She glanced out the passenger rearview mirror and could see Foxy and Smokey running forward, submachine guns ready in their hands. The words tumbled out of her mouth unbidden. “Please don’t shoot.” She had to be too valuable to them for that. She had to be.
McKinney brought the truck surging toward the workbench and the corrugated steel perimeter wall that enclosed this building-in-a-cave. She remembered that the empty buffer zone was patrolled by Expert Five’s automated fish. Then it was a straight shot to the second perimeter wall—and to freedom.
She plowed the truck through the sheet metal wall with a thunderous crash that echoed in the cavernous space, with pieces of metal hardware clanging away. In the confines of the mine the noise was deafening.
But the massive Fire Service truck plowed through the wall like paper. The green paint of the hood was scarred and scratched, but otherwise she was already hurtling off into the darkness of the buffer zone.
The engine roared as she put the truck into third gear and kicked on the headlights—then the overhead lights and sirens. They wailed away like a banshee in the confines of the mine, the lights exposing the exterior perimeter wall ahead as she weaved past a huge stone pillar.
Dozens of flying sharks swam slowly toward her, but she plowed right through them before they could get out of the way. Some went under the tires and others got stuck in her grille and rearview mirror brackets. The truck was still accelerating. Thirty-five miles an hour now.
A glance at her side-view mirror festooned with shark balloons and she could see that she’d sheared away a long section of the prefab wall behind her. Men were rushing around the garage area. She turned forward again. “C’mon! Move!”
She smashed the truck through the second perimeter wall at forty-five miles an hour, wincing as the second thunderous clatter of steel panels and brackets blasted aside. McKinney then spun the wheel to the right, to bring the truck back in the direction she remembered as the entrance. The high center of gravity of the off-road truck made it lean into the turn, the tires screeching on the slick stone floor. She eased off and slalomed a bit to regain control.
McKinney slammed the shifter into fourth and started picking up speed. The twenty-foot-wide pillars of stone raced past on either side. The truck roared through the darkness, while McKinney searched for signs of civilization.
But headlights soon appeared in her rearview mirror.
“Shit.” That hadn’t taken long. Something smaller. Faster.
Looking forward again, she saw lights ahead—the inhabited areas of SubTropolis. And that meant marked roads. She pressed the pedal down and kept accelerating.
The headlights behind her had almost caught up by the time she merged onto a marked road with a friendly Exit sign. She eased up on the gas, realizing only now that the air brakes hadn’t had time to charge completely. The truck fishtailed and shuddered as she tried to slow it down heading into a curving turn, scraping against one of the massive pillars in a shower of sparks.
“Get it together, Linda. . . .” But now she had the truck racing down an established roadway; someone up ahead was pulling over to let her fire truck past. She leaned on the horn as well, roaring past.
McKinney glanced at her speedometer and realized she was going sixty in a twenty-five-mile-an-hour zone. But a glance at her rearview mirror again made her stomp the accelerator down. It looked like one of the Bureau of Land Management Forest Ranger pickups was a hundred feet off her tail. It also had its sirens and rack lights on, the headlights alternating on and off.
McKinney roared toward a subterranean intersection with a stop sign. She started to ride the brakes and downshift. A glance in the rearview again. She shook her head. It wasn’t right to kill someone to save herself. She downshifted further and continued to slow, hoping her sirens would warn people as she approached.
McKinney slow-stopped her way through the intersection, and was already accelerating on the far side when she saw the BLM Ranger pickup pull alongside her. Smokey leaned out the window, shouting at her. She could see an automatic pistol in his inside hand, still concealed within the vehicle. McKinney cranked the wheel to the left, veering into them.
The forest ranger vehicle slammed on its brakes and just narrowly avoided being smashed against the stone tunnel wall.
McKinney turned forward as she emerged from the tunnel mouth into a cold Kansas night. She let out a howl of joy and tried to orient herself.
She recognized some of the area from when they came in. There was a truck stop across the wide road on the far side of railroad tracks. A strip of brown grass patched with dirty snow divided the poorly maintained concrete highway.
There were trucks and cars out here now, but she still drove aggressively, fire truck sirens blaring. She crossed the highway, dodging in front of an approaching semitruck and roaring across the railroad crossing.
A glance in her rearview mirror showed the Ranger following close behind. To any normal person this would look like two emergency vehicles racing to a call. She had no idea where to go—only that she had to find a large crowd of people. Lots of witnesses—or police.
McKinney followed a surface road and was surprised to see, of all things, a gambling casino close at hand. She dimly recalled passing it on the way in from the airstrip.
It loomed there along the banks of the Missouri River—the Ameristar, an island of stucco and concrete in a sea of parking lots. She knew one thing about casinos: They had loads of armed security. Beyond it McKinney could see the sparse skyline of what must be downtown Kansas City. Hallelujah. Civilization.
She accelerated toward the casino entrance and hung a right at an absurd, cartoonishly large replica of a locomotive, glittering with lights and a marquee. Nickel Slots! $3.99 Prime Rib.
After years abroad in the Third World, she just had to laugh at the absurdity of this situation. Lack of sleep had her half out of her mind.
The forest ranger vehicle came up on her again, but she kept yawing from side to side on the main casino road to prevent them from pulling alongside. Fortunately, they weren’t trying to shoot her tires out. Perhaps they were more concerned about getting the truck back in drivable condition. Other cars leaving and entering the casino pulled over to let the erratic emergency vehicles pass.
They were now approaching the stucco portico of the casino’s main entrance, flanked by glittering neon towers. McKinney roared under its roof and toward the valet station, where cars and a few taxis were parked or idling.
A glance in her rearview showed the forest ranger vehicle slowing and hanging a U-turn. She felt relief flood over her. She’d done it. She’d escaped. Turning forward she realized just how fast she was still going and pounded on the brake. The fire service truck shuddered, screeching as it collided with a concrete crash pylon just short of the nearest waiting taxi. She lurched forward in her seat, but no air bags deployed.
Dozens of people ran toward the truck. All faces turned to her. Security guards and parking valets. She slumped back in her seat, suddenly overwhelmed by intense weariness. She suspected it was the beginning of her body’s parasympathetic backlash to the adrenaline surge.
Not yet. This isn’t finished. Not yet.
She killed the engine, the sirens, and all the lights, then undid her seat belt and climbed down from the cab. Half a dozen men had reached her—a guy in a suit, a couple of old men, a security guard, uniformed parking valets.
“You all right, honey?” A balding middle-aged security guard with a big belly was holding her arm.
She wriggled free. “I’m fine. Call the FBI! Kidnappers are pursuing me. They’re in that federal ranger’s truck behind me!”
The guard frowned at her as scores more people gathered around them. One of the other people in the crowd pointed back toward the entrance. “It’s driving away.”
“Where?” The guard grabbed her arm again and moved to look down the casino drive. “You were running away from federal rangers?”
McKinney go
t in his face. “If they were real rangers, why are they fleeing a crash scene? Why are they trying to get away?”
He studied her face, and the gathering crowd seemed to be mulling it over. McKinney looked up to realize that she’d really wrecked the truck. The front wheels were six inches off the ground, the bumper and front grille staved in by the pylon, which had torn out of the ground at a forty-five degree angle. Even the sidewalk was buckled.
More armed security guards had arrived, and they were starting to push the crowd of onlookers away. The oldest and apparently most senior of the security guards came up. He was completely bald and looked like an ex-soldier himself, now in his sixties. “What the hell. Ya lose control of her, honey?”
Before the first security guard could speak, McKinney answered, “Call the FBI! I was escaping from kidnappers.”
He frowned and pointed at the U.S. Forest Service truck. “Where the hell did you get a Forest Service truck?”
She was surrounded by a dozen armed security guards in brown shirts, slacks, badges, belts, and nightsticks now. What might normally feel alarming felt greatly reassuring. Her heart rate was returning to normal, but she suddenly felt exhausted.
The senior security guard was staring at her, still surprised.
She spelled it out for him. “Call. The. F. B. I.!”
He patted her on the arm. “Let’s start out with the police, honey.”
CHAPTER 15
Closed Loop
Twenty-four hours and a bit of sleep later McKinney sat in a holding room at the FBI Kansas City field office. Half the far wall was a mirror. The other walls were white-painted cinder blocks with initials and profanity here and there etched into the surface. She tried to imagine who could conceive of—let alone succeed—in sneaking razor blades into an FBI interrogation room. This was not a world she was familiar with.
The single table was bolted to the floor, along with several sturdy resin chairs, also bolted in place. Smooth edges. Nothing to hang oneself or cut oneself with. They’d taken her cheap watch when they processed her. She never wore jewelry in the field, but the FBI agents who booked her had looked at her with suspicion when they found she had no jewelry on. What kind of woman has no jewelry? Drug addicts, presumably.
After what seemed like an eternity, the single door to the interview room finally opened and a pair of clean-cut men in suits entered. They weren’t smiling. One held a folder, and they both stood across the table from her, while the door slammed decisively behind them on its own, drowning out the brief interlude of footsteps and hallway chatter.
“Ms.”—he looked at the folder—“McKinney, I’m Special Agent Tierney, this is Special Agent Harrison.”
She nodded to them. “Gentlemen.”
“How is it you’re here?”
“In my written statement I—”
“The State Department lists you as ‘missing, presumed dead,’ somewhere in Africa. And yet you show up here, claiming to have information about the terror bombings in the U.S.”
“I do have information related to the bombings.”
“Related to the bombings? How’s that different?”
“The bombings aren’t what they appear.”
“You do know that providing false statements to federal officers is a felony?”
“Why on earth would I lie about this?”
“Well, it’s just that among other things, you have a criminal record.”
McKinney was surprised. “I’d hardly call my record criminal.”
“Marijuana possession, disorderly conduct.”
“I can’t believe we’re discussing this. I was arrested with a thousand other people at a demonstration. And marijuana? Hello, I went to college.”
“So you don’t think drug laws apply to you?”
“That’s not—look, can we get to the very critical thing I’m trying to tell you?”
He was reading through the file. “You disappeared under suspicious circumstances with a substantial life insurance policy.” He looked up. “And you have considerable student loan debt.”
“I can’t believe this.”
“You stole and wrecked a U.S. Forest Service truck—”
“It’s not a Forest Service truck, and I had to use it to escape.”
“Because you claim you were kidnapped”—reading again—“‘possibly by a top-secret military operation . . . or a terrorist cell. One or the other.’” He looked up. “Is that right?”
The other agent just snorted.
“Look, I’m a published entomology professor with Cornell University. You can go to the university’s website, search for me, and you will find a photo of me and everything. I’m not some kook. I’m a world-class expert on ants—myrmecology. I’ve given you my social security number, my—”
“Yeah. We confirmed your identity through fingerprints. That’s not the problem. I’m just confused . . . how did you get back into the United States?” He flipped through the papers in the folder. “You departed Newark for Johannesburg, en route to Tanzania, two and a half months ago, and customs records show you haven’t returned. American Airlines shows you booked for a return flight later this month.”
“I explain that in my statement.”
“Indulge me. I’d like to make sure your story is consistent. How’d this go down again?”
She sighed in frustration. “I was kidnapped and brought back to the U.S. against my will.”
They both leaned against the wall. “You were kidnapped—in Africa—and brought to Kansas City? Was this before or after the bombing?”
“I know it sounds crazy, but—”
“Why would the government ‘kidnap’ you? And if they did, why didn’t they update your passport status? And how did you get hold of a Forest Service truck?”
“It’s not a Forest Service truck. I was kidnapped by some sort of well-funded, secret military operation. They had a motor pool filled with vehicles from false front companies and different government agencies.” She pointed at the Ancile Services polo shirt she still wore. “This shirt, for example. Ancile Services is supposed to be an oil exploration company, but it’s a front for this secret operation.”
Agent Tierney nodded slowly. “I see.”
Harrison let a slight smile escape. “Presumably, they had a pressing ant problem.”
She stared at them. “They claimed my weaver ant software model was being used to power autonomous combat drones.”
“Ah. That’s right. You do mention that the terror bombings are unmanned drone attacks.”
“I have no idea whether that’s true or not, but that’s what they told me. For all I know these people are the ones behind the attacks.”
“You mean the terror bombings? I thought you said these were government people who kidnapped you?”
“Possibly. I don’t know. I never saw any proof that they were government people, and even if they were military, it might still be an illegal military operation. It wouldn’t be the first time the U.S. military was involved in something illegal.”
Tierney glared at her, then started flipping through the folder. “Let’s talk about your antiwar activity. . . .”
“Oh, for godsakes! This has nothing to do with—”
“Let’s just go through it. Who do you think was to blame for 9/11, Professor McKinney? Do you think the U.S. government was behind 9/11?”
“I can’t believe you’re asking me that.”
“Because they obviously were?”
“No!”
Tierney spread his hands. “Can you give us any details about this supposed top-secret government operation, then? Where are they located?”
“I said I’m not certain it’s a government operation.”
“Okay, fine—this nefarious plot, then. Can you tell us where their secret lair is?”
“Yes, I know where they are.”
“Then why didn’t you put that in your statement? We could already have checked it out.”
McKinney grimac
ed. “Because it might actually be a government operation. They said they were trying to prevent these drone attacks.” She cast an uncertain look at them. “Do you gentlemen have . . . I guess . . . top-secret clearances?”
They groaned and shook their heads. Tierney leaned onto the table in front of her. “Professor. We get the-government’s-out-to-get-me and I’ll-tell-secrets-if-you-let-me-go crap on a daily basis. Look at it from our point of view. In fact, you’re a scientist; look at it from a scientific point of view. Which do you think is more likely: a) that you were kidnapped in Africa by the CIA—”
“I never said it was the CIA.”
“Or whoever, then, and brought here to work on a secret drone project—or b) you got in legal trouble in Africa, possibly narcotics-related, faked your death, and snuck back into the U.S., say, through Mexico, high on drugs, and stole a truck?”
She took a deep breath and tried to control her temper. In truth, she had to admit that Occam’s razor would favor his hypothesis.
“Do you still take drugs, Professor?”
“No! I was a sophomore in college. Give me a drug test if you don’t believe me.”
“Oh, we will. You do realize you’re in serious legal trouble?”
“I’m starting to realize that, yes. I’d like to call a lawyer.”
“Well, you waived your right to have an attorney present during questioning.”
“No, I didn’t—when did I do that?”
“When you were brought in, you kept insisting that you immediately speak with an agent, and you didn’t listen to what was being said to you while you were being processed.” He pointed to her signature on one of the documents in the folder.
McKinney realized what a serious turn things had just taken.
Tierney continued, reading from the folder now, “You crashed a stolen federal vehicle, made false statements to federal officers—”
“I’m telling you the truth. I can prove it.”
“So prove it, then.”
There was a knock on the door, and then it opened slightly. Agent Harrison hurried over to it, putting his nose in the open space, conversing with someone. He turned, and the door opened, revealing a couple of men in nicer suits, putting their credentials away.
Kill Decision Page 17
