Day Of Wrath (44 page)

“To Ibrahim?” Farrell guessed.

“I think so.”

“He’s smart enough. And tough enough,” Farrell said slowly.

“But what I don’t understand is why he’d run a smuggling operation of any kind—let alone one involving a Russian nuke!

Caraco’s a multibillion-dollar corporation, which means Ibrahim personally has to be worth at least a few hundred mil.”

“Maybe the money’s not enough,” Peter said. “Or maybe money was never the real objective—just a means to an end. This end.”

Helen jumped in. “We can leave finding the motive up to the U.S. attorney’s office, Sam.” She frowned. “I think Peter’s right.

From what you’ve told us, Caraco is practically Ibrahim’s personal fiefdom. I doubt Wolf could run such a huge show without his knowledge-or consent.”

“Yeah. That makes sense.” Farrell turned back to Peter.

“Which still leaves us with a problem. How do you propose divvying up the assignments for this little shindig you’re planning?”’

“I think that falls out pretty logically,” Helen said, after a rapid glance at Peter. “You’ve got a cell phone, don’t you?”

Farrell nodded. He patted his jacket pocket. “Last year’s Christmas gift from Louisa. I don’t like the damned thing, but she wants to keep tabs on me when I’m out of the house.”

“So that plus Mcdowell’s binoculars makes you the lookout,” Peter said. “Between your Beretta and this”—he hefted the
SIG
P228 he was still pointing at the white-faced Mcdowell— “Helen and I shouldn’t have much problem persuading Herr Wolf to listen to reason.”

Seeing Farrell starting to look stubborn, Helen laid a hand on his arm.

“Please, Sam. Let Peter and me do this. This was our fight first.”

She left the other reason she wanted to leave the general behind as their watcher carefully unspoken. No matter how Peter tried to dress it up, what he’d proposed was actually a lot closer to kidnapping than to any recognized form of lawful arrest. If things went wrong, she wanted to build as big a firewall between Louisa Farrell’s good-hearted husband and their actions as she possibly could.

Farrell looked down at the ground for several seconds before raising his eyes to meet theirs again. “All right, I’ll stay put and keep watch.” He handed over his pistol and nodded toward Mcdowell.

“What about this little shit? Does he stay with me, or go with you?”

“He comes with us,” Helen heard herself say tightly. She glared at her nemesis. “I want to be right there when Mr. Mcdowell meets his real employer face-to-face for the first time.”

Mcdowell turned even paler.

JUNE
18

Just Off Route 50, Near Middleburg, Virginia (D
MINUS
3)

It was nearly one in the morning. Despite the hour, Reichardt sat rigidly upright in the front passenger seat of his Caraco owned Chrysler Lebaron. He stared out at the blackened landscape blurring past without seeing any of it—not the dark masses of trees stabbing up toward the star-speckled night sky, or the occasional, isolated flicker of light that marked a human habitation.

Ostensibly, Ibrahim had summoned him to Middleburg for a conference to discuss minor revisions to the Operation. In reality, Reichardt knew the Saudi prince wanted to vent his displeasure over his failure to trap and eliminate the four Americans-Thorn, Gray, Farrell, and Mcdowell—as promised.

Mcdowell. The German felt his jaw tighten. The
FBI
traitor had obviously tipped his hand somehow.

Reichardt grimaced. He’d thought about eliminating Mcdowell earlier but he’d needed the information given him by the American to keep track of Thorn and Gray. And now that had all gone wrong. Perhaps he’d made a mistake in allowing Mcdowell to live this long.

Johann Brandt, his closest aide and bodyguard, spun the wheel, turning onto the narrow, two-lane road that eventually ran past Ibrahim al Saud’s sprawling Virginia estate. The road wound up and down over a chain of gentle, rolling hills and then cut through a dense, dark stretch of forest.

“We’re being followed, sir,” Brandt said suddenly, with a quick glance at the rearview mirror.

Reichardt felt that shiver run down his spine again. Too many of his carefully laid plans had gone astray these past few days. He was beginning to lose faith in his own cunning and powers of calculation.

“Are you sure?” he demanded.

Brandt nodded. “It’s the same car. It turned off the highway after us. And now it’s drawing closer.”

Reichardt had noticed the headlights behind them gleaming in the sideview mirrors from time to time, but he’d discounted them. Many of the high-priced lawyers, lobbyists, and corporate executives who made their homes in this area were famed for working inhumanly late hours.

“How far are we from the estate?” he asked.

“Four or five miles.”

Too far. Reichardt craned his head around, trying to catch a glimpse of the car that was following them. Nothing. Just the glare of the headlights. He narrowed his eyes against the dazzling light.

A new light blinked into existence—this one on top of the car pursuing them. Red and blue flashes strobed against the darkness, flickering against the tangled woods on either side of the road.

“The police?” Reichardt murmured, more to himself than to Brandt.

Why? What had they done wrong?

“Should I evade them?” the other man asked, hunched forward over the steering wheel now.

Reichardt shook his head. They were on an isolated country road—far from the useful camouflage of the noise, chaos, and confusion of city streets. The chances of successfully evading a police pursuit were nil. And Ibrahim would not thank him for drawing so much unwelcome official attention so close to the Arab’s own home.

Perhaps Brandt had been speeding, or had fallen afoul of some minor technicality in the state’s arcane traffic laws. It didn’t really matter. “Pull over, Johann,” he instructed. “We shall play the poor lost German tourists, accept our ticket or warning with good grace, and then proceed.”

Obedient as ever, Brandt braked gently and then brought the Lebaron to a full stop on the narrow shoulder. He tapped the button to roll down the driver’s side window. Driven by a soft, whispering breeze, the cool night air rushed in-carrying with it the scent of pine and damp moss.

The police car pulled in behind them, its single roof-mounted light still flashing.

“Step out of the car! The driver first! And keep your hands where I can see them!” a commanding male voice barked.

Reichardt frowned. This wasn’t the procedure for a routine traffic stop, was it?

He nodded briefly to Brandt, signaling the other man to obey.

Perhaps the Virginia police were more cautious on such roads at night.

Certainly, there wasn’t any point in being spooked into foolish resistance to the authorities—not when Caraco’s lawyers could smooth out any minor misunderstandings.

Brandt popped the door open, put one foot on the ground, and then froze as another voice yelled out, “It’s a trap, Wolf! Run!”

They heard the sound of a muffled blow.

Mcdowell! The scales fell from Reichardt’s eyes in one sickening instant. Thorn and that damned woman were coming for him! He snatched his leather briefcase off the floor and whirled toward Brandt. “Kill them!”

Thorn saw the Lebaron’s driver throw himself headlong through the open door and roll frantically across the road—trying to get out of the light and into cover. Flame stabbed out of the pistol in the other man’s hand as he fired while still rolling.

The Ford’s windshield shattered. Fragments of safety glass cascaded across him.

Damn it. Thorn folded sideways—out of the line of fire. He grabbed for the passenger side door handle.

“Wolf dropped out the other side!” Helen warned him. “He’s in the woods!” She already had the right rear passenger door open and Farrell’s 9mm drawn.

“Got it.” Thorn shoved the door open and rolled out onto the gravel-strewn shoulder—staying prone close to the car. “You take him.

I’ll take the driver!”

Another round slammed into the Ford, smashing through one of the side windows and out through the roof in a shower of torn metal and fiberglass. Helen dropped onto the ground right behind him—leaving a moaning Mcdowell slumped over in the back seat.

They had been too confident they had the
FBI
traitor under control, Thorn realized. Despite the risk involved if they’d been stopped by the police themselves, they ought to have tied Mcdowell up. Well, it’ll serve the little bastard right if a stray bullet hits him, Thorn thought coldly.

With a quick nod, Helen sprinted into the trees—careful to stay low.

Keeping the car between her and the unseen gunman, she angled off in the direction Wolf had taken and disappeared into the darkness and dense undergrowth.

Thorn yanked the
SIG
P228 out of the shoulder holster he’d appropriated from the
FBI
agent, spun around, and crawled rapidly toward the back of the Taurus.

A split second before he got there, another round ripped through the right rear tire, sprayed dirt and gravel in all directions as it hit the ground, and then ricocheted away into the forest. Thorn rolled away from the can-into the brush and tall grass bordering the road.

Jesus. If he’d moved a little faster, his head would have been right in the line with that bullet.

Wolf’s driver was good—maybe too good.

Thorn edged even further back and then belly-crawled to his left snaking away from the two parked cars while staying parallel to the road. He stopped beside a small boulder that lay half buried amid the weeds. With his pistol out and braced in both hands, he studied the black, forbidding treeline on the other side-his ears cocked for the slightest sound, the first indication of any movement.

All sounds trailed away. Even Mcdowell’s Low, sobbing groans had faded to nothing.

Questions about the man he was facing raced through Thorn’s mind as he lay absolutely still, trying to blend with the boulder and the shadows.

Was Wolf’s driver a former soldier used to fighting in wooded country?

Or was he a former Stasi thug more at ease in an urban setting?

There was only one way to find out, he told himself. He felt through the grass for a good-sized rock, found one, and then lobbed it skyward with one quick overhand grenade toss. The rock sailed high, arcing toward the two lit-up cars. It bounced off the hood of the Ford and rolled off into the brush.

The gunman reacted immediately—firing twice in rapid succession.

Both shots caromed off the car’s engine block.

Strike one, Thorn thought grimly. Without hesitating further, he scrambled to his feet and raced across the road and into the woods beyond. He circled warily through the trees—listening intently and checking every footfall for the branch or twig that might trip him up, or snap and alert the man he was hunting.

Metal clinked on rock close by.

Thorn froze in place. He was nearing the road again—within yards of the spot where he’d seen muzzle flashes stabbing out of the blackness.

Wolf’s driver hadn’t changed position after firing or at least not by much. Strike two.

He could almost sense the gunman’s growing uneasiness now.

Every small sound—every bird flitting from branch to branch, every small animal skittering through the brush, every stray breeze rustling through the leaves—must be gnawing away at the other man’s resolution and confidence.

Moving slowly and with infinite patience, Thorn put his back against the trunk of the closest tree, a stunted scrub pine, and slid around it. His eyes were fully adjusted to the darkness now.

Bingo.

He could just barely make out the man-sized shape crouched behind a moss-covered boulder about five yards away. The gunman had found a good piece of cover against someone firing from the other side of the road. A breeze stirred the trees above them, momentarily parting the leafy canopy that hid the night sky. Starlight gleamed off the barrel of the other man’s pistol.

Thorn considered his options. If this were a combat situation, he could just put a couple of rounds into the gunman’s back, make sure he was down for good, and move on after Wolf himself. But this case was a whole lot murkier. He and Helen were operating well outside the law.

Shooting without warning would probably constitute murder. He shook his head—he couldn’t just dry-gulch the guy, not under these circumstances. ;Anyway, they needed captives to question—not corpses.

Too bad.

Thorn took a fast, shallow breath, and then let it out. He took one step closer with the pistol braced in a twohanded shooting grip.

Now.

“Drop the gun or you’re dead!” he barked.

For a split second, Thorn thought the other man would obey the order.

He was wrong.

Instead, Wolf’s man spun around, frantically trying to bring his own weapon to bear. Flame blossomed in the darkness. A bullet tore into the tree trunk just above Thorn’s head.

Strike three.

Thorn squeezed the trigger three times—pushing the barrel back on line between each shot. Two rounds hit the gunman squarely in the chest.

The third hit him in the head. The man slumped to the ground with one arm still draped across the boulder.

Half blinded and with his ears still ringing from the closerange gunfire, Thorn moved forward and dropped to one knee beside the man he’d shot. He felt for a pulse. Just a faint, spasmodic flutter.

and then nothing.

He grimaced. “Shit!”

Suddenly Thorn felt the air stir as someone charged up behind him.

Christ! He swung around with his right arm raised as a block. Too late.

Something heavy and hard glanced off his arm and smashed into his skull. Pain flared—white-hot and blindingly bright. Thorn slipped down into blackness.

The abrupt flurry of gunshots in the middle distance startled Reichardt. He’d been heading through the forest as fast as he could while trying to move silently. From time to time, he’d stopped—listening desperately for any sounds of pursuit. He’d heard none.

Were both Americans going after Brandt? It seemed almost too much to hope for. Johann Brandt was a man of somewhat limited imagination, but he was utterly loyal and fearless.