Blood List (26 page)

Can't go to the hospital. Can't go to the cops. Got to get a hold of Gene.
She looked down at the GPS navigation system and snarled. There was no way to tell if "off" was off enough.
Got to ditch this deathtrap.

Now that she had calmed down a little, her shoulder hurt like hell, but it wasn't bleeding much. She had no idea where the duct tape or the washcloth went, probably in the hallway outside her apartment, with her purse.

She pulled into an alley and killed the engine. Tears burst from her eyes as sobs wracked her body.
Get going, Sammy-girl. Get going.

February 3rd, 4:24 AM PST; Skyline College; San Bruno, California.

Skyline College dominated a hill that overlooked the south end of Daly City. Paul Renner sat on the back of a stolen Yamaha FZ6 motorcycle and surveyed the modern campus with a pair of stolen binoculars. Military personnel swarmed everywhere, even at this hour. They walked in and out of every building on campus, using every available inch of space as a bivouac.

From this staging ground, they maintained roadblocks all along the southern edge of the greater San Francisco metropolitan area. Standing orders were to shoot anyone attempting to break the roadblocks as well as anyone out after curfew. Helicopters patrolled the mountains, their searchlights flashing up and down gullies and over ridges.

A large truck blocked both lanes of the main access road, flares ringing it on both sides. He counted six men on patrol, all with radios. They looked tired, but there were six of them and nowhere to hide. A group of white, heavily windowed buildings sat off a quarter of a mile on the right. San Bruno Mountain towered in the distance, while behind him the little town of Pacifica sparkled beside the ocean for which it was named. Patrols ran every few minutes, spread out like a spider web from Skyline College.

He swore under his breath. He couldn't get to Emile Frank if he couldn't get to D.C. He couldn't get to D.C. if he couldn't get off the peninsula, and he couldn't get off the peninsula without a military uniform. There was no way in hell he could steal one from the campus. It looked like someone had kicked an anthill full of men in gray camouflage. Even as he watched, a helicopter came in, landed, and disgorged eight soldiers.

He was stuck. If they saw him, he'd be dead.
Nobody outruns a radio.
He weighed his options and took the moment of reprieve to chew on a granola bar stolen from the nearby Hess station. He made a decision, then backpedaled the bike with his feet.

Paul coasted down the hill without putting any throttle to the motor, took a slow left onto Sharp Park Road, and killed the engine. He dismounted and let the bike fall in the middle of the intersection. He grabbed his duffel bag and walked into the small copse of trees in the park across the street. It was too dark to completely make out the sign, but oddly enough it wasn't Sharp Park. In the darkness he sat and felt through the bag, grabbing and sorting the components he needed. The cool metal under his fingers comforted him while he fitted together pieces of the sniper rifle. In less than a minute, he finished assembling the weapon, complete with a suppressor. Silencers were no good on a .50-cal because the bullets travel faster than the speed of sound, but Paul used a special subsonic load with hollow-point bullets. From thirty feet away they'd make big, big holes in people, and there'd be almost no report.

Paul went prone, popped up the legs on the rifle, closed his eyes, and listened. After a few minutes he was rewarded by the sound of an engine. He left his eyes closed until the headlights swept down the hill and past his position. He snapped them open. As he had hoped, a jeep carrying two men screeched to a halt in the middle of the intersection, narrowly missing the motorcycle.

Paul eyed them through the green glare of the night vision scope. The man riding shotgun got out, unslung his assault rifle and eyed the low wall that separated the college campus from the surrounding land. Behind him, the driver got out and circled the other side of the jeep. His head evaporated in a puff of red mist, and he dropped behind the car.

Paul chambered the next round as the second soldier turned. The man squinted to block out the glare of the headlights and called out to his squad-mate.
You don't even know you're dead.
Paul exhaled, then pulled the trigger again. He was up and running before the body hit the ground.

Paul dragged the bodies across the road and dumped them in the same spot he had used for the ambush. The motorcycle went with them. He couldn't do anything about the blood in the road, but the sun wouldn't rise for another few hours, and the darkness might give him the time he needed. Five minutes after he'd fired his first shot he pulled away in the jeep, dressed in the US Army uniform of Nigel Barrett, PFC.

Paul pulled up to the roadblock on Highway One. A massive convoy truck blocked the road and the entire shoulder on the left-hand side. The right-hand side had no shoulder, just a guardrail and a cliff leading hundreds of feet down to the ocean. Soldiers looked down at him from the truck. He reached up and handed them Barrett's papers. As one of the soldiers spoke into the radio, Paul drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Nobody seemed eager to strike up a conversation.

Ten seconds went by, then twenty.
Maybe this wasn't such a great disguise.
After almost a full minute, Paul wondered if it might not be a better idea to jump out of the jeep, dive a hundred or so feet into the ocean, and take his chances with the sharks.

He covered a sigh of relief when the trooper handed back the manila envelope. He muttered a "Thank you" and tossed the papers on the passenger seat. The truck's engine started with the annoying, repeated beep of heavy vehicles everywhere. Moments later the road in front of him was clear, and he was on his way south. He cut north in Santa Clara.

Two hours later Paul Renner was most of the way to Sacramento in a stolen Chevy Corsica. He couldn't fly with the manhunt for Harold Trubb in full swing, and he'd have to watch his back, but that was an inconvenience he could live with.

He looked at the map from the glove box. If he took Route 80 across the country to New York State, he could cut through Pennsylvania on Route 15 and be in D.C in less than five days if he obeyed the speed limit. Sometimes, it paid to follow the law.

February 3rd, 5:00 AM PST; Sunny Valley Super-9 Motel; San Francisco, California.

The alarm clock sprang to life with a newsman's deep, somber voice, shocking Gene into abrupt and unwelcome wakefulness. KSJO radio, though a modern rock station, was given over entirely to coverage of the impending nuclear threat.

"—at least seventeen dead by current estimates, all as a result of last night's rioting. Car-by-car searches on the bridges have brought traffic to a standstill, and even minor roads are backed up for miles with anxious residents trying to leave town.

"Angry protesters are questioning the administration's decision to search every evacuating vehicle, but FEMA spokesperson Nora Faulkner insists that containing the threat and apprehending the terrorists is the administration's highest priority. We turn to Elliott Marshall of NBC News for more. Elliott?"

Gene stretched and every muscle complained. He yawned as Elliott Marshall took over.

"Thank you, John. Rioting and civil unrest are now minimal. Many police and civilians were injured overnight, and two policemen have been confirmed killed as authorities struggled to restore order. FEMA has assured NBC News that military convoys will keep essential supplies such as food and medicine flowing into the peninsula and that there is no need to stockpile food or other supplies. Drop sites include hospitals, police stations, the old military base at the Presidio, and National Guard depots.

"If you run out of food or medical supplies, go to w-w-w dot FEMA dot gov, slash, San Francisco, all one word, dot h-t-m-l to find the closest supply depot, or call 911. Residents of the affected cities are advised not to go to grocery stores, as some store owners have taken to shooting at those who approach, fearing—"

The men droned on for a few minutes about the lockdown and the ensuing civil unrest. "The manhunt for Aryan Ascendancy ringleaders Harold Trubb and Jim Palenti continues. The Department of Homeland Security is offering a one million dollar reward for information leading to the arrest of either of these men, and a ten million dollar reward for the recovery of the nuclear warhead. If you have any information regarding the whereabouts of these men, or any members of the Aryan Ascendancy, call 911, or on the web, go to w-w-w dot DHS dot gov and click on the link in the upper-right corner."

Gene turned off the radio and looked over at Carl.

Carl looked up from the floor and met his eyes. "I think we're screwed, Gene." They both looked over at Doug, who nodded in agreement.

"Even so," Gene said, "we need to get to Gabrielle's. We've lost too much time already." He picked up his COM from the nightstand, put it in his ear, and spoke. "Sam?"

For the first time since he started working with her, she didn't reply. He tried again. "Sam?"

A sonorous male voice answered. "Ms. Greene called in sick today, Agent Palomini. This is Agent Johnson. What can I do for you?"

Called in sick? Sam almost never left work, much less called in sick, and would have called him if she had.
He looked at his phone. Nothing. "Um, nothing. I just wanted to ask her a question." He cut the connection and pulled the COM out of his ear.

He used his cell phone to call Sam's apartment. After twenty rings the machine hadn't picked up. He hung up and tried her cell, with the same result. He called the FBI's main number and spoke to the receptionist. The connection was terrible; there was a lot of noise on the line. "This is Special Agent Gene Palomini. Can you patch me through to A.D. Adams' home, please?"

"Hold, please," she said. The phone beeped in his ear.

Adams' voice was hard to recognize through the static. "Hello?"

"Bernard? This is Gene Palomini. What's going on?"

"Gene? Where are you? Sam said you'd flown to San Francisco. Are you still there? Are you in the lockdown zone?"

"You've spoken to her? I tried her at home and couldn't get through." Gene's voice was full of worry.

"I haven't. I'm just working on the report from yesterday. Are you in San Francisco?" Adams' voice was tight, his words clipped. It wasn't normal.

Gene's reply was guarded, "Not exactly, but in the area."

"Where precisely?" Gene raised an eyebrow at Doug.

"I'm not sure exactly. We're on the road somewhere at a little motel."

"What motel? What's the number there?" Visions of helicopter strike teams danced in his head.

"Um, Lucky Seven in Cupertino," Gene lied. "Um, I'd have to go get the number; it's not on the phone here in the room." Doug and Carl gave him odd looks.

"Are Goldman and Brent with you?" 

"Yeah, they're right here. What—?"

"Put Agent Goldman on the phone, please." It was clearly an order.

"Um, okay, but I have a question first." Gene mouthed to Doug,
he wants you.

"Just put him on, Agent Palomini," Adams said.

"Okay, but he's not feeling well." Gene stalled. Doug held out his hand.

Adams' tone of voice brooked no argument. "I'm ordering you to give Agent Goldman the phone, Agent Palomini.
Now
." Gene handed the phone to Doug.

Doug took the phone. "This is Agent Goldman."

Gene could hear the voice on the other end, but not what he said.

Doug mumbled an okay, rose slowly from the couch, and stumbled his way into the bathroom. He closed the door.

Once inside the bathroom, Doug spoke into the phone. "Done." The tile chilled his bare feet, and he was in no mood for games.

"Is Palomini listening?" Something in Adams' voice didn't sound right.

Doug opened the door softly, stepped back into the living room, and looked at Gene with wide eyes. "Um, no. He's not listening."

He held the earpiece away from his head so that the sound would project into the room. "I need you to take Agent Palomini into custody."

"That's preposterous. You and I both know—"

"Doug, I don't care what you think you know. We have it on very good authority that Palomini and Palenti are the same man." Gene's jaw dropped as he looked at the phone in Doug's hand. "You will—"

Doug interrupted him. "Pardon my French, but that's the dumbest fucking thing I've heard in my entire life, sir. I've spent almost every waking moment with Gene in the past two weeks, and most days in his presence for several years before that. Even if he is a racist bastard, which he isn't, he wouldn't have time to run some skinhead group or plan a nuclear attack. Sam's been tracking our movements for years, ask her. It's simply not possible."

Adams didn't say anything for a few seconds. When he spoke, his voice was cold and authoritarian. "Agent Goldman, my hands are tied, and so are yours. I'm ordering you to place Gene Palomini into FBI custody and transport him to the San José International Airport, where you will turn him over to Department of Homeland Security for processing. Agent Brent will assist you." Carl shook his head.

Doug didn't even try to keep the sarcasm from his voice. "I don't think that sounds like a good idea, Director. He's probably armed and dangerous."

"Of course he's armed and dangerous!" Adams hollered.

Now Doug was sure of it. Adams was born in Texas and had moved to northern Ohio when he was young, but had never fully outgrown his Southern accent. The man on the phone had emphasized the "r" in armed, and hadn't drawled the "a" like Adams would have.