The White Mountain (7 page)

Randall popped open a bag of
potato chips—the plain kind, no frills—and sat down in front of the east-facing
rifle.  He crunched and chewed, keeping one eye locked into the scope as he
trained the crosshairs over the hayfield and up to the tree line.  A large seam
of open ground divided the thin forest like Moses parting the Rea Sea, the bare
strip itself about eighty feet wide.  Underneath the red soil lay a natural gas
line, and he wondered if there was any way he could use that to his advantage. 
Maybe set some traps, drop a stick or two of dynamite down the hole. 

Remotely detonate it. 
Kaboom
. 

Hamburger. 

Nah, too much effort, too
much exposure.  The risk wasn’t worth the reward.  He was safer where he was,
biding his time.  One elimination is all it would take—he’d have a reprieve
from having his name pulled during the next round.

A flicker of movement caught
his eye, sending a tingle down his arms and quickening his heartbeat.

The crow landed on a
fencepost and began preening its feathers.  Randall scoffed at himself for
being so jumpy.

He aligned the crosshairs with
the crow’s breast, mimed a trigger pull and said, “One shot, one kill.”

Before the weakening light
faded any further Randall got up and moved from rifle to rifle, conducting a
sweep of every inch of visible surface, looking for anything that might seem
out of place on the land he’d grown up on.  He knew every tree, every roll in
the fields, every groundhog hole that might cause a broken ankle if he had to
run.  If something were out of place, like a flash of light reflected in a
scope, or the gentle flap of a piece of clothing behind a hay bale, he was
confident he’d be able to spot it.

So far, so good.  Nothing out
of the ordinary, just the simple, dawdling passage of time as Nature went about
its business. 

He decided that he’d have to
keep watch on the north-facing area more than the others.  It provided the most
cover to an advancing entity—the aging, dilapidated barn, the shed, the chicken
coop, the overgrown hog pen, and the steep slope of the hillside dipping down
and out of sight would give anyone with half a brain cell an opportunity to
sneak within thirty yards of the house before they’d be forced to cross an open
expanse of ground.  Under the cover of night, they’d be able to slink from spot
to spot, maybe even make it as far as the second floor stairwell if he weren’t
paying attention.  To further his advantage, he tested the night vision setting
on his scope.  Off, on, off, on. 

Ready to rock. 

Randall sat back in his chair
and crossed his legs, satisfied that everything was in working order and he was
as prepared as he could be.  All he had to do now was wait on one of the others
to make a mistake and he would be one tick closer to
mission accomplished
and a payday that would put him and his family in a comfortable position for
the rest of their lives.  Maybe even Mary and Jimmy, too.

Had agreeing to do this been
worth it?  Would it
be
worth it in the end? 

Randall looked down at his hands,
balled them into fists, stretched them out, and then waggled his trigger finger
to check it for dexterity.  So many kills confirmed from one three-inch long
compilation of flesh, muscle, and bone.  With all of his capabilities, every
way that he knew to turn out the lights on an enemy, his right index finger was
the most dangerous weapon on his body.

He had to trust that his
skills would get him through to the end...just like everyone else vying for the
same prize.

Whichever competitor had
tried to take him out last night was still in the area, and Randall wondered
which one it was and where he could be.  He wouldn’t give up so easily, nor
would any of the other participants.  There was too much at stake. 

Randall thought about who remained
and what type of skills he would be defending himself against.

The Devil Himself, of
course.  Covert espionage specialist.  Practically invisible.  A chameleon. 
Capable of getting close enough to insert an air bubble into a vein from an
empty syringe and possibly the front-yard attacker.

Mein Kampf.  Blonde haired,
blue-eyed beast.  Sluggish, disciplined, guilty of treason.  Hand-to-hand
combat expert.  And given the variety of expertise possessed by the others,
Randall assumed that Mein Kampf wouldn’t last very long when his number was
drawn.

Next was Yankee Doodle. 
Nimble.  Fast.  Ninja-like stealth.

Finally...Geisha.  A
well-rounded, efficient machine of destruction that excelled in every murderous
quality.  And unlike his codename, he was anything but soft and demure.  The
most lethal of the group, he’d accounted for three of the first four kills.

So far, the eliminated
included Blockade, who never made it out of the initial briefing, Old Yeller, Powder
Keg, Shallow Grave, and Krakatoa.

Ten of the deadliest men on
the planet, pitted against each other, in a game of
he who is last, lasts
.

The final victor would get a
chance to match skills with Ares, named for the Greek god of war, who had ruled
the competition since the 1970s. 

And Randall knew nothing
about him. 

As for the rest of the game, Enigma
had offered clues, some minimal leads, just to tease the players and threaten
them with the idea that there was some mythical, ever-watchful eye out there monitoring
their every move, which reminded Randall more of God coming to Earth to enforce
the Ten Commandments than anything.

In order to win, he needed an
advantage.  If he could outlast the others, no matter how long it took, inside
information on Ares was an absolute necessity.  The only thing he’d been able
to figure out was that it was some prominent person in D.C.

Which was why he sent Mary
north, hoping she’d be able to unearth him.  Confident she’d succeed.

Confident she wouldn’t die in
the process.

CHAPTER 7

By 8PM, Mary was exhausted and
battling the most intense pain in her leg that she’d felt in months.  She was
also starving and relieved when Chuck Bailey agreed to meet her for dinner in
Falls Church. 

She’d suggested a
pho
restaurant along Arlington Boulevard, a little hole-in-the-wall place she’d
passed on her way in before checking into her hotel, and now she sat waiting,
looking over the menu.

It was busy in the dining
room.  Every table full of patrons slurping their soups, rattling their
silverware or fumbling with sets of chopsticks as they tried to shovel the
Vietnamese food into their gaping mouths.

Mary settled on #21, the beef
noodle dish, just as a slump-shouldered, late 60s gentleman with a thinning
head of white hair and a rumpled suit slouched through the doorway.  They made
eye contact and she tugged at the hem of the white cotton top she told him
she’d be wearing.

I’ll probably be the only
chick with a cane and a white shirt
,
she’d said.

She waved.  He gave a single
nod of acknowledgment and ambled over to the table, then sat down with a groan,
rubbing his legs.

Mary said, “I take it you’re
Agent Bailey?”

“The one and only,” he said. 
They shook hands.

“Mary Walker.  Thanks for
meeting me on such short notice, sir.”

“Sir? 
Pffft.
  I’m too
old to be reminded of it.  Call me Chuck.”

“You hungry, Chuck?  I’m
buying.”  Mary tried to hand him the menu.

He waved it off, saying, “I
appreciate the offer, but I don’t eat anything I don’t fix myself.  Habit, I
guess.  Too many years in Russia, wondering if the guy across the table slipped
something into your
borscht
.”

“You were a spy?”

“I’ll take the Fifth on that
one,” he said, grinning.  He changed the subject.  “So you and Randall, you’re
family?”

“Married my sister a few
years ago.”

“And you’re happy to claim
him?”

Mary chuckled.  “Yeah, he’s a
good guy.  Done wonders for Alice, and he treats my nephew like a prince.  How
do you two know each other?”

“Too classified to bother
dropping hints.  Probably better it stays like that.”

“Fair enough.”

“What’s he doing these days?”

“Lives on a farm down in
Smythville.  Drives a rig.”  Mary shook her head.  The lie wasn’t
intentional—she’d been so used to the idea of Randall as simply
Randall
that the description was nothing more than an afterthought.  “I mean, no...not
really.”  She fidgeted in her seat, picked up a straw and worried at the paper
with her fingertips.  “He’s in trouble.  Said you might be able to help.  Or
something.  I don’t know.”

He ignored her prompt.  “What
do you do for a living, Miss Mary?”

“Me?  I’m a P.I.  Used to be
a cop until this happened.”  She lifted her cane, gave it a waggle.

“Long story?” Chuck asked.

“Too long.”

He offered a comforting
smile.  “Another time.” 

She liked Chuck.  He had a
gentle way about him.  Grandfatherly with a hint of a Savannah accent masked by
too many years of trying to hide it.  No hurry, assessing the situation, taking
in the details.  But she wasn’t so sure he was the right person to be helping
her out.  Was he too old?  Too kind? 

Neither of which mattered, of
course, if he had what she needed, which was information.

The waiter arrived, took her
order, and scurried off.

Chuck said, “Tell me if I’m
wrong here.  Let me see how much I can guess.”

“Guess?”

“Little game I like to play. 
See how well I can read somebody.”

Mary wasn’t sure what any of
her
history had to do with Randall, but she assumed that Chuck was simply sizing
her up, stuck in his Cold War mindset decades later.  No harm in letting him
exercise his analytical muscles.  “Sure, go for it.”

He lifted a speckled hand and
rubbed at his cheek—rough, dry palms emitting a sandpapery scratch on the day’s
stubble.  “You’re a former cop that now runs her own P.I. company.  You told me
that much, but let’s see...you’re not married.  Mid-thirties.  You don’t take
too many jobs because your pride is still wounded after some jackass ruined
your career.  You do enough just to get by, to pay the bills, but down there
where you live, there’s not much work to be had so it’s a perfect way to hide
from the world without having to put a whole lot of effort into it.”  He
paused, squinted at her.  “Scoot up closer so I can get a better look at you.”

Mary leaned forward.

“
Hmm
... Your mama died
when you were young, so you thought you had to be the protector of the family,
which is why you became a cop.  But it also gave you commitment issues, which
is why you’re not married.  Can’t get attached to something then have it leave,
now can we?  But, you’ve got a live-in boyfriend.  Probably has a job where you
don’t see him much.  Gives you a chance to stay close, but not too close.  What
else?  You probably drive some beat up, old, junk-pile of a car because you
don’t think you deserve anything better, which tells me there’s a whole heap of
self-esteem issues buried in there.  You’ve left that bum leg alone for the
same reason.  Having some doctor fix it—or at least improve it—would take away
the only thing you really like keeping close.”

Mary’s nostrils flared. 
“What’s that?”

“That spoonful of self-pity
you swallow every day.”

Mary sat back in her chair,
dumbfounded.  “You can tell all of that just by looking at me?”  Maybe she was
wrong about him.  Within a few seconds, he’d dissected just about every
psychological issue she’d been dealing with her whole life.  There was
more—stuff that she kept buried and hidden away from the world like everyone
else—but it wouldn’t surprise her if Chuck could reach down inside her and pull
it out, unraveling the threads of her psyche string by string.

Chuck laughed and glanced
around the room.  He patted her arm and said, “Miss Mary, I wish I was that
good.  Just pulling your leg a little.  The good one, that is.  You should’ve
seen the look on your face.  Priceless.  Never a camera around when you need
it.  I got all that from your file, but that’d be a helluva party trick if I
could
do that, huh?”

“Wait,
my
file? 
You’ve got a file on
me
?”

“Trust me, we’ve got a file
on anybody that comes within five feet of The White Mountain.”

***

Mary’s food arrived, but she
was no longer hungry.  She picked at a couple of bites as Chuck waited
patiently for her to respond, hands folded in his lap.  Subtle smile at one
corner of his mouth.  She pushed her bowl away, wondering what she had let
Randall talk her into.  She crossed her arms and leaned over the table,
whispering, “Then I suppose you know why I’m here.”

“Yes and no.”