VIABLE (4 page)

For now the bike would have to do. It could never match the thrill of flying but if he had to remain on the ground it was probably as close as he would get. He had bought the Yamaha, his third, that summer. A special edition of the R1 the company had produced to celebrate fifty years of racing in America. Only five hundred had been made and he’d had to travel to Vegas to find a dealer with one in stock. The black and yellow racing livery was a little garish for his taste but the bike was set up with front and rear custom Öhlins suspension and a torque-limiting slipper clutch, making it a thinly disguised production racer. Including the trade-in it had cost him eighteen thousand dollars, almost half a year’s salary, but he loved it. Besides he had little other use for the money. He lived on the base and the Navy provided him with his food and clothing. Most months he found he only spent a fraction of his service pay, when he was operational even less.

He turned onto 118. The bike was warmed up, the exhaust thrumming evenly, and he twisted the grip just a fraction. The carburetors have been jetted to maximize throttle response and the bike immediately shot forward, the pitch of the engine note increasing to a wail as the revs rose, the three miles to the next junction dispatched in a couple of minutes. A quick check that there was nothing coming and he joined Highway 50, pulling away smoothly. He had left his visor half-open for the ride out but now he snapped it shut.

The bike felt good beneath him. He’d had the dealership tune the engine to run slightly lean to compensate for the thinner air at the base’s elevation and now it fed on the cold dense air, snapping forward at the slightest twist of the throttle. The road east of Fallon narrowed from four lanes to two, the blacktop stretching inviting ahead of him. For the next four hundred miles there were only three small towns - Austin, Eureka and Ely – and this close to Christmas he knew there would be little traffic. He savored the moment, regretting again that he wouldn’t have the time to go further.

The engine note rose to a wail again as he opened the throttle a fraction more, still short-shifting, his left toe flicking up through the gears below the redline, the surge as the bike shot forward with each gear change nevertheless satisfying. The road was straight for three miles as far as Grime’s Point and the base quickly disappeared behind him. The landscape changed, the irrigated farmland and marshy waterfowl areas of Carson Lake and Stillwater making way for the barren tundra of the flats. Even in the shelter of the valleys only plants that were capable of withstanding the harsh high desert climate, some shrubs, the occasional cottonwood tree, would be found. He could see Grime’s Point coming up quickly, the road disappearing to the left around the huge peak. He crouched down, twisting the throttle a fraction more, hearing the engine note rise as the bike surged forward again, the mountain quickly filling his vision. For a moment he thought he saw movement on the slopes and then an instant later something glinting in the sunlight. But then it was gone and he returned his attention to the road as it swept around to the left, leaning the bike into the turn, the tarmac a blur only inches below his knee. The bend was fast but it was still sweeping around and in the cold the tires wouldn’t grip as well. He forced himself to hold back – just a second or two more. Beyond Grimes Point the road was perfectly straight for four miles and if there was no other traffic he would open the throttle, letting the bike carry him to the horizon as quickly as it could.

4

VINCENT
KEOGH
FOCUSSED his binoculars on the corner.

Still nothing. The spotter by the gate had confirmed that Gant had left the base and the man he had sent to Grimes Point that morning with the scope had just radioed to say that he was headed their way, fast. Three miles to the east the third member of the support team had reported that the road was clear as far as he could see. He looked over his shoulder, checking again that the van was out of sight. Across the road the police cruiser was hidden behind a large hoarding announcing the imminent construction of a power plant at Eight Mile Flat. He nodded to Arturo, his squat bulk in the dark blue uniform of the Nevada Highway Patrol waiting patiently at the wheel for his signal to roll it out.

They were ready.

He brought the binoculars up again, adjusting the focus slightly. He was uneasy. He wished again that Flood was with them. They were a team, Flood, Arturo and he, had been for over twenty years, since before they had been recruited. He had served with both men in the 10
^th
Special Forces during the Gulf War, had seen the red-haired Irishman drink muddy water from a ditch in the stifling heat of Khafji, had watched him eat things that would have made a hyena puke while they had waited for the Republican Guard in the mountains near Al-Zabr. And now the man had been laid low by some stomach bug most likely picked up from a roadside diner.

He should have stood them down of course, allowed another team to be flown in to take their place. When after the first day Flood still couldn’t move from his bed he had almost done it. But then, sitting in a bar in Fallon, cursing his luck and preparing to make the call that would take them off the job, Arturo had suggested it.

The two of them could handle Gant. The bonus for his capture was a million dollars apiece, money they would lose if they let another team replace them. And who knew when another candidate might be found – this was their first in sixteen years. He had mulled the idea over while Arturo had gone to get them more drinks.  It was a lot of money to give up, and no mistake. They were paid well enough, but it wasn’t like the job came with a pension plan and none of them were getting any younger. With the bonus from Gant’s capture they could hire a few guys, set up a security firm of their own, maybe even try to go legit.

And Arturo was right; picking up Gant shouldn’t be a problem. Once they’d got him into the back of the van there was nothing to do but drive him to the drop off point. They could collect Flood on the way and
El Conde
would be none the wiser. Which was important; their employer was not someone whose instructions you disregarded lightly. Not that they’d ever met the man, of course. Even after all the years they’d been working for him they still had no idea who he was. Their orders came through the German, Friedrichs. Occasionally they worked with other teams, but that was it.

It had made him a little uneasy at first, knowing so little. But
El Conde
took his personal security very seriously. They knew what he was looking for of course; they wouldn’t have been able to do their jobs without that piece of information. The rare blood group he seemed so desperate to find, together with the seemingly limitless means he had at his disposal was what had prompted Arturo to call him
El Conde Vampiro
in the first place. The name had stuck. And it had proved apt; it was clear from the work they did for him that
El Conde
had no scruples. Keogh was certain he wouldn’t give a second thought to disposing of any of them if for a moment he felt threatened by what they knew.

But over the years he had come to appreciate the security their ignorance about their employer gave them. If they couldn’t identify the man surely there was little reason to worry. If they screwed up, however, and
El Conde
found out they had disregarded his orders, well then Keogh was pretty sure that each of them would quickly come to wish they had never been born.

But a million dollars was a million dollars, and so he had gone along with Arturo’s idea. Besides, the two of them
could
handle Gant. The syringe in his pocket was filled with methohexital, a fast acting barbiturate, enough to put their man out for at least ten minutes, more than enough time to secure him in the back of the van and sedate him properly for the drive to the facility. Then they’d pick up Flood, deliver their cargo and get paid. Another team would dispose of the bike. The helmet, dog tags and scraps of his clothing would be found in the desert several weeks later. It would look like he’d had an accident, his remains eaten by coyotes.

Vincent Keogh lifted the binoculars again. A motorbike had just appeared from around Grimes Point, the rider leaning hard into the corner. A second later the wind carried the faint sound of the engine screaming as the revs increased, a short blip as he shifted gear, quickly building again to a crescendo, louder now as the distance to them closed. The bike was really moving. Good. He wouldn’t be suspicious when they pulled him over. He turned around, indicating to Arturo to get ready. He waited a few seconds longer then stepped out into the road.

5

LARS
HENRIKSSEN
HAD been heading back to town on US-95 when the call had come in. He swung his cruiser around and five minutes later was rolling into the parking lot of Mount Grant General Hospital, just in time to find a couple of orderlies removing a body from the back of an unmarked black van. He pulled up behind them, hauling himself out of the driver’s seat, trying not to wince as he stretched out his leg. He had his mouth open to remonstrate with the nearest one but a single glance into the back of the van was all it took to tell him he was already too late. No hope of preserving the scene; the damage was already done. And the last thing he needed now was them manhandling the body back into the van in front of a crowd of rubbernecking onlookers. He took their names, telling them to come back and find him as soon as they had taken the corpse to the mortuary.

When he returned to the cruiser Jed and Larry were already pulling up behind. He set his deputies to work cordoning off the area, making sure that the growing crowd was kept at a distance while he went in search of someone who had seen what had happened. A few minutes later he was back at the old black and white sedan, reaching in to unhook the mike from the car’s two-way.

‘Connie, it’s Lars. You there?’

A second’s pause and then a burst of static followed by the familiar voice of the woman who ran Hawthorne’s tiny police department.

‘Sure Sheriff. What’s up?’

‘Well, Connie, we got one hell of a mess up here at Mount Grant. There’s a black Dodge RAM crashed into the main entrance. Two men in the back, shot, one of ’em dead already. The other’s taken a bullet in the gut. He’s in surgery right now. Driver’s away on foot, looks like he’s headed west towards the reservoir. There’s fresh blood on the driver’s seat and door, so most likely he’s also wounded. And I’d guess carrying, which is not a good combination. I doubt he’ll get far but you’d best put an APB out on him. Hispanic male, well-built, forty to forty-five years old, five-eight, five-nine, dark hair, wearing a Nevada highway patrol uniform.’ He paused for a moment, thinking. ‘And get Duke up here with those dogs of his. There’ll be a trail but the light’ll be gone in an hour or so, so best tell him to haul ass. I suspect our guy’ll have been spotted long before he gets here but better safe than sorry.’

‘Got it. Anything else?’

‘Yep. The dead guy in back was also dressed as highway patrol. He’s not from Mineral County, but I’ll give you his badge number anyway. Check him out will you? I’m betting it’s fake, but just in case. And when you’re done with that throw a call in to the base commander up at the Depot, see if he’s missing anyone. The guy in surgery was wearing fatigues. No ’tags.’

‘Sure Sheriff.’

‘Oh, and get on to Carson City and have them send a forensics team down here soon as they can. A couple of orderlies have already done a real nice job rearranging all the evidence in the back of the van but you never know, we may get lucky and find something they haven’t touched. And Connie?’

‘Yes, Sheriff?’

‘When you’re done with all that give Ellie a call and tell her I won’t be home for dinner.’

He climbed back out of the cruiser, taking another look at the growing crowd.

Christ, what a mess
.

He’d been sheriff of Hawthorne for over twenty-five years but he’d never seen anything like this. And it would get worse once the TV crews showed up. He noticed Doug Whitley, the hospital administrator, hanging back near the entrance, a look of concern on his narrow face. The hospital was small but it was the county’s only medical center and road traffic accidents were not uncommon on that stretch of the highway. He went over to check with him that the emergency room could still function notwithstanding the commotion outside. Satisfied that the van could remain where it was for now he asked Whitley to post a security guard outside ICU the moment the wounded man got out of surgery.

When he was certain he had dealt with everything that needed his immediate attention Lars returned to the van. Opening the rear doors he took a moment to survey the interior. It was a mess alright, blood splattered along the driver’s side, already starting to form into small pools that were now congealing on the floor. Strapped to one side panel were a couple of automatic weapons. Foreign, expensive-looking. The serial numbers had been filed off but he took out his notepad and jotted down the make. A semi-automatic pistol and a police issue taser sat on a bench seat, covered in blood. A couple of 9mm shell cases on the floor.  He bent down to sniff the barrel, confirming that the handgun had been fired recently.

The other side of the van looked like it had been set up to carry someone who had been injured. In place of a bench seat there was a gurney with restraining straps and collapsible legs that clamped to the floor. At the head of the trolley an oxygen cylinder and mask and a bracket for a drip, together with what looked like a portable heart rate and blood pressure monitor, still switched on. Bolted to the bulkhead behind the passenger’s seat were several custom cabinets. He opened each, taking care not to leave any fingerprints. One of the cabinets housed a refrigerated compartment that contained three small vials of blood, as well as an assortment of medication. He copied the names printed on the front of the bottles into his notepad, making a mental note to get the hospital to confirm whether the blood in the vials belonged to the man who had been strapped to the gurney. From the bloodstains on the straps it seemed like the man had been shot while he was still restrained but he could check that with the orderlies when they returned.