Day of Wrath

by Larry Bond

  A new light blinked into existence — this one on top of the car pursuing them. Red and blue flashes strobed against the darkness, flickering against the tangled woods on either side of the road.

  “The police?” Reichardt murmured, more to himself than to Brandt.

  Why? What had they done wrong?

  “Should I evade them?” the other man asked, hunched forward over the steering wheel now.

  Reichardt shook his head. They were on an isolated country road — far from the useful camouflage of the noise, chaos, and confusion of city streets. The chances of successfully evading a police pursuit were nil. And Ibrahim would not thank him for drawing so much unwelcome official attention so close to the Arab’s own home.

  Perhaps Brandt had been speeding, or had fallen afoul of some minor technicality in the state’s arcane traffic laws. It didn’t really matter. “Pull over, Johann,” he instructed. “We shall play the poor lost German tourists, accept our ticket or warning with good grace, and then proceed.”

  Obedient as ever, Brandt braked gently and then brought the Lebaron to a full stop on the narrow shoulder. He tapped the button to roll down the driver’s side window. Driven by a soft, whispering breeze, the cool night air rushed in — carrying with it the scent of pine and damp moss.

  The police car pulled in behind them, its single roof-mounted light still flashing.

  “Step out of the car! The driver first! And keep your hands where I can see them!” a commanding male voice barked.

  Reichardt frowned. This wasn’t the procedure for a routine traffic stop, was it?

  He nodded briefly to Brandt, signaling the other man to obey.

  Perhaps the Virginia police were more cautious on such roads at night.

  Certainly, there wasn’t any point in being spooked into foolish resistance to the authorities — not when Caraco’s lawyers could smooth out any minor misunderstandings.

  Brandt popped the door open, put one foot on the ground, and then froze as another voice yelled out, “It’s a trap, Wolf! Run!”

  They heard the sound of a muffled blow.

  Mcdowell! The scales fell from Reichardt’s eyes in one sickening instant. Thorn and that damned woman were coming for him! He snatched his leather briefcase off the floor and whirled toward Brandt. “Kill them!”

  Thorn saw the Lebaron’s driver throw himself headlong through the open door and roll frantically across the road — trying to get out of the light and into cover. Flame stabbed out of the pistol in the other man’s hand as he fired while still rolling.

  The Ford’s windshield shattered. Fragments of safety glass cascaded across him.

  Damn it. Thorn folded sideways — out of the line of fire. He grabbed for the passenger side door handle.

  “Wolf dropped out the other side!” Helen warned him. “He’s in the woods!” She already had the right rear passenger door open and Farrell’s 9mm drawn.

  “Got it.” Thorn shoved the door open and rolled out onto the gravel-strewn shoulder — staying prone close to the car. “You take him. I’ll take the driver!”

  Another round slammed into the Ford, smashing through one of the side windows and out through the roof in a shower of torn metal and fiberglass. Helen dropped onto the ground right behind him — leaving a moaning Mcdowell slumped over in the back seat.

  They had been too confident they had the FBI traitor under control, Thorn realized. Despite the risk involved if they’d been stopped by the police themselves, they ought to have tied Mcdowell up. Well, it’ll serve the little bastard right if a stray bullet hits him, Thorn thought coldly.

  With a quick nod, Helen sprinted into the trees — careful to stay low.

  Keeping the car between her and the unseen gunman, she angled off in the direction Wolf had taken and disappeared into the darkness and dense undergrowth.

  Thorn yanked the SIG P228 out of the shoulder holster he’d appropriated from the FBI agent, spun around, and crawled rapidly toward the back of the Taurus.

  A split second before he got there, another round ripped through the right rear tire, sprayed dirt and gravel in all directions as it hit the ground, and then ricocheted away into the forest. Thorn rolled away from the can — into the brush and tall grass bordering the road.

  Jesus. If he’d moved a little faster, his head would have been right in the line with that bullet.

  Wolf’s driver was good — maybe too good.

  Thorn edged even further back and then belly-crawled to his left snaking away from the two parked cars while staying parallel to the road. He stopped beside a small boulder that lay half buried amid the weeds. With his pistol out and braced in both hands, he studied the black, forbidding treeline on the other side-his ears cocked for the slightest sound, the first indication of any movement.

  All sounds trailed away. Even Mcdowell’s low, sobbing groans had faded to nothing.

  Questions about the man he was facing raced through Thorn’s mind as he lay absolutely still, trying to blend with the boulder and the shadows.

  Was Wolf’s driver a former soldier used to fighting in wooded country?

  Or was he a former Stasi thug more at ease in an urban setting?

  There was only one way to find out, he told himself. He felt through the grass for a good-sized rock, found one, and then lobbed it skyward with one quick overhand grenade toss. The rock sailed high, arcing toward the two lit-up cars. It bounced off the hood of the Ford and rolled off into the brush.

  The gunman reacted immediately — firing twice in rapid succession.

  Both shots caromed off the car’s engine block.

  Strike one, Thorn thought grimly. Without hesitating further, he scrambled to his feet and raced across the road and into the woods beyond. He circled warily through the trees — listening intently and checking every footfall for the branch or twig that might trip him up, or snap and alert the man he was hunting.

  Metal clinked on rock close by.

  Thorn froze in place. He was nearing the road again — within yards of the spot where he’d seen muzzle flashes stabbing out of the blackness.

  Wolf’s driver hadn’t changed position after firing or at least not by much. Strike two.

  He could almost sense the gunman’s growing uneasiness now.

  Every small sound — every bird flitting from branch to branch, every small animal skittering through the brush, every stray breeze rustling through the leaves — must be gnawing away at the other man’s resolution and confidence.

  Moving slowly and with infinite patience, Thorn put his back against the trunk of the closest tree, a stunted scrub pine, and slid around it. His eyes were fully adjusted to the darkness now.

  Bingo.

  He could just barely make out the man-sized shape crouched behind a moss-covered boulder about five yards away. The gunman had found a good piece of cover against someone firing from the other side of the road. A breeze stirred the trees above them, momentarily parting the leafy canopy that hid the night sky. Starlight gleamed off the barrel of the other man’s pistol.

  Thorn considered his options. If this were a combat situation, he could just put a couple of rounds into the gunman’s back, make sure he was down for good, and move on after Wolf himself. But this case was a whole lot murkier. He and Helen were operating well outside the law.

  Shooting without warning would probably constitute murder. He shook his head — he couldn’t just dry-gulch the guy, not under these circumstances. Anyway, they needed captives to question — not corpses.

  Too bad.

  Thorn took a fast, shallow breath, and then let it out. He took one step closer with the pistol braced in a twohanded shooting grip.

  Now.

  “Drop the gun or you’re dead!” he barked.

  For a split second, Thorn thought the other man would obey the order.

  He was wrong.

  Instead, Wolf’s man spun around, frantically trying to bring his own weapon to bear. Flame blossomed in the darkness. A bullet
tore into the tree trunk just above Thorn’s head.

  Strike three.

  Thorn squeezed the trigger three times — pushing the barrel back on line between each shot. Two rounds hit the gunman squarely in the chest.

  The third hit him in the head. The man slumped to the ground with one arm still draped across the boulder.

  Half blinded and with his ears still ringing from the closerange gunfire, Thorn moved forward and dropped to one knee beside the man he’d shot. He felt for a pulse. Just a faint, spasmodic flutter... and then nothing.

  He grimaced. “Shit!”

  Suddenly Thorn felt the air stir as someone charged up behind him.

  Christ! He swung around with his right arm raised as a block. Too late.

  Something heavy and hard glanced off his arm and smashed into his skull. Pain flared — white-hot and blindingly bright. Thorn slipped down into blackness.

  The abrupt flurry of gunshots in the middle distance startled Reichardt. He’d been heading through the forest as fast as he could while trying to move silently. From time to time, he’d stopped — listening desperately for any sounds of pursuit. He’d heard none.

  Were both Americans going after Brandt? It seemed almost too much to hope for. Johann Brandt was a man of somewhat limited imagination, but he was utterly loyal and fearless.

  He stayed still a moment longer, waiting for more gunfire.

  Nothing.

  Still panting in short, shallow gasps from his frantic dash out of the car, Reichardt took quick stock of his surroundings. He was deep in the woods — at least a hundred yards from the road.

  Briers he’d snagged during his initial, panicked flight had ripped holes in his wool slacks, torn his jacket, and even drawn blood from his hands. But he still had his pistol, his briefcase, and his cell phone.

  The phone! He could summon help from Ibrahim’s estate security force or even the local police.

  Reichardt fumbled in his pockets. Where was it? He swore softly. The cell phone was gone. It must have fallen out onto the ground during his dash for safety. He tried drying the sweat from his palms on his jacket, knowing he would have to press on. If he could just outdistance his pursuers he could find a house and beg for help or flag down a passing car.

  The German started moving again — still angling away from the road. For now he needed the concealment the woods offered more than the speed he could have attained on pavement.

  Reichardt stumbled into a low-hanging branch, felt a sharp twig draw more blood from his cheek, and swore again angrily.

  This was not right. As a servant of the East German state and then as a freelance terrorist, he had been a master of men’s lives for more than twenty years. He was always the hunter — never the hunted!

  He pushed through more brush and then stopped dead in his tracks.

  He’d come to a sluggish stream wending its way downhill through the trees. The watercourse wasn’t wide — almost narrow enough to jump, in fact. But the bank sloshed muddy and slippery.

  More to the point now, the forest canopy parted above the stream — allowing more light to fall on the weed-choked water.

  Frowning, Reichardt turned to peer behind him again. He snarled. It was hopeless. It was as dark as a witch’s heart under those trees. He could see nothing.

  He plunged ahead, squelched through the soft ground, and waded into the knee-high water. Ripples spread across the still surface.

  “Freeze!” Shocked by the shout from behind him, Reichardt felt sudden terror grip his heart. It was the woman, Gray. He exploded into motion — surging toward the opposite bank.

  Blam.

  The bullet caught him in the fleshy part of the left thigh and spun him halfway around. My God. He lurched forward. There was no pain. Not yet. That would come later. He gained firmer footing and stumbled forward, panting louder now.

  Blam.

  A second bullet hit him, this one in the right shoulder. His own pistol went flying off into the mud and tall grass. Reichardt moaned aloud. No!

  Clutching his briefcase tightly to his chest, he limped out of the stream and into the sheltering darkness beyond. He’d gone a few yards when his wounded leg abruptly gave out — dumping him flat on his face in the undergrowth.

  Reichardt heard someone else crashing through the woods nearby — on this side of the stream. It couldn’t be that bitch who’d shot him. Could it be Brandt? His probing fingers found the torn and bleeding edges of the exit wound in his thigh and recoiled. It had to be Brandt. Please God, let it be Brandt!

  Still holding the briefcase, he dragged himself toward the noise, crawling awkwardly on his stomach. “Johann! Johann!” he whispered harshly, hissing now as the first fiery tendrils of pain coursed through him. “Hilf mir! Hilf mir!”

  His scrabbling fingers touched a shoe. A man’s shoe. Reichardt looked up, smiling. His smile faded slowly.

  Lawrence Mcdowell looked down at him. A puffy bruise covered half the senior FBI agent’s cheek. He held a pistol — a 9mm SIGSAUER.

  Reichardt caught the acrid smell of burnt powder on the weapon. It had been fired recently. He grabbed at the cuff of the other man’s pants, pointing back the way he’d come. “The woman Gray is there! You must kill her, PEREGRINE! It is the only way you can be safe!”

  Mcdowell smiled nastily. “I will kill her, Herr Wolf. After I finish my business with you.” He raised the pistol. “I’m canceling my debt, you bastard. Permanently.”

  Reichardt saw the muzzle center on his forehead. In horror, he saw Mcdowell’s finger tighten on the trigger.

  “Noooooo!”

  Reichardt stopped screaming when the bullet tore through his brain and sent him straight to hell.

  Helen Gray jumped lightly across the stream, skidded on the slippery ground, and quickly recovered her balance. She’d been tracking Wolf cautiously — aware that, like a wounded animal, even an injured man could still be dangerous. Then she’d heard the voices coming from a thicket a few yards away. Had Wolf’s driver evaded Peter and linked up with his employer? Her mind would not accept the other explanation.

  Peter was alive. He had to be alive.

  The high-pitched, womanish scream and the echoing gunshot took her by surprise.

  She lunged forward through the screening brush and froze — staring in shock at Larry Mcdowell, the gun in his hand, and the twisted, mangled corpse at his feet. Her old boss was still grinning nastily at the man he’d just murdered. Heinrich Wolf, their only link to the smuggled shipment from Russia, and their only hope of clearing their names, was dead.

  “You shit, Mcdowell,” Helen said softly. She swung her Beretta on line. “Drop the goddamned gun …”

  Mcdowell looked up and seemed to see her for the first time.

  An odd, almost maniacal glee danced in his eyes. He shook his head.

  “What are you going to do, Helen? Kill me? How are you going to explain that?”

  “I’m not kidding, Larry,” Helen said tightly. “Drop the gun.

  Now!”

  Mcdowell laughed harshly. “Screw you, bitch!” He lifted the SIG-Sauer, pointing it toward her.

  Blinded by a sudden wave of cold fury, Helen pulled the trigger.

  And again. And again. And again.

  Slowly, still shaking, she eased up on the trigger, staring over the muzzle at the carnage her bullets had created. Her first shot had caught Mcdowell low — well below the stomach. Each successive 9mm round had climbed higher — ending in one that blew his face apart.

  Helen sank to her hands and knees, retching uncontrollably.

  She felt icecold now, too cold ever to be warm again.

  When she was done, she rose to her feet, still shivering. She slipped the Beretta back in her holster — succeeding on the second try — and fished out the cellular phone they’d taken off Mcdowell back at the bed-and-breakfast. In a daze, she punched in a number she’d memorized and then heard the phone connect.

  “Farrell.”

  “Sam,
” Helen heard herself say weakly. “I need your help, Sam. Things have gone terribly wrong …”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  SHOCK WAVE

  JUNE 18

  Super 6 Motor Lodge, Near Falls Church, Virginia

  Helen Gray blotted away some dried blood and dirt with a cotton ball soaked in iodine, finished taping down the gauze pad, and then stepped back to admire her handiwork. “How’s it feel?”

  “Ouch,” Thorn said. He raised his bruised right arm, winced, and then gingerly touched the bandaged side of his head. “I’ll live, I guess, but I have a feeling I’m not going to win any beauty contests this year.”

  “You’ve got that right, mister,” Helen said — working very hard to keep the same light, cheerful tone.

  She was still grappling with the emotional trauma of their bloody early morning gun battle. Losing Heinrich Wolf, their only solid witness to the Caraco-run smuggling operation, was bad. Killing Mcdowell was worse. She was also uncomfortably aware that she’d carried out something very close to an execution on Mcdowell. Once she’d fired that first shot, she’d never even considered trying to take him alive.

  But the biggest nightmare of all had been the sudden, blinding fear that Peter Thorn might be dead — torn forever out of her life. They’d faced death twice before in the past couple of weeks, but always together — never apart and alone.

  After Helen had made that frantic phone call to Farrell, she’d held herself together just long enough to search Wolf’s and Mcdowell’s bodies for any possible evidence. Then, with tears staining her cheeks, she’d stumbled back through the pitchblack woods to where they’d left the two cars. And there she’d found Peter sitting by the side of the road with his injured head in his hands — blood-spattered, dazed, and furiously angry at himself, but alive.

  Mcdowell had hit him over the head with a rock — clearly intending to kill him. Only the fact that he’d reacted fast enough to ward off some of the impact with his arm had saved his life.

  That and the fact that the traitorous FBI agent must have rushed off to chase down Wolf without making sure he was dead.