Las Vegas, Nevada
From the moment the Chevrolet had appeared at the entrance to the parking lot to the time when Hunter accelerated away, a little under eleven minutes had elapsed. Templeton and Grant pulled their Lincoln into the diner parking lot exactly eight minutes later, and got out cautiously. They looked all round the parking lot, using their flashlights sparingly, just in case Hunter or Reilly were lurking in the bushes aiming pistols at them, but found nothing. Then they checked the abandoned Lincoln, and looked at the bullet holes in the glass.
‘Maybe Harris and Morgan got them,’ Grant murmured.
‘Not in the car, they didn’t,’ Templeton said. ‘Not a trace of blood anywhere. Keep looking.’
Grant found two empty shell cases near the parking lot entrance, and the two men examined them.
‘This one’s a hand-load, by the looks of it,’ Templeton said, peering at it closely in the light of Grant’s flashlight. ‘Could be Morgan’s – he rolls his own.’ He paused and looked around the lot, mentally figuring angles. ‘My guess is, they pulled up here at the entrance, surprised the perps who were still sitting in the Lincoln, and got two or three shots off. Then all four of them rolled out of the cars and shot it out somewhere in the lot.’
‘So what happened then, and where are they now?’ Grant asked.
‘Search me,’ Templeton said. ‘The only place I know they’re not is here. Whatever happened in this parking lot, they’re long gone.’
‘We can try the two-way radio,’ Grant said, heading back towards their Lincoln, ‘and if there’s no response we can call Groom Lake and see if Ketch has heard from them.’
* * *
‘OK,’ Reilly said, as the Chevrolet barrelled south at exactly sixty miles an hour. ‘So now what do we do?’
‘Good question,’ Hunter said, changing lanes to overtake a slow-moving Dodge. ‘We’ve still got to get into Area 51, and quickly, before Christy-Lee gets fed into the system.’
‘I know you’re real good at this kind o’ thing,’ Reilly said, ‘but you can’t just steal another plane and fly in. The whole place is under radar surveillance, and any unknowns get intercepted. If they don’t get the hell out of the airspace, they get shot down. These guys is real serious about security.’
‘I know it won’t be a walk in the park, Dick, but one way or the other I’m going to get in there. How’s your chest?’ Hunter added.
‘Stingin’ like a bitch,’ Reilly said, ‘but I can live with it.’
Hunter was silent for a few minutes, then nodded, as if a decision had been made. Reilly looked at him speculatively as the Chevrolet speeded up, but didn’t say anything. Hunter waited for a stretch of road that was clear of traffic, swung the car around in a wide U-turn, and powered back up the road towards Las Vegas.
‘So the plan is what?’ Reilly asked.
‘Simple,’ Hunter said. ‘You said they’ll intercept and shoot down any unknown aircraft that enters the restricted airspace?’
‘Yup.’
‘So how about getting in on a known aircraft, then? Or maybe a known vehicle?’
Groom Lake Air Force Base, Nevada
‘Yes?’ Ketch snapped as he pressed a button on his mobile phone. ‘Who is it?’
‘Templeton.’ The voice sounded tinny and distant.
‘Where’s Harris?’ Ketch demanded.
‘Ah,’ Templeton said. ‘We were kind of hoping you could tell us. We’ve heard nothing from him since he and Morgan went to intercept the Lincoln down to the south of Vegas.’
‘Nor have I.’ Ketch wasn’t in the best of tempers. ‘So what the fuck happened when they intercepted this goddamn Lincoln. I presume you have checked the scene?’
‘Yes,’ Templeton replied. ‘The Lincoln’s been abandoned, with a couple of bullet holes in it, and there’s evidence of a fire-fight in the vicinity. But there’s no sign of blood and no indications of what happened. Or at least, no indications we can see in this light. Harris isn’t responding to calls on the two-way radio, and his Chevrolet is missing.’
‘Absolutely incredible,’ Ketch almost shouted. ‘So these two guys have slipped away again, and maybe killed Harris and Morgan? Jesus, I thought you were supposed to be Special Forces?’
‘Ex-Special Forces, Mr. Ketch,’ Templeton said smoothly, ‘and we don’t know that anything’s happened to Harris or Morgan. There could be other explanations.’
‘Like what?’ Ketch snapped. ‘Oh, don’t bother. Just find Reilly and Hunter and for fuck’s sake kill them.’
Las Vegas, Nevada
‘I mean,’ Hunter said, ‘Groom Lake is a big base, right? Not everybody lives out there all the time, so there must be some kind of transportation system, some way of getting shift workers to and from the place.’
‘Right,’ Reilly said. ‘I’ve read a bit about Area 51. Supposed to be about a dozen flights a day out there from McCarran, using Boeing 737s.’
‘That,’ said Hunter, ‘is a lot of people. Do you know anything else about the aircraft?’
‘Not a lot. Nobody does, outside the guys who work out at Groom Lake. Believe the Boeings are white with a red stripe along the side, an’ I do know they’re called “Janet” flights.’
‘Janet?’ Hunter almost laughed. ‘You’re putting me on.’
‘Nope. Even got a Janet Terminal over at McCarran.’
‘Who the hell dreamed up that name?’
‘Dunno. The flights is supposed to be run by some classified outfit called somethin’ or other Special Projects, as I recall.’
Hunter was silent for a few moments. ‘OK,’ he said, ‘what about road access? Any other way of getting in there?’
‘Not so’s you’d notice. The cammo dudes in their Cherokees keep out anybody who tries to get inside the base from the hills. Lots of guys have tried it, but far as I know none of ’em ever made it. Some outfit runs buses into Groom Lake to carry other base workers, but I dunno where from.’
‘Well,’ Hunter said, ‘there’s always a first time.’
‘Don’t much like the sound of that. What d’you mean?’
‘You said lots of people have tried to get inside but these cammo dudes or whatever the hell you call them have stopped them. I reckon that between us we could take on a couple of these guys no problem. We just drive to some part of the boundary of Area 51, hang about there for a while and wait for these cammo dudes to show up. Then we take them out.’
Reilly grunted. ‘May not be one of your better ideas, that. So, assumin’ we don’t get our asses shot off in the process, what do we do then?’
‘Easy. We put on their uniforms, take their Cherokee and just drive right over to Groom Lake. Don’t forget, cops are invisible – people see the uniform, not the man inside it – and they can go anywhere.’
Reilly was silent for a minute. ‘Figure there are three things you haven’t thought of, Mr. Hunter. First, I’m still bleedin’ like a stuck pig here, and I’m not gonna be much help to you in a fire-fight. Second, I’m a big guy. Suppose one o’ these cammo dudes ain’t obligin’ enough to weigh two hundred and twenty five pounds?’
‘Details,’ Hunter said. ‘If you just act like an intruder, I’ll take out the two guys who come to arrest you. If the uniform doesn’t fit you, just take off your shirt and I’ll pretend I’m taking you to the base hospital or medical centre. What’s the third?’
‘You’re right,’ Reilly said. ‘Those two are just details, but the third’s the biggie. You got any idea how long it’ll take us to drive over to Area 51? By the time we get up there and find ourselves a Cherokee Jeep an’ a coupla you-can’t-see-me suits, and get our asses over to Groom Lake, your lady will be sliced and diced.’
Chapter Twenty-One
Saturday
Las Vegas, Nevada
Hunter’s knuckles showed white as he gripped the steering wheel of the Chevrolet, then he slowly relaxed.
‘I don’t like the way you said it,’ he muttered, his voice low and har
sh, ‘but you’re absolutely right, Dick. We don’t have any options. Somehow, we’ve got to fly in.’
‘Not gonna be easy,’ Reilly said.
Hunter eased his foot off the accelerator pedal and let the Chevrolet coast in towards the side of the road, then turned into the parking lot of a small shopping mall that showed no sign of life whatsoever. He pulled the vehicle to a halt on the side of the parking area furthest from the road, and switched off the engine. Reilly just looked at him.
‘You got an idea?’ Reilly asked.
‘Maybe,’ Hunter said. ‘First, let me take another look at your chest.’
Reilly levered himself slowly and painfully out of the passenger seat and leant against the side of the Chevrolet while Hunter undid the towel and lifted the makeshift pad off Reilly’s chest. Fresh bleeding was evident along almost the whole length of the furrow carved by Morgan’s bullet.
‘Hold on,’ Hunter said, leant into the Chevrolet and opened the glove box. He’d checked the Lincoln for a medical kit, but hadn’t thought to look in the other car.
‘Bingo,’ he said, and pulled out a small oblong white metal box with a red cross on the lid. He popped the lid off and pulled out two three-yard bandages, a selection of felt pads and medical tape. Reilly held the pads in place as Hunter strapped the bandages tightly around him. The result wasn’t perfect, but was a whole lot better than the towel he’d applied previously.
‘Better?’ Hunter asked, as he used a safety pin and tape to secure the end of the second bandage.
‘Yup,’ Reilly replied. ‘Having it tighter helps a lot.’ He glanced down at his chest and two small patches of reddening on the white bandages. ‘Bleedin’ seems to have slowed down some.’
As Reilly waited beside the car, Hunter opened the rear door and rummaged around in the sheriff’s overnight bag until he found a red and dark grey check shirt in heavy cotton.
‘Here,’ he said, ‘put this on. If you bleed onto it, it shouldn’t be too obvious.’
‘OK,’ Reilly said, as Hunter helped him do up the last buttons, ‘now I’m not gonna bleed to death, what’s your idea? I’d like to know,’ he added, with a flash of his old humor, ‘just so’s I can arrange to have the details carved on my headstone when it all goes tits-up.’
‘We’ll hop a Janet flight,’ Hunter said calmly.
‘I knew it,’ Reilly said dismissively. ‘Say it quickly and it sounds real easy. Just one small question. How? And suppose the last one’s already left? In case you hadn’t noticed, it’s not exactly the middle of the workin’ day round here.’
‘Simple. We’ll get them to lay on a special aircraft for us.’
Reilly just looked at him. ‘You bang your head or somethin’ back in that diner parkin’ lot?’ he asked. ‘’Cause you ain’t makin’ a heap of sense right now.’
Hunter turned suddenly at a sound, like a muffled thump, from behind them. ‘Hear that?’ he asked.
‘Yup,’ Reilly said. ‘The guy in the trunk musta woken up.’
‘Exactly,’ Hunter said, ‘and he’s our ticket onto a Janet flight, or he will be by the time I’ve finished with him.’
* * *
‘Still nothing?’ Templeton asked, and Grant shook his head as he replaced the two-way radio in its carrier on the dashboard.
The two men were driving around the southern outskirts of Las Vegas. Templeton had put out an APB for the Chevrolet as soon as he’d finished talking to Ketch, but so far no police officer had called it in.
‘Nothing,’ Grant said. ‘Guess his radio’s still turned off.’
‘I don’t believe Reilly and Hunter could have got the drop on Harris and Morgan,’ Templeton said. ‘I worked with Harris in ’nam. He knows what he’s doing. My guess is, either they took out the two perps, or they’re in hot pursuit. They turned the radio off before they confronted the two bad guys, and they’ve just forgotten to switch it back on again.’
‘Yeah, right,’ Grant said, but he didn’t sound convinced.
But as if in confirmation of Templeton’s hypothetical scenario, the squawk of the two-way radio cut brusquely through Grant’s last sentence.
Groom Lake Air Force Base, Nevada
Ketch was exhausted. He sat at his desk with his head slumped in his hands, and looked longingly across the office at his camp bed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept properly, the last time he’d not been woken up by a ringing telephone or a buzzing intercom unit. He just had to rest for a while.
As he got up to walk over to the bed, he noticed an amber light glowing on the light grey console fitted on the extreme left hand side of his desk. The legend under it read ‘Permission to commence processing requested.’
‘No,’ Ketch muttered to himself, ‘they can fucking well wait.’ He reached out and snapped down the switch which bore the tag ‘Permission to process denied.’
Las Vegas, Nevada
Reilly sat comfortably, or as comfortably as his torn chest would allow, in the centre of the rear seat of the Chevrolet, an automatic pistol pressed lightly against Harris’s left temple. Harris was sitting on the extreme right hand side of the seat, his hands still firmly lashed behind his back, the door beside him wide open.
Hunter had taken pains to explain to Harris this meant that, if Reilly had to pull the trigger, most of Harris’s blood and brains would be ejected outside the car, which would save them having to take too much time cleaning the back seat.
Leaning over from the front seat, Hunter held the two-way radio in his left hand close to Harris’s face. In his right hand, the Glock was trained steadily on the centre of the bound man’s chest.
‘Talk to them,’ Hunter instructed.
‘No way. Go fuck yourself,’ Harris replied, his words slurred and indistinct.
Hunter said nothing, just looked at him. Then he put the Glock down on the seat beside him and reached into his jacket pocket. His hand came back into Harris’s view holding Dick Reilly’s switchblade, which he snapped open.
‘Talk to them,’ Hunter said again.
Harris shook his head, but didn’t take his eyes off the knife. Hunter leaned towards him and placed the point of the blade directly under Harris’s left collarbone. He changed his grip so that the heel of his hand was directly behind the end of the switchblade’s bone handle. Then he looked at Harris again.
‘Talk to them,’ he said.
Harris shook his head, then cried out in pain as Hunter began to exert pressure on the knife. The end of the blade slid perhaps half an inch into the tender flesh below the bone. Blood flowed, reddening Harris’s shirt, and he writhed in agony. Hunter twisted the knife within the wound, then pulled it out.
‘Talk to them.’
Harris looked at him, and shook his head again.
Hunter leaned over the back of the seat and repeated the treatment, this time under Harris’s right collarbone.
‘Look,’ Hunter said, when Harris had stopped yelling, ‘I can do this all day, picking a fresh spot each time, but you’re making a lot of noise and we’re running out of patience. So, I’m going to ask you just once more. Then it’ll probably be too late to convince your friends that you’re OK, and we’ll just kill you anyway, but good and slow. Maybe a gut shot, or perhaps I’ll just rip your stomach open with this knife and let you bleed to death. This really is your last chance. Talk to them.’
Harris stared at him for a long moment, then, as Hunter extended the switchblade again, he nodded.
‘Good,’ Hunter said. ‘Remember to say what we want you to say, and you’ll live a little while longer.’
Hunter pushed the microphone of the radio a little closer to Harris’s face and thumbed the transmit button.
‘Templeton,’ Harris said.
‘Yeah, I’m here. That you, Harris? We were getting worried. What the hell happened?’
Reilly pressed the muzzle of Morgan’s Smith and Wesson harder against Harris’s head, and Hunter nodded encouragement from the front seat.
Hunter depressed the press-to-talk button on the two-way radio and Harris leant forward and began to speak.
‘We switched the radio off before we turned into the diner parking lot. Morgan forgot to switch it on again – he had other things on his mind.’
‘Like what?’
‘I’m coming to that. Where are you?’
‘Cruising around in the south of Las Vegas,’ Templeton replied. ‘By the way, we put an APB out for your car when we couldn’t contact you.’
‘Tell them to cancel it,’ Hunter muttered, then pressed the transmit switch again.
‘Cancel it,’ Harris snapped. ‘I don’t have the time or the inclination to start arguing with some hick cops right now.’
‘No problem. Grant will call in and terminate it.’
‘Now tell them the tale,’ Hunter said, and leant back towards Harris, pointing the switchblade at his bleeding left shoulder. The injured man cringed as far back in the seat as he could, but nodded again.
‘You found the Lincoln?’ Harris asked, into the radio microphone.
‘Yes.’
‘OK. We pulled into the lot at the diner, saw the Lincoln and ventilated it, just in case, but the two perps had gone. We checked out the lot, and found a young guy pretty badly beaten up and dumped in the bushes.’
The radio squawked in Hunter’s hand. ‘Who was he?’
‘Just some guy. Never even asked his name. We got him into the car and took him to Vegas General Hospital. On the way there Morgan talked to him. Seems he’d just pulled into the parking lot with his girl friend for a little horizontal jogging when the two perps arrived. They beat the crap out of him, and took his car and the girl.’
Trade-Off Page 28
