by AJ Tata
“We’ve been heading mostly southeast away from the airfield. Low, flat land to our right. Outline of mountains to our left and front,” Matt said, pointing as he spoke. “Lots of hardwoods, probably maple trees. Feels like the Green Mountains in Vermont. I skied Smugglers Notch once, and if that’s the case, there are plenty of good trails locals used for smuggling booze from Canada during prohibition. Lots of caves and small towns.”
Matt breathed deeply and looked around once more. “Let’s keep heading in this direction until dawn,” he said. “How are you holding up?”
Peyton had discarded the sling on her arm when they climbed the chain-link fence on the far side of the runway. She seemed okay but Matt could tell she was eating some pain.
“Don’t worry about me,” Peyton said.
As they made the turn, Matt thought he heard a sound in the brush, maybe a squirrel or another small animal.
He admitted to himself that after nearly a year out of the spy business, his instincts, while still very good, were perhaps a nanosecond behind what they had been in his prime.
He heard another sound. His mind began racing with the possibilities. Sure, it could be a small animal, but it was likely something more dangerous. They were in a remote area at a prominent intersection with one of the roads that led to the airfield. Honestly, they would not be hard to track. At that moment, he derided himself for following a road and not pushing past the gravel and into the rising terrain further east.
“This way!” he said, grabbing Peyton by the arm and yanking her into the long arms of fir trees. The branches slapped them as they bolted.
He heard the first tell-tale sound of a silenced weapon firing in their direction, the bullet missing its mark but snapping a branch above his head.
“What the hell?” Peyton said in a hushed tone.
Two more shots zipped past their heads like angry hornets as they tumbled into the soft undergrowth beneath the fir trees.
“Hurry, they’re coming!” Matt spoke through clenched teeth as he pulled Peyton to her feet. They darted deeper into the forest, running with such ferocity that it reminded Matt of the Philippines, where he was chased by a hundred Abu Sayef rebels. His lungs burned as they processed oxygen exponentially faster than normal. His mouth was dry, and he swallowed hard against a tight lump in his throat.
He started angling their route toward the east, which led them to higher, more protected ground. Without breaking stride, they darted across the road and continued another hundred meters into the forest. Then he stopped, and they hid behind two large chunks of granite that formed a V, with the crevice giving them a view of the gravel road.
“Quiet,” he whispered.
Peyton looked at him and nodded her head. The thought that she was beautiful suddenly popped into his head. He quickly pushed the irrelevant notion into the dark recesses of his mind, where it would die a quick death.
Peyton pointed to his left at the same time he was hearing a slight rustling near the road, then voices. Two men were moving fast but had slowed considerably from their initial pace. The voices were heavily accented.
“Here,” one said, pointing at the gravel in the road. “Footprints.”
There had been no time to do the old Indian trick of covering their tracks with a tree branch, but Matt’s makeshift plan might work anyway.
The pursuers looked up and began moving into the woods. Matt cringed when he noticed one man slip something onto his head.
Night-vision goggles.
He pulled Peyton slowly below the sightline of the granite and pointed at his eyes. Peyton understood.
Matt slipped the pistol from his belt and slowly moved the safety switch to disengage the trigger of the weapon. He could hear the men moving quickly now, almost adjacent to their position.
“Mustaf, wait,” one man whispered.
Matt could see that they were no more than ten feet from his position, and now they had noticed the granite formation.
Before they could advance upon his position, Matt lifted his pistol as he ran directly toward them, firing once at the man with the night-vision goggles and then expending his last bullet on him when the first bullet did not find a vital organ.
The second one did.
Matt altered his course toward the remaining pursuer. The dark figure was faintly silhouetted against the black forest and was bringing his weapon into firing position. Matt, out of ammunition, barreled into him, tackling him to the ground. They fell atop a large chunk of granite and rolled together against a tree trunk. They stopped with Matt on top, punching the man in the face, until he caught the motion of the assailant’s pistol moving toward him from the ground. Too late. It was up and firing, the loud report ringing in his ears, his shoulder on fire.
He released the man’s neck and grabbed at the pistol hand before he could fire another shot, but again he was too late.
The man’s pistol hand reeled backward, responding to a sharp kick from Peyton, who spun and swung her leg down like a guillotine, with her heel crushing the man’s windpipe. Matt heard an audible pop, which he initially thought was his attacker’s throat. But when he considered the force with which Peyton had chopped downward, he knew she had snapped their pursuer’s neck.
Matt looked up to see Peyton moving toward him.
Peyton looked at Matt’s arm and then into his eyes. “You’re shot.”
He placed his hand onto the wound, feeling the familiar, sticky wet of oozing blood. The bullet had grazed him.
“Just a flesh wound. We need to get moving. There’ll be more on the way,” he said.
Matt stood motionless for a second, listening. He thought he heard something. Not anything on the ground, but something in the air. What was that? A low hum, maybe? Like the bees? The noise was gone in an instant, but it got him thinking.
Matt quickly scavenged what he could from the dead attackers—antiquated night-vision goggles, nearly spent weapons, full ammo clips—and blended into the night before others could pursue.
CHAPTER 15
After an hour of darting through a thickening forest and undulating terrain, Matt stopped, looked at Peyton, and said, “Let’s take a quick break.”
He was breathing hard, smoky wisps of breath looking like locomotive steam escaping from his mouth. They took a knee and Matt inspected the weapons. An AK-47 and a Makarov pistol.
“Old Russian weapons,” he said.
“Those guys weren’t Russians. They were Arabs,” Peyton replied.
They had been on the move for about an hour, continuing on a southeasterly track. They had crossed two gravel roads and one paved road that looked like a county highway. Keeping perpendicular to all means of routine travel, Matt figured he was making pursuit more challenging. Heading downhill, they were bound to eventually find water, and water usually led to population. They stopped on a level piece of ground spotted with tall hardwoods. The lack of ambient light created a pitch-black backdrop for the millions of bright stars dotting the sky like pinpricks.
He tossed the AK-47 aside and pocketed the pistol. Considering something, he stared at the sky, then looked at Peyton.
“I’m still thinking about that other guy. Why you wanted to save him. How you knew he was there.” Matt looked at Peyton’s eyes.
“I told you, I saw him when they were taking me to the doctor.”
“I had a question about that, too. I mean, I was pretty banged up, yet you got first class medical treatment.”
Peyton turned away.
“What are you implying?” she whispered under her breath, folding her arms across her chest.
“That you know a hell of a lot more than you’re telling me.”
“Not true.”
“Bullshit,” Matt said. He started walking again. They continued on their journey, a bit tired and with no water, no food, and no means of communication.
They crossed a small stream. The cool water felt good on their aching feet, but Matt knew the soaked shoes would make for a
tough leg ahead. They drank from the stream, hydrating until they could feel perspiration glistening on their skin.
“We think Ballantine’s got something to do with those Predators,” she conceded, her voice cutting through the still night.
“Okay, tell me what you know.”
“Ballantine’s not totally connected to al Qaeda, but he does have ties to Ansar. He began plotting this directly after he was released from prisoner-of-war status at the end of the first Persian Gulf War. We think he built his support in France, organized his efforts in Canada, and then slipped into Lake Moncrief to set up his base.”
“I pretty much figured all that out,” Matt responded.
“Well, the one thing that Ballantine had, that a terrorist in Afghanistan or Northern Iraq didn’t have, was true state sponsorship. Negotiations were going on between Iraq and China, North Korea, Syria, and many others all under the guise of typical state business. Other terrorist organizations didn’t have that luxury. Sometimes it’s a benefit to be a non-state actor, but sometimes it pays to have ‘state’ cover.”
“Okay.”
“When we traded technology to China for campaign cash, it was kind of like sending an e-mail to someone,” Peyton said. “They’ll get it, but you never know who they might forward it to.”
“Okay.”
“We have indications that there was communication between China and Iraq prior to Gulf War Two and that one of the reasons Hussein was buying time prior to the battle for Baghdad was so that Ballantine could get set.”
“A strategic move on his part. Get our military decisively engaged in Iraq and have a Phase Two ready to go. But this one is on our turf, using our freedoms to conceal his moves,” Matt said.
“Exactly.”
“But Hussein’s not that smart, so he had to have some help. He gets some help from China, maybe, which guides him on how to do this. They set up some cells and come in from the north.”
“Makes sense.”
“And the dog that never barked?” Matt asked.
Peyton looked at him, knowing exactly what he was talking about.
“WMDs,” she said. “There’s a suspicion that Ballantine has been moving the chemical and biological weapons out of Iraq, through Syria, and into Quebec.”
“Is that what we’re dealing with here? The reason we never found anything?” Matt asked.
Peyton looked away and muttered under her breath, “Oh, I hope not.”
They walked for another thirty minutes before Matt stopped. “Wait,” he said. He looked at the horizon through a growth of small trees, the land angling downward, away from him. “There’s some light, barely noticeable,” Matt said, pointing.
They maneuvered through more low ground, feeling the scrape of what Matt called wait-a-minute vines against their pant legs until they found a blacktop road. They followed the road from the wood line for another mile, toward the light, and then they saw a sign: Sheldon Springs, Vermont: Population 2,014.
“Make that 2,016,” Matt whispered. Ever cautious, he was glad to be near civilization.
CHAPTER 16
Sheldon Springs, Vermont
Before they reached the actual town of Sheldon Springs, they found a small farm on the south side of the road. A wood rail fence lined the front of the property and followed a gravel drive to a two-story white house with green shingles. Further to the rear of the property was a red barn that seemed to contrast the purity of the white home.
Matt led Peyton around the outskirts of the property and entered the barn from the rear. Eyes already adjusted to the darkness, he could see a few tractors and other farm equipment. Hundreds of empty baskets—for apple farming, he presumed—were stacked on one side. He saw exactly three milk cows that returned his gaze with the sullen stare that all cows seemed to have.
“Up there,” he whispered, pointing at the loft. True to form, there was plenty of hay that would provide at least a bit of comfort for some much-needed sleep.
“We should be rather anonymous up there,” Peyton said. “Just don’t get any ideas.”
It had been a long day and even longer night, and Matt found he was unprepared for her humor. He smiled. She noticed.
“The only idea I have is sleep,” he responded, ignoring multiple witty comebacks that instinctively popped into his head.
They climbed the ladder and each found that their adrenaline prevented them from sleeping. Peyton looked across the hay mound at Matt.
“Matt, earlier today you said that your brother knew Ballantine. How did he know him?”
He didn’t want to get into the details, but knew that he had to start trusting someone. He might as well start with this good-looking woman he had known less than a day, he figured.
“How does your brother fit into all of this?” she asked.
“Zachary captured Ballantine. And in the process, he killed his brother.”
“Do you think Ballantine’s out for revenge?” she asked.
“Makes sense. I know how I would feel if I could ever find the man who killed Zachary,” he whispered.
Matt stared out of the hayloft. A diminishing moon hung in the frame of the loft like a piece of children’s art.
“How would you feel?” she asked.
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
“One sister. We’re not close,” she said, looking away.
“I was close to Zachary. The emotions I have wrestled with since his death have consumed me. Sometimes I just want to kill anyone who might have had anything to do with Zachary’s death.”
“Do you really think that would make a difference?”
“Nothing else has.”
“Seems you have no problem killing people,” Peyton said, remembering the last several hours.
Matt turned to look directly into her eyes. “It’s not about the killing.”
Peyton felt a chill as his eyes locked onto her like a laser. A fine mist escaped his mouth as he breathed the fresh Vermont air.
“Besides, you put your heel through that man’s windpipe as if you’ve done it before,” Matt said. “Obviously not your first.”
She paused and looked away, stiffening. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“Actually, yes.”
When Peyton didn’t respond, Matt let the question go but logged it away in the back of his mind. He had noticed a tough streak since their first encounter, but now he was beginning to believe there was much more to her, a certain nefarious depth that he couldn’t quite place.
“Why don’t you tell me about those Predators?” she asked.
After a long pause, he responded. “Okay. I know some stuff. You’re right. It’s probably time to talk about it.”
Peyton looked up at him, remaining silent, not wanting to interrupt.
“Roger Webb, another member of my organization, and I worked on this thing together, this Predator project. When we learned that the previous administration had given the go-ahead to release the unmanned aerial vehicle technology—technology that enabled us to arm the Predator with Hellfire missiles and other payloads—to China, we were pissed. We got involved, against CIA orders. Of course, the CIA director was in the president’s pocket. Anyway, this technology is very sensitive.”
“So . . .” she prodded.
“So I followed some leads from China to the Philippines, where things got pretty ugly.”
“How so?”
“Well, in China, the director figured out I was chasing this stuff down and turned Chinese intelligence onto me,” Matt said.
“Can you prove that?”
Matt chuckled at her naiveté. “Of course not. It’s just one of those things you know. When you’re half way across the world with a perfect cover and suddenly you have ten operatives following you, including one American you recognize, you get suspicious.”
“I see.”
“Anyway, I managed to avoid the Chinese palace guards and find a contact who could give me the information on who had this
technology and what they were doing with it.”
“Was it just a computer disk, or was it the actual stuff?” Peyton asked.
“It was sixteen or eighteen Predators, which they could probably have built, or at least come close. But the ground control stations that use satellite technology for guidance are the key. That’s what I was looking for.”
“How did eighteen Predators get away from the United States?”
“Remember that big campaign-cash-for-technology scandal?” Matt asked. “What I found was that, to avoid our satellite tracking, the Chinese had actually built a small test facility on a remote island in the Philippine chain.”
“So where are the Predators and these stations now?”
“If I knew that, I wouldn’t be here,” he admitted. “The question is,” he said, staring directly at her, “what do you know about these Predators?”
“Only what you tell me,” she lied.
“Bullshit.”
“The only information I may have,” she whispered, “deals with some F-117 stealth fighters that we had shot down over Kosovo and Afghanistan.”
“Stealth Predators?”
“Maybe,” she said, looking away.
A long moment of silence passed between them. Matt looked skyward, staring at the wide planks in the ceiling of the barn.
“Rumor has it that you had the shot,” Peyton said, deflecting the conversation back toward Matt.
“I did. I think about it every day. Haunts me. They denied my kill chain.”
“You don’t seem like the higher headquarters-approval type of guy,” Peyton said.
Matt turned his head toward Peyton, taking in a bit of her beauty, finding solace in that for some reason.
“I should have taken the shot,” Matt sighed.
He paused a moment and decided to reverse the conversation toward her.
“Apparently you know all about me. So what about you?”
