The White Mountain (8 page)

“Is Randall a threat to
national security or something?”

“
National
security? 
Well, I don’t know about national, per se.  This thing he’s involved in, it’s
more a matter of
whose
security.”

“Senator Kemper?”

Chuck frowned and shook his
head.  “Kemper?  Why would he be involved?”

“Randall told me this crazy
story about catching Senator Kemper in bed with a transvestite and the
ambassador to South Korea.  He thinks that’s why this group of killers is
coming after him.”

Chuck threw his head back and
let out a great, bellowing laugh. 

“Why’s that funny?”

“Sorry, it’s just—I can’t
tell you how many people wish that Kemper had something like that in his
closet.  But as far as I know, and unfortunately for the gaggle of scumbags
that have been looking for years, Kemper’s one of the cleanest suits we’ve got
walking the halls up here.”

She spat out her next
question.  “So you’re saying this has nothing to do with Kemper?”

“It’d be news to me if it
did.”

Mary’s internal temperature
rose as her anger simmered.  Not only had Randall lied to her, but she’d been
dumb enough, and trusting enough, to believe him.  Why had he lied?  Why had he
sent her here with such a ridiculous pretense?  To get her out of the way? 

She resisted the urge to get
up and hobble out the door, to immediately speed home, find Randall, and punch
him.  She was five hours away from being able to help protect her family, or
maybe even further if Randall had lived up to his promise to get them someplace
safe.

And that was supposing there
was some sort of danger to protect them from.

What if the whole goddamn
story was a lie?  What if he’d actually murdered the man in the coop and this
was some well-crafted plan to get her out of the way while he smoothed things
over?

No, not Randall.  As pissed
as she was, she refused to believe it.  He may have been a liar, but he wasn’t
a murderer.  He’d killed before, under orders, and would likely have to again
if he were being hunted, but just plain
murder
?  No way.

“Mary?”

“What?  Oh, sorry—I was
just—why would he lie to me?  What’s really going on?”

Chuck tapped a finger on the
table.

“Come on, you’ve gotta give
me something.  Why am I here?  Why am I talking to you?  There has to be a
reason he sent me.  I’m guessing you already know what happened on the farm
this morning, right?  The dead guy?”

“Yes.  Enigma.”

“Of course it’s an enigma. 
The whole damn thing is—”

Chuck held up a hand to stop
her.  “No, his handle was Enigma.  The maestro.  The dungeon master.  The guy
running the game, whatever you want to call him.  Erhard Loewe.  Defected from
East Germany in the late eighties, before the wall fell.”

Mary said, “A German?  He’s
not the one...”

“That got Randall involved?  That
would be him.  Randall probably described him as squirrely, didn’t he?  I
always thought the little bastard was more of a rat than anything.”

“Yeah, but I don’t
understand.  Randall said they’d met once, and the German guy told him that
he’d made some most wanted list.”

“I’d say that’s about fifty
percent true.”

“Only fifty?”

“Well, Randall knows him all
right, and he’s definitely one of ten, but if he told you anything other than
that, it’s complete and total malarkey.”

Damn you, Randall
, Mary thought. 
Was
anything
you told me true?

“Okay, so the guy running
this game, or whatever it is, the one that’s got a group of trained killers
coming after Randall, showed up on his farm this morning and is now dead.  Is
that part true?”

“Yes and no.”

“Jesus.  Those are your two
favorite words, aren’t they?”

“You can probably guess my
answer.”

She said, “I’m gonna be
straight with you.  I have no clue what I’m doing here.  I have no idea what’s
true and what isn’t, and I have half a mind to get up and walk out that door. 
And honestly, that would probably be the best thing for me, because I’m
shooting arrows at a moving target in the goddamn dark and I’m going to end up
hurting something or someone in the process because of it.  Whatever’s really
going on, the one thing I can say for certain is that Randall needs help,
regardless of what the circumstances are.  Whether he killed somebody and needs
his buddy in the CIA to make it go away, or he’s really involved in some kind
of scenario where people are trying to kill him, I need to do
some
thing
because my family might be in danger.  Do you understand that?”

“I do.”

“Then please, for the last
time, tell me what you know, or at least what I
need
to know.  Otherwise,
I’m strapping myself down in that junk-pile of a car you mentioned and I’m
going home where I can be close and doing something productive.”

Chuck checked his watch, and
then offered Mary a reassuring grin.  “Are you much of a drinker?”

“I’m serious, Agent Bailey. 
You’ve got about thirty seconds before I walk.”

“Then walk with me.  There’s
a bar next door.  You’re gonna need a drink...and I’m buying.”

CHAPTER 8

Randall allowed himself a
yawn and then pressed his eye against the scope.  It was a boring, lonely job,
staking out his own farm, waiting on Death to sneak around a corner, not
knowing when it was coming or who would arrive, carrying the scythe.  He
wondered if he’d even get the chance to put a bullet through the center of the
faceless hood.

On every single mission
during his stint in the Corps, he’d had an objective and a target to acquire. 
He could be proactive.  He could go out and find whatever he was looking for. 
There were days, weeks even, where he’d lain in wait, crosshairs at the ready,
for the perfect shot—those were some tedious times, but he’d known what to
expect.  He had always been the aggressor, the bird of prey, circling high
above and unseen, biding his time until the perfect moment to strike presented
itself.

Now, however, he was the
mouse in the field, burrowed in deep.  Alert, but not skittish.

The prey with deadly aim.

He missed Alice and Jesse,
wishing that he’d never agreed to participate in this secret contest that had
been held for the past one hundred and fifty years.  Fame and glory would never
be a prize that the winner could enjoy.

The money.  It had always
been about the money.

Ten men.  Ten million dollars
to the survivor.

As long as you eliminated
everyone else in your round and then bested the winner of the previous
competition. 

From what Enigma had told
them, Ares had won in 1976, and no one had topped him since.

He recalled sitting impatiently
with the other contestants that day. 

Six Americans:  Randall (The
White Mountain), Blockade, Yankee Doodle, The Devil Himself, Krakatoa, and Old
Yeller.

One East European (country
unknown):  Shallow Grave.

One Asian:  Geisha.

One German:  Mein Kampf.

One Englishman:  Powder Keg.

The room had been a dark,
empty space, lit by a single overhead light, with metal folding chairs and a
dais up front.  Enigma stood behind it in his dark-rimmed glasses and pink,
collared shirt.  White-knuckled hands gripping the podium like he was trying to
keep it from getting away.

The ten of them sat with
their arms crossed, maintaining wary, disenchanted gazes.  It reminded Randall
of a mission briefing.

Enigma opened with a joke in
that high-pitched, German accent.  “Who’s the best person to call when you’re
standing in a room with ten of the world’s deadliest men?”

A deep silence solidified
their collective lack of interest.  All business, no room for frivolity.

“A taxi driver.”

Only Old Yeller offered a
sympathy chuckle.

“All right then,” Enigma
said, “let’s get on with it, shall we?  I assume you all had a chance to get
acquainted with your competition.  I’m sure you’ll find your packets of
information extremely helpful.  And if not, no matter.  Nine of you will not
survive this—and given the results of the previous contests dating back to the
administration of your President Ford, it’s very likely that all ten of you
will be dead within a couple of months.”

Krakatoa interrupted him with
that hearty, barrel-chested voice that sounded like a bass speaker emanating
from inside a fifty-gallon oil drum.  “Who the hell are you?”

“Me?  I am not important. 
Simply the gatekeeper of this little—how do you call it?  Soiree?  But, if you
must assign me a moniker...you can call me Enigma.”

Krakatoa crossed his arms,
relaxed into his chair, grinned, and said, “I think I’ll call you Turdball.”

“Very well then.  Your
sentiment is noted, sir.  Now, if you’ll allow me to proceed.”

“Have at it, Turdball.  I
ain’t stopping you.”

Enigma cleared his throat.  “As
I have explained to each of you individually, this is an engagement dating back
to your American Civil War.  A group of men, hardened by battle and the
atrocities of war, found themselves incapable of returning to their normal
lives.  Lost, and with no place to go, they somehow found each other and
commiserated in their miseries and a thirst for blood that could not be
quenched.”

Yankee Doodle stood up from
his chair and said, “One question.”

“Hold all ques—”

“The hell is a German bucket
of latrine nuggets giving us a history lesson for?  Ain’t you and Mein Kampf
over here a few countries away from giving ol’ Hitler a hummer?” 

Mein Kampf ignored him, and
Enigma smiled as if he’d been complimented.

“Hold all questions, please. 
And if you’ll return to your seat for me, yes?  Thank you.  To continue, these
ten men formed a pact.  An agreement to hunt, and to be hunted.  While the simple
desire
to continue their murderous ways was enough motivation, they felt
that some sort of monetary compensation should be offered.  After all, it was a
bet, was it not?  Pitting one man’s skills against another’s?  They compiled
their resources to create a prize for the victor, and given the value of their
currency at the time, it wasn’t much.  Would anyone care to guess the amount?”

Shallow Grave said, “Probably
worth more than that pretty pink shirt of yours.”

“Your disapproval of my
attire is noted, but the amount would barely pay for a button.  Ten dollars. 
Ten
of your American dollars.  As you have been informed, due to inflation and the
compensation required to entice some of the world’s finest into this
competition, that amount has grown to ten
million
.”

“Who puts up the money?”
Randall asked.  “You know, who’s running the show?”

“A powerful family.  I’m sure
you’d recognize the name, but they wish to remain anonymous so that particular
detail will stay unspoken.  What matters, gentlemen, is that you should take
pride in the fact that each of your heads has a street value of one million
dollars.”

Shallow Grave said, “I got
gum stuck to the bottom of my shoe that’s worth more than the rest of these
jokers combined.”

The comment bruised
overinflated, fragile egos, and protests exploded around the room.  Like a
gaggle of teenage boys, they shouted and shoved, overturned chairs, and ripped
collars.  Randall refrained from joining the melee, and it had taken Enigma
longer than five minutes to regain control.

When the ruckus had been
contained, Enigma continued.  “I’ve already provided you with the terms upon
your acceptance into the contest, but in case any of you have forgotten, allow
me to reiterate.  In no manner of importance, and they are simple so I trust
that we will see no issues arise, the rules are as follows:  the ten of you in
this room have agreed, of your own free will, to participate in this contest
under the penalty of death.  I can assure you, should you attempt to remove
yourself from the confines of your agreement, in any manner, you will be located
and dealt the appropriate punishment.  There is no escape.  Think of it as
signing away your life.  I offered you a chance to decline prior to your
acceptance, and no further attempts to rescind your commitment will be
offered.  By a show of hands, please, is that understood?”

Nine hands and one middle
finger, courtesy of The Devil Himself, went into the air.

“Good.  Nine of you agree
complicity and I will take the minor insult as another yes.  Moving along.  As
you can see, there are ten men in this room.  To keep you from murdering each
other where you sit, the contest will not begin until we notify you and are
certain that you are squarely situated hours, if not continents, apart.”

“Who’s
we
?” Randall
asked.