No Immunity

by Susan Dunlap

  No one was likely to find this place; it was hardly on the AAA map. Fox had been on target about no one worrying about her absence. Who would even know she’d flown to Las Vegas, much less where she’d gone from there? Was she counting on Persis to haul herself out of bonbon land and call … whom? God, she hoped Tchernak had had more sense than she had and gotten himself out of the deputy’s car.

  As they approached the gate, the pavement changed. It was newer, sturdier, a two-laned white road with actual curbs that led to nothing. Had they planned this facility for some other more accessible use, such as to be the headquarters of the landlocked armada? The gatehouse was substantial, and the spike-post fence had to be ten feet high and was clearly electrified. Guard towers rose from the corners. Inside the cement block kiosk she could make out a uniformed figure. The place looked like a one-story Leavenworth, or Lewisburg. Even the car facing away from the gate, a Miata much newer than her own Triumph at home, was painted military tan. It sat ready to speed the guard away the instant his watch was over.

  Once inside the gate, she’d have no chance at all.

  She eyed the guard, the guard’s car. Distract him with sports car talk? Was there a way to get the guard chatting and … what? Nothing. That wasn’t going to get her out of here.

  Nothing. But there was nothing else. She hated to use the nausea routine; it was so juvenile, so trite, so demeaning.

  The patrol car slammed to a stop at the gate. Fox stretched his legs but seemed in no hurry to haul her out. She turned toward the back window and spotted a trail of dust. A car coming. She watched until it was close enough for her to make out the driver. Another second and she realized Tchernak was locked helplessly in the back. “I really am going to be sick.” She heard her own words before she realized she’d been speaking aloud, and to an empty car.

  No other option. She banged on the window. “Fox, I’m going to be sick. Fox, you hear me. Fox!”

  Fox ambled to the car, his ursine face drawn in disgust. “Old trick.”

  “I’m not kidding.”

  “Look, I’ll bet—”

  “You bet your upholstery? Another few seconds and you won’t have a decision to make.”

  Fox shook his head. But he unlocked the door.

  She started toward the side of the road.

  “Eppers!” Fox called to the guard. “Keep an eye on her.”

  Kiernan staggered forward. In gymnastics, where flesh was anathema, she had watched girls regurgitate. Later she had wondered if any of them had been among the young women subsequently who died of “unexplained” heart attacks. But back then, before the danger was known, how many ways can you make yourself throw up had been a hot topic. Picturing the worst possible fate had been her forte. Blood, guts, gore did nothing to unnerve her. It was the thought of tiny airless rooms that raised the bile in her throat.

  Eppers was at her shoulder. He was five ten, thickly muscled, blond hair almost shaved, with a pale complexion that advertised his opinion of the desert. Mostly the kid looked bored. Eight hours a day in a cubicle without so much as a TV, who wouldn’t be bored?

  Behind her she heard the car that held Tchernak slam to a stop. Doors banged open and closed, first one and then a second. Tchernak was out. For an instant her hopes spiked. Then she spotted the handcuffs.

  “That’s Brad Tchernak!”

  “Brad Tchernak of the Chargers?”

  “That’s him.”

  “Really?” Eppers looked over her shoulder toward the car, but he didn’t move.

  Kiernan lurched forward, gagged loudly, and threw up.

  Eppers took a step back.

  God, she hoped she didn’t have to do it again. She shivered violently, and forced herself into another gag. She had forgotten how revolting it felt as shame and fear mixed with bile, and even now she felt a wave of guilt.

  Eppers moved closer to the second patrol car. “Brad Tchernak?” she heard him call out tentatively.

  Tchernak’s voice cut through the air. “You look like defensive line. I spent a lot of years staring you guys down.” Tchernak was in his element.

  She did a stagger step to the sports car. The key was in the ignition.

  So this was how Fox planned on her helping him to find the boys. It had to be a setup.

  CHAPTER 47

  KIERNAN JUMPED INTO THE Miata, fired up the engine, and was past the patrol car before it turned around. She ran the sports car through the gears in record time and floored the pedal. In the rearview mirror she could see the patrol cars still in place and Fox on the ground with Tchernak wagging his handcuffs over him.

  Wind strafed her face in the open car. She squinted against the piercing sun and wind-borne sand. The new pavement ended. The car quivered, and she felt like she was sliding on her bottom over the rough surface. Once Fox gave chase, her little car would be no match for his high-powered patrol car.

  If she were driving her own Jeep, she could cut straight across the brush. The Miata wouldn’t go ten feet off the road before it ran aground like a pirate ship. There was no choice but to head straight west to the interstate and loop back from there.

  No wonder Fox was in no hurry.

  He had made his local reputation following an “escaped” suspect. Why wouldn’t he try that again and let her lead him to the boys? Her escape attempt was a scenario with appeal to all parties. But she was not going to lead Fox to the boys. She’d turn right at the highway and drive to Las Vegas in first gear before she’d do that.

  And die? She and Tchernak. If she couldn’t force Fox to reveal the viral components, there would be no treatment.

  Ahead was the gate. The crossbar was down, the guard seated in the guardhouse. He wasn’t going to shoot. What would he do if she stopped? Well, Tchernak would be proud of her; she wasn’t about to taunt. She had her role to play in the Great Escape. She ducked low and pulled her shirt up over her face as the crossbar skimmed the top of the windshield. The glass spider-webbed but held—for the moment. It would never last the miles to the highway. She held on to her shirt, ready to yank it over her face again when the glass flew.

  As the road rose, she could feel the engine pulling. Some sports car! She hadn’t even noted this rise driving in. Ahead to her right was a rocky mound a quarter of a mile from the road, and in the distance beyond it, higher, rough hills.

  The road dipped and the car got a second wind.

  She checked the mirror again. Still no cars behind her. She sped on, bouncing on the rough road, listening to the crackle of the bruised windshield glass. The highway had to be five miles away, maybe farther. She was leaning forward, physically urging the little car on. Every moment brought her closer to safety, to control. She felt as if she were pulling one end of an elastic leash, stretching farther, farther, willing the other end not to snap back at her. But when it did—when Fox sped close enough that she spotted him in the mirror—it would be too late. She had to disappear before that.

  She thought of Tchernak back there in Fox’s grasp, and pushed that dire thought away, focusing on the road and the mirror. Dirt behind. A mile maybe. Dirt kicked up from tires. Were they shifting cars at the fortress? Or coming after her?

  If the sitting sports car was a setup, Fox would keep her in sight. He had the whole United States Navy behind him; he could reel her in anytime.

  The only protection she had was that one small rise behind. Now or never.

  She pulled the wheel to the right, angling the car down the slope toward the rocky hills, the obvious place to hide. She stepped full weight on the gas pedal and held it there till the speedometer stayed far right. Then she opened the door and jumped. She hit the ground rolling, but hit it hard. Pain shot through her body. She heard the metallic bang before she stopped rolling, and when she could lift her head, she saw the car a hundred yards away, both doors open, hood smashed into an outcropping, steam rising like a beacon.

  Which was exactly how she felt.

  No time to survey her wounds. Fox would
see the smoke; he’d be here in minutes. She forced herself up, ran on will alone, whipping her legs faster, faster, away from the rocky hills, back across the road. The soft ground gave under her feet. She couldn’t get a purchase. Pain stung her leg. Ignoring it, she ran across the wrinkles of sand, skirting low gray-brown plants. Her breath banged against her ribs; her throat burned. In the distance she could hear an engine roaring. A hundred yards ahead through the scrub was the dry streambed. In the distance was a rise, but she couldn’t chance another dash. The streambed was too close to the road, too obvious. But she had no choice. She slowed, careful not to skid to a stop. Prickly branches scraped her raw flesh as she climbed down into the shallow bed. Thorns caught her sleeves and pant legs. She yanked them free. Covering her face with her hands, she lowered herself down.

  She heard the approaching car squeal to a stop, then roll slowly over the rough terrain. Clearing a peek hole between branches, she looked back across the road and watched as Fox pulled up behind her car, got out, and eyeballed it. Steam still rose from the Miata. Behind it the rocky mound looked dark and ominous. At this distance Fox was a lump, a cutout. She couldn’t read his body language. If he stayed put and called for help, she was sunk—sunk in this dry bed till some deputy or dog sniffed her out. “Go on into the rocky hills. You know you think I’m there,” she muttered. “Do the macho thing; follow the scent. Go on!” Fox started forward, then stopped, turned around slowly, and came to a stop facing the road. He started toward his car.

  “What’s the matter?” she muttered. “Can’t you handle one five-foot-tall woman by yourself?”

  Fox hesitated, then turned around and headed toward the hill beyond the sports car.

  Kiernan watched him till he was halfway to it. Then she pushed through the brush, up out of the ravine, and ran in the opposite direction toward the low rise.

  She had figured the rise to be half a mile away. No such luck. Farther. She had to watch the ground, aiming around the scrub, leaping the strewn rocks. When she hit a flat spot, she half turned. Nothing seemed to move across the road, but she couldn’t stop and look long enough to be sure. Her breath was coming in gasps, each hot inhalation searing her throat. The rise ahead didn’t seem to be getting any closer.

  She turned again. Still no movement. She ran on, not bothering to check again, knowing it would make no difference. If Fox spotted her, he’d be in his car and on her tail.

  The rise that had looked fence-high from the road was taller than a second-story roof. Panting, she forced herself on till she was over the top. She skidded down the far side.

  In the distance she could see a dirt road. And a car, waiting.

  CHAPTER 48

  “GET IN, O’SHAUGHNESSY,” THE driver called across the seat of the pickup as she fell onto the seat. She was panting too hard to speak. The passenger pulled her in, and the truck rolled sedately toward the interstate. When she looked up, it was into the face of the driver, Reston Adcock.

  Was this part of Fox’s setup? Adcock and Fox in this together? Fox couldn’t have guessed she would ditch the car and end up here. Maybe Fox had all possibilities covered, and Adcock was one player in a large cast. She leaned back against the seat, waiting till she could breathe normally. Adcock and Fox? And the guy next to Adcock?

  The truck was an old blue Chevy, the land that looked like a duck’s head, and the bench was wide in both directions. Adcock was as well coiffed, well dressed in suitable outback garb, as the last time she’d seen him, giving orders no law-abiding private investigator would take. From the looks of him, he still worked out in a well-appointed health club. But the truck almost made her laugh. If Adcock were driving his own pickup, it would be a Mercedes, with leather seats. And he certainly wouldn’t have this guy next to him.

  The passenger was a decade older, and it looked to have been a hard ten years. Brown sports jacket, cheap, thin. Skin sallow and blotchy. He was the kind of street-smart guy who never intended to be in any vehicle off pavement.

  If the two men had been seated any farther apart when she arrived, they’d have been on the running boards.

  “So, O’Shaughnessy, what’d you find out from the navy?”

  Of course Adcock figured she was back on his payroll. She was desperate for any ally, why disabuse the man? Still, she needed time to decide how much to trade to a man she couldn’t trust. “Who’s this?” she asked, eyeing the little man between them.

  The hard-decade man had scrunched his shoulders inward, and shifted his feet onto the hump over the drive shaft. Everything about him said, I’m just taking up space on the seat.

  “Forget him,” Adcock said.

  “Hardly.”

  “He’s hired help. Hired not-help’s more like it.”

  “Hey, Adcock, whadya want from me? I followed the doc up here, didn’t I? I spotted her Beemer. I found the motel.”

  “Button it, Weasel.”

  Weasel. How apt. “Adcock, how is it you’re right here waiting for me?”

  “I followed you and the sheriff till he turned off. Then I circled back here and paralleled your dust. Like tornado spotting. Did you see the boys? Are they in the desert brig over there?”

  “Slow down.”

  “What?”

  “If you could follow the dust, so can the sheriff. He’s over on the next road.” On this road it wouldn’t matter how fast they went. All the sheriff had to do was call ahead for a deputy to wait at the interstate. Adcock would have to cut overland somewhere. But she wasn’t ready to point that out. When he slowed the truck, she said, “I thought it was Grady Hummacher you were after. What made you shift your focus to the boys?”

  “Now that Grady’s dead, I’m responsible for them. I want to get them back to their own people.”

  The Weasel’s snort was so muted, it took Kiernan a moment to realize there hadn’t been merely a shift of weight in the truck. A retort was on her lips, but she kept quiet. When you’re in the only vehicle in sight in the middle of the desert and the United States Navy is gunning for you over the rise, it’s time for discretion. “How did you find out Grady was dead?”

  “Walked in and saw his body. So much blood around his room, it looked like his fucking skin had been turned inside out. That answer your question?”

  “Completely.”

  “So, O’Shaughnessy, the boys? Navy got ’em?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “What about that green spot behind us? That’d be damned attractive to south-of-the-border kids.”

  “Jeez, Adcock, don’t you think the navy would come up with that? Whadya think, you’re the only one with a noggin?” With a louder snort the Weasel burrowed back down.

  Kiernan nodded. “That’s the first place they’d have checked. It’s also downwind of their experiments. Not a place to go without a full bodysuit.”

  “I don’t give a shit about the danger—”

  “You want to end up with your skin turned inside out?”

  Adcock kept the truck moving toward the highway. At the speed he was going, the three of them could have been any local family heading to the Doll’s House for an early-morning breakfast before moseying on down to Las Vegas. But they weren’t going somewhere as much as just moving, while Adcock made up his mind.

  “Fine, fine. But if they’re not here, where are they? I need to get them back before …”—he shrugged— “something happens to them.”

  “Let me think,” Kiernan said. Adcock still assumed the boys were seismic aides. Did he think they knew where Grady’s find was? Did he figure they could tell him? Was he planning on getting an interpreter to tell them to lead him to the oil?

  She glanced at Adcock’s face. Cured by the years in the sun, set-jaw lines etched deep, eyes that didn’t waste time looking around—everything about him screamed impatience and a real small tolerance for dissent. She could see him stalking into Grady’s room demanding the oil-exploration data. It was his right, after all. Grady Hummacher tells Adcock to go to hell. A
dcock pulls a gun. A couple of escalations and Grady’s dead. Adcock figures the boys will take him back to Grady’s oil.

  But Adcock didn’t have the boys. So they were gone before he got there. The question was, where were they now?

  “Hey, O’Shaughnessy, I didn’t hire you so I could take you for a ride in the country.”

  “You didn’t hire me at all. I’m only doing this as a favor.”

  “You expect me to thank you?”

  “I’m doing this as a favor to Tchernak. Has he reported to you about Grady’s midweek flight to Panama?”

  “You mean after the Friday he flew in here?”

  “Right. He came in on Friday, picked up the boys and a woman named Irene, and drove up here to a park—the one you spotted—Saturday. Monday he flew to Panama and returned to Vegas on Wednesday.”

  Adcock’s jaw was clenched, but he held his silence. She remembered that about him, his ability to focus totally on the problem. “What’d he go for?”

  “That’s not the interesting part, Adcock. Both flights were on charters.”

  Adcock stared straight ahead, though she wouldn’t have put money on his watching the road. The Weasel’s body tensed, and Kiernan had the sense that he, too, was considering all the angles. But Adcock wouldn’t have given him all the pieces those angles came off of. Adcock revealed nothing he didn’t have to, and he played his cards so close to the vest that when she’d worked for him, only very fast talking had kept her out of jail. “Chartered to who?”

  “Nihonco Oil.”

  He slammed the wheel; the truck jolted. “The bastard flew down with Nihonco? He double-crossed me? He sold me out? Is that what he did?”