by Bob Mayer
A minute of silence went by. “You don’t think Racine was going to make a deal as Kent said?” Hannah asked.
“Do you?”
“No.”
As Hannah had predicted, she could land, she just didn't know how to come to a complete stop in less than four hundred yards but fortunately the drainage ditch worked just fine and they had their seatbelts on.
After piling their stuff at the edge of the field, Neeley made Hannah sit. "You've done great. Just stay here. I'll get us some wheels."
When Neeley returned an hour later, bumping across the field in a battered truck, Hannah had unloaded the plane. The bags and hard plastic containers were stacked neatly in a pile. She had broken down the Berretta and was cleaning it as Neeley had taught her. Neeley almost didn't recognize the woman from a couple of days ago.
*************
Racine listened on his secure cell phone to the Agency official rant and rave about the lost helicopter and men. Racine could care less. What he was concerned about was the reports he would have to make to both Nero and Collins. Ying and yang, he thought. Opposite ends of the same crap.
And the bitches. They’d escaped the landing trap and the chopper. Goddamn Gant. He’d taught Neeley well, Racine had to admit. Still, she only one person—and a woman at that—and she was dragging along the blond bimbo housewife.
Racine reached into his pocket with his free hand, the tinny words of the CIA bureaucrat echoing out of the cell phone an irritating buzz, and pulled out a bottle of pills. He flicked the top off and tilted the bottle into his mouth, tumbling a half-dozen pills in. He chewed on them, anxious for relief from the pain throbbing in his temple.
Racine was still in Kansas City, having figured to let the Agency scoop up the two women and bring them to him. Plan A and Plan B had crapped out.
Luck. That was it, Racine finally decided. The bitches had just been damn lucky. Even the CIA guy had admitted their pilot flew into the wires. Very lucky for the bitches, but one could only ride that wave for so long.
“Enough,” Racine snapped into the phone, jabbing the off button. He leaned his head against the window of his hotel room blindly staring at the parking lot. He found it difficult to think and was uncertain of his next step.
He walked over to the bed on which he had tossed his briefcase. He dialed the combination and opened it, pulling out the laptop and bringing up the encoded file on Gant that Nero’s secretary had given him.
The bitches were heading west. That was all the Agency could give him. No wonder they hadn’t been able to kill Castro, Racine thought. How many years had that Cuban son-of-a-bitch been in power and they couldn’t put a damn bullet in his brain? Fucking exploding cigars.
Racine scanned the documents, all emblazoned with Top Secret, Q-Clearance. After all these years and his death, Anthony Gant was still Top Secret Q. The Cellar. Nero had it all. Everything about Gant. Everywhere he’d been. Everything he’d ever done. Racine shook his head. The poor son-of-a-bitch must have thought he was free of the Cellar the last ten years or so, but Nero hadn’t let him go.
A cruel smile twisted Racine’s lips as he noted an entry about Gant and the scant property he owned. A cabin in Vermont. A house in Boulder. Racine opened his little black book and searched for the person he wanted.
*************
Neeley couldn't remember ever being as exhausted as she navigated I-70 into Denver. She had driven all night and only the eye-catching view of the front range of the Rockies kept her from slumping over the wheel. Hannah was asleep with her tote serving as a lumpy pillow. She had slept through the long straight drive across the flat eastern half of Colorado.
As Neeley got on the Denver-Boulder Turnpike, her thoughts drifted to Gant and the first time he brought her here. They had been together a few years and it seemed he would never be satisfied with her training. He had brought her to Boulder to check out how well she could climb. After practicing a few days, Gant had accepted that they were at least equal partners on the rock and they'd moved on to more difficult routes.
They had spent a wonderful spring and summer in Boulder and Gant had purchased the house. It was a small rock cottage near the downtown area and they leased the basement apartment to a professor at CU who maintained the main floors of the house in exchange for rent.
Every day they made their way into the mountains. At first she clung awkwardly to the chalk-covered surfaces, her muscles trying to remember the skills they'd once had, but eventually she relearned the rhythm of the rock and the joy of a perfect finger hold. When Gant was comfortable with her movements on the rocks, they moved to Boulder Canyon and began to aid climb using ropes and other gear for protection.
Finally, they went a few miles south to Eldorado Canyon. The canyon was a world-renowned rock climbing Mecca and their last months in Colorado were spent exploring its various climbing routes.
She had never been here without Gant. Driving into the town she maneuvered the streets as if she'd never left, feeling his absence. At last she turned due west toward the foothills and the little house that had been one of only two places in the world to offer Neeley safety and comfort.
She parked in front of the house and sat still for a moment, staring at the small stone and wood cottage. Then she woke Hannah up and got out of the truck. Her road partner was quiet, as if sensing the emotion and respecting Neeley’s memories.
After unlocking the door, Neeley pushed the front door of the house open with her boot. Her arms were laden with gear and she was beginning to think she would end up carrying this stuff all over the country. Hannah approved of the house but seemed more excited at the thought of a shower. Neeley wondered if the basement tenant was in. She decided to give him a try while Hannah went into the bathroom.
Neeley went around the back of the house and knocked on the sliding glass door that was the basement access. She looked around the quiet backyard and admired how well kept it was. She noticed that the spring perennials were beginning to bloom.
The professor didn't seem surprised by her sudden appearance. He offered condolences about Gant's death and explained that Gant had written him a few months ago telling him he was very sick and saying the Neeley would probably be coming soon. Gant had also included a letter for her.
Neeley felt herself growing dizzy. She grabbed the envelope, issued a quick thanks and hurried back around the house. She could hear the water running from Hannah's shower stop as she sat down and stared at the envelope. It took her several moments to muster the energy to open it.
"You all right?" Hannah had a towel wrapped around her.
Neeley reluctantly looked up from the letter in her hand. "What?"
“Hey," Hannah said, looking closer, "you look terrible. What's wrong?"
"Gant left a letter downstairs." Neeley was in a daze, fingering the edges of the paper. She showed it to Hannah.
Hannah began gathering her clothes. "I don't know about this Gant guy," she said. "Pardon me for saying, but any allusion to him seems to bring you down."
Neeley looked at the single sheet of paper from Gant's letter. Her eyes burned for a moment at the sight of the familiar writing. She read it to herself and tears slowly escaped her blinking eyes.
"Well?" Hannah asked.
Neeley shook her head and stuffed the paper in her breast pocket. "It just says that I made him very happy and that he loved me. Says to remember the rules."
Hannah was already dressed and tying her shoelaces. "What rules?"
Neeley shot her a weary look. "Oh, just a bunch of rules to live by."
Hannah got up and moved toward the bathroom. "So, nothing about a tape? I don't get it. If this guy loved you so much, why didn't he just give you this tape that the Cellar seems willing to kill you for?"
Neeley watched her disappear into the bathroom. "Actually, Hannah, I think he told me where it was before he died."
Hannah's head popped out from behind the door. "When were you going to let me in on this?"
“Well?” Hannah demanded. “Are we going to start working together? Combining our brain power?”
"Rule number seven. One man who thinks can beat ten men who don't."
"Rule number seven is Shaw," Hannah said. “And it doesn’t apply here, because I can think.”
Neeley paused with the door open. "What?"
"Gant’s rule seven is a paraphrase of George Bernard Shaw. I read it." Hannah noticed Neeley's dismayed look. "Hey, cheer up. So far it seems to be the only thing we both know. That means something right?"
Neeley started pulling gear out of its neatly packed recesses.
Hannah came over to help. "What are you doing now?"
"We're going to find the tape."
Hannah stepped toward the pile of ropes and slings. "What's this for?"
"It looks like we're going on a little climb."
Hannah shook her head. "Wait a minute. What do you mean we? I can barely climb out of bed. Speaking of which, shouldn't you be tired? You mean like climb a mountain?"
Neeley kept pulling gear from shelves and stacking it neatly around Hannah's feet. "A rock, Hannah. We're going to climb a rock."
Hannah stared at the ropes and belts and helmets piled around her feet. "This is a stupid question I know, but why couldn't he hide the tape here in this closet with all this stuff?"
Neeley's look was what Hannah expected. Neeley grabbed one of Hannah's hands. "You're going to have to cut off these nails." Her thumb rubbed the surface of Hannah's long perfectly shaped red nail.
Hannah looked at her hands as if seeing them for the first time. “They're fiberglass. Do you have any idea what these cost?"
"Hannah, get them off. Do you have any idea what it feels like to rip your nail out at the root?"
Hannah picked up one of the harnesses from the floor, looking at it. “I don’t care about the fingernails, Neeley. It was just an observation. You’ve got to calm down. This has not been easy and I’ve done my best so far.”
Neeley sat down with an exhausted look on her face. "I'm sorry. I know I've been hard on you. I feel like I'm all alone and I'm not up to this. Can you understand that? Gant was always there and now he's not."
Hannah dropped the harness. "I'm hungry and tired." She rubbed a hand across her face. “My husband got shot the other night. I know he ran out on me and left me in a bad place, but we spent a lot of years together and some of those were decent years. At least no one was trying to kill me all the time. That’s looking pretty good right now.
“In the past couple of days I’ve been stabbed, shot at and crashed a plane. Geez, what else?” Hannah looked at Neeley. “I try to be observant and pick strange things to talk about sometimes to protect myself, OK? Because I don’t want to feel what I’m supposed to feel about the real shit in my life. At least that’s what my shrink said once.”
Neeley nodded. "I understand. Let's get this stuff together and we'll eat, OK? Then get some sleep. I know this has been hard but we have to keep pushing. We have to find that tape Hannah, or we're dead. We climb first thing in the morning. You'll do fine. I promise. We'll take turns standing watch tonight."
Hannah focused on one part. "Eat?"
"Yes."
"Great," Hannah pulled herself and the look was back in her eyes. "I can fall off a cliff for breakfast tomorrow. That's how they'll find me. Splattered on a rock with nubby fingernails."
**************
Racine wanted to congratulate himself. His instinct had been to fly to Boulder, wade in and blow the bitches off the face of the planet. But the rational part of him knew that would not have been acceptable to Nero and much as he hated the old bastard, he knew he couldn’t afford to make him an outright enemy—not yet at least.
The whispers were out that Nero’s reign was coming to an end. You’d think the old fart’s lungs would have given in like his throat had. Some said Bailey would take his place, but Racine couldn’t see Bailey sitting in that room day after day reading reports and thinking. Bailey was an action man. From what Racine had heard, Bailey was the son of some Brit that had gone into France with Nero during the last Great War. Bailey was ex-SAS, Special Air Service, who’d cut his teeth doing the nasty stuff in Ireland and somehow crossed the pond to work for Nero. Bailey did grant that the SAS were some hard-ass dudes, so he gave Bailey some space.
Racine took the elevator from the second floor to the first and went to the bar. He ordered some food and looked around. A sparse crowd of losers was his summation. A bleached blond two stools down gave him a quick once over.
A stewardess, Racine figured. Or an office manager who had to fuck her boss to keep her job. Sliding into middle age and not happy at all about it. Just perfect for what he needed tonight. He turned to her and smiled.
***************
Neeley stood on the small deck in the back of the house and looked up at the stars. She remembered being in this exact same spot with Gant. She heard Hannah come out.
“Memories?” Hannah asked.
Neeley nodded.
“Good ones?”
“I don’t know now.” Neeley tensed, waiting for Hannah to probe with more questions but there was only silence. They stood silent, staring at the stars.
***************
“Do you have something to drink?”
Racine shut the door, bolted it and slid the chain on. If he concentrated he could make her look like the blonde, Masterson’s wife. She turned toward him, a quizzical look on her face as she heard the chain rattle.
“What are you—“
Racine hit her with his the knife edge of his right hand directly across her throat. Not full power, just enough to smash her larynx and keep her from saying another Goddamned word.
She staggered back.
Racine followed the first hit with an open palm strike to her solar plexus while his other hand pulled a slim, double-edged commando knife from behind his back.
His third strike was the knife.
Within minutes Racine was splattered in blood.
He was not satisfied.
CHAPTER 18
Hannah stared up at the top of the rock wall and shook her head. "You've got be kidding. That's straight up. I couldn't get up that if it had stairs."
They were along the north wall of Eldorado Canyon. The wall was practically vertical in most places, with cracks and crevices interspersed among the smooth rock. The crest of the face was over two hundred feet above their heads. It was a beautiful day. The sun was shining and the temperature was an unseasonable 55 degrees. In Boulder, at over a mile in altitude, the sun made all the difference as far as temperature went.
"What did you say it was called again?" Hannah asked.
"The route we're going to follow is called Thin Air," Neeley said.
"Great name." Hannah looked about. "Isn't there an easier way?"
"No." Neeley finished arranging her climbing rack and tried for the tenth time to reassure Hannah. "You can do this. It's mostly your leg muscles that do the climbing, not your arms. Remember, you have to push away from the rock. Your tendency is going to be to cling close to the wall, but that changes your gravity vector and will make you slide off. You have to push away, putting your vector into the rock."
Hannah stared at her as is she was speaking Swahili.
Neeley slapped the rope and her rack. "Besides, we have the rope and I'll be putting protection in the whole way up."
"And from what you said, I'll be taking the protection out," Hannah argued.
Neeley shook her head. "The climb is longer than the rope. You'll be freeing the rope so we can make it to the top." She tapped the assortment of gear on her rack. "My protection is what will hold the rope if one of us falls."
Hannah reached over to Neeley's rack and lifted one of the small metal nuts that were on a loop of thin metal cable. "This is supposed to hold me if I fall?"
"It's rated for ten thousand po
unds vertical stress," Neeley said.
“What if we both fall?”
Neeley looked at Hannah. “You think we weigh that much?”
“Very funny smart ass.”
“Only one of us moves at a time. The other is on belay.”
"Why can't I just watch you?" Hannah asked. "I'll take pictures. Or we can just let that guy go up and we can both watch him."
Hannah was pointing at a young man who had just started a route forty feet to the right. He was hard and supple. All his muscles were taut as he went from one hold to the next. His climbing shorts were brightly colored and his hair was long and thick and hanging loose. His only equipment was a chalk bag tied around his waist.
"How come he doesn't have all this gear?" Hannah asked.
"He's doing what's called free climbing." Neeley admired his technique for a moment. He looked like one of the dozens of young climbers who made Boulder their home and lived only to climb. Besides him, it appeared they had this part of the canyon to themselves, prime climbing season being a few months away. He’d arrived shortly after they had, parking a beat-up pick up not far from their truck.
Neeley knew that Hannah was right about the difficulty of this route. She doubted that the man was going to be able to free climb to the top. Only a fool would do that. He was ‘bouldering’, going up thirty or forty feet, then coming back down. To go higher on this route, appropriately labeled "Thin Air" and rated 5.10 in the guide book, required at least two climbers and the safety gear. Neeley had the safety gear, but glancing at Hannah, her helmet precariously perched on her blond hair, Neeley knew she didn't have the two climbers. She granted that Hannah had done very well in the plane yesterday but this was a very different venue.
Neeley cupped her hands to her mouth. “Hey, want to make some money?” she shouted.
The climber turned and looked down, two fingers of one hand curled around a tiny bump on the rock face. “How much?”
“Three hundred.”
