Mind's Eye

by Douglas E. Richards

  Inside the suite, the man who had attacked Megan was perfectly positioned behind the door and took out the first of Cowan’s men to burst through with a shot to the torso. The second man through slammed his fist into the intruder’s bloody arm and sent his gun flying. But the wounded assailant ignored the severe pain and evened the score by launching a series of rapid-fire open-handed strikes at the bodyguard’s arm, causing him to drop his weapon and forcing him to immediately square up his stance and switch to a hand-to-hand posture.

  Cowan’s man was good, but the intruder was better, managing to hold his own even though injured, blocking attempted blow after attempted blow with a flurry of well-honed martial arts moves.

  This is where Megan’s would-be protector made a fatal mistake. He pulled a lethal switchblade knife from his pocket, sprang it open, and lunged at his adversary, who grabbed his knife hand as it was coming down and used the bodyguard’s own momentum to break his wrist and drive the knife into the man’s own chest. This was done so expertly that the motion of the bodyguard’s arm was smooth and continuous, from the beginning of his lunge to the moment his lungs began filling with blood.

  It was late on a Sunday night, and only a few nearby residents who were up and about bothered to look through their windows to determine the cause of the loud crack they had heard when the door was kicked in. But since the door in question wasn’t in direct view of any other unit, they soon shrugged and went about their business.

  On the grounds, Megan Emerson kept to the darkness, certain her jackhammering heart could be heard in the next city, giving away her position as surely as if she were inside a macabre Edgar Alan Poe tale.

  Megan watched the lobby, which fronted the grounds and which represented the only way to enter the large community of temporary residents that didn’t involve climbing fences or walls. Two men, who had the unmistakable physical aura of trained killers, rushed through the lobby doors. They tried their best to look casual, but failed miserably.

  Megan flattened herself against the dark ground. After the two men passed her on the way to their comrade, she rose to a crouch and rushed to the lobby doors. But just as she was about to push through, she spotted two additional men across the lobby, chatting casually near the exit to the street. In her state of heightened awareness, and heightened paranoia, she was certain these two were also part of the assault force trying to kill her.

  How many of them were there?

  She retreated back into the darkness and called Nick Hall, trying to shield the light of the phone with her body and hands. “Nick,” she whispered frantically the moment he answered, “all hell’s broken loose. Delamater’s men are swarming the place.”

  Hall had just finished the MRI scan and was in the rental car, heading back to the hotel. “Are you hurt?” he asked anxiously, and then quickly added, “what about Cowan’s men next door?”

  “I’m okay,” she whispered. “Our neighbors tried to stop them but failed. I’m hiding on the grounds.”

  “Okay,” he said, his voice raw with barely contained emotion. “Do whatever you can to stay hidden. Stall if they catch you. I’ll be in range in about five minutes and can read what you’re up against and help you. Good luck, Megan.”

  The tone of his voice said so much more than just good luck, and she could tell he was dying to tell her what she meant to him, but he wanted her attention off her cell phone and on staying alive.

  Megan looked across the grounds to the weight room and considered using it as a hiding place. No good. It was still well lighted inside, even after eleven at night, and had several windows. The men after her would be able to see in. She wouldn’t be able to see out. Very bad idea.

  While Megan weighed her limited options, the man who had originally attacked her managed to re-close the door and was tending to his injury. The two men who had rushed to his aid were now fanning out over the grounds, both pretending to be on a casual stroll, with their weapons hidden.

  Megan saw them as they crossed lighted areas and knew they would likely close in on her before Hall got into range. There were limited hiding places available, and since they were being methodical, it was only a matter of time. And not much time at that.

  She needed to move. If she stayed where she was she’d be discovered in seconds.

  Megan worked her way soundlessly to the pool area. The pool and spa had been closed since nine-thirty and the water inside of both was still as ice.

  Sitting next to where patio chairs had been stacked for the night, on four small wheels, was a large, rectangular laundry cart, with a shiny steel frame and royal blue fabric walls. It had been emptied and was awaiting dozens of wet towels that would be deposited inside by hotel guests the next day.

  Megan realized it was her only hope. The pool area was well lighted, for safety reasons, so they would never expect her to hide here. She approached the fabric container and carefully folded herself inside.

  Where was Nick? How much longer until he was in range?

  But even as she considered this, she knew it didn’t matter. These men were very good. It might take them a few extra minutes to check the wet towel container, but they would—long before Hall could arrive. His ESP was remarkable, but there was no way it would save her this time. Not from these men.

  Too bad. It would have been fun to joke with Nick about it. Why did I hide in a laundry cart? she imagined asking him. Because not everyone’s lucky enough to find an open dumpster when they need one, she would answer with a smile.

  Yeah. Someday they’d have a good laugh over this. Unfortunately, that laugh would have to wait for the afterlife.

  42

  Nick Hall was out of his mind with worry. He had felt panic before, but never like this. Not even in the Shell gas station bathroom.

  He had lost numerous friends and colleagues on the Scripps Explorer. But the prospect of losing Megan Emerson was unthinkable. It was psychologically debilitating.

  He felt so helpless.

  Hang on, Megan, he pleaded to the gods, glancing up at the dark, moonless sky. Please hang on.

  He pressed down even further on the gas pedal and the rental car jumped to above eighty. As he approached red lights, he flicked on his brights and laid on the horn, sounding a single long, blaring warning, and then burst through the intersections like a rocket.

  Part of him wanted to up his speed even more, but he wasn’t on a freeway, and he could only be so reckless before it caught up to him. The streets were largely deserted at this late hour, but if a single approaching driver didn’t hear his warning, or was at the exact wrong place at the wrong time, they’d be carting him away in a body bag.

  While he drove he shot his mind out to its limits, searching for the familiar mental presence of Megan Emerson. But he was still out of range.

  He streaked past the smattering of cars on the road ahead like they were standing still, and since the road had three lanes, he was always able to find a way to slide around these glowing speed bumps without slowing. He ignored thoughts such as “shithead” and “where’s the fire, asshole,” coming from the drivers he passed. Not a single driver gave him the benefit of the doubt. Not even one considered that a life-and-death emergency might be the reason he tore past them at twice the posted speed limit.

  As he neared an upcoming intersection, he slammed on the brakes without knowing why, realizing only as a car shot by in front of him, just clearing the intersection before his squealing, decelerating car barreled through, that his mind had picked up the panicked thoughts of the crossing driver before Hall had seen him. The cocktail party effect had reared its magnificent head once again.

  He regained his speed and was soon nearing ninety, on a street with a posted limit of forty-five.

  Hall cursed in frustration as he picked up the minds of two cops in a squad car heading back to the station. They weren’t prowling for speeders, but it didn’t matter. They didn’t need a radar gun to tell he was breaking every traffic law in the book. And even if h
e could have slowed fast enough to escape their attention, Megan couldn’t afford any delay.

  He pressed the gas pedal even further toward the floor as a siren began sounding behind him, its red and blue strobing lights visible for miles in the dark night, like an angry UFO flying after him. The blare of the siren diminished as he picked up even more speed and left his pursuers farther and farther behind.

  The cops had been chasing him for almost a minute when a light switch went on in his head. Hallelujah! Finally, he felt Megan’s impenetrable mental presence. She was still alive!

  “Megan,” he broadcast as forcefully as he could. “I’m in range. What’s the situation?”

  “Nick, thank God!” came the quick reply. “I’m hiding in a towel cart near the pool. There are two men combing the grounds for me, and at least two more in the lobby.”

  “Got it,” sent Hall. After a short pause, he added, “I’m reading the two on the grounds. They’ve checked the weight room, outside bathrooms, tennis courts, and maids’ closets. One of them is coming to check the pool area now.”

  “I’m lucky it took them this long. Nick, you can’t get me out of this. You can’t. But I’m glad I’ll at least get to say goodbye. I just want you to know—”

  “Megan, Megan, Megan,” he interrupted excitedly. “They’re not with Delamater! They’re US special forces.”

  Hall had read that they had come after both of them—him primarily—and were told if either he or Megan so much as developed a hangnail, their heads would roll.

  “I have no idea how they fit in, but they have strict instructions not to hurt you.”

  “Nick, they shot at me! Twice.”

  The face of one of the men hunting Megan appeared above her, visible in the eerie glow from the small lights illuminating the pool area. He raised his gun and pointed it at her at point blank range.

  “They only shot tranquilizer darts,” sent Hall, slowing the car dramatically, knowing he couldn’t reach her in time and that he’d be of no use to her dead.

  “Megan, I’m going to get you out of this,” he insisted. “Somehow. I promise. Take the pill he offers. It’s legit.”

  “You have two choices,” whispered the man looming above Megan, and she felt as helpless as if she were a wet towel. “This is a dart gun. I can shoot you in the leg and put you out. But that will be more painful than necessary. Or I have a pill in my pocket that will do the same thing. Your choice.”

  “Who are you?” said Megan.

  The man ignored her. “You have three seconds to choose. If not, the default is shooting you.” He paused. “Three, two . . .”

  “Give me the pill,” said Megan.

  The man reached in his pocket and handed her a clear green capsule. She placed it in her mouth and swallowed. “See you on the other side, Nick.”

  A tear escaped from the bottom of Nick Hall’s right eye and slid slowly down his cheek. “Stay strong, Megan,” he broadcast as he pulled off the side of the road to take his own medicine from the cops behind him. “And you’ll be seeing me again on this side. You can count on it.”

  43

  Colonel Justin Girdler was the sole occupant of the lone safe house in the area, in Merced, about fifty miles northwest of Fresno. If this wasn’t enough distance from Hall to avoid being read, then the task was truly hopeless.

  Major Mike Campbell, still in North Carolina, appeared on one of his monitors, and both men had a separate screen nearby, each displaying identical video, imagery, and tactical information.

  Just before Girdler had touched down in California, Campbell had finally tracked Hall and Emerson to the Homestead Inn. But given Hall’s ESP, they had decided to do nothing but monitor the hotel while they chose the best course of action.

  When Hall and Emerson had separated, and the girl was out of Hall’s range, Girdler had decided to seize on this unexpected opportunity. His plan was bold—and risky. He was forced to make numerous assumptions. And if even one of these was wrong, the plan might fail.

  But his first assumption, that Megan Emerson was important to Nick Hall, was coming true. The footage of the two of them embracing in Vons was an obvious indication they had a physical relationship. But this didn’t necessarily indicate just how much she might mean to him. What Girdler and Campbell were now seeing on their monitors, however, did.

  Girdler watched Hall’s car scream along the road, and he got a sense of speed even from the satellite imagery. He’s really hauling ass, he thought, and even in the middle of directing a mission, part of his mind couldn’t help but reflect on what a good pun that would make. Hall was Hall-ing ass.

  “Have you found Megan Emerson on the satellite imagery yet?” he barked at Campbell in annoyance, still not quite able to believe the mission had gotten this out of hand, and that the girl had escaped the bungalow and into the night.

  “Not yet. But we’re certain she’s still on the grounds. Somewhere.”

  “How the hell are the satellites missing her?”

  “It’s dark and the contrast isn’t great,” replied the major. “Satellite imagery isn’t magic, and even the IR isn’t infallible. In this case, our men on the ground will find her before the satellite does.” He smiled as an update came in the moment he had made this prediction, just to make a liar out of him. The Satellite had found her first, after all.

  “Check that,” said Campbell, and then opened a channel to their team at the Homestead Inn. “The girl is hiding in some kind of container by the pool.”

  “Roger that,” said Lieutenant Dan Hubbard, who was nearest to the pool. “She’ll be unconscious in less than a minute.”

  Girdler nodded. Unfortunately, the two unknown hostiles who had thrown a wrench in the works on what should have been a routine operation were both dead. He’d have to send a clean-up team to handle that and try to learn who they were, and where they fit in. But first things first.

  He turned his attention once more to the most ballsy piece of driving he had ever witnessed. Hall was literally playing Russian Roulette with every red light he encountered. At this rate, Hall was likely to end his own life before Girdler did.

  “Mike, are you sure Nick Hall and Megan Emerson didn’t have a prior relationship? He’s driving like he’s on fire. Like her life means more to him than his own.”

  “We can’t be sure they didn’t know each other before, but we can’t find any evidence. As far as we can tell, they met for the first time on Friday.”

  Before Girdler could ask additional questions, Lieutenant Hubbard reported back that they had found the girl by the pool, as expected. They were now transporting her to the small U-haul truck parked in the lot, propping her up Weekend at Bernie’s style and pretending she had had too much to drink.

  Meanwhile, on the left half of the monitor, Hall had stopped, and two cops were cautiously approaching him, guns partially drawn.

  “Can’t blame the cops for being nervous,” said Campbell from thousands of miles away. “Any maniac driving like that and then refusing to pull over—I’d act the same way.”

  “Have you located their commanding officer yet?”

  “Coming in . . . now,” said Campbell. “I’ll pull strings and send them packing.”

  “Good. Do it fast,” said Girdler.

  “Roger that,” said Campbell, who then muted the audio and picked up a phone.

  Girdler watched with great interest as the tiny images of the two cops frisked Hall, none too gently. They began a discussion, and from the gestures and body language he could pick up, he guessed they had asked Hall for ID and none was forthcoming. That should hardly have surprised them at this point, thought the colonel.

  They appeared to be exchanging heated words with Hall a few minutes later when one of the cops pulled a cell phone from his pocket. Girdler couldn’t read his expression precisely, but he had a perfect idea what he must be feeling. Confusion and anger. If this didn’t piss him off, nothing would.

  After a brief conversation, he return
ed the phone to his pocket, and had an even shorter conversation with his partner. Seconds later they retreated back to their car, shaking their heads the entire way, and drove off into the night, leaving Nick Hall with his mouth wide open.

  “Nice work, Mike,” said Girdler. “That set some speed records.”

  “Thanks,” said the major, unmuted once again. “More good news. As hoped, Megan Emerson had a cell phone. A disposable, as we guessed. And she’s only ever called a single number. Putting it on screen now.”

  Perfect, thought the colonel. So far, everything was going as planned. Well, as planned if he didn’t count having one of his men shot, being interfered with by two mysterious bodyguards who were now dead, and Megan Emerson running around the hotel grounds like an invisible rabbit.

  “Calling the number now,” said Girdler. “I’m conferencing you in, Mike. But mute your end of the call.”

  “Roger that.”

  On the monitor, the small, poorly illuminated image of Nick Hall, still standing beside his car, answered his phone without hesitation. “Who is this?” he demanded. “If anything happens to Megan, I swear to God I’ll—”

  “Nothing will happen to the girl, Nick,” interrupted the colonel, knowing that the way Hall had answered the call, while not definitive, greatly increased the chances he really could read minds. He appeared to be certain the caller wasn’t Megan Emerson, the only person who had his number. Unless he had some other way to know, it was likely he had learned this from the mind of one of Girdler’s men at the hotel. “My name is Justin. Justin Girdler. And my men have Megan Emerson, safe and sound.”

  “Who are you?” hissed Hall, with a fury hotter than molten lava. “And what do you want?”

  If Girdler’s assumptions were correct, Hall already had a very good idea who he was. He had almost certainly already read the minds of Girdler’s team at the hotel, who were told that both Emerson and Hall were the targets of the operation, and neither was to be harmed. Hall had also learned that they were elite members of the US military. Girdler had been counting on him gleaning this information from his men.