Lowering his shoulder, Grant smashed into his chest, bowling the man over. His gun discharged with a wild shot as he hit the ground. Grant hurdled over him, turned while he ran, and fired near the man. He didn’t know yet who he was shooting at. The man hadn’t actually shot at him, so until Grant got things figured out, his first order of business was to hightail it out of here.
He flew toward the car. Pulling a trick from Bo and Luke Duke, Grant jumped onto the hood of the Buick and slid across it, landing in a crouch near the driver’s side front wheel. The angle provided him a measure of cover.
The second man ran from the hall by the bathroom. His partner, now on his feet, ran toward the parked cars. They fired toward Grant’s position, a shot pinged off the hood, dispelling any doubts as to their intentions. Grant had twelve shots left. He used ten of them to drive the men back. The distance was over forty yards and Grant just squeezed off rounds as fast as his finger could pull, forcing them to retreat. One of the men went down and his partner pulled him into the shelter of the hallway.
Grant flung the driver’s side door open. Keys ready, he threw the case into the back and started the car as soon as he plopped into the seat.
Cold wind howled through the broken window as he sped back to the interstate, turning off his phone the first possible second.
Well one thing was certain, he was awake now.
SEVEN
Grant hovers over the grille, working a spatula beneath a sizzling hamburger patty. Susan leans in close and kisses his cheek as she walks past with a tray of lemonade. She sets the tray on the festively decorated picnic table and Grant’s parents each grab a glass.
Sawyer jumps from the swing set. “I want some, mama.” He races toward the table, stopping long enough to squeeze his little arms around his father’s leg.
Grant smiles and rubs the top of his son’s head. “They’re almost ready.”
His family gathers around the table, relishing the bright spring day. Talking. Laughing. Without warning the sky grows dark, the wind whips, plucking at their clothes like fingers. The ground beneath the green grass quakes before ripping in two, creating a chasm. The wind velocity increases, tugging and dragging Grant’s family inch-by-inch toward the void. They fall to the ground, clawing at the grass with their hands, scrabbling for footing, digging in their heels.
They scream his name over and over, and Grant holds the stupid smile on his face, the spatula gripped in his right hand. Every muscle in his body strains, yet he can’t move. Though his throat wrenches, he can’t force out the scream frozen in his chest. The wind pulls them into the abyss and their shrieks disappear with them into the void.
His sister appears, pointing a finger at his face. The wind pulls her. As she is ripped into the chasm she screams. “This is because of you, Grant—”
His eyes flew open, lips parted, a yell bubbling in the base of his throat. Grant propped up on an elbow and reached for the nightstand, his fingers caressing the SIG. The cheap roadside motel room, in a small town west of Las Cruces, smelled of disinfectant and mold. He powered up his phone and tried again to call his sister. And again, no answer. Despite his message, she hadn’t returned his call.
He couldn’t keep the phone on long. He didn’t want to be traced again. The bedside clock said it was 4:45 AM.
Tracing a thumb over the phone, he considered his predicament. Being a fugitive didn’t sit well. Though time, circumstances, and distance separated him, he still thought of himself as a law enforcement officer. After a moment's hesitation, he dialed. Though technically he was a pariah, and couldn’t expect any help from the Bureau, he needed to talk to someone.
As expected, once he traversed the Dallas field office switchboard, he was sent to Steve Jenson’s voicemail. Due to Grant’s dogged determination to find Tedesco, his relationship with Steve had become strained. But Steve still occasionally checked on Grant, overtly avoiding any conversation about his family’s killer.
“Hey, buddy. It’s Grant. I just want you to know, whatever is being said, whatever they think I’m doing … well … it’s not true. I just needed you to know.” Grant hung up and powered down the phone.
* * * * *
Something woke him.
A sound. A feeling. Intuition. He didn’t know.
This time a glimpse at the clock told Grant it was 5:58. He threw back the sheet and grabbed his gun as he stood. The room’s air smelled stale. Though cold in the room, the wall-mounted heating unit wasn’t running, its monotonous roar, though great for sleeping, wouldn’t allow him to hear anything. He moved to the window and parted the drapes with the pistol’s barrel, pushing them aside just enough to peek through. A tall blue, pink, and green neon sign welcomed weary travelers to the Star-Lite Motel. By curious coincidence the bulbs of the last letters of the first two words were burned out so it spelled Sta-Lit Motel. Judging by the raucous laughter outside the window a while ago some of the arrivals earlier in the evening had been. Lit that is. Beneath the sign’s phosphorescent glow gleamed the shiny exterior of a black Ford SUV, a glaring addition to the sparsely populated parking lot.
Two thickset men in dark suits with crew cuts stood near his borrowed car. One of them leaned down to study the tag. Grant knew the Alabama plates shouted, I’m here. Movement drew his eyes toward the office. Two more men of similar appearance headed toward it, more than likely to roust the manager and find out his room number.
So, were these the good guys or the bad guys? They looked military, but that didn’t mean anything. No matter what team they played for he couldn’t risk capture, but neither could he shoot his way out. And until he could find alternate transportation, he had to have a car. It was cold and he was miles from anywhere, surrounded by wilderness. So hiking out wasn’t an option.
He had slept fully clothed so he would be ready to move fast if the need arose. He stepped into his black Skechers shoe boots, tightened the laces, and then collected his few belongings. Grant slid into his jacket and tucked the SIG and the Mercworx knife into his waistband. He snugged his cap low over his eyes and flipped up the sheepskin collar of his jacket. He grabbed the frickin’ case with his left hand and the cane with the other. The walking stick was three feet of solid walnut and he had carved three inches off the crook to widen the gap.
He briefly debated going through the rear window, but chose the direct route. It offered the best chance of getting away with no injuries. Grant slouched his shoulders and gently pulled the door open, then eased it closed after he stepped outside. Cold air caused his breath to float away in a cloud of white vapor.
He shuffled into the parking lot, leaning heavily on the cane, dragging his right foot. “Bootsy! Come on girl,” Grant called before whistling through his teeth. “We gotta hit the highway, girl. Booootssyyy! Booootssyyy!”
He peeked beneath his hat brim. The soldiers, oh yeah, they were soldiers, glanced in his direction and turned away. Good. They assessed him then ignored him as a threat or their target. Their companions were still in the office.
Grant shuffled toward them. When only about six feet separated them, the men’s eyes locked on him.
“Scuse me, gents,” Grant said. “You seen a little dog running around here? I let her out to go to the toilet and she ain’t come back.”
They shook their heads.
Grant set the case by his feet and knelt down, his right hand resting on the cane. He put his left hand about a foot off the ground. “She ain’t no more than this high.”
“Sir, we haven’t seen the dog.” They seemed uncomfortable, unsure how to respond to him.
Grant motioned with the cane. “There she is.”
Both men turned.
Grant sprang toward them and swung the cane. He whacked the man closest to him on the inside of the left thigh, just above the knee. As he stumbled, Grant whipped the cane into the side of his neck. His legs went limp beneath him, and he crumpled to the pavement.
His partner turned, hand reaching for the gun unde
r his coat. Grant spun to the right and raised the cane up to his right shoulder before unleashing a strike to the man’s bicep, interrupting his draw. The subsequent crack of bone forced a moan from the soldier. Grant slid his hands down the cane’s shaft, trapped the back of his opponent’s neck with the crook, and yanked down. The man’s face met Grant’s knee. As the man fell, his partner scrambled to his feet.
The cane whirled in Grant’s hands and he struck the second attacker on the top of the head, and followed up by poking the cane between the man’s legs. Wedging the weapon against the front of one leg and the back of the other, Grant pushed forward. Using the cane as a lever, he twisted until the man fell. He landed on his shoulders, the impact snapping his head against the pavement.
“Sorry about that, guys.” Grant grabbed the case and ripped the big knife from its sheath as he ran toward their SUV. He stabbed both tires on the left side of the vehicle and sprinted toward his car. He flung the driver’s side door open and threw the cane, the case, and the knife, on the front seat. As he stuck the key in the ignition the other two soldiers raced across the parking lot, pistols in hand.
Slamming the car into drive, Grant shot out of the parking space and angled toward the frontage road. He ducked as shots slammed into the car, one exploding the rear passenger side glass. Well, at least now the windows matched.
He stole a look toward the men shooting. One of them looked like he belonged on a military recruiting poster. Square jaw, broad shoulders, stark white hair cut in a flat top. He closely resembled Marvel Comics' original Nick Fury character, less the eye patch.
Fishtailing out of the gravel at the edge of the parking lot, Grant squealed onto the road, head just high enough to see over the dashboard. As a curve in the road brought him out of their line of fire, another volley of shots rocked the sedan. The damaged vehicle limped onto the I-10 onramp, the frigid wind swirled, threatening to steal his breath. Grant dug into his jeans pocket, fished out his phone, and tossed it out of the gaping hole that had once been the side windows. He should have known better.
Fingers quivering from cold, he turned the heat to full blast in an attempt to keep the glacial squall at bay.
* * * * *
Colonel Ethan Cane holstered his weapon while he watched the Buick disappear. Sirens approached. He realized his teeth were clamped, bunching his jaw muscles, and forced himself to relax. Explanations would have to be made. He stared at his fallen men. “Get your asses up.”
Though a little wobbly, they pushed to their feet. Two former Deltas. Cane shook his head.
Two sheriff’s deputies slid into the parking lot, emergency lights flashing. Cane reached for his credentials. It had taken too long to put the pieces together. They still didn’t have them all. Morgan. The missing vials. Cane didn’t know quite yet how Grant Sawyer fit into it all, but it didn’t matter. At this point he had moved from a pain in the ass to a major liability.
* * * * *
Jaime cursed under her breath when the phone at her belt woke her from a much needed nap. She had the cabin of the small Citation X jet to herself, an unusual luxury. She snatched the phone from her belt. “Pendleton.”
“Jaime, when will you be wheels down?”
Steve Jenson’s question seemed redundant. He was responsible for her luxurious travel arrangements and knew when she took off. Probably just anxious. “Should be about forty-five minutes.”
“Okay. I’ve got two agents to help you out. I’m still keeping this thing under the radar. I need you to find him. Bring him in.”
“I will.” Jaime rubbed her tired eyes with her left hand. “Steve, I’m worried about Grant too. He’ll be all right.” She dropped her hand to her lap and blinked to clear her vision. “Has he contacted you again?”
“No. Just the one message and now his cell is off.” He hesitated, Jaime heard him sigh. “I really appreciate this. You know this could bring a heap of trouble on you. I understand if you want to qu—”
“No, Steve. I’ll see this through. Don’t worry. Since we triangulated his position after the call, we have a good idea where he’s headed anyway.”
“Just make sure you get there before he does.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Thanks, Jaime.” Steve hung up.
Jaime leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes. Steve still felt responsible for Grant, watched over him from a distance. As the special agent in charge for the Dallas Field Office, he had quite a bit of influence, to say the least. And Grant was his boy. He took all that befell Grant very personally; felt he had somehow failed his protégé and his family. Jaime understood. She and Grant were partners during his last year in the bureau. Even through all the personal anguish he was going through, his true nature still shone through. He was professional, a top notch agent. But occasionally, when his guard was dropped, you could see the signs of the growing agitation, the consuming hatred of those who injured him, the lust for vengeance. Though never acted upon, Jaime developed a little bit of a crush on the man. Okay, a little more than a crush. She fell head-over-heels, eyelash batting and blushing in love with the man. Maybe it was a little of the Florence Nightingale affect. Steve had asked her to keep an eye on Grant, help him through the pain. Maybe it was just his rugged handsome features and the way he filled out a pair of jeans. Who knows?
Jaime felt responsible too. She saw the signs. Knew Grant was on edge. But a displaced sense of loyalty kept her from doing anything about it. She settled further into the seat. She wouldn’t fail him this time.
EIGHT
The hiss and squeal of brakes roused Grant. As he blinked sleep from his eyes the bus rolled to a stop. The driver gazed into the large rectangular mirror above his head and barked, “Animas.”
Grant grabbed his luggage from the seat next to him, a plastic Wal-Mart bag, the cane, and the case, before stepping off the bus. The driver levered the door closed and roared away. Grant stifled a cough as he inhaled the noxious vapor the bus left in its wake. After the close call at the Star-Lite he ditched the car in Deming, a small town off I-10. At the local Wal-Mart super center he bought a pre-paid phone and some toiletries. After the shopping trip he located the bus station. He purchased a ticket to Phoenix with his credit card and the ticket to Animas with cash.
It seemed Animas was at the intersection of the exact middle of nowhere. There wasn’t much to see besides the impressive mountainous vistas surrounding the little village. It could hardly be classified as a town. The only signs of civilization were a church, a post office, a couple of utility companies, a café, and a store. The hamlet was perched on the edge of the Chihuahuan desert. Beneath the golden late afternoon sun, mountain ranges jutted toward the sky, visible in all directions except the south, toward Mexico.
It was a little after four. Grant had some time. The poison in his system, if Tedesco was to be believed, wouldn’t begin to affect him for another eighteen hours. He began walking toward the Panther Tracks café and powered up the phone.
* * * * *
Two gleaming black SUV’s shadowed the Trailways bus into the Phoenix station. As the bus halted in front of the terminal, Colonel Cane motioned for his driver to pull in behind the bus. The vehicle and the one trailing stopped and the doors flew open. Cane’s team, eight of them counting himself, erupted onto the sidewalk.
His men, all dressed in suits, all with crew cuts, pushed through the crowd and took up positions at the front and rear of the bus. Cane and two others waited near the door. The bus passengers filed out, loved ones greeted them with hugs and handshakes as they retrieved their bags from beneath the bus. Cane nodded to a uniformed soldier as he passed.
The debarking passengers dwindled and Cane grew anxious, jaw muscles working. When no one else emerged he nodded to his companions. Both placed hands beneath their blazers and traversed the steps into the bus.
Within moments they emerged and shook their heads.
Damn it all. Where had Sawyer gone?
* * * *
*
Tedesco tried to concentrate on replacing the damaged beer tap. Earlier today, frustration caused to him to tug a little too hard on the lever, shearing it off as a result. The job was simply something to do to keep his mind occupied as his worry mounted. He still hadn’t heard from Sawyer.
He reached beneath the bar to tighten the nut at the tap’s base and the phone rang. Scrambling to reach the phone, Tedesco banged his head. He grabbed the cell off the bar and answered.
“I’m close.”
Sawyer. Thank God. “Where are you?”
“Close. Near Animas. Where are you?”
“Okay, okay. I get it. Follow route 338 south of town. Go about a mile and you’ll see a bar on the right. The Rusty Spur. You can’t miss it.” Tedesco took a breath. “When can I expect you?”
Sawyer didn’t answer.
* * * * *
The few patrons of the Panther Tracks café all stared, and they weren’t discreet about it. Grant just nodded in greeting as he made his way to a booth, the sign by the door instructing him to seat himself. He realized strangers probably weren’t very common, and to top it off he knew he must look like hammered dog crap. He purchased a razor but intentionally hadn’t used it yet, hoping the stubble on his cheeks would aid in concealing his features. He sank into the red vinyl seat of the booth.
A reed thin and grizzled man sidled to the table to take Grant’s order. “What can I get you, son?” The mustached old cowboy could have been a model for Frederic Sackrider Remington, the artist whose paintings and sculptures immortalized the old west.
The Assassin's Case Page 5
