The Moores Are Missing

by James Patterson

  “No offense, sweetheart,” says Thurston, “but I don’t swing that way.”

  “You were talking to Terri last night,” says Riggs.

  Thurston shrugs his arm free of Riggs’s grip. Thurston stands and puts on his jacket.

  “I said—” begins Riggs.

  “I heard,” says Thurston. “I just didn’t reply.”

  “You need t—”

  Thurston walks away from the table as Riggs is talking. He exits the diner and walks down the steps onto the lot. Behind him Riggs clatters through the doors and slips on the snow. Thurston watches the cop pirouette, his arms windmilling through the air before he lands heavily, flat on his ass. Riggs scrabbles to his feet with some difficulty, shoots a look of pure loathing at Thurston, and slithers toward his patrol car.

  As Thurston walks away he glances up and sees Vinegar Face laughing so much he’s wiping tears from his eyes.

  Chapter 36

  Thurston drives to Montpelier through the fog along more or less deserted interstate. Every now and again the back of a big semi looms up out of the murk, the taillights blurring as Thurston passes. Outside Barre he sees the flash of emergency vehicles and a tow truck winching a car onto a flatbed. Before he gets to Montpelier he sees two more crashes. It’s a day to stay put but there aren’t any stores of the kind Thurston wants nearer Talbot.

  After an hour and a half he reaches his destination unscathed. At a hardware store he buys a cordless Grex nail gun operating off nothing more than a couple of triple-A batteries. He throws in a box of two-inch nails and an Estwing double-headed axe with a rubberized grip. He could have picked up guns in New York, or maybe even nearer to Talbot, but too risky. Based on what he’d seen at Gullfoss, Thurston reckons on picking up more conventional weapons when he picks off the perimeter guys at Miller’s compound.

  At an electronics store Thurston buys a Nikon with a decent zoom lens and a weatherproof casing. He stocks up on winter gear at a sporting goods place next door and shells out almost a grand for a TenPoint Shadow Ultra-Lite crossbow and five boxes of aluminum bolts. A lightweight snowproof backpack, a pair of Sightmark Ghost Hunter night vision binoculars, and a lightweight pair of Zeiss regular binoculars tops it off. The Mozambique money is coming in damn useful.

  Heading back from Montpelier, Thurston takes the long way around and winds toward Isle de Rousse from the east. On this side of the ridge, the road hasn’t been cleared as well as it has on the western side, so Thurston’s glad of the Jeep’s winter rig. Coming this way means he won’t be seen heading out of East Talbot in the direction of Isle de Rousse.

  Two miles from Miller’s compound, Thurston pulls the Jeep onto a fire trail and bumps along through deep snow for fifty yards before parking under a low branch. He puts on his winter gear and stows the Nikon and crossbow in the backpack. Today is strictly recon but Thurston’s not going to take any chances.

  Chapter 37

  The Russians get to Talbot around three and head up to Isle de Rousse as darkness creeps in. The fog hasn’t lifted all day.

  Delamenko turns off the highway down an unmarked road that cuts back down toward the eastern edge of Lake Carlson. About half a mile in, Delamenko slows as he approaches a gatehouse with a red-and-white striped boom gate across the road. As the Range Rover’s tires crunch across the snow, two men wearing jeans, sheepskin jackets, and Stetsons step out of the gatehouse, both carrying semiautomatic rifles. Puli, who hasn’t been here before, reaches into his jacket.

  “Easy, brother,” says Delamenko, putting out a hand. “Relax.”

  “They might as well advertise ‘we supply drugs,’” replies Puli. “Jesus, what’s the point of a cover story if they don’t make an effort? At least look like a fucking chemical feed place. Put a sign up, wear a security guard uniform.”

  “I know,” says Delamenko. “I’ve talked with Miller about this before. He says he has the territory taken care of.” The big Russian shrugs. “Americans. You know what they’re like.”

  “Hey,” says Spetzen, leaning forward and pointing at the approaching men. “Cowboys!”

  Delamenko stops the car and lowers the window. One of the men peers inside. Spetzen holds up his hands in mock terror. “Don’t shoot,” he says with a heavy Russian accent and smiles.

  “Wait here,” says the cowboy, without giving any indication he’s heard Spetzen. The second cowboy walks back to the gatehouse and Delamenko watches him make a phone call.

  “Miller said this would be taken care of,” says Delamenko. “None of this gate bullshit.”

  “Yeah, well,” says the cowboy, “shit happens, I guess. This ain’t Moscow, Putin.”

  Puli mutters something and Delamenko raises a finger to quiet him. There’s a pause during which the only sound comes from the idling car engine. Then the boom raises and the cowboy waves them inside with the muzzle of his rifle.

  “Yesh’te der’mo derevenschina,” says a smiling Delamenko to the cowboy as he drives through the gate.

  Eat shit, redneck.

  Chapter 38

  This place is in a different league from Miller’s joint at Gullfoss.

  That’s the first thing Thurston registers. By the time he’s made his first pass around the perimeter, he’s reached the conclusion that this place has been built with two simple aims: to produce lots of drugs and to be easy to defend.

  A twelve-foot-tall, heavy-duty electrified fence topped with razorwire sits in a U shape around the compound, with twenty yards of clear ground between it and the forest. Thurston, keeping to the trees, spots CCTV cameras every hundred yards. In the “gap” at the top of the “U” is the lake. Thurston can’t get an angle on that yet but he imagines they have double or triple spotters in place there, especially in winter when the lake freezes. Inside the perimeter fence Thurston observes two dog patrols. There’s only one road in and one road out. In addition to the two guards at the gatehouse there are two more positioned to the north and two to the south where the fence meets Lake Carlson.

  If Talbot Chemical Feed is a genuine company it is taking its security extremely seriously.

  Thurston waits for darkness.

  Chapter 39

  Delamenko, Puli, and Spetzen drive past the three massive chemical storage sheds glowing pale orange under the halogens, the fog forming softly glowing globes around the floodlights. They pass the long low bunkhouse that, Delamenko knows, houses the main staff on site. He has no idea how many men are there at any time but he guesses around fifty. Maybe more. At this time of year he figures Miller will have less crew on the ground. Even white supremacists don’t like the cold.

  “Christ Almighty,” mutters Puli. His mood has been darkening since arriving in East Talbot. “I don’t understand,” he says, turning to Delamenko, “why we couldn’t come in, do the job, and get the fuck back to Boston. Back to civilization.”

  “Miller has some special instructions. Another job. Extra.”

  “Miller, Miller, Miller,” says Puli.

  “He’s the boss,” says Delamenko.

  Puli says nothing.

  “Don’t let the cowboy shit fool you, Dmitri. Miller didn’t get there being a Boy Scout. He is dangerous. And that’s me telling you, understand?”

  “Okay, Viktor. I get it,” says Puli.

  “Let’s get on with it,” says Delamenko. “Get back to Southie. I hate the country.”

  Chapter 40

  Thurston almost stumbles across the dead deer as he’s looking for a suitable entry point. The carcass is hardly visible, covered by a crust of snow. A youngish female, her broken hind leg caught in a cleft between two logs.

  He skirts around and then stops. He retraces his steps to the dead animal.

  Grunting with the effort, Thurston hauls the deer free and, as best he can, drapes the body across his shoulders. He looks across at the fence and sees he is, as far as he can tell, outside the scope of the CCTV cameras. It’s dark now anyway.

  Thurston walks across the open gr
ound toward the fence. About a yard from the fence he lifts the creature clear of his shoulders like a weight lifter and throws it onto the fence, leaping backward as he does.

  He’s rewarded by a spectacular flash and the smell of burning flesh. As Thurston had suspected, the fence packs a punch. This is not something designed to give a mild shock.

  Thurston darts back into the trees and waits.

  He doesn’t have to wait too long. Less than twenty minutes has passed before he hears the buzz of a quad bike and sees the beams from its headlight bouncing across the snow on his side of the perimeter. As the bike draws closer, Thurston sees a single rider. He slides a bolt into the crossbow and takes off the safety.

  The rider, a hunting rifle slung across his back, halts next to the dead deer, steps off his bike, and turns off the engine.

  “Shit,” Thurston hears him say.

  He bends and pulls the animal clear of the fence. As Thurston had hoped, the fence has been shorted by the contact because the quad bike rider has no hesitation in touching the animal. The rider drags the deer back a few more yards. He wipes his hands on the snow and lifts a flashlight from the quad bike. The guy sweeps the area without any sense of urgency. If he’s noticed anything weird about the deer it isn’t showing. Thurston guesses he’s going through the motions. After a few seconds he climbs back on the quad bike and heads back the way he came.

  Thurston shoulders the crossbow, breaks from the trees, and reaches the fence in less than ten seconds. He pulls a small pair of wire cutters from his pocket and grabs hold of the fence.

  Chapter 41

  A quieter night at Frenchie’s.

  Terri’s at the bar with a beer, half watching a hockey game on the TV in front of her. Ellie, a friend, sits to her left and has been talking nonstop for about the last hour—which is why Terri’s watching the game. The fact that Terri hasn’t said much more than “Is that right?” or “Uh-huh,” or “I know,” in that time hasn’t stopped Ellie’s flow. Terri’s regretting calling Ellie up but Terri’s not a woman who likes to drink alone. Especially when she aims to get loaded. She signals to Flynn behind the bar for another.

  Terri’s thinking about the Australian—if that’s what he was. Michael. Somehow she knows that’s not his real name. He’d been nice. Terri flashes on a couple of images from the previous night and a smile creeps onto her lips; a smile that gets wiped when she catches sight of the off-duty Riggs on the other side of the bar.

  “What?” says Ellie, for once paying attention to Terri. “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing,” says Terri. “I was thinking about something.”

  Ellie doesn’t ask a follow-up question and while she’s prattling away about some new guy up in Barre, Terri thinks about the look on Michael’s face when the light came on after she’d hit him with the lamp and a chill runs down her spine. While her adrenaline had been spiking off the charts, he had looked about as calm as a man taking an evening stroll.

  She doesn’t know much, but she’s willing to bet Michael Flanagan is not here shopping for real estate.

  Chapter 42

  No flash. No bang. No electricity.

  Thurston breathes a sigh of relief and cuts through half a dozen strands. He pulls the fence apart and steps through, making sure there’s plenty of room to step back once the power’s been restored. The last thing he wants is to be stuck inside the perimeter once the recon mission’s done.

  Thurston crosses toward the line of trees and is swallowed up in the shadows. A couple of small animals skitter out of the way as he descends the hill toward the floodlights glowing through the fog.

  An hour later and Thurston’s got a pretty clear idea of where everything sits inside the compound. He’s had a couple of ticklish moments when the dog patrol has passed by but had ridden his luck. He shoots a bunch of images on the Nikon and decides he’s done enough for one night.

  By midnight he’s back in the Jeep and heading around Lake Carlson on his way back to East Talbot.

  Chapter 43

  “There,” says Spetzen.

  He points across the intersection as the door to Frenchie’s opens and two women walk out, one of them laughing and holding on tight to the other. Both of them look a little unsteady on their feet.

  “Which one?” says Puli.

  Delamenko catches a flash of blond hair under the taller woman’s knit cap. “The taller one. Miller said she had really blond hair.”

  “We gonna do both?” says Spetzen.

  Delamenko shakes his head. “Not unless we have to.”

  He motions to Spetzen, who climbs out of the back and heads after the two women; Delamenko puts the Range Rover into gear and pulls out of the side street. He passes the two women and carries on about a quarter mile. Spetzen’s going to update them by phone.

  “This is bullshit,” says Puli. “This bitch isn’t our concern, Viktor.”

  “We been through this.” Delamenko doesn’t move his eyes from the rearview mirror. He wishes Puli would stop whining. It’s done. Get the fuck on with it.

  As if reading his mind, Puli falls silent. The two men wait.

  About two minutes later, Delamenko’s phone vibrates. He reads the screen and turns to Puli. “It’s on. Blondie’s on her own.”

  He pulls the Range Rover around in a circle and heads down Main. Puli spots the woman turning into a side street with Spetzen closing in. Delamenko accelerates toward the curb as Spetzen grabs the woman from behind, his big hand over her mouth. Puli steps out and Spetzen shoves the woman into the backseat. He gets in, deflecting a kick and knocking her out cold with one punch. Puli gets back into the passenger seat and Delamenko pulls away.

  No one sees a thing.

  Chapter 44

  Sofi Girsdóttir comes to him again in his sleep. This time she looks distracted. She tries to say something to Thurston but he’s not listening. Frustrated, Sofi begins pulling at his sleeve. In the background he hears Barb Connors screaming but now it’s at a distance.

  “Come on, Cody,” says Sofi. “Come on!”

  From far in the distance comes a click and Thurston knows what it is. He’s heard the sound before, many times, and it’s never a good moment.

  The muffled slide being ratcheted back on an automatic weapon.

  He opens his eyes.

  Chapter 45

  Delamenko leads the way, Puli behind him with Spetzen carrying Terri over his shoulder, bringing up the rear. Using the unconscious woman’s keys for the motel, the three Russians go in via the fire doors at the back and head up the stairs toward 205.

  Puli’s got a 9mm SIG Sauer automatic fitted with a fat Piston suppressor. Delamenko has a Remington semiautomatic shotgun, its muzzle also blunted by a squat suppressor.

  The three men move in complete silence, Puli’s bitching subsumed by the requirements of what’s happening. All three men have service histories, Puli’s the longest and bloodiest. They know how to do this.

  In the corridor leading to 205, Delamenko pauses. From what he’s been told by Miller, the guy they’re here to kill has some military skills. Delamenko’s pretty sure Miller hasn’t been completely honest about how good those skills are. Delamenko had seen for himself the guy do a pretty good job on the Axe back in London so he’s taking no chances. And, although it’d kill him to admit it, Puli was right about the girl being bullshit. Miller’s “added extra”—killing her and the Australian and letting Riggs tie up a neat bundle—might be one of those things that sounds like a brilliant idea but is less easy to do in practice. It’s a detail they could do without. If Miller wanted them to come in and do a pro job on this Thurston guy that’s fine. If he wants to get rid of the chick who shopped Thurston to him then why not shoot her and put her in the fucking woods? Christ, there’s an industrial furnace out at White Nation. Why not put both of them in there?

  Delamenko shakes his head impatiently. No sense in asking questions now. Get into the room, kill the Australian, kill the woman, and get back to
Southie before daybreak.

  At the door, Delamenko listens. He can’t hear a thing. He puts the key in the lock and silently opens the door.

  Still nothing.

  Delamenko racks the slide on the Remington and steps into 205.

  Chapter 46

  A fully dressed Thurston rolls out of bed, grabs the knife on the bedside table, and comes up in an attack posture.

  The room’s empty.

  Thurston remains completely still. He hadn’t imagined the ratchet noise. That hadn’t been part of the dream. He listens intently, sure now his instincts to spend the night across the corridor in the empty 207 had been correct.

  Thurston hears some soft rustling coming from the corridor and his mind fills in the blanks—three guys, moving quietly.

  He pads across to the dresser and picks up the nail gun before crossing toward the door. Thurston looks through the spyhole. Standing outside is a big man carrying an unconscious Terri over his shoulder.

  Thurston pads quickly back to the dresser and picks up the crossbow. He loads a bolt into it, and silently turns the handle on the door. The big guy swivels toward 207 and Thurston puts the bolt straight through his eye.

  Before he’s hit the carpet, Thurston moves into 205 as one unloads three quick rounds into an empty bed. Thurston sees the other bringing up his SIG Sauer and drills a two-inch nail into his groin. The man howls and drops as the first swings the Remington toward Thurston. As the Remington starts whumping Thurston presses the trigger on the nail gun and fires blindly. He hears the first grunt as a spray of two-inch nails rip into his chest and Thurston turns his attention back toward the screaming second man. He puts the nail gun against the top of the guy’s head and squeezes. He falls forward, his face slamming into the floor.