“Do you know where you’re going?” he panted at Shade’s back. The oddness of his labored breathing compared to Shade struck Winston. Winston was Shifford’s best runner, while Shade was notoriously ill-suited for long runs. He should be crushing the football player up this hill. Despite Winston’s longer night of sleep, perhaps all that time jumping was already taking a toll on him.
“See the path we’re on?” Shade asked.
Winston did. It looked like the same animal trail he’d come up earlier.
“Yeah.”
“Stop up here,” Shade said.
They came to a curve in the path. A fallen tree lay to their right, stretching down the hill, and rough, rocky ground waited to their left.
“Step where I step,” Shade said. “Stay on the rocks.”
Winston followed him, wishing desperately he’d worn boots rather than his black Converse, which slid treacherously on the stones. Shade, on the other hand, had worn Gore-Tex boots with a deep waffle tread, although the shoelace lengths no longer matched. Even worse, Shade might pant and slump like a blown horse, but he showed no sign of slowing, and his footing was always sure. Winston supposed Shade could keep on like this all day, but Winston knew he couldn’t hold this pace much longer.
Shade noticed this and paused. He waved for Winston to get down, and they crouched low.
“The agents will be coming, but losing our tracks might slow them down for a few minutes. I’ve seen four so far, including the one we already handled. What about you?”
Winston shrugged apologetically. “No idea. That one you dropped is the only one I’ve seen.”
Shade already had his pack on the ground before him. He dug out a black-sheathed knife, some fishing line, a bundle of tubes bound with a rubber band, and other odds and ends. An expression of crazed delight sat on his features, as if he were opening his big Christmas present.
“You’re not going to kill anybody, are you?”
Shade opened a hard silver case, revealing three small darts with red fuzz on one end and quite serious-looking, slightly barbed needles on the other.
“No!” said Shade, brow crinkling. “Probably not. This is only sodium thiopental. I found a bottle sort of lying out in the surgical theater at my sister’s vet practice. It’s a barbiturate used to put animals under during surgery. Five milligrams will knock out a woman when she delivers a baby by C-section. Of course,” he added almost as an afterthought to himself, “too much of it can put someone into a coma. Or kill them. I think some countries actually do use it for euthanasia.”
“Are you insane?” Winston grabbed Shade’s arm, trying to stop whatever he was doing. “How much is in those darts?”
His lower lip jutted out a bit, and he looked genuinely offended. “Only six milligrams. Geeze. It’s not like I’m reckless and irresponsible.”
Hardly missing a beat, Shade put his hands back to work. He continued to dig and set out supplies, most of which made no sense to Winston. He had tent stakes, mouse traps painted forest green, three different kinds of wire of varying gauges, a small plastic box containing an assortment of nails, a fold-up army shovel, a multi-tool the length of Winston’s hand, red cap gun rings, and much more.
“Got enough?” Winston asked.
Shade overlooked the snark. “Don’t worry. You have the hard job.”
Winston got a dark, lurching feeling in his guts. He really hoped his job didn’t entail turning himself in and creating a diversion.
“What hard job?”
Shade tried to appear optimistic.
“Run back to the trail,” he said. “Quick, before they catch up. Continue up the path for at least a quarter mile. When you find another rocky patch, take it. Watch to make sure you don’t leave tracks. Try to vanish. The object of the game is to double back toward me without them knowing it.”
Winston stared at him. “Dude, I don’t know if I can outrun grown men right now. I’m not in a good place.”
Shade shook his head and got back to work, unfolding the saw from his multi-tool and slicing into a nearby sapling.
“If you hurry, you won’t have to,” he said. “And remember: They’ve been up all night looking for me. They’re probably dead on their feet.”
“And you’re not.”
“Adrenaline,” said Shade. “Plus, I’m having a blast. This is what I trained for. All that backyard practice? All that wacky website reading? Right here, man. Right now. It’s not zombies, but it’s close.”
Shade finished sawing through the sapling and quickly cut off the other end, leaving about a two-foot stick into which he cut a large notch.
“I’m pretty sure all of this qualifies as assaulting federal officers,” said Winston. “At least.”
Shade pointed the stick at Winston. “Says the nuclear terrorist. Dude, you said it yourself. If these people catch us, they might actually kill us. For real. Or lock us away in a Guantanamo cellar or something for the rest of our lives. It happens.”
“Guano-what?”
He shooed Winston away. “You gotta go! Now!”
Shade’s frantic tone pushed Winston to his feet and set him heading back in the direction from which they’d come.
“Where will you be?” Winston called.
“Around where we left the path! I’ll find you!”
Winston had a bad feeling about the condition Shade might find him in, but he broke into as fast a run as he thought he could sustain over the treacherous ground.
36
Flight in the Forest
No sooner had Winston stumbled his way back to the path than he heard a sneeze in the distance from down the hill. He couldn’t see anyone through the trees yet, but he guessed they weren’t more than a couple of hundred yards off and heading his way. Winston searched about himself, feeling panic begin to boil.
“OK, OK,” he whispered. “Think. Don’t screw this up. Think.”
What would someone do on TV? Probably stand farther up the path, wait for the men to come into view, wave, and say something clever like, “Hey, dummies!” before running off.
This wasn’t some kid-friendly, straight-to-rental movie, though. Everyone knew the stakes, and Winston suspected that Bledsoe’s patience was well past gone. He wouldn’t put it past these government agents to simply shoot on sight, plant a gun on him, and call it self-defense, especially after all the mayhem of the previous night. He could shoot them with Little e, but the damage would be significant, possibly fatal, and he might start a forest fire if he missed. Better to shoot them than get shot himself, of course, but Winston resisted the urge to rely on the most destructive option first. He would trust Shade as long as possible.
Think. The object of the game was to stay barely visible but out of the line of fire.
Winston gave himself a last moment to catch his breath, then he took off at a run, careful to dig in his heels with each step so the tracks were plainly visible.
How far had Shade said to go? Winston couldn’t remember, but he ran on, lungs and legs aching, keeping to the right at every fork to draw them away from Shade’s direction.
Soon, sweat chilled on Winston’s forehead, and he felt slightly dizzy. Normally, Winston loved running cross-country for the air and scenery. Now, though, he was so focused on the ground, avoiding roots and exhaustion, that it took all his attention not to fall. Yet he pushed on minute after minute, allowing himself to slow when necessary but never to drop to a walk.
Winston reached the hill’s summit. Trees were more sparse here. He glimpsed the back side of the Air Museum on the plain far below. Many cars and emergency response vehicles now lined the hangar’s perimeter, and a meandering column of black smoke still wafted from the main opening. He couldn’t see into the foliage blanketing the hillside below, however, and it had been a while since he’d tried to confirm that the agents were still pursuing him. Winston had to chance it and have a little faith. Not allowing himself the luxury of rest, he left the path and doubled back toward the nort
h, aiming for Shade’s position…he hoped.
Fortunately, stumbling downhill was easier than running uphill. Unfortunately, the risk of rolling an ankle and breaking his neck was even higher, and Winston found himself so focused on the ground that he neglected to look up and keep an eye on his bearings. When the agent stepped out from behind a broad, towering pine tree in front of him, Winston nearly ran straight into him. He let out a short yell of surprise, then his clumsy attempt at evasion sent him thudding into the tree. He had just enough presence of mind to raise his hands and catch himself before meeting the trunk face-first.
The agent reached for him, but Winston ducked away from his hand. The man tried again, and Winston ducked once more. The pine was over five feet across, giving him just enough room to stay out of reach if he was quick. As soon as the agent realized Winston wasn’t going to chance a footrace and might keep up this cat and mouse game all day, he said, “FBI. Stop right where you are.”
“I don’t think so,” Winston panted.
“You’re resisting arrest?”
He lunged. Winston dodged. They made a quick circle around the tree.
“I’m just playing,” said Winston. “I don’t know what you’re doing.”
“You’re resisting arrest, sir. I’m Agent Parker of the FBI, and I’m ordering you to halt.”
Winston searched about, desperate for some idea. The agent wasn’t an old man, and he seemed fit. Chances were he could probably run Winston down in his present condition. Climbing the tree wouldn’t accomplish anything, even if he had the spare seconds to do it. And the longer he stalled, the higher the odds grew of a second agent showing up and putting a quick end to this. He only had one option.
Winston took two quick steps back from the tree and raised Little e, tubes flexing and arcs blazing. Only a second later, Agent Parker also stepped into sight, but he had his gun drawn and leveled at Winston’s chest.
“I’m done messing around,” said the agent. “I’m going to count to three, and then this is going to get a lot worse for you, understand?”
“It seems pretty bad already. Can we discuss the details?”
“One!”
Winston gave the woods another scan and saw nothing that would help him. He tightened his grip on Little e, and the energy arcs gathered into a tight, swirling ball suspended between the tube tips.
“Two!”
Suddenly, Agent Parker’s aim wavered, and he took one fumbling step forward. His lips parted with surprise and pain. With his free hand, he reached behind his shoulder. Then his legs buckled, and he fell forward onto his hands and knees. The gun tumbled and bounced beyond his reach. Winston saw a red dart flange quivering in the in the broad, fleshy area below his neck. Thirty feet away, partially hidden behind another tree, Shade stood grinning, fully assembled blowgun in his hand. He caught Winston’s glance and raised a finger to his lips, urging silence.
The agent looked up at Winston. His expression showed confusion, as if Winston had suddenly grown a second head. He reached one shaking hand toward Winston, overbalanced, and fell forward onto the side of his face with a small “uunff!” A few seconds later, his eyes closed. Thankfully, Winston could see the fabric of his jacket still rising and falling. He lowered Little e.
Shade slung the long tube of the blowgun across his back, where it sat awkwardly over his pack. He approached Winston and said in a hushed, excited voice, “That worked really well. Good job.”
Winston wanted to strangle the friendly smile off his face. “Can you stop enjoying this so much? He almost had me!”
Shade shrugged. “It’s all good.”
Down the hill and off to their right, Winston heard a sharp crack, as from a small gun. Shade squinted thoughtfully into the trees and made a tsk-tsk sound.
“Trying to flank us,” he said.
“What was that?”
“Remember the mouse traps?”
Winston nodded.
“Remember the wire, tent stakes, and gunpowder caps?” he asked.
He nodded again.
“There you go. I strung six of them to give us a sense of their positions and maybe keep them nervous.”
Hearing him talk like this was almost surreal. “Keep them nervous?” Winston asked. “I’m just trying not to pee my pants.”
Shade’s frown returned as he bound the agent’s wrists and ankles in duct tape. “But you’re doing really well. Why are you worried?”
Not waiting for an answer, Shade stuffed his other filthy sock into the tranquilized agent’s mouth and once again secured it with duct tape. Satisfied, he stood and dragged the agent off into a clump of bushes.
Winston closed his eyes. He needed to concentrate. They had to get out of this forest. His mom was still out there, as was the fifth Alpha Machine piece. Which should he go for? Every hour spent out here depleted Winston’s resources and gave Bledsoe time to use the geoviewer for any purpose he wanted. Still, he had no idea where to start looking for his mom — or how not to die at Hanford.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” Winston said.
“That’s what I was thinking,” Shade replied.
“Everything around the hangar will be thick with cops, though, and I don’t trust the open highway. Do you still have that map? What’s on the far side—”
They heard the sharp report of another gunpowder cap, this one much closer.
“Not yet!” Shade hissed as he pushed Winston away. “Keep left. Find the path. And make sure you only step on bare ground.”
Shade trotted deeper into the trees and soon vanished.
Run, thought Winston. Only bare ground. Find the path.
He jogged down the hill, watching intently for bare ground, which wasn’t always easy given how much underbrush there was in places. Winston kept edging to his left and eventually came back to the path. A path, anyway. He was now so freaked out and disoriented that he felt lost. His only hope was that whatever path he followed would eventually join with others and he would end up in the right place.
At a few points, sprays of twigs and leaves obscured the trail, and Winston did his best to either sidestep or jump over these, never knowing if or where Shade might have set some booby trap. In some places, it was almost like playing hopscotch. He became so engrossed in the ground and his footsteps that the X in the path took Winston by surprise. Shade hadn’t said anything about looking for an X, but the placement of the sticks was clearly intentional — two stripped branches about an inch in diameter, each a couple of feet long, one laid perpendicularly over the other.
Winston stopped and peered more closely. He saw blue fishing wire looped around one of the sticks and followed it with his gaze into the brush. Why blue? That was so easy to see.
About fifty yards into the brush, Winston saw something moving in the trees too high off the ground to be an animal. A few steps revealed the object to be an FBI agent, jacket tails flopping around his head, which swung back and forth five feet from the ground. He dangled from the rope cinched tight around his ankles. His hands were duct taped behind his back and, of course, another sock was taped firmly into his mouth. Apparently, the X of sticks and impossible-to-miss fishing line had lured the man to investigate right into one of Shade’s traps.
He spotted Winston, thrashed a bit more, and said, “Mmm-mmpphh!”
Winston gave him a small smile and a wave, then continued jogging downhill.
From what sounded like a surprisingly short distance below him, Winston heard the crack of one of Shade’s mousetrap alarms. As he slowed to a walk, there came a second, much louder report, then a third.
Gunshots.
Without thinking, Winston broke into a run. He ducked and bobbed along the path, trying to dodge branches, then came up short when two figures appeared on the path before him. He recognized the spot: deadfall to the left, rocky ground to the right, small clearing in the middle. In that clearing, Shade lay on his belly, hands clasped behind his head. Above him stood a man with mud-smeared
slacks and a bald strip along his head — the same agent Shade had shocked earlier. The man wore a malicious grin and had one black, mud-crusted dress shoe planted squarely atop Shade’s backpack. His handgun pointed at Winston’s chest. The two broken halves of Shade’s blowgun lay several feet behind them.
“Two for one,” he growled. “I’m a very good shot, and I’ve had a very bad day. Drop it.”
Winston swallowed nervously even as he breathed heavily from his downhill dash. “Again?” But he complied and let Little e fall where he stood.
***
The agent pointed his gun at the back of Shade’s head. “You’re going to come here, very slowly, understand? You’re going to take the handcuffs out of my hip holster and put them on your friend here. If you so much as try to scratch an itch, I will blow his head off.”
The man moved his gun a few inches to the side and fired into the ground. A flurry of dirt exploded a foot away from Shade’s ear. Shade and Winston screamed simultaneously. All of Shade’s recent bravado and confidence had vanished.
“Any questions?” asked the agent.
Winston barely heard the man over the sudden ringing in his ears, which is what gave him the idea. Still, he forced himself to stop and consider. He would only get one chance. He shook his head.
“Good,” said the agent. “Handcuffs, nice and slow.”
Winston was happy to move slowly. It gave him the time to mentally reach out and find the agent’s earpiece and cell phone. At this range, he didn’t need Little e, but deciphering the circuit paths and how to overload them took considerable focus.
“OK, not that slow,” said the agent.
“Just…trying to…cooperate,” Winston managed.
When he was only two steps away from the agent and starting to reach his hand out for the man’s pocket, he found what he needed. Winston pulled all the energy he could from the phone’s lithium-ion battery. It was less than half-charged, having been powered up all night, but it was enough. The rapid spike in voltage and drain, combined with Winston overriding the phone’s shutdown sensor, heated the battery electrolytes far past their safety limits.
Winston Chase and the Theta Factor Page 28
