Shaking her head, she throttled the engine again, the toe of her riding boot working the gears, kicking up speed as they accelerated toward the highway, away from the threat, from whoever was back there, checking her rearview mirrors, confirming that no one was following them.
Angela turned onto the entrance ramp for IH-95 with Dago and Art-Z in tow, looking straight ahead through the tinted visor, contemplating her next move, her future.
A future that for the first time since the monitors went black at Mission Control and all hell broke loose, she knew would include Jack.
Whom she missed terribly and desperately hoped—even prayed—was somewhere out there trying like crazy to find a way back to her.
* * *
Some things have to be done very carefully.
In the SEALs, Jack had learned that the success of a mission depended not only on painstaking preparations but also on improvisation, on creativity, requiring thinking out of the box to get the job done, especially when things didn’t go according to those carefully crafted plans.
Today, as he broke into a weathered Ford truck parked on a tree-lined street nestled among the large free parking lots a mile from Homestead Air Reserve base, he realized that success would require far more finesse than he had originally thought.
The escape from Angela’s house, the diversion of destroying Dark & Stormy, even the stealing of a yacht and going through the extreme of taking it out to sea and sending it back north before diving back to shore, hadn’t been enough to elude the manhunt that Pete had activated.
For better or for worse, there was now a price on their heads, and Jack’s inner voice told him that the standing order was to capture them alive. Otherwise he was pretty damn sure those German contractors would have terminated them in the marina parking lot, while Jack was still trying to get his bearings after the long dive.
But they didn’t.
Instead, the mercenaries had followed them, biding their time, waiting for the right opportunity to spring into action, perhaps even holding back until reinforcements arrived.
Jack needed to break the link, sever the connections created by the phone call that Angela had made, triggering the chain of events that had led him to crawling under the dash of the old pickup truck while Angela and Dago kept watch.
The cabin smelled of tobacco and fried food, reminding Jack of Palmer’s rig.
He had thought about calling the conspiracy theorist, whom Jack felt wouldn’t have hesitated to lend a helping hand—if anything to be a part of a real conspiracy.
But he had decided to keep it simple for now, opting for a clean getaway vehicle, which he had searched for nearly an hour in this parking area, looking for the right automobile: old but not too old, easy to steal, large enough for their gear, under the cover of trees in case of overhead surveillance—and most of all, one that gave the impression it had been parked there awhile, signaling that the owner might be away. The latter had not been that hard given that this particular parking area was used primarily by personnel being deployed overseas, mostly single Army grunts.
This time around, Jack was determined to leave nothing to chance. They needed time to get away from Miami and find a safe place to regroup, to reassess, to start thinking offensively—plus Jack just needed a good night’s sleep. He had been awake for more than forty-eight hours, and although his SEAL training had conditioned him to operate up to seventy-two hours without sleep, Jack wasn’t that young SEAL anymore. He was topping forty and his body was on the edge of mutiny.
He pushed those thoughts aside, locating the right wires under the dash, bypassing the ignition, engaging the starter, which slowly—almost painfully—turned the engine for nearly ten seconds while he held his breath.
It finally coughed into life with a rough idle and a burst of dark smoke out of the exhaust, signaling the need for a tune-up.
This one’s been sitting here awhile, he thought, checking the gauges, glad to see the gas needle pointing at the half mark.
“Time to go,” he said, crawling out before he gave Dago clear instructions, which included the use of their new disposable phones to stay in touch, while Angela transferred the gear to their new ride.
A minute later they parted ways with the biker, driving up the ramp of the Florida Turnpike, heading north.
Angela slid over the long bench seat, shoulder-to-shoulder with Jack, who placed an arm around her while resting the other over the wheel as they made their way through downtown Miami, constantly checking the mirrors, making sure they were alone.
He started to relax after fifteen minutes, growing certain that they had made a clean getaway, inhaling deeply, pressing her against his side. In spite of his overtaxed body and his semi-altered state of mind, it felt great to be with her, just like the old days.
“How are you holding up?” he asked her.
“I was just about to ask you the same question,” she said. “You’re the one who’s been abused.”
He managed a short laugh, though his sternum and ribs still hurt from the gunshots absorbed by the battle dress. “I’ll survive,” he finally replied.
“Good,” she said. “What about Dago? Will he be all right?”
“As long as he sticks to the plan,” he said.
“How about us?”
“We need to stick to our plan, too.”
“Which includes finding you a way back home,” she said, pressing herself against his side to the point that his ribs started protesting.
Jack winced in pain but said nothing. He just hugged her tight, emotion making it difficult to come to terms with the reality of their situation. But logic couldn’t justify anything but finding the quickest way back, especially after suspecting Hastings’s intentions to use the OSS for dimensional jumps. And that not only meant parting ways with this amazing version of Angela but also overcoming of myriad technical challenges, starting with making a new suit—at least another outer shell.
They drove in silence, getting out of the Miami area and continuing north through Fort Lauderdale and Boca Raton. Somewhere along the way Angela fell asleep in his arms, and he slowly set her head down on his right thigh, which she used as a pillow, laying sideways on the bench seat, breathing heavily but steady, mumbling something Jack couldn’t make out.
For the next two hours, he listened to local news on the radio to force his mind to remain frosty but also to check if either Angela or he had suddenly made the headlines.
But after the first hour, it became evident that Pete was planning to carry out this manhunt covertly.
Which is fine by me, he thought, scanning his surroundings, driving right under the speed limit, making sure no one was following them. Along the way he discovered new differences between this world and the one he’d left at the launchpad. Pontiac Motor Corporation was still in business, horse racing was outlawed years ago, and there was no such thing as North or South Korea. In this reality, MacArthur had apparently won that controversial war.
Jack shook his head, glad at least that World War II had still resulted in the defeat of Adolf Hitler and that the Soviet Union had also been dissolved after the fall of the Berlin Wall.
He continued driving, trying to put as much distance as possible from the last surveillance contact, continuing on the turnpike, driving through Fort Pierce, making it as far north as Vero Beach before the gas needle dropped dangerously close to empty.
He exited the highway, paid his toll in cash, and pulled up into the nearest gas station, stopping by a pump near the station’s convenience store, where he prepaid for a full tank in cash before also grabbing some drinks, snacks, and toiletries.
Angela slept through, and Jack lacked the energy to drive. It was just past noon, and he needed some sleep, so instead of returning to the turnpike, he drove down a strip of motels, selecting one where he could park in the rear, out of sight from the road and also in front of their room.
He paid an old lady at the front desk in cash for one night and drove the tru
ck around the two-story building, finding a spot in the shadows.
Leaving Angela in the front seat, he hauled their gear into the room, which had a faint smell of disinfectant but otherwise seemed fine. Returning to the truck, Jack picked Angela up gently and carried her into the room, setting her down on one of the double beds before closing the door and drawing the curtains, darkening the room.
Daylight glowing through the inch-long gap between the edges of the curtains and the wall, Jack sat on the other bed and stared at the still figure for a moment, trying to decide if it would be appropriate for him to join her.
She isn’t your wife, Jack.
But then again, she was, even down to the gift for deep sleep. Once his Angela closed her eyes, nothing short of a five-alarm fire could wake her up. And it was obvious by now that this Angela had the same knack for uninterrupted sleep, for deep periods of rest.
Rest is a weapon.
Jack slowly inhaled, remembering yet another lesson from his SEAL days. Rest was a weapon as powerful as his arsenal by the foot of the bed. Rest would make him sharper, enhancing his skills, clearing his mind, allowing him to think through options, to anticipate the enemy, to find a way to get back and stop Hastings’s plans.
Giving Angela another glance, and keeping his Sig Sauer within reach on the nightstand between the beds, Jack decided to be respectful and stay on his side of the room, resting his head on the soft pillow and closing his eyes.
But sleep didn’t come easy. He tossed and turned, his mind still challenging this reality, trying to catch up to the radical events of the past two days, and wondering what the next forty-eight hours would bring—assuming he lived that long.
Part of his SEAL training included being truthful about assessing situations, and at the moment, with barely a few thousand dollars in cash, the odds were overwhelmingly against him.
Just like in Colombia, he thought, deciding to take it one step at a time, to focus on the next battle, on the next challenge, like he had done in that jungle a long time ago.
For the moment, he felt they were safe, buying them time to plan their next move: getting technical answers from FIT professor Jonathan Layton.
Based on what they learned, Jack and Angela would decide their next move, including finding a way to build a new suit.
But even if she builds a new suit, how are you getting to orbit, Jack?
One step at a time, man. One step at a time.
And the next step for him was sleep. He couldn’t go on without it. In fact, he wouldn’t just be useless if he didn’t manage at least a few hours of REM sleep—he would be dangerous. He would get careless, missing clues, reacting slowly, and risking Angela getting hurt.
And so he forced it, just as he had been taught, laying perfectly still, emptying his mind from all thoughts, and keeping his eyes closed while rolling them softly to the back of his head.
Before he knew it he was back in Colombia, back in the jungle, Bennett on his shoulders, his team vaporized by the massive booby trap that had also stripped the militia’s momentum.
But soon he noticed that Bennett stopped moaning, stopped making any noise.
Jack stopped, dropping to his knees, laying his commander on the soft jungle floor, glaring at his lifeless eyes staring at the canopy overhead.
Jack knew it would be futile, but he still had to try.
So he carried him to the edge of a cliff overlooking a massive river a hundred feet below, and after mumbling a few words of respect, he threw Bennett over the edge, watching him fall into the raging waters and vanish from sight.
Jack moved on, returning to his planned escape route, racing across thick jungle, reaching a shallow ravine, splashing through ankle-deep water, climbing the opposite hill, parting branches and vines as he pushed his way through thick foliage, through razor-sharp palmettos, using his compass and knowledge of a terrain he had long committed to memory.
GPS receivers didn’t work well under the double and even triple canopy of the Colombian rain forest. But sunlight did make it through in spots, forking through narrow openings, creating islands of bright sunlight surrounded by darkness, marking the start of a new day for Jack. He had survived the night, had managed to avoid capture by an enemy he had deceived and also angered, an enemy that continued its relentless chase, constantly trying to flank him, to cut off his retreat. But he persisted, using his SOG knife to silently remove any obstacle that stood in his way, losing count of how many he had killed, how many throats he had quietly slit, like a predator, surprising his victims, striking fast and retreating even faster, ignoring the shouts of anger after each body was discovered by seasoned warriors that had made the cardinal mistake of assuming superiority in numbers while operating in dense jungle.
Jack pushed ahead, step by step, finally reaching the extraction point, where help arrived shortly thereafter, holding back the militia with massive cover fire as he held on to the harness, to his lifeline with all his might, rising from the jungle, from a mission that had gone bad due to malfunctioning equipment, resulting in so many deaths …
He opened his eyes and took a deep breath, staring at the ceiling, checking his watch, realizing he had been asleep for almost four hours. He tried to sit up but a hand pressed down on his chest.
Gently.
“What are you doing in this bed, Jack?” she asked in the twilight of the room, kneeling next to him, her face inches away, the chocolate freckle dancing over her lips as she smiled.
He didn’t know what to say.
Angela stood and pulled the halter over her head.
He tried to sit up again, but she pressed the tips of her fingers against his sternum, delicately, bringing her hand to his neck, his face, index finger tracing his chin, his lips.
Taking charge, Angela unbuttoned his jeans, sliding them off and then removing her own, walking out of them. She took his hands and placed them on her breasts before leaning down to kiss him.
It didn’t take Jack long, and she smiled, tapping his nose with a finger before mounting him, guiding him slowly.
Angela moved her hips, descending on him while biting her lower lip, leaning back, then forward, then back again, hands tight on his shoulders.
Jack closed his eyes, letting it all go, forgetting about soldiers, mercenaries, and dimensional jumps as she moved faster, with increased intensity.
Until he gasped, then shuddered, before inhaling deeply, dropping his arms to his sides, opening his eyes, watching her face hovering inches from his, still biting her lower lip, hips moving slowly now, finishing.
They remained like that for a minute, perhaps more, until Angela finally collapsed on his chest, heaving, breathing through her mouth, her skin moist with perspiration, her head tucked under his chin, her breath on his neck.
They embraced for a long time, holding each other tight, something Jack had missed for so damn long, to the point of almost being afraid to let her go, running his hands up and down her back, remembering what it was like to be intimate with her.
“Your heart, Jack,” she said, right ear pressed against his pectorals. “I used to love listening to it afterward.”
His wife had never done that, and the comment reminded him that he had just cheated on Angela with Angela—if that was actually possible.
Slowly, they rolled onto their sides, facing each other, kissing some more, stretching the aftermath.
“Thank you for letting me have you, Jack,” she said.
And once more Jack had no clue what to say.
Before he could think of a reply, she kissed him and then added, “And now it’s my turn to help you.”
“Help me?” he asked, his mind still foggy, but certainly concluding that she had just helped him plenty.
“Yes,” she said. “Help you … get back home.”
10
REVELATIONS
And you shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free.
—John 8:32
They sat alone in the hotel ro
om waiting for his handler.
Riggs—though that wasn’t his real name—had already made the call, using a disposable phone, per protocol, signaling the need for field extraction for both of them.
The call to break cover had been difficult for the deep undercover agent, who’d spent almost three years under Hastings’s rule, trying to gather evidence while working his way to become head of the general’s private guard.
But Hastings had already warned him once, after letting Angela escape.
And as he had told Pete in that VIP office, The General never warns you twice.
Riggs’s promotion, Pete had learned later—after escaping together to alert Angela of the team headed for Dr. Wiltz’s house—had come at the cost of the removal of his predecessor when he had managed to disappoint Hastings twice.
“And Hastings made me … kill the guy,” he told Pete, sitting in a reclining chair. “While I was videotaped.”
Pete made a face. “He taped you killing someone?”
Riggs nodded. “That’s the ultimate test of loyalty. After that, he pretty much owns you. And there were others I also had to … before I could earn enough of his trust.”
“That’s … insane,” Pete said.
The large agent, who still looked as if he was genetically engineered, turned his chiseled face away from him, blue eyes staring into the distance.
“Well, it might be crazy, but it’s straight out of the teachings from Hitler’s Mein Kampf and Sun Tzu’s Art of War. Hastings is the ultimate paranoid and has the goods on every single individual under his command, from his militia to his scientists and especially his politicians. And he has his own internal Gestapo-like team spying on everyone to enforce compliance.”
He paused, crossing his legs, staring at his hands as he flexed them into fists before adding, “His reach is deep, Pete. Very deep. Built slowly, methodically, over many, many years. There’s even word he’s planted his own people in the FBI, the CIA, and the NSA. Besides owning half of the Pentagon, the rumor is that Hastings also owns people in Congress, the Department of Justice, and even the White House. That’s why the man’s remained in power for almost two decades, administration after administration. He’s literally untouchable.”
The Fall Page 21
