David aimed his Beretta at her face. He remained silent, but his jaw set firm. The way his eyes intensely fixed on Virginia, suggested he didn’t believe a word she’d said.
Slowly, David’s trigger finger gently squeezed the trigger.
Sam kicked his diving pony bottle – containing compressed oxygen – into the fire. The plastic regulator nozzle broke on impact with one of the larger pieces of shale they’d used to surround the fire. This sent a burst of compressed oxygen into the fire.
Excited by the sudden burst of pure oxygen, the flame flared upward, like in a mini-explosion.
Virginia dived to her side.
The blast knocked David off his feet. He discharged multiple rounds as he fell, but the shots went high. It took an instant to recover, but his vision had been blurred by the explosion.
Holding his breath – a reaction to fear, Sam’s eyes swept the scene, darting between Virginia, Tom, and David.
Sam exhaled, relieved. The bullets missed them all by a long shot. David was disoriented and his vision impaired, but he still held the handgun – he and it were out of reach.
Sam didn’t have seconds to react and neither did Tom nor Virginia. Veterans of combat, their eyes met. Silent meaning passed between them.
They needed to move fast.
They needed to move now!
Without looking back, Sam, Tom and Virginia sprinted together into the thick forest to the west. It took time for David to gain control and regain normal vision.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The lethal automatic made a thunderous, audible roar as David emptied the remaining rounds from his Beretta. The weapon hissed, bullets whizzed, slapping into the trees around them, but by the luck of the heavens, none of them reached their intended targets.
Sam felt his heart thumping in the back of his throat as he sprinted through the thin cover of trees. The large muscles of his legs burned. The trio ran for about a half-mile. Then, panting, they walked briskly to catch their breath.
They regrouped at a natural clearing near the edge of the wooded area, still breathing heavily. Leaning forward, Sam struggled to fill his lungs fast enough to keep up with his metabolic demand.
He looked up at Tom, who was grinning widely.
Surprised by his friend’s incongruous grin, Sam laughed out loud. “You okay? What is it?”
“We’re out in the middle of nowhere now, right?” Tom asked, as he bent down and unzipped his ankle pocket.
“We sure are,” Sam said, waiting to see what could possibly make Tom so happy despite their current predicament.
“A hundred miles from civilization, you’d say?” Tom asked.
“Yeah. Why? What is it?” Sam asked, intrigued by his friend’s levity.
“David’s going to climb onto his plane, use it to return to his father’s house, and claim his fortune in stolen Confederate gold, right?” Tom held his gut with both hands, just about curled over laughing.
Maybe it was elevated hormones as a result of a near death experience, but just watching Tom laugh so uninhibitedly, made Virginia join in. Sam, helpless to the situation, couldn’t stop laughing either. It was like a stupid joke that wasn’t really funny, yet in the mass hysteria of a sublimely ridiculous set of circumstances, became the funniest thing one could ever imagine.
Like trying to put out a fire, but the odd flame keeps jumping up unexpectedly, their irrepressible snickers and chuckles eventually died.
“Right. So, what’s so funny?” Sam said, still waiting for the punch line. “We’re about to be left here in the middle of nowhere, while that bastard gets to fly back to civilization, where he’ll return to dear old dad’s place, and retrieve his fortune in Confederate gold. What is so damned funny?”
Sam wasn’t laughing now.
Tom met Sam’s hardened stare. With one last chuckle, he replied. “I wouldn’t worry, he won’t get far.”
“Why not?”
“Do you think he’ll need these?” Tom answered, holding the keys to the airplane aloft.
“Nice!” Sam said. “You never trusted him?”
“Not for a moment.” Tom answered, still smiling.
Chapter Sixty-Two
They walked through a more densely wooded forest, until the woodlands thinned out and became grassland. There, crickets chirped loudly in the afternoon sun. The three hiked across the prairie, spotted with kettles where water used to stand. Many were now filled with full grown trees.
The air was filled with the trilling sound of the blue-winged teal, the quack of a wood duck, an occasional Canadian Goose honking, as well as other waterfowl. Oddly the canopy of the tree line in these holes sat level with the surface of the prairie, creating a strange and ancient landscape, unlike anything they had ever seen before.
Sam pictured huge gangs of bison nosing in the grass in times gone by. Here and there deeper kettles stood ringed with fewer trees and mostly filled with water. The trio stopped for a rest on the edge of one of these waterholes.
Ten minutes later, Sam climbed a small hill and spotted a small gray snake in the distance, winding its way across the valley. Cars and trucks, no bigger than ants, wound across the horizon, too, much like a snake.
Sam took a deep, fortifying breath, and made a “this way, come along” gesture to his friends.
It took them only an hour to reach the four-lane highway of Interstate 94.
Walking gratefully into a large roadhouse, Sam smiled. The place held the common, familiar noise of civilization -- couples laughing, others talking, the sound of the TV. To speed things up, Sam moved to the counter to order a hot meal for each, while Tom and Virginia took a booth seat round the back. Sam sat down next to Tom. A waitress, smiling, chatting and cheerful, placed three glasses of cold water in front of them.
Virginia looked down. No one said a thing.
Still smiling, the waitress left.
Sam’s eyes darted between Tom and Virginia. Both had turned a little gray. Small beads of sweat were forming on their foreheads.
“What is it?” Sam asked.
Virginia said, “We might have a problem.”
“Really?”
Tom smiled. “They think Virginia killed Senator Perry.”
Sam swallowed hard.
Virginia sighed. “And that I killed Malcom Bennet’s son in New York and stole nearly a million dollars of his cash.”
“How did anyone come up with that idea?” Sam asked, concentrating on working the problem.
“My face was on the news,” Virginia said, looking at the TV that now was discussing celebrities playing golf in the snow with orange golf balls. “The coroner ruled that Senator Arthur Perry didn’t die of a heart attack. It appears someone inserted an intravenous cannula into the large vein in his neck and injected a massive bolus dose of calcium gluconate.”
Sam waited for her to explain what any of that meant. When she remained silent, he asked, “What would that do?”
“It would stop the heart, mimicking the signs and symptoms of a heart attack.”
“So someone’s suggesting Senator Perry was assassinated using a drug that paramedics carry?” Sam asked. “It seems possible, but obviously circumstantial. Surely your tracking log would show that you were at work all day. I can’t think of a better alibi.”
“Except Senator Perry was a very first case for the day. I’d only been at work for half an hour. Leaving a massive window of opportunity to murder him.”
“All right. But even so, I don’t think it will be hard to disprove.”
“There’s more,” Virginia said, through a thinned-lip smile.
“Go on.”
“The New York Police Department has revealed footage from inside an apartment in New York. It depicts a paramedic who resembles me awfully well, removing large bundles of hundred dollar notes next to a dead kid – Malcom Bennet’s son, who’d never used drugs previously – and loading the cash into my medical kits.”
Sam said, “Okay, so the New York
Police Department thinks you’re responsible for both their deaths.”
Virginia says, “You know what this means?”
Tom said, “You’re a hunted woman… If they think you killed a senator, they’ll go after you with everything they’ve got. Biggest man – ah, woman hunt in a long time.”
“It’s worse than that,” Sam said.
“What?”
“It means David Perry’s out of the woods and he’s painted a target on our backs.”
Tom sighed. “If only we knew where Senator Perry lived in Minnestra, Minnesota, we might just beat David Perry to it.”
Virginia smiled.
“What?”
She pulled out her smartphone and brought up a picture of the late Senator Perry’s driver’s license. Along the front was his Minnestra address. “Look what I just found.”
Sam laughed. “Now all we have to do is reach that address before David does.”
On the TV opposite them, a news article flashed. It was a special announcement by the FBI. It showed Sam, Tom, and Virginia’s faces getting into a seaplane at Minot. It described each of them and warned the general public to immediately contact the police if anyone of the party were spotted, anywhere.
Sam smiled.
“What are you smiling about?” Virginia asked.
Sam shook his head. “It’s nothing. Just an intrinsic truth, that’s all.”
“Go on. What?”
“There is no problem sufficiently bad that it can’t get worse.”
Chapter Sixty-Three
Sam watched the big man filling up his eighteen-wheeler semitrailer with diesel. The guy had tattoos down both arms, his beard was long enough to reach his chest, and he wore a gregarious smile.
Sam greeted the driver. “Where are you headed?”
“Chicago,” the man replied, without looking at him.
“You’ll be taking I-94 through the Great Lakes?”
“Sure will. Why, you looking for a ride?”
“Yeah. Three of us are heading to Minnesota.”
The driver turned to greet him, his blue eyes taking him in with a glance. “What are you, backpackers?”
Sam had learned long ago that the truth often worked better than the best fiction. “No. Honest people, in a world of trouble, looking for a favor.”
The driver’s eyes swept past him, across to Tom, and Virginia. His gaze rested with male interest on Virginia, then flicked back to remain on Tom. Sam guessed what he was thinking: a big guy like Tom could be trouble to deal with. Then again, Virginia was stunning, and it was hard to imagine a girl like her would be hanging out with a couple of troublemakers.
“Okay, why not. Come along. I won’t be making any more stops until the morning.”
“Great, that suits us.”
The stranger offered his hand. “My name’s Eddie Freitas.”
Chapter Sixty-Four
They drove through the night and arrived at Minnestra, Minnesota in the early hours of the next morning. From there, they walked several blocks off the main road, to the house that Senator Arthur Perry had once called home.
Sam stared at the mansion in the moonlight.
The place made the Senator’s lakeside log cottage appear small. The house formed a large U-shape, towering three stories. According to Elise, it was heavily protected by a state of the art, back to base security system. Fortunately, Elise had topped her class at cyber encryption and hacking when she worked for the CIA.
Not only was Sam now equipped with the digital diagrams for the residence, but also the code to the keypad that unlocked its doors and neutralized the alarm. Behind the house was what appeared to be an oversized barn. Of course, looks can easily be deceptive, and in this case, the barn was made of specialized materials utilized for their high strength and density. Inside, the barn was home to a collection of twenty or more classic cars, with an approximate current value exceeding fifty million dollars.
With Elise’s prep, it took just ten minutes to enter the main house and retrieve the digital key to the barn.
There were slate stairs up into a terraced garden area, complete with gazebo and water feature behind the house. At the top of the stairs a quartz pebble path wove through to the north toward a thick manicured hedge, which at ten feet high, provided a boundary at the rear of the yard area.
As they stepped through a gateway in the hedge, they could see two large khaki barns with a sprawling blacktop driveway giving access to both. The one on the left had sliding doors across the breadth of the front, like an aircraft hangar. The barn on the right had a double-width rolling door like a garage. There was a pedestrian door on the side, which was locked.
Sam inserted the security key into the slot beside the blast-resistant door, as though he were checking into a hotel room for the night. The heavy door was on automatic hydraulic arms.
The keypad light flashed green.
Surprisingly noiseless, the doors slid open.
The three of them all took a sharp intake of breath as they stepped inside the barn. Automatic lights blazed on with a buzz as the trio entered the spacious garage. Temperature and humidity controlled, the air was cool and dry, like a hospital.
Splayed in front of them sat two rows of vintage sports cars, astride a concourse of polished concrete which was painted yellow. Each car shone brilliantly and was a prime example of its pedigree. One side was all European sports cars. A 1979 Porsche 935, A red Ferrari 250 GT California Spider, An Aston Martin DB3S from 1956 in classic silver, and a 1955 D-Type Jaguar.
The opposing row was all American vintage muscle. At the front, a 1967 Mercury Cougar GT-S, a 1968 Shelby Mustang GT500-KR, a 454 cubic inch V8 1970 Chevy Chevelle SS, a black 1934 12-cylinder Packard coupe, a Pontiac GTO Tri-Power and in the back, opposite the Packard sat the Burgundy 1927 Ford Model A Tudor with a modified flathead V8.
“I think we found it,” Sam whispered, approaching the old American beauty and running his finger down the smooth arch of the passenger-side wheel arch.
The Ford shone as though brand new. Color keyed red wheels with white-walled tires adorned her below the running boards, and the huge silver grille at the front gleamed in the barn’s halogen lights overhead. Large bore exhaust pipes jutted rudely from the back of the running boards on both sides the only visual clue giving away the modifications made to the car.
The suspension in the Tudor had been up-rated in the tail end to stop her lying low on the road when loaded up with hooch, and the trunk and floor were modified to take extra cargo. The front seats sat up an extra six inches from the floor belying a secret compartment under the passenger cabin. Under the hood were modified truck carburetors, and extractor manifolds feeding into the large bore exhausts tailpipes. The tires were pristine. They looked as if they had been checked for air recently. Long-range fuel tanks were installed.
The tank meter read full.
Which was all very compelling, when you thought about it. Tom slanted a sly glance at Sam. Virginia grinned. They were all thinking about it.
In its day this Tudor could out-run any car she went up against. Sam opened the front door, turned the switch on the electric starter. Instantly, the proud and powerful elderly matriarch roared to life, blurting out a puff of blue smoke. She burbled away at a soft idle as though it was only yesterday she had been sprinting across the frozen lake in front of a convoy of rum runners. Nodding at the sound of a perfectly tuned engine, he let her warm up.
Sam climbed into the back seat. Rubber covered stainless steel where the rear passenger’s feet would have gone. At a glance, everything appeared as Henry Ford would have initially manufactured it. It was only when Sam opened the door, and squeezed into the large saloon-style, leather rear seats, that he observed the ruse.
His knees bent all the way back to his chest. Unless the car was designed to sit children in the back, the floorpan was much too high, meaning there was next to no legroom. In fact, if Jack Holman’s description was right, the false floorpan sat n
early six inches higher than the real one.
Sam felt his heart race as he examined the intricate metallic latches that held the floorpan together. There were no bolts or screws. Instead the entire thing had been manufactured to fit seamlessly. According to the original specs for the modified Ford Tudor, the spacing was filled with lead to keep the vehicle’s center of gravity down low.
Sam unlatched the four locks.
The false floorpan slid effortlessly backward, revealing a series of metal sheets.
“I don’t get it.” Sam asked, “What did we miss?”
“Nothing,” Virginia replied with a head shake that made one blonde lock drift in front of her face. “perhaps there’s something buried beneath that.”
Sam removed the first sheet of lead, followed by another one. Underneath the third layer was a shallow rectangular mahogany box. He tried to remove the chest, but it wouldn’t budge. Either too heavy or fixed to the floorpan with bolts.
He unclipped a latch on its side and the entire top opened upward.
All three of them gasped – inside were the coins of the Confederate treasure.
Chapter Sixty-Five
Sam’s heart skipped a beat. There were more gold coins than he had ever seen or even imagined. He felt like a kid who’d arrived at the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disneyland, and after falling through the rapids had been whisked away to a world filled with treasure. His eyes swept over more than a thousand gold coins. Lying at the center of the treasure, a single unsealed note was fixed to a bed of blue velvet, like a dragon guarding its hoard.
Sam opened the document.
The three of them read the Covenant together.
When they had finished, Virginia said, “Can you imagine how much of America’s history would have changed if this had found its way to Washington in 1863?”
Sam grinned as he closed the lid, locked the latch, and began the tedious task of sealing the false floorpan again. “At least now, it will finally reach its intended destination.”
The Ironclad Covenant Page 24
