by Mark Gimenez
“It’s time,” Ben whispered.
FBI Agent O’Brien lay duct-taped and asleep.
6:15 A.M. CENTRAL TIME, DES MOINES
“The hell you mean you know all this?” FBI Special Agent Eugene Devereaux shouted into the phone.
FBI agents, even veteran ones like himself, were not supposed to cuss at the Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, even a political asshole like Stanley White—the director always had one finger in the air gauging the political winds and another finger up his ass. But Devereaux had no patience for protocol, not after having spent the better part of an hour tracking the director down—he was at Chicago Midway Airport aboard the Bureau jet, about to fly back to D.C.—to tell him everything Agent Jorgenson knew and now having the director tell him he already knew everything.
“We know the girl’s there,” the director said. “HRT’s had that place under surveillance for three months. We’ve got men on the mountain around the clock.”
“They’re after McCoy.”
“Yes. We believe they’re plotting to assassinate the president. Larry ordered Major Walker killed.”
“Then go in and arrest them! And get Gracie out!”
“We can’t. All we’ve got them on now are weapons charges. We need more evidence.”
“What about Gracie? They kidnapped her and transported her across state lines—that’s a federal crime! She’s evidence! Stan, she’s Elizabeth Austin’s daughter.”
“Austin? The girl’s name is Brice.”
“The mother’s maiden name was Austin when she was at Justice. She was one of the prosecutors on the Walker case. She was the hostage back then.”
“Jesus, I didn’t know.”
“Yeah.”
“Look, Eugene, we’ve got to get everyone involved with this plot identified and located before we move in. They could have operatives on the outside. I’m not gonna have a president killed on my watch!”
“So you’re sacrificing her?”
“The president’s life is more important than the girl’s.”
“You can secure the president!”
“Not from these people, Eugene. They’re trained assassins, the very best. Those fuckers went into North Vietnam to assassinate generals—they can kill anyone!”
“So can Colonel Brice.”
“Who?”
“Colonel Ben Brice, Gracie’s grandfather. Green Beret. He’s the guy that walked into San Bie prison camp and rescued those pilots.”
“I remember that. He got the Medal of Honor.”
“He was one of them, Stan. He was in Walker’s unit. He testified against Walker at his court-martial.”
“No shit?”
“Yeah, and he went after Gracie, to Idaho, on some bullshit call-in tip we got from Idaho Falls. At least I thought it was bullshit because Agent Curry reported that the source could not ID the men or Gracie. Stan, you had an FBI agent submit a false 302 about a positive ID on a child abduction case? That’s obstruction of justice!”
“Not in a case involving national security. Eugene, we couldn’t compromise the operation.”
“Well, Stan, I figure the operation’s not only about to be compromised, it’s fixin’ to be blown to kingdom come!”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, Colonel Brice is sitting on your boy right now.”
Stan laughed. “The hell he is. He’ll never find their camp. Took us the better part of four years.”
“Bonners Ferry. On a mountain called Red Ridge.”
He wasn’t laughing now. “Wh … how did you know?”
“I didn’t. Colonel Brice did. That’s where he’s at.”
“Jesus Christ, if he goes in now he’ll screw up the entire operation—and get himself killed in the process!”
“Stan, I wouldn’t bet against Colonel Brice.”
4:37 A.M. PACIFIC TIME, BONNERS FERRY
Ben had defused the perimeter explosives then rigged his own remote triggering device using the power pack; he had run the wire to their location behind a rock outcropping, where John would be safe. He could have run the wire to his shooting position and detonated the explosives himself, but this way John had something to do that would keep him out of the line of fire. When John punched the trigger, an electrical charge would race down the line and detonate the explosives. As much explosives as these soldiers had rigged up, half the mountain would be history.
But that was Plan B.
7:00 A.M. CENTRAL TIME, DALLAS
FBI Special Agent Jan Jorgenson wanted to fly to Idaho, but Agent Devereaux had told her to sit tight in Dallas until he and Director White arrived in Bonners Ferry. He wanted her to get to Mrs. Brice with any news before the press did. So she sat in her office, wondering: Why did they take Gracie? Her eyes paused on each heading on the grease board: GARY JENNINGS … JOHN BRICE … ELIZABETH BRICE … COL. BEN BRICE … DNA. She realized that she had never reviewed the DNA results on the blood in the truck or on John Brice’s shirt or from the family. She opened the file to the DNA results and scanned down the page. And she froze.
“Oh, my God. That’s why they took her.”
She checked her watch: seven Dallas time, five in Bonners Ferry. Jan picked up her phone and began punching numbers.
The FBI Academy is located on a Marine base in Quantico, Virginia, a four-hundred-eighty-acre site shared with other FBI units, including the Hostage Rescue Team. Being in close proximity, Academy trainees got to know the HRT operators. Most were macho assholes who liked to talk tough. But not Pete O’Brien.
Pete was a good guy. He cared. Jan and Pete had gone on three dates during her thirteen weeks of New Agent Training at the Academy. Pete had been in his own training as an HRT sniper, so his free time had been as limited as hers. Then she had graduated and been shipped off to Dallas; Pete had flown to Spain on an HRT mission to arrest an international fugitive—to kidnap him, actually, since an FBI agent had about as much legal authority in Spain as the guy who cleaned up after a bullfight.
They had last talked three months ago, just before Pete deployed on an extended mission; it was so secret he couldn’t tell her where he was going. Jan had called everyone she knew at HRT, finally waking up Ray, an HRT operator and Pete’s buddy. Their first date had been a double date with Ray and another female trainee. Jan’s heart had skipped a beat when Ray finally said Pete was in Idaho. After pleading that it was an emergency, Ray had given her Pete’s satellite phone number.
FBI Special Agent Jan Jorgenson wasn’t going to let anyone sacrifice Gracie.
5:09 A.M. PACIFIC TIME, BONNERS FERRY
A low intermittent buzz interrupted Ben’s thoughts.
“My satellite phone,” Agent O’Brien said. “In my bag. It’s my team leader. If I don’t answer it, they’ll send in the cavalry.”
Ben nodded. He pulled the phone out of O’Brien’s bag and handed it to him. O’Brien used both hands to put the phone to his ear and answered: “O’Brien.”
“Pete?” Jan Jorgenson said.
“Who’s this?”
“Jan.”
“Jan, how’d you get this number?”
“From Ray.”
“Why?”
“Are you in Bonners Ferry?”
“Yeah.”
“On a mountain called Red Ridge?”
“Yeah.”
“Pete, this is important. An ex-Army colonel named Ben Brice and his son are—”
“Right here.”
“They are?”
“Yeah. I’m sort of, uh, taking orders from the colonel now, if you know what I mean.”
“I think I do. Let me speak to Colonel Brice.”
There was a momentary silence. Then: “Brice.”
“Colonel, this is Agent Jorgenson, FBI.”
“I remember you.”
“Gracie’s alive.”
“I know.”
“She’s on that mountain.”
“I know that, too.”
“The ab
ductor is Charles Woodrow Walker—Junior—the major’s son.”
The colonel was silent.
“Colonel?”
“I didn’t know that. So the son is taking his father’s revenge?”
“Yes, sir, but it’s not about the war. They’re plotting to assassinate President McCoy. When McCoy was FBI director ten years ago, Walker was apprehended. His men took a federal prosecutor hostage. McCoy released Walker in exchange for her.”
“Elizabeth.”
“Yes, sir. Then McCoy ordered Walker killed. We got him in Mexico. Now the son wants the president dead.”
“But why’d they take Gracie?”
Static on the line.
“Colonel, we’re losing the satellite connection, so listen, this is important. The director is flying in as we speak. That mountain will be crawling with FBI agents in a few hours. He’ll sacrifice Gracie to get those men.”
“He won’t have the chance.”
More static.
“Colonel?”
“I’m here.”
“O’Brien is a good man and a good shot. Let him help you.”
“Why’d they take Gracie?”
“Colonel, one more thing: don’t take prisoners. Kill those men, all of them, and burn everything to the ground.”
“Why?”
“Just do it. For Gracie.”
The satellite connection terminated.
Ben tossed the phone into Agent O’Brien’s bag.
“You were an Army colonel?” O’Brien asked.
Ben nodded.
“What’d Jan say?”
“They’re plotting to kill the president.”
“I knew it was something big.”
“And that your director would sacrifice Gracie to get them.”
“Son of a bitch.” O’Brien shook his head. “Colonel, let me help. I can shoot.”
“So I hear.” Ben studied Agent O’Brien’s eyes and saw something, the same something people once saw in Ben Brice’s eyes. “You’d be disobeying orders.”
“Colonel, I joined the FBI to save people like Gracie.”
Ben unsheathed his knife and cut the duct tape binding O’Brien’s hands.
“Take up a position west of the camp and stay there.” He turned to his son and handed him the .45. “John, you stay here. Detonate when you see my flare then hunker down. When this blows, it’s gonna rain rocks.” He looked his son in the eye. “No matter what happens, John, don’t leave this position, understood?”
John nodded.
7:25 A.M. CENTRAL TIME, DALLAS
Elizabeth Brice stepped inside the sanctuary of the Catholic church. She walked up the center aisle with Sam and Kate, past wooden pews filled with the faithful for the 7:30 Mass. Her eyes were drawn to the crucifix draped in a white shroud high above the altar. Palm branches and white Easter lilies decorated the altar. Stained glass windows on the walls depicted the stations of the cross.
Heads turned to her; children pointed; parents offered silent pity. They arrived at a half-occupied pew near the front; Sam and Kate entered the pew first. Elizabeth sat by the aisle. She had come back for Easter Sunday Mass. She had come to pray to God and for Ben Brice.
Only God and Ben Brice could save her daughter now.
5:30 A.M. PACIFIC TIME, BONNERS FERRY
Ben must kill these men to save Gracie.
He had never enjoyed the killing. But killing was what he knew.
He had taken his sniping position, perched behind a fallen tree, on which he had steadied his rifle. He was no more than three hundred meters out; he had a clear line of sight to each cabin. Plan A was simple: put a bullet in the head of each man as he exited his cabin. With the suppressor and a little luck, he could take out the entire camp before they had their morning coffee.
Ben put his eye to the scope and surveyed the camp.
7:32 A.M. CENTRAL TIME, DALLAS
The processional music commenced. An altar girl carrying the Easter candle walked up the center aisle past Elizabeth. Behind her followed two more altar girls with their candles mounted on long holders then an altar boy carrying the crucifix on a standard, a deacon carrying a Bible overhead, and finally Father Randy. Their eyes met as he passed.
5:35 A.M. PACIFIC TIME, BONNERS FERRY
A light came on in one cabin. Ben put the scope on that cabin. A figure silhouetted by the light appeared in the optic. Three hundred meters out and no wind, it would be an easy shot. The cabin door opened and a man stepped into the doorway; he yawned and stretched and presented a perfect shot opportunity, conveniently backlit. Ben adjusted the ballistic cam on the ART until the horizontal stadia lines framed the target’s torso and head; he centered the cross hairs on the target’s head. He had not put the scope on a human being in over thirty years. Killing another human being was something you lived with the rest of your life. He had lived with his killing back then, and he would live with his killing today. Ben took a deep breath, exhaled, and squeezed the trigger.
The man fell.
A good sniper always maintains surveillance on the downed target because his comrades will often check the body or remove weapons. That is a mistake. A mistake another man in the cabin was making. But he quickly pulled back out of sight, stuck a sidearm out the door, and fired two rounds into the air—the discharge echoed around the mountains like a pinball. Damn! Ben kept the scope on the spot where the second man’s head would appear when he peeked out the door, as Ben knew he would.
When he did, Ben squeezed the trigger again.
Two down, nine to go.
Jacko didn’t jump when heard the two gunshots. He smiled. Ben Brice had come to him, sooner than he had figured. Ben Brice was on this mountain, and he would die on this mountain. Jack Odell Smith would take the major’s revenge. His destiny was at hand.
He sat up in bed and lit a cigarette.
Proceed to Plan B. Ben fired the flare gun into the air with his left hand then quickly returned to his shooting position. A man appeared at the door of another cabin. The bullet hit him in the forehead.
Three down, eight to go.
John saw the flare and punched the detonator.
Sheriff J. D. Johnson always rose at the crack of dawn. Twenty years living on military time would do that. Today, he needed to get up early. He was going up into the mountains northeast of town, the mountains he loved to gaze upon as he drank his first cup of coffee of the day, as he was now, to find Colonel Brice and his son. Or to find what Colonel Brice had left behind. Just as he was about to turn away from the window, Red Ridge exploded like a Roman candle.
The mountain shook.
Ben was under the log now, protected from the falling rocks and tree limbs. After allowing a few seconds for the serious debris to fall, he returned to his shooting position and sighted in the camp through the haze of dirt and snow blown into the air by the explosion.
The explosion had the intended effect: chaos had captured the camp. Men in long johns fell out of the cabins; their heads jerked about as they tried to locate their attackers. They fired their weapons wildly and took cover behind the vehicles. Ben put two more down before they had made cover.
Five down, six to go.
He was sighting in another man, a big man ducked down behind the white SUV outside the main building, when the man popped back into sight with a shoulder-mounted missile aimed directly at Ben’s position. Captain Jack O. Smith was a skilled soldier: the suppressor prevented muzzle flash, so he didn’t know Ben’s actual position; he was simply aiming the rocket at the shooting position he would have taken if attacking the camp.
An adrenaline rush catapulted Ben up and running before the captain fired. He ran east for the count of five then dove under the nearest cover just as the ground rocked with an explosion behind him.
“Ben!”
Little Johnny Brice was crouched down and his ears were ringing from the first explosion. The second explosion had been right at Ben’s location. Ben had told him not to move from th
is position, no matter what happened. And Mom had told him to do exactly what Ben said and maybe they’d get Gracie back alive.
But neither of them had told him what to do if Ben got himself blown up!
John looked down at his right hand, the one holding the .45-caliber pistol Ben had given him and trembling like a leaf in the breeze. He had fired the weapon a dozen times out back of Ben’s cabin; he had hit nothing he had aimed at. He hadn’t even come close. This wasn’t his kind of work.
Scared shitless in Idaho!
John R. Brice, alpha geek, Ph.D. in algorithms, 190 IQ, billionaire three times over, pushed his glasses up on his nose, took a deep breath, and ran toward Ben’s location.
If Ben Brice were defending the camp, he would do what any good soldier would do: he would outflank the enemy. The western route was too steep; an assault would come from the east. So as soon as the sky cleared of falling debris, Ben jumped up and ran toward the east, running the woods just like he had run the woods in Vietnam. The instincts would always be a part of him, the instincts that—
—made him duck behind a thick tree. His ears had picked up a sound, and his mind and body had reacted automatically. He shut out the sound of his own breathing and listened. He heard heavy footsteps crunching in the icy remains of the snow; the enemy was coming closer now. Ben reached down and grabbed a large flat stone, several pounds of rock. The footsteps were almost on him now, closer, closer, closer—now!
Ben stepped out and slammed the rock into the unprotected face of a large man carrying an M-16. He was out before he hit the deck. Ben straddled the man. He could not take a chance on the man regaining consciousness and returning to the fight. He thought only of saving Gracie as he broke the man’s neck. He patted the man’s jacket down and found two fragmentation grenades. Ben put them in the pocket of his coat.
Six down, five to go.
John inhaled smoke then coughed it out. The trees were charred and smoldering along a line where the explosives had detonated. At Ben’s location, there was a small crater. Ben had survived the explosion. Or he had been blown to megabytes.
