River of No Return : A Jake Trent Novel (9781451698053)

by Bertsch, David Riley

  This morning, things had gotten only slightly more interesting: the senator left the house around 9 a.m., drove toward town, and pulled into his main office near Liberty Park.

  Jake watched the door for an hour before he gave up. There was no way to hear what was going on inside, and the receptionist had started to look up curiously at the Charger. He stopped on the way back and grabbed a late breakfast, let it digest, and hit the gym.

  He called Divya back as the shower water warmed.

  “Nothing yet, except I can verify that the senator is here.”

  “Good.” A pause. “Jake, I want you to be careful out there. You know how the feds can be.”

  “No. Tell me.”

  “The CIA is very interested in what’s going on out there, but they can’t overtly support you. They’re worried about spooking Meirong and Canart back into the woodwork.”

  “I’ve been on my own before.”

  “I know that, Jake. Call me when you find the girl.”

  Jake hung up. How much danger am I in?

  He jumped in the shower. Divya’s warning didn’t sound like general advice. She must have had reason to believe that the relationship between Xiao and Canart had eroded to the point that either side might be trigger-happy.

  Jake dried off. He dressed warmly again, not knowing where he might end up or for how long.

  He drove past the office building where he’d seen the senator just a couple of hours prior. The Lincoln was gone.

  Jake made a U-turn into a gas station and drove back toward Ammon and the senator’s residence. On the highway, a dull gray Ford Taurus peeled abruptly from the left lane into the right and settled in behind him. Jake eyeballed the sedan in the rearview mirror. When Jake took a left off Route 20 at the Ammon exit, the car followed.

  Adjusting the mirror, Jake took note of the license plate, typing the number into his phone. He pushed the accelerator and passed an old minivan. The Taurus did the same.

  Shit. So much for not spooking anyone.

  The right turn for Sagebrush Court was coming up quickly. Instead of taking it, Jake continued straight, past the turn for Eagle Point Park and into the foothills on Sunnyside. The road straightened out and climbed out of the artificial verdure of Ammon and into rolling slopes of silver sage and rabbitbrush. He accelerated until the Taurus was out of view.

  At the intersection with Bone Road, Jake pulled over and waited. He opened the center console, took out the Mariner, and set it on his lap.

  The Taurus never came. After thirty minutes, Jake, confident he was alone again, spun the Charger around in the dust and headed back to the park.

  Throngs of children frolicked through the playground, bundled up against the chilly air. Their days outside were numbered with the approaching winter. The weather shifted; the gusty wind from the prior afternoon brought with it low cloud cover and occasional snow flurries. A front was parked squarely over eastern Idaho. Jake parked and took a look around using his mirrors—plenty of SUVs and minivans, but no Ford Taurus. He opened the door.

  Jake concealed the Mariner in his waistband but draped the binoculars around his neck. If anyone asked, he was spotting sandhill cranes. He walked slowly through the woods to his surveillance point.

  Canart arrived at the residence at 2:30 p.m., leaving the Lincoln in the turnaround. He spent a few minutes discussing something in the backyard with a gardener, then went into the house. He changed clothes and returned to the sedan.

  Before the senator could get in the car, Jake was in a full-blown sprint back to the Charger. He ran through the strip of trees, ignoring the path for a more direct route. He had his hands out in front of him, deflecting low branches that aimed to sting his half-frozen face.

  His pace coming out of the woods attracted the attention of the mothers at the park. He gave them a quick wave, hoping to quell their suspicion with a gesture of normalcy. They sent back puzzled looks.

  Jake squealed out of the lot, taking a left out of the park to the stop sign. At his next left, he could see the terminus of Sagebrush Court. Jake waited a few seconds. No Lincoln. Had Canart beat him? He must have. Jake accelerated toward the main artery.

  On Sunnyside Avenue, Jake passed slower traffic until the Lincoln was within view. He slowed to the speed limit, keeping a buffer between himself and Canart. No Taurus. So far, so good.

  At the Idaho Falls city limits, traffic picked up. A procession of Saturday afternoon traffic, moviegoers, and early-bird diners. Jake lost the Lincoln in the snarl. All he could do now was watch the turning lanes and hope.

  The intersection at Highway 26 was crowded with vehicles. The perfect place to lose his target. Sunnyside spread out into four lanes at the light and the highway was six lanes, both ways. If Jake guessed the wrong lane, it would be impossible to get back on Canart without giving himself away.

  Luckily, it didn’t come to that. At South Hitt Road, Jake watched the Lincoln turn north toward Grand Teton’s mall and movie theatre. The seven or eight cars between them did the same. Wind was gusting head-on at the Charger from the north, which usually meant an encroaching cold front from British Columbia or Washington, and a second wave of weather was fighting its way across the west.

  Canart continued past the shopping center and took a left onto East Seventeenth, toward South Holmes. When he got there, he turned right at the light toward the highway again.

  The Holmes intersection didn’t concern Jake. The senator had to go right or straight—he would’ve taken Sunnyside the whole way out to access the highway between there and South Holmes—and the intersection was smaller, only three lanes.

  Two cars stood between Jake and the senator when they hit the highway. The Lincoln went right and accelerated briskly back the way Jake had come the day before, east toward Teton Pass and Jackson.

  The afternoon was increasingly dull and moody to the east, where the elevation rose. Only small, opaque windows of light shone through thin spots in the clouds. A grainy snow began to fall.

  The Lincoln was some four hundred yards ahead, and Jake maintained that distance. Traffic lightened as they left town. A few miles out they passed Iona, and then Ririe. The speed limit was sixty-five now, but the Lincoln was beating that easily, making Jake wonder if the senator was headed the whole way into Jackson.

  Ten miles east of Idaho Falls, the senator slowed and merged into the left turn lane toward Heise Hot Springs.

  Jake stayed in the main lane of traffic. Following the senator here, when there were no other cars around, would raise eyebrows. In his rearview mirror, he watched the silver sedan make the turn, then flip on its right turn signal.

  Got ya. Canart was turning into a small commercial complex.

  Jake continued on 26 until a rest stop perched above the South Fork of the Snake, where he made a U-turn. He got on his cell phone and called Divya as he accelerated back toward Heise.

  “Were the three offices the only real estate in the senator’s name?”

  “That and the house. I sent you all four.”

  “You did. There’s nothing else?”

  Jake was eyeing an abandoned industrial park set back a quarter-­mile from the highway.

  “No.”

  “Where is his research team located?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “Okay. I might be onto something.” Jake pressed End. A shady senator visiting an unoccupied commercial park.

  Jake slowed to make the right turn at Heise, but quickly got back on the accelerator. The Taurus. He exchanged momentary eye contact with the driver of the dull gray Taurus, a meatball of a man with military-cut gray hair. A bodyguard. He turned left toward Canart and the industrial park.

  Shit.

  Jake had no choice but to continue straight. He pulled off at a small diner on the right and parked in the back of the stone building, where the Charger w
asn’t visible from the highway.

  He went inside and got a cup of coffee to go. Jake settled in, standing in the sharp, pelting snow at the back corner of the restaurant, looking west, where he could see Route 26. His gray and black attire matched the atmosphere. He was hoping to see a Taurus headed back toward town, and a Lincoln too, so that he could investigate the industrial park.

  After three hours, Jake’s hands and feet were frozen and his face battered by the early season storm. He got back in the Charger, again putting the loaded Glock on his lap, and pulled out of the lot toward Heise and the industrial park.

  The main building looked recently built—the last five or ten years. Plain vertical aluminum siding adorned an exterior with few windows and zero frills. Taupe colored, with a dark roof. The Lincoln and the Taurus were side-by-side in the back corner of the lot.

  Jake parked the Charger down the road a ways and across the street. The evening light was leaden, dulled by the cold front. He left the binoculars, opting for the Glock and the tactical knives.

  There were three entrances to the building: one facing the highway, and one on either side. The entrance closest to the senator’s sedan was lit up by a single incandescent bulb. On the right side of the heavy steel door, one of the building’s few windows was lit from within. Jake concealed himself behind a hedge just a few yards away from the two parked cars and watched. Slat blinds made details difficult, but Jake could make out figures: One was surely Canart, with his small head and ballooned abdomen. The other had the rounded muscular shape of the man who drove the Taurus.

  After a few moments, the security man left the room with the window and came outside to have a smoke and to check the perimeter. He looked agitated, on high alert. Jake was well hidden in the landscaping, though, and the guard seemed satisfied with his patrol.

  Jake put his attention back on the window. The senator’s shadow was perched atop a desk on the right. He was looking left, where the door toward the entryway must have been. He was gesturing excitedly, either on speakerphone or talking to someone just out of view. A third figure.

  The gesturing turned to yelling, and Jake struggled to make out the words. They were too muffled. The security guard noticed the commotion too. He stayed outside, but shifted the revolver in his belt line, preparing for action.

  The ruckus was coming to a crescendo. The senator’s bellowing, though loud, was still indistinct. Looking anxious, the security man opened the door, peered in, and listened. He must have deemed his services unnecessary, because he resumed his post and lit another cigarette.

  Silence. The senator had apparently said his piece. After a few quiet moments, a sobbing escaped through the walls. A woman. Jake’s eyes were glued to the window, looking for Meirong’s slight silhouette.

  Movement. The senator was up and walking toward the middle of the window. His hand was out in front of him.

  Canart’s shouting resumed and the object revealed itself. A petite shadow. The two figures collided in the window in a tangled melee. The mass stumbled toward the window, knocking the slats of the blinds in every direction.

  There were muted grunts and cries. The security guard had had enough. He flicked his cigarette into the halo cast by the outdoor fixture.

  Jake saw the guard’s form join the tangle, doubling its size. He stood up and drew the Mariner, then resumed his crouch.

  Crack!

  A blast of gunfire. The gathering fell to the ground. After a short moment the hullabaloo resumed, rowdier than ever. Pieces separated from the group. One was rushing to the exit. The door to the building was flung wide open. Jake dropped flat to the ground.

  He spun and wormed his way behind the cement base of a light post. Crack! Crack! The concrete disintegrated, leaving a curtain of dust. Jake couldn’t see his assailant, though he had a guess. He relayed a few shots back at the bodyguard, who had no choice but to retreat toward the car.

  Jake heard a car door open and close. He stood and fired. The engine turned over and the transmission thumped into reverse, followed by the screech of rubber on asphalt.

  Damn.

  Jake waited for a few seconds to make sure the attacker was gone. When he checked, the Taurus was missing.

  He peered through the dust back into the senator’s office. There were no figures visible. Whoever was left wasn’t standing.

  Jake backed off out of view, and ran to the Charger to call Divya.

  48

  HEISE HOT SPRINGS. OCTOBER 29.

  6:45 P.M. MOUNTAIN STANDARD TIME.

  At dusk the skies were spitting a granular snow. Jake had moved the Charger even farther down the dark country road, but where he could still see the intersection with the highway. The Lincoln hadn’t left the complex.

  “Just another minute,” Divya said. “I’ll try Wright’s land line.”

  Jake was still catching his breath from the adrenaline and the run.

  “Yes?” Wright was nonplussed.

  “Sir, I have Jake Trent on the line. We have a development.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Jake spoke up. “Less than ten minutes ago, I witnessed a shooting among Canart, his security guard, and a person I believe to be Meirong Xiao.”

  “Casualties?”

  “I don’t know. I believe the security guard fled.”

  Divya took over. “I think it’s time to activate a team out there. I’d be willing . . .”

  Wright didn’t let her finish. “Jake, what’s the current situation?”

  “Two of the three appear to remain in the building. I still have visual of one of their vehicles.”

  “Are they armed?”

  “Safe to assume so.”

  “Are you armed?”

  “Yes.”

  “You believe the senator and Meirong remain in the office?”

  “That’s my best guess.”

  Wright took a moment to think. “Are you comfortable resuming surveillance?”

  Jake thought, Whoever is left inside heard the shots in the lot and knows they are being watched. “If it will help to get Charlotte Terrell home, absolutely.”

  “We’re working on that as we speak.”

  Jake wondered if this was true. “What do you want me to do?”

  “You need to find out who was hit in the shootout. If Meirong is dead, we have to make sure her father doesn’t find out. If he does, he has no reason to give us Charlotte Terrell.”

  Jake hung up the phone, made sure it was on silent, and worked his way back to the building. He hunkered down for a few moments in the same bush, hoping to see Meirong. The light in the office was still on, but no silhouettes appeared in the window.

  He had to get closer. If he could get to the window without being noticed, he might be able to catch a glimpse of the office through the cracks in the window shade.

  It was now a quarter after seven. The arctic air had started to settle in. High, mired clouds emancipated swollen flakes—the largest yet from the early season crop of storms. The plains above the South Fork of the Snake were slowly filling in, obscuring the crop rows and tractor paths.

  Still no movement from within the office. The building was silent. The wind that came in with the front had died off, and Jake could see tracks from the office door toward the spot where the Taurus had been parked. They were large—a man’s foot for sure, but Jake couldn’t be sure whether it was the guard or Canart himself who’d taken the Taurus. He preferred to encounter the senator, if it came to that. He was less physically imposing.

  Jake crept closer until his back was against the building’s aluminum exterior. He was shielded from the falling snow by a small awning. He looked out to the parking lot and then right toward the highway to make sure the Taurus wasn’t returning.

  I should be so lucky.

  The building blocked his view of the Taurus, but Jake co
uld hear the new snow betraying the guard’s intentions. It squeaked and cried under his tires. The car was reappearing slowly, lights off.

  Jake shuffled along with his back against the cold metal toward the far corner, where he could hide. The Taurus came into view around the opposite corner and made a sweeping turn to face the battered concrete where Jake had hid only a few minutes before.

  The security guard stopped the car and flicked on the high beams. The big flakes came heavier, immobilizing his senses; he couldn’t see much beyond thirty feet out.

  The guard got out of the car, his back to Jake. He was checking the landscaping, looking for confirmation that Jake was dead. Jake knew the man wasn’t going anywhere. It was his duty to stay between the senator and whoever had been in the bushes. He was an obstacle Jake would have to go through, not around.

  Jake was creeping up behind the figure before he knew it. Pure instinct. The man crouched just at the end of the high beams’ reach, looking for blood on the snow.

  FUBAR, the military called it. Canart and Meirong knew there was a threat just outside. The security guard was on to him too. Tactical measures were a thing of the past. For the first time in many years, Jake was forced to be something other than human—a machine on a mission.

  “For the chief!” Jake shouted.

  The man startled and turned.

  Crack!

  When Jake approached the body, the look of surprise still showed on his face. He appeared perfectly lifelike, but for the tiny entry wound between his eyes.

  49

  HEISE HOT SPRINGS. THE SAME NIGHT.

  9 P.M. MOUNTAIN STANDARD TIME.

  Jake took a deep breath. He was just a short counterclockwise spin away from being able to see inside the office, where he would take a quick glance, and then spin back, in case of gunfire.

  Jake started to move, the Mariner enveloped by both hands and held low, inches from his belt buckle.