the plump girl behind the counter said. “Big feller. Short hair, talked foreign. I think he was from Germany or someplace.”
Keller sipped at the wretched coffee and tried not to show his excitement. “He say where he was going?”