“So what you’re telling me is there’s a good chance they’ll send you to the Hokano world for real.”
Another shrug. “Yeah. I guess so. But you folks’d better go while you’ve got the chance, or sure as shit you’ll both turn up missing.”
Jack looked around. “Jensen’s demo with your dog proves there’s a trigger transmitter nearby. If we can—”
“Find it? Don’t waste your time. I’ve been searching for it since day one and never found it. And I was looking in daylight, not in the dark in a rainstorm.”
“Ever think about getting a knife and cutting it out?” Jack said. “It’s just under the skin.”
Jamie’s stomach turned at the thought. The idea of cutting into your own flesh—she shuddered. Didn’t want to go there.
“Can’t say as I have. ’Specially since Jensen warned me about just such a thing. Told me if the bomb’s surface temperature drops five degrees—blam!”
Jack was silent for a few seconds, then, “What if we cut it out and dunk it into a bowl of hot water?”
“Whoa,” Jamie said. “What if it drops five degrees while we’re doing it? Then all three of us will go.”
Without taking his eyes off Blascoe, Jack reached into a pocket and pulled out a folded knife. He snapped it open with a flick of his wrist, revealing a wicked-looking four-inch stainless steel serrated blade.
“I’m game if you are.”
Blascoe stared at the blade. He swallowed, but said nothing.
“Don’t you want to kick their asses?” Jack said. “With Jamie’s story and you to back it up on the talk show circuit, you can nail these bozos right where they live. Slice and dice them and stir-fry them for dinner.”
“Is it gonna hurt?” Blascoe said.
Jack nodded. “Yeah. But this baby’s sharp and I’ll be quick like a bunny.”
The old man licked his lips and took a long pull on the Cuervo. “Okay. Let’s do it.”
Jamie tasted bile at the back of her throat. “I’m not good with blood.”
Jack waggled the knife in her direction. “Don’t wimp out on me now.”
22
Jack stuck the blade of his Spyderco Endura into the water he’d nuked to boiling in the microwave. From the front room he heard Jamie muttering as she sloshed tequila onto the skin over the lump in Blascoe’s flank.
When the water stopped bubbling he poured it into a small aluminum pot.
“Not exactly sterile conditions,” he said as he carried the hot water into the other room. “But we’ll go straight from here to a doctor I know who’ll load you up with antibiotics.”
Blascoe lay stretched out on the couch, his shirt pulled up to nipple level.
“Let’s just get on with it,” he said.
Jamie looked up. “What about stitches?”
Jack already had that figured. “We just tie a sheet around him. That’ll hold the edges together. The doc will place the sutures.”
Jamie looked pale and sweaty. Her hand shook as she swabbed on the tequila.
“I don’t like this, Jack.”
Not too crazy about it myself, he thought.
He’d stabbed and he’d been stabbed, but he’d never got down and made a surgical incision. He couldn’t show any hesitancy or Jamie might fall apart. And if she did that it would only drag out this whole scene, and Jack wanted out of here yesterday. Every extra minute increased the chances of running into Dormentalist goons.
And he wished he had gloves. He didn’t feature the idea of getting some wild-ass dude’s blood all over his hands.
He looked at Blascoe. “You don’t by any chance have AIDS, do you?”
“I can honestly answer that with a no. They did a shitload of tests when they worked me up for my tumor and, seeing as how I’d done a few drugs in my time, that was one of the first things they looked for. But I’ve never mainlined so I came out negative.”
“All right then. It’s time.”
He tossed one of the throw pillows to Blascoe. “Bite on that.” He handed the pot of water to Jamie. “Remember, if the surface of the bomb drops five degrees, we’ve had it. So keep that water right up next to me.”
She gripped the handle and nodded. She did not look well at all.
“You sure you can handle this?”
She shook her head. “No, but I’m going to try. So hurry.”
Right. No sense in drawing it out like it was some scene from ER.
He went down on one knee next to the couch, stretched Blascoe’s skin over the lump, took a breath, and made the cut—a quick slice, two inches long and half an inch deep. Blascoe was kicking and making muffled screeching noises into the pillow, but all in all doing a pretty decent job of holding still. Next to him, Jamie groaned.
“Everybody hang in,” he said. “We’re almost there.”
Jack hadn’t been crazy about making the incision, but he didn’t mind the blood. He’d seen plenty—others’ and his own. Slipping his fingers under a man’s skin, though, was a whole other country.
Clenching his teeth he forced his hand forward, pushed his index and middle fingers through the bloody slit while his other hand pushed on the disk from the outside. He felt it press against his fingertips, then he trapped it and began to wriggle it free. It didn’t move easily. Had scar tissue formed around it? He pushed and pulled harder. Blascoe began to buck but Jack rode with him.
“A few seconds,” he gritted. “Just a few more seconds.”
He felt the thing move and glanced to his immediate right where Jamie held the pot of hot water.
“Get ready, Jamie. Here it comes.”
And then he had it. He guided the red, dripping disk through the incision. Not a second to waste now.
“Okay. Here she comes. Where’s that—?”
“Oh, God!”
He heard a gagging sound, felt hot water splash across his thigh, and looked over to see Jamie with her head turned away, quaking as she retched, the pot handle twisting in her hand, the hot water pouring over Jack and the couch.
“Shit!”
He grabbed for the pot with his free hand, caught it before it emptied, but felt the slippery disk shoot from between his fingers. It slithered across Blascoe’s bloody skin, fell to the floor, and rolled away on its edge.
“Oh, Christ!”
Jack lunged for it, grabbed it, and for a second, didn’t know what to do: Toss it across the room or drop it in what was left of the hot water? The disk slipped in his fingers…might not get a good throw…he shoved it into the hot water, then swung the pot around and put it down around the far corner of the couch, hoping the upholstery would absorb most of the shrapnel from the pot. He rolled back toward Jamie and shoved her away.
But no explosion. He waited a few more heartbeats, but all he heard were Jamie’s gasps and Blascoe’s groans.
“Sorry,” Jamie said as she lifted her head and wiped her chin. “I just—”
“Forget it.” Jack jumped to his feet. “Let’s haul him down to the car and get the hell out of here.”
“Jesus,” Blascoe said. He was bathed in sweat and had his hands cupped around the bloody incision but not touching it. “Like ouch, man. That fucking hurt!”
“How’s it feel now?”
A weak smile. “Compared to when you were digging into me? Not bad.”
“Good. Now move your hands.”
Jack had arranged a rolled-up bedsheet under the small of Blascoe’s back before operating on him. Once the hands were out of the way he looped it out and cinched it around him.
Blascoe grunted. “Have to be so tight?”
“Got to keep those edges together.” It was the best he could do till he got the old guy to Doc Hargus. He pulled him to his feet. “Let’s go.”
Blascoe swayed. “Whoa. Dizzy.”
Jack didn’t have to say anything. Jamie jumped in and grabbed Blascoe’s other arm, steadying him. She looked better but still shaken.
“Okay,” Jack said. “Straight do
wn the driveway.”
Jamie held back. “Why don’t we bring the car up here? Be faster.”
“But the driveway dead ends up here. Somebody noses into the lower end and we’re busted. Come on. Let’s move. We’ve wasted too much time already.”
He tugged Blascoe toward the door and Jamie came along. Off the front porch, into the downpour, then down the driveway. Within seconds their clothes were soaked through to the skin. Jack found the chill refreshing.
The twin ruts of the driveway had become mini creeks. Jack sloshed down the one on the right, Jamie had the left, both supporting the rubber-legged Blascoe on the grassy median.
“This is farther than I’ve ever come,” the old man said. “If we had light you’d see yellow ribbons tied around some of these trees. Those were the warning signs that I was nearing the thousand-foot line. Yellow ribbons! That son of a bitch Jensen thinks he’s such a comedian. He—”
Jack heard a muffled explosion, felt an impact against his flank that knocked him into the brush bordering the driveway. He lay stunned for a few seconds, his ears ringing. His right hand was gripping something. He squinted at it in the dark for a few uncomprehending heartbeats, then cried out and tossed it away.
An arm. With no body attached.
But how—?
And then he knew: The bastards had stuck two bombs in Blascoe—just in case he ever found the nerve to remove the obvious one.
Jack slumped forward and pounded his fists into the mud. He’d messed up—no, he’d fucked up. The possibility had occurred to him, but Blascoe had said there’d been only one incision, and Jack hadn’t felt anything unusual under the bomb he’d removed. Of course, Blascoe had been kicking and writhing at the time. Or they could have buried it way deep.
“I’m sorry, Coop,” he whispered. “Christ, I’m so sorry.”
And then, somewhere on the far side of the driveway, he heard a woman screaming.
Jack struggled to his feet, checked to make sure he still had the Glock, then lurched toward the sound, wiping bits of flesh from his shirt and jeans as he moved. He found Jamie kneeling in the mud and rubbing her hands up and down her arms as if she were in a shower.
He grabbed her arm. “Jamie! Jamie!”
She swung a fist at him. “Get away!” she wailed. “Get away!”
“Jamie, it’s me, Jack. We’ve got to go!”
Her voice lowered to gasping sobs. “He blew up! He…just…blew up!”
“I know. And we could end up just as dead if we don’t get out of here now.”
He pulled her to her feet and into a staggering walk down the driveway.
“But…” She looked over her shoulder. “Shouldn’t we do something with him?”
“What do you have in mind?” He propelled her along, not allowing her to slow down. “Dig a grave? Call a minister and have a funeral service?”
“You bastard!” she hissed. “You cold-hearted—!”
“I’ll take that any day over stupid fuck-up, which is what I really am.”
That stopped her. Her tone was softer when she spoke. “Hey, I—”
Jack shook her. “Quiet.”
He pointed down to the pair of glowing lights to the right of the driveway entrance. He shoved Jamie into the brush to the right and followed her in.
“They’re here.”
23
“Hey,” Lewis said. “There’s a car.”
Hutch stopped the Lincoln. “Not just a car—the car.”
Jensen leaned close to the side window and peered through the downpour at the black Crown Vic. He took a deep breath and smiled as he let it out, fogging the window. With one delay after another along the way, his hopes of catching Grant and her mystery friend here had diminished almost to zilch. But what do you know—here they were.
“Lewis, go check and see if it’s locked. If not, get inside. If yes, hide in the trees and keep watch.”
Lewis stepped out and trotted over to the Vic. He tried the door, turned and dashed back to Jensen’s window.
“Locked,” he said as the window opened a few inches. “But if I get the slim jim—”
“Forget it. You’ll set off the alarm. If we don’t catch them up at the house, I want them hauling ass back down here thinking they can jump in their car and drive away. But you’re not going to let that happen, are you, Lewis.”
“I could just flatten the tires.”
“Really?” Sometimes these guys were so stupid. “And then how do we get it out of here? Or do you think we should just leave it for some hick sheriff to find and wonder who owns it and start poking around that cabin up there? You think that’s a good idea?”
He sighed. “I guess not. But why’s it always me gets—”
“Shut up and listen. They show up here, you do what you have to do. I don’t care about Grant. You get a chance, off her. But no killshot on the guy unless he’s holding.”
“Why not?”
“I’ve got some questions and he’s got the answers.”
Like who he is and how he found out about this place.
“But—”
“Get out of my face and hide. Now.”
He raised the window and slapped Hutch on the shoulder.
“Up that driveway on the left there.”
“You want me to turn the lights off?”
Jensen thought about that a second. A darkened approach would be good, but Hutch didn’t know where the driveway curved and might land them up against a tree.
“Keep ’em on. Just take it as fast as you can.”
The less time Grant and company had to react, the better.
Hutch made the turn and hit the gas. The Lincoln fishtailed left and right.
“Damn rear-wheel-drive shit!” he said, but kept going. “How long is this?”
“About six-hundred yards. Don’t slow down. Keep pushing her.”
At about the halfway point, Hutch shouted, “Shit!” and slammed on the brakes.
The car swerved to the left, slamming Jensen against the door.
“What the—!”
And then he saw it.
“What the fuck is that?” Hutch shouted. “It looks like somebody’s head!”
Which was exactly what it was—plus the neck, upper chest, and right arm, all connected. Wide, glazed eyes in a bearded face stared accusingly at the car from the side of the road. The pelvis and legs jutted from the brush on the opposite side. Shredded innards decorated the driveway ruts and median.
“What happened here?” Hutch’s quavering voice had jumped an octave.
“I don’t know. Just keep going, damn it! We’ve got a problem!”
Actually, a problem had just gone away. But Jensen couldn’t let Hutchison know that.
No more worries about Blascoe shooting his mouth off.
But how had it happened? Had Blascoe decided to end it all? Had he been running from Grant for some reason? Or had he gambled that the lump under his skin wasn’t really a bomb?
And where were Grant and the former Jason Amurri?
The cabin hove into view. He’d have the answers pretty soon.
Jensen pulled out his long-barreled .44 Magnum. Hutch and Lewis carried Colt Double Eagle .45s. None of this 9mm shit. He didn’t shoot often, but when he did he wanted results. He wanted whoever he put down to stay down.
The car stopped and he heard Hutch work his slide to chamber a round.
“Safety off, be ready to fire at will,” Jensen told him. Probably unnecessary, but it never hurt. “Same thing goes for you as for Lewis: Save the guy for me. Go!”
They leaped from the car and dashed up to the porch. The front door lay wide open. Jensen took the doorway while Hutch, pistol held high, ducked from window to window.
“Nothing moving in there,” he said as he returned.
Probably headed down through the brush back toward their car, but he had to make sure they weren’t hiding inside.
“Okay. I go in and head left, you take the right. Quick search
, make sure the place is empty, then we go back to their car.”
Hutch nodded and they made their entrance in a low crouch, pistols extended in the two-handed grip. They flanked the couch, checked the kitchen, then the two rear bedrooms.
Hutch stood in the center of the great room, his pistol lowered. “Nobody’s home.” He pointed to the couch. “But catch that. Looks like blood.”
Yeah. It did. And what was that aluminum pot next to the couch. Had Blascoe, or maybe Grant and her friend, done a little surgery? Uh-huh. There was the bomb submerged in the water in the bottom of the pot. Clever. Some hot water to maintain the temperature, a sharp knife, and—
Jensen felt a draft on his face. He looked up at the open door. How long had that pot been sitting in the breeze? Long enough to…?
He backed away. “Hutch, I think we’d better get—”
The pot exploded. Something sharp dug into his face above his right eye as the blast knocked him back.
24
Jamie huddled and shivered against Jack as they crouched in the brush. The car sat ten feet away. Keys in one hand, Glock in the other, Jack watched it through the downpour. The good part about the pounding rain was that it drowned out the sounds of their approach. The bad part was that he had no light, not even starlight, to scope out whoever was watching the car.
And someone had to be watching it.
He’d seen people do amazingly stupid things, but leaving a getaway vehicle unguarded…uh-uh. Jensen was calling the shots here—either onsite or over the phone—and Jensen was no dummy.
Crisscross Page 26
