Impervious from intercept.
Untraceable from either end.
Valkyrie sat in a leather recliner, laptop in place, and with the stroke of a few keys and a click on the trackpad, the file opened on the screen. Extensive and complete, no detail of the target's life had been omitted. Age, weight, height, aliases, passports, driver's licenses, friends, relatives, every location he'd ever lived, every job he'd ever had, past lovers—it was all there. Valkyrie was looking at the man's entire life under a microscope. There was nothing, it seemed, Shepherd didn't know about the target except one thing.
The most important thing.
His current whereabouts.
Valkyrie scoured the file learning as much as possible about the man. It would take several hours to digest this much information. Time Valkyrie didn't have. A person's past provided a wealth of information to the discerning eye. And Valkyrie could discern what others could not, more quickly than most. A gift that elevated the assassin to a level of prominence in a dog-eat-dog business.
The target presented a unique challenge for the assassin. He had traveled extensively over the past few years, most of it under an assumed identity. Valkyrie understood why. If the man wanted to stay alive, his true identity had to remain disguised. Which made Valkyrie's job more difficult. The assassin could see by the file the target had many enemies and most wanted him dead. He had survived several prior attempts on his life. This time he would not be so lucky.
The target was last seen in Little Rock, Arkansas not much more than an hour ago, which meant the trail was already growing cold. Valkyrie was an hour away by private jet plus thirty minutes to get to the airport plus another fifteen minutes to pick up a rental car. Essentially three hours behind the target. An almost insurmountable gap unless the target made a mistake which, based on his file, was unlikely to happen.
Valkyrie closed the laptop and slipped it inside a backpack. Plenty of time to read more about the target on the flight. Valkyrie placed a call to the airport, grabbed a go bag, and left the luxurious Denver flat for the Centennial Airport where the chartered Hawker 400 XP would be fueled and ready to go.
9
Kaplan ended the call and mounted his Harley. The raging fire on the hillside behind him had ignited a brush fire. The breeze pushed it up and around the inside of the horseshoe shaped quarry to the point where it would soon threaten the grove of tall pine trees at the top of the cliffs.
First responders were on their way and within a short time the area would be swarming with firefighters, police, and emergency personnel searching for possible survivors.
"Tony," Kaplan shouted. In the distance he heard sirens. The direction seemed to be just beyond the quarry. "We need to leave now or we're as good as dead. It will take thirty minutes to get where we need to go and we're not exactly inconspicuous."
Tony stood and slipped onto the rear saddle. Kaplan shifted the bike into gear and sped off down the Arkansas River Trail. He knew what was west of him on the Trail; he didn't dare return the way he came. The directions he just received indicated the Interstate was not very far north of the river. He just needed to get there without the authorities spotting him.
He needed a place to hole up and hide while he sorted things out. Like how to keep Tony alive until he delivered him to a WitSec safe site. It seemed the promise he made to the dying deputy was getting more and more difficult to keep. Several people wanted the old man dead and didn't care if Kaplan was collateral damage.
He took the first road he came to and exited the Arkansas River Trail, which took him through the perimeter of a North Little Rock neighborhood. The road made a series of turns before it merged onto Fort Roots Drive. In the distance, a car rounded a curve with its blue lights flashing. To his left, above him on a hillside, were two sets of red flashing lights navigating through a series of switchbacks as they descended the hill toward the crash site.
Blue lights meant cops.
Not good.
Red lights meant emergency response vehicles like fire trucks and rescue units. Not good, but better.
Kaplan made a hard left and turned up Fort Roots Drive as he opted for the red lights. Rock walls lined both sides of the road as it ascended the steep grade. He accelerated toward the first switchback and passed a fire truck with its siren wailing. Forget pulling to the curb and yielding the right of way, he didn't have time. He needed to get as far away from the crash site as he could in as little time as possible. In the first switchback, he swerved to avoid a rescue unit that had cut the turn short and taken some of his lane.
After clearing the curve, Kaplan twisted the throttle and accelerated up the winding road again. The old man's grip tightened on his waist. Ahead he saw another set of flashing red lights rounding a switchback and head in his direction. Another rescue unit, judging by its size.
He glanced back down the hillside and saw a string of vehicles with blue lights racing toward the Arkansas River Trail and the wreckage of the helicopter.
All but one.
A single set of blue lights had turned onto Fort Roots Drive, apparently in pursuit of him. It was imperative he keep distance between the cop car and the Harley.
Fort Roots Drive snaked back and forth through several switchbacks until it reached the hilltop where it opened up onto a huge complex. He should have put two and two together earlier, however in all the excitement, he didn't. Until now. The complex buildings were unmistakably of U. S. Government origin. By the look of the structures—military. And that made sense. Fort Roots Drive. Fort Roots.
He passed through an abandoned security checkpoint, the kind with a horizontal retractable metal gate. Another fire truck thundered past him toward the exit. The guardhouse was empty, in fact, there was not a guard in sight anywhere. He wondered if the post was manned anymore or if the guards had left the gate open and scrambled in response to the explosion on the other side of the complex. He had no intention of sticking around long enough to find out.
He made a right turn at a red brick building positioned so close to the road it was almost in it. The road curved to the right in a long sweeping arc with traditional bland government buildings to his left side while a grassy meadow opened to the right. Even though he'd never been here before, it looked typically familiar. Most military installations had the same general look and feel about them. Architects and engineers did not need creativity to satisfy the government's regulations and requirements.
The road swept left then back to the right and that's when a mammoth-sized building appeared on the left. He realized what it was at the same time he saw the lighted sign, Eugene Towbin Veterans Affairs Hospital.
He must have entered the hospital grounds through a rear entrance, which meant the main entrance was still in front of him. He hoped there wasn't another guard post. He might not be so lucky the second time.
He accelerated straight ahead and the complex changed appearance from a governmental architectural style to a private sector look. Commercial really. No guard post in sight.
In his mirror, flashing blue lights appeared in the distance. Now was not the time to get complacent and run the risk of getting caught. He blasted through two red lights and past a strip mall on his right. He didn't know where he was going just a general sense of which direction the interstate should be based on the instructions he received on the phone. The blue lights disappeared from his side mirrors. Ahead, traffic was heavier.
He couldn't run the third traffic signal because the intersection was too congested. However, he saw a sign directing him toward the interstate. He needed to turn left, which meant he had to wait for the turn signal. And that meant time sitting still in traffic. Time that would allow the police car to catch up to him.
He pulled into the left turn lane behind a Ford F-250 pulling a horse trailer. Cars were darting through the intersection from his right and his left on the crossing road. The street sign said MacArthur Drive. He counted the seconds, hoping he'd see the light turn green. Two cars pul
led in behind him, a Toyota Camry and a Chevy Malibu, which was a bit of a relief because blue lights had already appeared behind him and were closing the gap.
The green turn arrow appeared about the time the North Little Rock Police cruiser was still two hundred yards from the intersection. It stayed in the far right lane. Cars pulled clear of the lane to give the police car passage and, for a brief moment, Kaplan thought it might not be in pursuit of him.
He followed close behind the horse trailer and as far to the left as possible in attempt to use the Camry and Malibu as a screen from the patrol car. The police cruiser entered the intersection then stopped, blasted its siren, and turned hard left.
Now he knew he was a person of interest. What he didn't know was why. On second thought, he knew why and where to find the answer.
It was sitting right behind him.
10
The dead deputy's words rolled around in Kaplan's head.
You have to get him to a safe site.
Promise me you'll deliver him to WitSec.
Witness Security.
Of course this was all about Tony. Kaplan made a promise to his fellow Army Delta Force brother and U. S. Marshals Service deputy to keep Tony safe and he wasn't doing a good job of keeping it. What was it the man said?
I know all these cops…they're good ole boys. All they'll do is get him killed.
In the meantime, it looked like they might get Kaplan killed too. Unless he could lose them and lose them now.
"Hold on," Kaplan yelled back to Tony.
Tony's grip tightened.
Kaplan twisted the throttle and accelerated around the F-250 towing the horse trailer. Both oncoming lanes had traffic. He kept the Harley close to the trailer and Ford truck as he passed leaving only inches to spare. Oncoming cars swerved and honked.
The first car swerved to avoid Kaplan's motorcycle and sideswiped the car next to it. Then the driver overreacted and swerved back, crashing into the back of the Camry that was previously behind Kaplan. He glanced in his mirror and saw traffic in both directions grind to a halt leaving the patrol car stuck with nowhere to go.
He was momentarily free and clear, although he knew that wouldn't last long.
Police had radios. Kaplan knew two things about those radios.
First, they were buzzing with chatter.
Second, he was probably the topic of discussion.
Within thirty seconds Kaplan found what he was searching for. The interstate. He entered the left turn lane to the on-ramp and glanced a final time in his mirror for any signs of the police cruiser.
Nothing.
Kaplan breathed a sigh of relief for the first time since this ordeal started. He might stand a chance of getting the old man to safety after all.
He went under the overpass, turned left onto the on-ramp, accelerated, and merged with traffic. In order to blend in, he paced the Harley with the fastest traveling vehicles. He found three cars traveling west on Interstate 40 keeping their highway speeds between eighty and eighty-five. That worked for him. Now he just needed the next twenty minutes to be uneventful, which, based on the night's events thus far, was unlikely.
Keeping Tony out of sight was not an easy assignment. Especially on a motorcycle with the man clinging to his waist wearing a tropical print shirt. His Harley was not quiet and drew glances from almost every motorist he passed. He needed to ditch his bike and pick up a nondescript automobile and he had to do it quickly before the authorities widened their search area and search parameters. Authorities would eventually figure out his need to change vehicles if he was to stay off their radar. The longer it took him to do it, the odds increased he would get snared in their dragnet.
He had to get in front of this one and formulate a plan. Staying ahead of the authorities would be more difficult without the resources he'd become accustomed to having available on demand. This time he was on his own. No one had his back.
At least, not yet anyway.
Tony had apparently given up on trying to talk over the roar of the motorcycle engine. Or maybe he was formulating his own plan. At any rate, he couldn't be trusted.
Traffic was still heavy on the interstate at this hour. After all, it was a Friday night, which meant more than the usual number of residents were out doing whatever they do and going wherever they go on Friday nights. This worked in his favor.
Soon, he spotted a group of four motorcycles ahead riding together holding a speed of seventy-five.
Motorcycle riders tend to form up in groups when traveling on high-speed highways. It was a camaraderie and safety thing. Safety in numbers. A single motorcycle rider was almost invisible to most drivers. A group was not. Which was a good thing. Unless you're a wanted man. Or in his case, transporting a wanted man. Life was full of risks and this was a gamble he had to take.
Kaplan signaled the riders as he pulled alongside. A man in his sixties with a long gray beard blowing in the night air had been elected, or self-appointed, as ride leader. He gave Kaplan a thumbs-up and a head nod to fall in behind. His timing couldn't have been better because less than five minutes after he joined with the riders, the group passed an Arkansas State Police cruiser going the opposite direction. Unlikely that a group of five bikes would draw much more than a second glance. It worked. He had blended in with the riders.
Kaplan stayed with the group until the Arkansas 365 exit. He broke from the rest of the motorcycles, took the elevated off-ramp to the right, and turned left at the light. When he crossed back over the interstate he glanced up the highway and saw the four motorcycles pulling to the side of the road. Behind them, a pair of flashing blue lights.
Arkansas 365 branched to the right as Arkansas 100 began on the left. He checked his mirrors. Still clear. The group of motorcycles would know which exit he took so he had to assume that by now the trooper did as well. Or perhaps not. The group of riders wore vests that read Knights of the Night. Maybe they wouldn't be very cooperative with the trooper. It really didn't matter because Arkansas 365 went in two directions at the exit and it was Kaplan's intention to be out of sight before anyone could figure out which direction he went.
He followed the instructions he'd been given to the letter and, even though he’d been there before, he still almost missed the turn onto River Road. It seemed to pop up out of nowhere in the darkness. River Road turned into Plantation Drive, which ended with a tee at River Road Drive.
When the motorcycle slowed, Tony said, "What the hell happened here? Looks like a disaster zone."
"It was. Tornado ripped through here back in April. Took out most of the neighborhood."
"Fatalities?"
"Unfortunately Tony, yes."
"You from around here?"
"No. I told you before I was just passing through. Now shut up, you're asking too many questions."
When he'd seen the news about the disaster four months ago, Kaplan didn't know if his friend was alive or dead. He called but didn't initially get a response. It was a long twenty-four hours, waiting and not knowing. He knew coming here now was not the best idea, but he didn't have many options.
"Is this a safe house?"
"No. But it's safe enough for now." Tony was starting to grate on his nerves. Maybe he should just turn around and leave.
You have to get him to a safe site.
Promise me you'll deliver him to WitSec.
"Tony, either shut up or I'll leave you on the side of the road."
He turned left and seconds later pulled into a driveway he'd only ever been in once before. A man was standing in the dark outside his garage.
Kaplan pulled next to the man and stopped. He killed the engine, turned his head, and said to Tony, "Get off."
"You won't have to tell me twice," Tony said. The old man peeled off the rear saddle and collapsed to the ground.
"Is he okay?" The man asked.
"He's fine," said Kaplan. "Legs probably went numb on the ride out here." He turned to Tony and said, "Shake your legs and get up
, old man."
"I've been watching the news," the man in the driveway said. "Is that you two?"
Kaplan nodded. "Mind if I park this thing in your bunker?" He made reference to a storage bunker behind and under the house. "I'll bring you up to date in a few minutes."
The house sat on the banks of the Arkansas River northwest of Little Rock and slightly south of the town of Mayflower. It was a good-sized brick home with a beautiful view of the rolling hills of North Central Arkansas on the horizon across the river. Heavy clouds from earlier thunderstorms had dissipated and revealed a modest orange moon in the serotinal sky. Amber moonlight danced across the flowing waters of the river casting an eerie glow across the terraced backyard. It was still hot and humid but a breeze blowing off the water made it feel cooler than the city.
It had been several years since Kaplan had visited. Not because they weren't good friends; rather that life just seemed to get in the way.
The bunker wasn't visible from street level. Even from the house it was imperceptible. The bunker was built under the first terraced drop in his friend's backyard. Looking back at the house from the river, Kaplan could see the bunker doors. Above the doors at house level sat a broken concrete bench. It was a good place for Kaplan's friend and his wife to sit and watch the river make its way toward the Mississippi…until the tornado uprooted a large tree and crashed it into the house, breaking the bench along the way.
He opened the doors, rolled his Harley inside, and stowed it to one side of the bunker. For the most part, his friend stored lawn equipment inside. Riding mower. Weed eater. All the required tools to maintain a yard half the size of a football field. Like most storage sheds, unused items found their way down there too. Junk mostly. Half a dozen lawn chairs, a moldy sink, several flowerpots and bags of potting soil, and a stack of lumber that had waited too many years to be used. A place where things were stored and forgotten.
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