by Mark Dawson
Milton put his right shoulder beneath the edge of the dining table and straightened his back a little to raise it from the floor. He arranged two piles of Magrethe’s thick cookery books beneath each leg, raising them up and sloping the angle of the table.
He came back to him.
Callow tried to struggle, but Milton was strong. He grabbed him beneath the arms and hauled him to the table. Callow tried to hook his leg around the cabinet, but Milton yanked him away. He kicked and bucked and tried to plant the heels of his boots on the floor, but all he succeeded in doing was to leave a track of scraped rubber across the wide wooden planks.
Milton pushed him onto the sloping tabletop, grabbed both his shoulders, and hauled him the rest of the way up. He took a nylon washing line and lashed his legs and shoulders to the board, arranging him so that his head was lower than his heart. The dim fog in Callow’s head started to disperse more quickly, but the confusion was replaced by panic, and all he could do was squirm and wriggle. It was useless. The bonds were too tight. He squeezed his eyes as tightly shut as he could.
He started to protest, trying to find the words that would persuade the man that this was unnecessary, but, before he could tell him any of that, a towel was draped over his face, his eyes and his nose and his mouth, blocking out the light. On top of the hood, which still admitted a few flashes of random light to his vision, layers of cloth were added. Total darkness absorbed him.
Milton’s voice was muffled. “Michael, I need you to tell me where your father has gone.”
“I don’t know,” he said, his voice muffled, the exhalation of his breath gathering against the towel, with nowhere to go.
“He’s driven off in the semi. He’s going to detonate it. You need to tell me where he’s going to do that.”
The panic cut through his dizziness like a hot knife. Awareness came plunging back.
He blinked furiously against the fabric, remembering what his father had told him as they sat around the kitchen table. He remembered the story of John Wilkes Booth and the words he had shouted after he had assassinated Abraham Lincoln.
He shouted them.
“Sic Semper Tyrannis!”
Thus Always to Tyrants.
He waited, his breathing clotted and difficult through the weight of the cloth above his mouth, and wondered whether Milton had been able to hear his words or whether they were too muffled to be intelligible. Then he felt the wet slap of water as it was poured over his head. He felt a slow cascade of water going up his nose.
He held his breath for as long as he could, but then he had to exhale and inhale, the damp cloths brought tight against his nostrils, as if a huge, wet palm had been suddenly pressed over his face. He couldn’t tell whether he was breathing in or out, whether he was breathing in water, whether his nostrils and mouth and lungs were engulfed with it or whether it was all in his imagination. Lines blurred. Reality shifted, became slippery. The water kept slapping down onto him. He thumped his fist against the side of the table.
The wet towels were pulled away from his face. He blinked furiously into the sudden light, spluttering water from his nose.
“Where is he going?”
“‘Therefore do not fear them. For there is nothing covered that will not be revealed…’”
“Where?”
“‘… And hidden that shall not be known.’”
“Want to try again?”
He gasped for air, his pulse racing. “You can do what you want. I’m not saying anything.”
He heard the doubt and fear in his voice and cursed himself for his weakness. He prayed for strength.
“I barely washed your face that time,” Milton said as he dropped the sodden, heavy cloth over his face again.
He heard footsteps moving away. He heard water sloshing into a vessel. He heard footsteps approaching. Water was poured over him again. Callow tried hard, fighting the wave of nausea and terror, but it was a hopeless task, his gag reflex overwhelming him, filling him with abject terror, primal terror, and he slapped the table again.
The wet cloth was pulled away for a second time.
Milton was leaning over him, looking down into his face. Those eyes, so cold and pitiless. The eyes of the Devil. Callow sobbed out, his breath racing in hungry gulps, and then he looked into those eyes, and he knew that this was not a man from whom he could expect clemency or mercy. Milton would kill him.
“Where is he, Michael?”
“‘Be merciful to me, O God, because of your constant love. Because of your great mercy, wipe away my sins. Wash away my evil and make me clean from my sin.’”
Milton raised the cloth and held it above his face, water streaming from the sodden fabric and falling onto his face. “Where is he?”
“Green Bay. The federal courthouse in Green Bay.”
Chapter 47
MILTON PLACED the pewter jug on the floor and left Callow trussed up on the table. He hurried into the sitting room. Ellie had found a bunch of keys on the table, and one of them fit her bracelets. She looked up at him, concern on her face.
“It’s Green Bay.”
“Where?”
“Federal courthouse. A bomb that big, though… it’ll do a lot of damage.”
“What do you want me to do?”
He nodded to the cuffs. “Put those on Callow.”
“And then?”
“Explain to the soldiers what’s happened. Everything. Tell them about the truck and that he’s probably taking it to Green Bay.”
“Probably?”
“Callow wasn’t lying, but maybe Lundquist didn’t tell him the truth. Can’t say for sure. They’ll need to block all the major roads out of the Upper Peninsula.”
“And you?”
“I’m going after him.”
Milton paused, looking at her. Her eyes flickered down to his arm. He looked down, too, and saw fresh blood spotting on his sweater.
“John, you can’t. Look at you. You’re hurt.”
There was no point in pretending otherwise. “There’s no choice. If he gets stopped, he’ll blow up the truck. An explosion like that will take out everyone within a hundred yards of it. If he can’t kill feds, he’ll make do with soldiers. Maybe I can stop him before that happens.”
He wouldn’t be dissuaded, and Ellie quickly saw the futility in trying. Instead, she came to him, put her hands on his shoulders, and stood on tiptoes, placing a soft kiss on his cheek.
“Good luck.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“You still owe me dinner.”
He allowed her a smile, squeezed her hand on his shoulder, and then gently disengaged himself. He turned and left the room, following the hall to the parlour at the back of the house. There was a wide picture window. The lights in the room were off, and Milton approached it carefully, seeing his own reflection looking back at him as he stared out into the darkness of the yard beyond.
He couldn’t see anyone.
The turbines of the Black Hawk whined as the chopper powered down on the other side of the house.
He heard voices.
He slid his fingers beneath the bottom sash and pulled it up, grimacing as the wood squeaked in loud protest. He pulled again, his arm complaining from the effort, and then, when he had opened it far enough, he pulled himself through and dropped down onto the muddy lawn beyond.
More voices.
He ran across the backyard to the porte cochère that had been built on the eastern side of the house. There was a dirt bike propped up there, a Honda CRF450R, a light and powerful bike that Milton knew would pack a punch. That was good.
The keys were in the ignition. Milton pulled it away from the wall, surprised that it was so light, straddled it, and then twisted the key. He fired the engine with the kick-start, hearing it growl and whine as he fed it revs, and then held on tight as it bucked out from beneath the shelter and started across the yard.
Two uniformed soldiers were right in front of him.
“Stop
!”
Milton swerved around them both, the back wheel sliding out, the tyre cutting through the sludge until it bit on the mud beneath. The unexpected jerk almost unseated him, and the effort of clasping hard with both hands sent a blast of pain up his damaged arm.
Milton settled his balance again, not daring to look back, and aimed the bike for the fields that spread out to the south of the farm. More corn, tractor trails bisecting the field right down the middle. He heard the sound of the warning shot fired just above his head, ducked down and squeezed out more revs. The bike shot ahead at forty and then fifty, raced through an open gate and leapt off a furrowed slope, slamming down onto the uneven surface of the field ten feet farther on. Milton was sprayed with mud as he fought to control the bike. He squeezed the brakes until he was comfortable and then aimed for the passage between the crops.
He raced between the tall shoulders of the stalks, deeper and deeper into the field.
ELLIE RUBBED her sore wrists and crept low to the window, daring a quick glance outside. The Black Hawk had come down in a field to the west of the farmhouse, the branches still shaking and the tremendous noise rattling the panes of glass. A bright searchlight swung around from the open doorway of the chopper, a blinding yellow light that played across the farmhouse, fixing on the window and lighting up everything inside, the darkest shadows painted on the wall behind them.
“What are we going to do?” Mallory asked fretfully.
“You heard what Milton said. We need to let them know we’re not the bad guys.”
“How—”
“Let me talk to them, Mallory. Stay here with Arty. We’ll need to get him some help. Make sure Michael Callow stays here, too.”
She went to the hallway. She put her shoulder behind the French dresser and pushed it aside so she could open the door wide enough to squeeze through.
She walked out into the yard.
The searchlight played out through the trees, throwing spectral shadows against the walls of the farmhouse. She saw the silhouettes of men crouched down low, running away from the field where the Black Hawk had landed. The dark figures parted, some going to the left of her and some to the right. They spread out around her, adopted firing positions, and aimed their rifles at her. The searchlight jerked around again, finally fixing on her, and she had to raise her arm in front of her eyes so that she could see.
“Put your hands up!” a harsh voice called out.
She raised her left hand, the light flooding into her face again.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Ellie Flowers. I am an FBI agent.”
“On your knees!”
“I’m FBI.”
“Do it now!”
She lowered herself to her knees.
One of the soldiers took a step in her direction. He had a pistol in his hand, and it was aimed straight at her head.
“Identification?”
“No, sir. It’s been taken from me.”
“Name?”
“I just told you: Ellie Flowers.”
“Field office?”
“Detroit. 477 Michigan Avenue. My partner’s name is Orville Clayton. Call him.”
“Anyone else in that house?”
“Yes,” she said. “Mallory and Arthur Stanton. They’re local kids. Arthur has been shot and is going to need a medic. There’s a man tied to a table in the kitchen. His name is Michael Callow. You’ll want to speak to him.”
“You want to tell me what in the name of God is going down here?”
“Secure the area, soldier. I’ll need to talk to your C.O.”
“Where’s John Milton?”
“I need to talk to your C.O.”
Chapter 48
MORTEN LUNDQUIST was shrewd, an old soldier, and Milton guessed that they would make similar tactical assessments.
So he considered what he might have done had the roles been reversed.
Time, first. How much time would he have as a head start? Milton would have assumed that the situation would mean the compromising of his headquarters and with that, his plan. That would have told him that he only had a limited amount of time. Not long enough to gamble with a safer, but slower, journey to the south on quieter roads. Speed would be very important.
Milton’s first assumption: Lundquist would follow the quickest route south.
Milton remembered the map and plotted a route from Truth to Green Bay. He would have driven to Stannard and then picked up the US-45 to the south.
How much of a start did he have? A new Freightliner was a big, powerful semi with 450 horsepower, turbocharged engines which would top out at, what, eighty miles an hour? He had seen the truck, though, and it was old and tired. The engine had sounded worn, and that would mean that it would lose compression and, thus, power. So reduce the top speed by twenty miles an hour: call it sixty. And the load was unstable. Too many bumps and jolts might make for an unfortunate accident. Milton settled on fifty-five, a little less if the roads were bad.
He pictured the map in his head. A thirty-minute head start, fifty to fifty-five miles an hour, that might give him a lead of twenty or twenty-five miles.
The bike was comfortable at sixty, but Milton cranked out more speed, bringing it up to seventy.
Lundquist was probably in Union Bay right now. In an hour, he would have swung to the south and would be on US-64, maybe down in Bergland.
After an hour, Milton ought to be able to make it to Iron Mountain.
He should be able to catch him around there.
He held the throttle wide open, almost maxing it out until he thought the piston was going to blow through the head. He backed off a little, racing around the side of another big eighteen wheeler hauling freight, the trucker pulling down on his air horn as Milton went by him in a blur.
THE HUMVEE had arrived soon after the Black Hawk had touched down and soon after that, another two parked alongside. The soldiers had secured the perimeter of the house and had started to fan out into the outbuildings. A shout went up as they reached the barn and found the body of Magrethe Olsen.
Ellie was taken to the first Humvee. A soldier in soaked olive fatigues dismounted.
“I’m Lieutenant Colonel Alex Maguire,” he said, extending his hand.
Ellie shook it. “Special Agent Ellie Flowers.”
“I’m sorry for the confusion.”
“You’ve confirmed my ID, Colonel?”
“Yes, ma’am. We’ve raised your partner on the radio. He wants to speak to you.”
Ellie took the handset that Maguire offered her and put it to her ear.
“Orville?”
“Ellie?”
“Yes.”
“Jesus, Ellie, what the fuck is going on up there?”
“I’ll explain. Just—”
“You find those boys?”
“Yes, Orville. I did. Just listen to me, please, for once. I need you to listen very, very carefully.”
There was a pause on the line, a clatter of static. When he finally spoke, he sounded abashed, even with all the interference. “Okay. Go ahead.”
Ellie ran through what had happened as quickly as she could. The colonel was listening, too, which was good; it would save her telling the story twice. She left out the details that were unimportant, like the treatment she had received. That, she knew, would just inflame Orville’s guilt and that would mean she’d have his paternalism to deal with, and she could do without that right now. She left out anything about her and Milton because his jealousy would be just as bad. Instead, she told him about the arrests of the gang, the murder of Lester Grogan, how the bank jobs had been funding the militia, the truck bomb, and that Morten Lundquist was driving it to a target right now.
The colonel waved for his number two, anxiety all over his face.
“Jesus,” Orville said. “You know where he’s going?”
“I think Green Bay. The federal courthouse.”
“You think? Be specific.”
“That’s w
hat one of the militia told us”—she paused, searching for the right euphemism—“in circumstances that suggest he wasn’t lying when he told us.”
“What the hell does that—”
“That’s the most likely,” she cut across him, “but it could be anywhere within a four- or five-hour drive. Your guess is as good as mine where he might go.”
He swore. “I need to make some calls. Can you handle the Guards? They need to find him.”
“Don’t worry, Orville. I’m on top of it.”
“Christ, you know what’ll happen if he gets that truck into a built-up area?”
“He won’t.”
“How could you possibly know that?”
“Someone’s already gone after him.”
“Who?”
“Milton.”
“Who the hell is this guy?”
“Never mind. Make your calls. We’ll speak later.”
She handed the radio back before he could press her any further.
The colonel looked concerned. “That all true?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“I’m sorry about before, ma’am. I kind of feel we’re three steps behind on this.”
“It’s all right. I know the feeling. How did you know we were out here?”
“We picked up a couple of fellas in the woods. Watts and McClennan? You know them?”
“No.”
“They were part of the posse that went after this Milton guy. Their stories didn’t tally. Watts told us if he got out of the woods, he’d come down here.”
“They’ll be a part of all this.”
“They’ve just been put in custody. But this Milton guy, you want to tell me whose side he’s on?”
“Ours,” she said.
“For sure?”
“He saved my life. And he’s gone after Lundquist now.”
“You should see the mess he’s left up by the lake. Dead bodies left and right. Police are going to have one hell of a job working that out.”
“I’ll explain it in the air.”
He gaped. “I’m sorry, ma’am?”
She nodded in the direction of the Black Hawk. “Can you give me a ride?”
