by Brett King
He glanced at the mirror. The Mercedes took a chance on an opening. It zipped around the minivan, coming up behind, the driver invisible in the halo of headlights. It took a hard sweep around his Yukon, speeding past. The SUV swerved back in the lane, moving in front of him. Not a good idea, driving like that on frozen roads. The driver managed to keep it steady, staying two or three car lengths ahead.
Kaylyn added, “We’ve only seen you once since Thanksgiving.”
Biting his lip, he realized his relationship with his wife had never been more strained. Headlights flared in the rearview mirror. He glanced into it, seeing a dark blue Ford Explorer closing in from behind. Red light illuminated his windshield as the Mercedes-Benz in front hit the brakes. Back in game mode, he sensed that the two SUVs were setting a trap.
“Listen, Kay, I need to go. I promise I’ll be with you and Shay soon.”
Her fragile voice dipped. “Promises don’t cut it anymore, John. Our marriage is falling apart. Are we headed for a divorce?”
“Kaylyn, I can’t—”
“Hear that?” she interrupted, a sudden lightness in her words. “Shay said it again.”
He couldn’t tell Kaylyn that his life might be in danger. He didn’t want to scare her, but this felt like bad timing. The Mercedes ahead hit the brakes again as the Explorer moved closer.
“John, listen to her. She said it perfect this time.”
“Honey, I gotta go. Love you.” He ended the call.
And maybe his marriage.
A figure emerged from the Mercedes’s moonroof. Tareef bin Al-Khasib had survived the scorpion attack back at Zaki’s mansion. He didn’t look happy. He brought out a Steyr AUG assault rifle, wind whipping his beard as he aimed. Definitely not happy.
Brynstone hit the high beams, blasting light at Tareef. The man pulled back, shielding his face with his hand. That was the distraction Brynstone needed. He punched the accelerator, bursting past Tareef’s Mercedes, then diving back into the right lane. The road was open now, with no one ahead. That’s when he heard gunfire. Tareef had pivoted around, facing front now. More gunfire, this time cracking the glass of his rear window.
The speed limit was posted at something like fifty through the winding canyon, but he took it up to eighty. Both SUVs raced to keep up with him on the slick roads.
He squinted. Up ahead, two separate two-lane tunnel portals were chiseled into the south wall of the canyon. He punched it, sliding as he zipped toward the eastbound bore. Dry pavement waited inside Hanging Lake Tunnel, and he couldn’t wait to hit it. Behind him, both vehicles matched his pace. He wasn’t losing them.
Inside the tunnel’s entrance, a variable message sign announced, left lane closed, with a green arrow above his lane and a red X in the parallel one. Beyond it, an overhead smart sign used radar to detect vehicle speed, displaying a message in flashing red letters: YOUR SPEED IS 97 MPH. It blurred by along with another one advising, 45 MPH CURVE AHEAD. Good advice. Taking the tight curve at this speed pulled the Yukon close to the tunnel wall. His brake lights splashed a red glow on the curved walls around him.
Behind him, the Explorer swerved into the left lane.
Tareef ducked inside the Mercedes as it surged alongside the Yukon. Behind the wheel, Imad slammed into Brynstone’s vehicle. Metal squealed against concrete as the Yukon crunched against the tunnel wall. Orange sparks showered the passenger window. Brynstone jerked on the wheel, pulling away from the wall. From behind, the Explorer smashed into his SUV, sending the Yukon into a fishtail. Imad came in hard again, pinning him against the tunnel wall as the Explorer stayed in position behind, engaging him bumper to bumper.
The four-thousand-foot tunnel was nearing its end. He had to solve this headache before they moved back outside to snowy roads. He unbuckled the seat belt, then hit the button for the power-tailgate window. It lowered with a hum, the breeze stirring his black hair. The Explorer crammed against him from behind while Imad pinned him from the side. With two SUVs trapping him against the tunnel’s right wall, he didn’t worry about steering the Yukon. He whipped out the Glock from his holster, then pulled a second sidearm from the console. He spun around, facing the back seats. Looking out the open tailgate window, he had a clear view of the Explorer. More familiar faces. Anderson was driving, with Faysal beside him. Both men shouted. Brynstone seemed to be pissing off everybody tonight.
He took aim out the tailgate window. Anderson’s eyes widened, and he hit the brake, falling back. Too late. Deciding against a headshot, Brynstone opened fire with both guns blazing. The Explorer’s windshield shattered as bullets peppered the glass. The SUV sideswiped the tunnel wall at a high speed. Anderson overcorrected and turned too sharp, triggering a rollover. The Explorer landed hard on the passenger side, coming to rest across both lanes.
The Yukon lurched back without the Explorer pushing it. He flipped around and holstered the Glock before grabbing the steering wheel. In the Mercedes, Imad and Tareef had pulled away, waiting out Brynstone’s standoff with Anderson. He caught up a few hundred feet from the tunnel’s exit. Like a deranged jack-in-the-box with an assault rifle, Tareef popped out the moonroof again, taking wobbly aim as Brynstone surged alongside their vehicle.
Bullets bombarded the rear door and shattered the window.
Catching a rapid breath, he gambled on a PIT maneuver. It had been years since he’d forced another car into a spinout. He aligned his front tires with the Mercedes’s rear tires, then banked hard to the right, steering into the SUV at the tunnel’s exit. The Mercedes lost traction, then glided into a skid. Imad couldn’t control the vehicle. With his upper body exposed, Tareef was clinging to the roof until the spinning force pulled him inside. The Mercedes slid hard into the guardrail, popping rivets as it burst through the metal barrier. The SUV flipped over the edge, dropping off the viaduct. Screaming, Tareef and Imad plunged toward the Colorado River.
At the tunnel’s exit, the Yukon hit an icy patch, sending Brynstone into a spinout. He skidded over the emergency crossover, a brief strip of concrete connecting the eastbound and westbound lanes. Beyond the crossover, the icy roadway stretched into two viaducts separated by cantilevered pavement slabs. Fighting for control, he avoided the slabs, but slid onto the westbound bridge of the divided highway, going the wrong way. The good news? He didn’t see cars heading toward him. Despite the efforts of snowplows and sand spreaders, the road was slicker than the eastbound lanes. Construction had closed off the right lane, blocked with orange and white barrels weighted with sandbags. Missing one construction drum, he brought the Yukon to a dead stop, facing the wrong direction on the quiet road.
He blew out a quick sigh. Made a hushed laugh. Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw headlights. A semitrailer truck rolled around the rocky corner, lights blazing as it headed for him in the left lane. With the big rig bearing down on him, he had to act fast.
Sweat breaking on his face, he tried a moonshiner’s turn, hoping he could execute it on the slick road. Placing the Yukon in reverse gear, he punched the accelerator, then drove backward for a five count. Heading in reverse with the truck coming at him, he steered hard to the left while hitting the brake. The Yukon flashed into a 180-degree turn, facing west now. Releasing the brake, he shifted into drive, then hit the accelerator again.
He glanced in the rearview mirror. Showing no mercy, the driver of the eighteen wheeler came at him with a blaring horn. Brynstone stayed ahead of the rig, speeding back toward the twin portals. Needing to go east instead of west, he decided against entering the westbound bore. Swerving to the left, he raced over the median crossover, missing the pavement slabs as he returned to the eastbound lanes. He slid into the eastbound entrance of the Hanging Lake Tunnel, facing the wrong direction again before grinding to a stop.
This time, it didn’t matter.
Inside the tunnel, the overturned Explorer straddled both lanes, blocking traffic. Behind the bullet-riddled windshield, Faysal held his head, braced against an airbag cushion. And
Anderson? He had climbed out of the rolled SUV, sliding down its chassis to the pavement.
A middle-aged man parked his red minivan behind the rolled Explorer. He jumped out, looking to help. Two college students, a kid wearing a wool cap and his malnourished girlfriend, joined the Good Samaritan. Anderson held his head, as if he had a concussion.
Brynstone walked toward them. He brought out his handgun. Anderson saw it first, the weapon registering in his dazed eyes. The woman noticed him coming. She yelped, then sprinted back to her car.
The college kid pointed at the Glock. “Dude, put that thing away, okay?”
Brynstone kept walking, pulsing with adrenalin as he came at them like a gunslinger. He growled, “Get out of here.”
The college student hustled back to the Galant as the middle-aged man ducked behind his van. Anderson stayed on his feet. Fighting to stay tough, he balled his fingers into a weak fist.
“My baby daughter said her first word tonight,” Brynstone said with a calm menace. “You had to go and ruin that moment. Makes me downright unhappy.”
He slammed his boot into Anderson’s chest. The force rocked the man backward, and he struck his head against the Explorer’s crumpled fender. Anderson collapsed on the road. Blood dribbled from his nostril.
Brynstone turned, then headed back to the Yukon.
“Next time, stay in Aspen,” he called, “with the damned scorpions.”
Chapter Eleven
Gypsum, Colorado
8:25 P.M.
Christmas Eve was tranquil in the Rocky Mountains. That was, Brynstone had decided, if he didn’t count tonight’s drama in Aspen and Glenwood Canyon. Turning off picturesque I-70, he drove the battered Yukon to the Eagle County Airport. Although Zaki’s Hala Ranch was back in Aspen, Brynstone had opted to fly out of Eagle County. Renowned for its altitude and location, the airfield operated even when adverse weather forced other mountain towns to ground their flights. Blessed by what the local Ute Indians had called a hole in the sky, Eagle enjoyed more visual-flight-rule days than any airport in the region.
He drove into a private hangar tucked inside the airport’s Vail Valley Jet Center. He pulled to a stop near a government-chartered Bombardier Learjet. As he climbed out, Jordan Rayne hurried down the foldout ramp. She was dressed in an olive green sweater, black Gucci skirt, and pointy-toe boots. Wind slapped long red hair against her cheek. She was tall, with bold green eyes. A beauty mark enhanced her seductive smile.
“Good evening, Dr. Brynstone.”
“Told you before. Call me John.”
She noticed blood on his forehead, then glanced at the shattered glass and bullet holes defacing the Yukon. “Rough night. Huh, John?”
“You missed one hell of an adventure.” He followed her up the stairs. Inside the cabin, she pulled in the ramp and signaled the pilot for takeoff.
“Where’s Banshee?” he asked.
“Conference room.” Jordan rolled her eyes. “She got so angry at me tonight.”
“Why can’t you two get along?”
“We’re both green-eyed divas. Better go. You don’t want to keep her waiting.”
He headed toward the back of the jet. He opened the door of the conference room, then stepped inside, looking around. A sleek black cat napped on the center of the mahogany table. Brynstone smiled. He leaned over the table and scooped up the cat.
“Good news, Banshee. I made it back in one piece.”
Her black head nuzzled against his hand. Making a low chirp, she stared up at him with her solitary green eye.
He ditched his clothes, then cleaned off the blood and sterilized the gash on his hip. After the Learjet cruised into the air, he changed into Levi’s and headed for a leather club chair with Banshee curled against his bare chest. The cat watched as he opened a medic kit, then removed a needle and nylon string. Banshee jumped down and sprinted away.
Shrapnel had grazed above his waistline on the right side. Twisting, he sucked in a breath, then poked the curved needle into his laceration. His skin jiggled with each pull as he stitched the jagged wound. Rotating his wrist, he watched the needle dive in and out of his flesh, making a trail of sixteen simple interrupted sutures. He tied a knot and finished the job.
Still bare chested after dressing the wound, he thought again about Zaki’s library. He pictured the Arabic dagger jammed inside the skull. Seeing the weapon had evoked an old memory. His mind flashed to when he was a ten-year-old boy, wheeling into his father’s study. Clinging to the doorknob, he had gaped at papers strewn across the floor. His gaze had drifted to his father’s desk. Jayson Brynstone was sprawled on his back across the desktop, his bloodied arm dangling off the corner. Reliving the moment, he could see the jambiya dagger plunged deep into his father’s chest. He recalled his father’s best friend, collapsed on the floor, the man raising his hand in a warning.
In his twenty-year-old memory, the man’s voice sounded choked and desperate.
Get out of here before he comes back. Hurry, Johnny.
Brynstone remembered turning the push rims on his wheelchair as he backed out of the room, thinking he had no place to hide. He remembered wheeling down the hallway of their Nantucket summer home, heading toward his bedroom. At the landing, he had heard footsteps closing in from behind. The man had grabbed the handles and shoved the wheelchair toward the top step. Brynstone remembered struggling to brake as he looked down the dark stairs, thinking he was about to die.
He shook off the memory.
His lips tightened as he looked up.
Jordan emerged from the galley. “Ready for a dirty martini?”
“You must be a mind reader.”
She gave him a pretty smile as she placed his drink on the table, glancing at the muscled contours of his stomach. “Why the sutures?”
“I sparred with a chunk of shrapnel after my bird slammed into the mountain.”
“Nice job stitching yourself up.”
Pulling on his cadet-blue roll-neck sweater, he said, “Been doing it since I was a kid.”
“Didn’t you sew up Banshee when she lost her eye?”
“It was the least I could do after she saved my life. Banshee wouldn’t let anyone else near her that night.” Recognizing her name, the cat sauntered over and rubbed against his leg.
“Why all this do-it-yourself suturing?” Jordan asked, reaching in the medic kit. “Is it because you have an aversion to physicians?”
“I was in and out of hospitals until I was eleven. Vowed to never go back.”
“You can trust me. I went to Vanderbilt med school before I got bored and quit. I’ll fix that nasty cut on your forehead.” Leaning over, Jordan’s breast nudged his shoulder as she cleaned the wound. “You made quite an impression on Ajax Mountain. I picked up a local feed. A lift operator named Cooper Hollingworth may have died in the avalanche. Your helicopter shredded his gondola.”
“He survived. I gave him some cash. He’s moving back to Australia with his girlfriend.”
“Nice. A happy ending.”
“Not for everybody. Zaki’s men tracked me to Glenwood Canyon. Turned ugly.”
“I know,” she said, smoothing a bandage across his forehead. “The Colorado Department of Transportation runs a command center deep inside the tunnel. I patched into a feed from their cameras at the Hanging Lake Traffic Control Center. Wanna see the highlight reel?”
“Once was enough.”
“No stitches after all. At least not on your head.” She looked down at him. “I still miss the goatee. Why’d you lose it?”
“My daughter refused to kiss me unless I shaved.”
She traced her hand along his defined jaw. “Smart kid.”
“Have you talked to DIRNSA?” he asked, pronouncing the official abbreviation of Director of the National Security Agency, DERN-zuh.
“Twice.” She sat across from him. “You made General Delgado’s day.”
“He won’t be happy about Glenwood Canyon. I’ll tell him after I talk
to my wife.”
Jordan cocked her head. “Haven’t you already called her?”
“Our daughter was crying.” He stared out the window. “Kaylyn said she’d call back.”
Los Angeles, California
7:45 P.M.
Kaylyn Brynstone was slender and blonde, with crisp eyes and a face that radiated good humor. Even on a night like tonight. Her daughter had two teeth breaking through her gums. Cutting an incisor and a molar at the same time brought out Shayna’s fussy side. In full sob only minutes before, she was finally relaxing.
Kaylyn offered a cold teething ring. Her daughter gummed it. By the time she carried her toddler downstairs, the ring’s magic had faded. Curling on the sofa, Kaylyn sang Brahms’s lullaby. Wasn’t working. She stood and moved the child to her chest, patting her back. Shay rested her chin on her mother’s shoulder. Lilting around the room, she turned from the Christmas tree so her daughter could gaze at the twinkling lights.
Christmastime made her nostalgic for New York City. When she’d first moved to Los Angeles, the Hancock Park neighborhood had captivated her, especially the hint of citrus in the spring air. December was different. The weather was too sun drenched and balmy to seduce her into the holiday spirit. More than anything, John’s absence made this Christmas unbearable.
Before moving out west, she had had what seemed like a dream job. For several years, she had been a buyer for Barneys New York. The job paid well, but too many designers made crazy demands. A phone call had inspired a career change. When she’d graduated from Duke University a decade earlier, the art department asked to keep two sculptures. Flattered, she had agreed. One day, her former art professor called. Dr. Diane Levine explained that during a Duke alumni exhibit, someone had broken into the Nasher Museum of Art and stolen Kaylyn’s sculptures. The thieves had ignored the other work. They just wanted her sculptures.
