“Who is this?” Jake demanded, pointing at the unconscious man at his feet.
“We…we don’t know,” said the first hunter, the one who’d tried to help Jake. “He hopped a ride on the floatplane with our group yesterday. Said it was a last minute thing.”
Jake’s head rang. He pointed the rifle at the hunter. “You never met him before that?”
The hunter trembled, his hands held high. “Not before yesterday.”
Taking in big lungfuls of air, Jake stared at the hunter, then at the other two, and then back at the guy at his feet. Another assassin, but this one went down without much of a fight. What was going on?
“Stay here,” Jake commanded, pointing the rifle at the hunter.
The man nodded, his eyes wide.
More people were coming up the trail. Jake had to move. Giving the three hunters one last look, Jake started down. When he passed two more hunters coming up the trail, Jake told them there was an accident up higher. They did a double take looking at Jake, in his boxer shorts and holding a rifle, but they continued on as he insisted he was okay.
After a hundred yards, the trail opened on to the lawn of the main lodge. A knot of people stood on the patio, all of them staring up the mountain. None of them had rifles, not that he could see. Jake glanced over his shoulder to see the smudge of smoke rising over where the cabin had been. He ran up to the lodge, keeping his distance from the group of people, his rifle pointed in the air. The bartender he’d spoken to the previous evening was at the main door of the cabin.
“You got a first aid kit?” Jake asked the bartender. The pain in his ribs was excruciating. He needed to risk getting it looked at.
The bartender nodded. “I trained as an emergency medical tech. I got a first aid kit.” He motioned for Jake to follow him inside. “What happened up there?” he asked, looking over his shoulder.
Jake scanned the faces on the patio for Jean, the pilot who flew him in. The old Super Cub was still at the dock. Where was Jean? Even if he was hung over, there’d been an explosion. It seemed unlikely he was still sleeping it off. “Have you seen my pilot?” Jake asked the bartender.
“No.” The bartender retrieved the first aid kit from behind the reception desk. There wasn’t much in it. A few gauze patches, some tape and alcohol swabs. “I think there’s another one—”
“It’s fine.” There wasn’t time. Putting his rifle on the reception counter, Jake pulled his shirt over his head. “Can you put a couple of those patches across the cut, tape it—”
“My God.” The bartender stared at Jake in horror.
Jake followed his eyes and looked down at himself. A mottled purple bruise had spread across his chest, angry and red and swollen in the middle, with a bleeding gash scraping off to one side. “Can you patch it up? Quick?”
“You’re going to need some medical attention. We gotta get you—”
“Somebody is trying to kill me,” Jake interrupted. “I don’t have time. Do you understand? Someone is trying to kill me. That’s what happened up there.”
The bartender stopped fumbling with the medical kit. “Kill you?”
Jake pulled his shirt higher. “Can you patch this, quickly? Please.”
Something in Jake’s eyes must have convinced the bartender. “Yeah, sure, okay,” he stammered, and pulled out a roll of gauze, holding it against Jake’s bleeding wound.
“So you haven’t seen Jean? My pilot?” Jake repeated, holding the gauze in place while the bartender taped it. He glanced out the doorway. Everyone seemed to have gone up the trail. The patio was empty.
Good.
Still no sign of the pilot, though.
“No, he disappeared last night,” replied the bartender.
One more gauze patch and Jake pulled his shirt back down.
“You want some pants?” the bartender asked.
Jake nodded. “That would be great.”
“Give me a sec.”
The bartender disappeared while Jake hobbled back to the door. Still no sign of Jean. He glanced at the three floatplanes on the end of the dock. The Cessna and Bombardier planes gleamed beside the rusted old Super Piper, and Jake knew the Cessna controls. But while small planes had locks and keys just like cars, Jean’s Super Piper didn’t. Jake remembered the screwdriver shoved into the ignition.
“These should fit you.”
Jake looked over his shoulder to see the bartender returning, waving some khakis in the air. Behind him came someone else. The guy looked like the manager. Jake grabbed the pants.
“Monsieur, are you alright?” asked the manager. “Could you tell me what happened?”
“No idea,” Jake replied, pulling the pants on. “Maybe the propane tank?”
“You should be sitting down, sir.” The manager pointed at a couch beside the reception. “Please, let me help you.”
Jake shrugged him off and backed away, grabbing his rifle. “I’m fine.”
“Monsieur…s’il vous plait…”
Turning, Jake did his best to bolt. He hobbled across the patio. Looking back, the manager stared at him in wide-eyed horror. Hopping down the stairs, Jake jogged across the dock and stepped onto the float of the Piper Cub, opening its door and throwing the rifle onto the seat. Kneeling, he unwound the ropes mooring the plane to the dock, then jumped into the pilot seat. He ignored the shouts erupting from the lodge.
This was as old school as it got, analog switches and dials—airspeed in knots, altitude, engine RPM, manifold pressure—he scanned them one by one, nodding.
“Okay, okay, master switch on.” Jake turned the screwdriver and a red light blinked on.
There was no separate switch for the magnetos, so Jake had to assume the master turned on the batteries and magnetos at the same time.
“Set mixture to ‘full rich,’” he muttered, then he grabbed the primer knob, unscrewing it so he could pull it out and push it back in three times to get some gas into the piston while he pressed his feet up and down on the aileron pedals, testing them.
He glanced to his left. The manager ran across the patio, ordering him to stop. Two other people followed, one of them with a rifle pointed in the air. Saying a prayer, Jake punched the ignition switch. With a wheezing cough the engine turned over, first once, then twice, then sputtered to life as the manager banged on Jake’s window.
Jake locked the door and advanced the throttle with his left hand. The engine roared to life. “Sorry!” Jake yelled at the manager. “I don’t have time to explain.”
The plane pulled away from the dock.
Jake strapped himself in, using his feet to angle the tail fin, slowly curling around so he was lined up down the center of the lake. His hand shaking, Jake pushed the throttle to maximum and felt the plane accelerate, bouncing across the waves. As the trees on the opposite shore grew larger, the plane shook violently.
Why wasn’t it lifting off?
Gritting his teeth, he realized he hadn’t pulled back on the flight stick yet. He leaned back, pulling the stick, and the plane soared off the water. Seconds later he skimmed the tops of the trees, then climbed into the sky.
He wiped his forehead, his eyes stinging. His whole body soaked in sweat.
Shaking.
The only digital device on the dashboard was an old GPS unit screwed onto it, its fat satellite antennae sticking up. Reaching forward, he clicked it on, and the screen flickered. An image appeared in black and white. It worked. Jake checked the maps. He knew the closest populated area was Lac St-Jean, about a hundred miles due east. It was a huge lake, twenty miles across. Even he could land on that. Or crash land, anyway.
Climbing and swinging away from the sun, Jake relaxed.
What the hell had happened back there? Holding the flight stick between his knees, he inspected the angry red-and-purple welt on his chest. He noticed his fleece top had a hole through it, right through the left breast pocket. Opening the pocket, he discovered the tobacco tin, which had been ripped apart.
&n
bsp; Had it deflected the bullet?
No.
It was his Silver Eagle dollar coin, nearly two inches in diameter, dented off center. It had been inside the tobacco tin with the documents he’d stowed in there. Together with his wallet and passport, it’d been enough to absorb and deflect the bullet, giving him a chest wound instead of a stopped heart.
The Silver Eagle from Sean had saved his life.
Money in his pocket.
Money in his pocket!
The clue Sean had left in his note. That had to be it. The key code had to be something to do with his Silver Eagle coin. Jake put it into his pants pocket.
He had other things to worry about right now.
How did the assassins find him at Bear Mountain?
He hadn’t told anyone but Dean he was coming up here. What was he going to do now? Minutes ago, Max was explaining how they might disable the system. Now Max was dead, and Jake had incinerated the copy of the Bluebridge core.
The engine sputtered and coughed.
Jake blinked and pulled himself back to reality.
He checked the gauges.
The manifold pressure was good, oil pressure fine, but something was wrong. The engine coughed again and whined. Jake scanned the dials and switches desperately.
There was one gauge at zero.
The gas.
The engine sputtered a few more times before going silent.
“You can’t be serious.”
Horrified, Jake watched as the propeller blade froze to a stop in front of him. In his rush, he hadn’t checked the gas. Hadn’t thought to. The tank had been half full when Jean landed the plane. Jake had been watching it yesterday. Somebody must have emptied it last night.
But right now, the how or why didn’t matter.
“Landing, how do I land this thing?” The only thing he remembered was that he had to lower the flaps, get the airspeed down as low as possible.
Wind whistled across the airframe as the plane dropped from the sky.
22
2nd Circuit
Court of Appeals Building
New York City
There better be a damn good reason for this, Judge Danforth fumed as he strode down the marbled main corridor of the New York 2nd Circuit Court of Appeals building. The click-clack of his polished black Oxfords echoed through the empty hallways, his stride quick and forced. He hoped it conveyed his displeasure to the knot of suited lawyers waiting outside his chambers up ahead.
This might be the circuit court, but he had a busy schedule. The only reason he’d agreed to come to his chambers on a Saturday morning was the call he’d received from his old friend Jerry Sandoz, a partner at the law firm where he’d started his career. A call from Jerry was unusual enough to warrant an exception.
“Make this quick, gentlemen.” Judge Danforth fished for his keys, shooing the lawyers away like pigeons. Turning the old lock over, he pushed the huge oak door open and marched inside. He didn’t invite them in. They followed anyway.
It was also the weekend before school started after the summer break.
Judge Danforth started family life late, well into his forties. He’d sacrificed his youth to endless nights devoted to making partner at his law firm and then, after his appointment, to dreams of the Supreme Court. That dream was fading, his once star-caliber career relegated to the second-string of Appeals Court.
Today his eight-year-old son had his soccer finals.
“Tell me why I’m here,” Judge Danforth growled at the three lawyers hovering in front of his desk.
The lawyer in the center, square-jawed with slicked-back hair, handed him a large black-and-white photograph. Judge Danforth inspected it and frowned. “Who is this?”
“Jake O’Connell.”
The name rang a bell. “The hedge fund trader, arrested on rape charges?” asked the judge. Jake’s face had been plastered across the newspapers a week ago, before the news cycle latched on to the next scandal.
“The same.”
Judge Danforth squinted and put on his reading glasses. The image was grainy, the man in the picture wearing sunglasses with a baseball cap pulled low. “And why are you bringing this to me?”
“Because we’d like you to issue a Federal warrant for Mr. O’Connell.”
“You’d like me to do what?” The judge dropped the photograph and pulled off his reading glasses. He glared at the slick lawyer. “What’s your name?”
“Peter Osorio, your honor.”
“Peter, I’m not sure what Jerry told you—”
“This isn’t just coming from Mr. Sandoz, your honor. Senator Russ has a special interest in this as well. We couldn’t use his name over the phone.”
“Senator Russ?” Judge Danforth frowned. There was a new power structure forming in Washington. Senator Russ was a surprise contender for his party’s ticket, so it shocked everyone when he swept the primaries to secure the nomination. With the election two months away, it looked like a landslide for him. “I don’t understand. This is an appeals court. I have no involvement with the O’Connell case.”
“But,” said Osorio, “you could decide to make it your business. Judges have discretionary powers. This might be the 2nd Circuit Court, but you’re still a Federal judge, with powers under Article III, backed by the judicial branch of the Federal government.”
Judge Danforth slumped back in his chair. The audacity. “I remind you that we are in chambers, Mr. Osorio, and you are a hairsbreadth away from being in contempt of my court.” Taking a deep breath, he paused. Still, it might be worth it to find out what was going on. “And why is this photograph supposed to motivate me to use my discretion?”
“That was taken yesterday at the Canadian border. Mr. O’Connell has fled the country.” Osorio pursed his lips. “And this morning, Mr. Daniel Donovan, former founder and CEO of Atlas Capital—just released on ten million dollars bail—was found dead in his apartment. Murdered.”
“And you think there is a connection?”
“Assistant DA Bailey has placed Mr. Jake O’Connell as the number one suspect. In fact, we think Mr. O’Connell is the real mastermind behind the entire Atlas fraud, which may eclipse Bernie Madoff in scope. Tens of billions. Key documents were discovered at the Donovan residence—”
“Wait, you’re telling me that the police have put this entire new investigation together in the past few hours?” Judge Danforth wasn’t intimate with the case, but from his experience, this sort of thing took weeks, if not months, to assemble. It seemed a hundred and eighty degree turn from what he’d heard informally in the halls.
Osorio worked his lips together as if tasting something sour. “I suggest you talk to Assistant District Attorney Bailey for details, but I can tell you that Senator Russ, likely soon President Russ, would look very”—Osorio chose his words carefully—“favorably on your attention to this matter.” He adjusted his tie. “As you know, Judge Tomasso is due to retire this year.”
Tomasso was a Supreme Court justice. Was this man seriously trying to bribe him with an appointment to the Supreme Court? It seemed beyond belief. “Did I hear you properly?”
Osorio replied without hesitation. “Yes.”
Judge Danforth stared hard at him, but Osorio didn’t shrink. Danforth could smell a set-up, but then this Jake O’Connell character didn’t seem like an angel. Arrested for rape, now under suspicion for murder by the DA, fleeing the country in the middle of a massive fraud investigation…
“It would make for good press, wouldn’t it?” Osorio suggested. “Judge discovers rich hedge fund manager fleeing country…murder, rape…stealing the life savings of millions of average Americans. It’ll be front page news all over the country, with your face next to it.”
Judge Danforth picked up the photograph and studied it. His old friend Jerry sent Osorio here. Maybe Jerry was throwing him a golden opportunity. And Senator Russ was a shoe in for the presidential election. A whole new power structure forming, and maybe this time he woul
dn’t be left out. Imagine, Supreme Court Justice Danforth. His wife could handle the soccer today. “I need to verify this with DA Bailey.”
“Of course.” Osorio smiled an oily grin.
“And how is it that I announce this discovery to the world?”
“We can help with that.”
Judge Danforth put the photograph down. “Okay, give me the paperwork.”
Osorio handed over a sheaf of file folders. Judge Danforth reached to take them, but Osorio held on to them. “Two more things. First, we need you to issue a Federal arrest warrant for Mr. O’Connell’s wife, Elle O’Connor, and his brother, Eamon. We believe they’re involved.”
A bit outside the box, but possible. “And the second thing?” Judge Danforth held onto one end of the sheaf of file folders while Osorio gripped the other.
“We need a ruling that the Kahnawake Commission is in violation of federal gaming regulations, and also violates interstate money laundering and tobacco and firearms statutes.”
“The Kana-what?” Judge Danforth had no idea what Osorio was talking about.
“Ka—na—wa—gay.” Osorio spelled it out for him. “It’s a Mohawk reservation in Canada.”
Judge Danforth let go of the files. “Canada’s a little outside of my jurisdiction.”
Osorio waggled the file folders, encouraging Judge Danforth to take them again. “It comes under the Indian Act, which treats Native Americans as North American citizens in cooperation with Canada. It’s Federal in jurisdiction, and add to that firearms smuggling, this will come under anti-terrorism regulations of the DHS. We believe they’re harboring Mr. O’Connell.”
Judge Danforth leaned forward and took the file folders. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Osorio gave a fawning nod. “Good. Sign the Federal warrant for O’Connell right now, it’s all prepared in the top file. With that, we’ll coordinate with Canadian authorities, with the FBI and CIA, and set an international warrant through Interpol. He won’t slip through, Judge. This time tomorrow, Mr. Jake O’Connell will be public enemy number one.”
Darknet Page 15
