“I’ve had it with you, Rhodes,” the man was saying. “You’re a wise guy, and you don’t care what happens to your pal, here. Well, maybe you care about what happens to yourself.”
He jammed the muzzle of the submachine gun with force into Griff’s kidney, sending him down to one knee. Just as quickly, Griff was up, refusing even to rub at the spot.
“Who are you?” he asked, searching for an opening, any opening, through which to attack or to run.
“I’m a bad man, sport. That’s all you need to know,” he said, pressing the muzzle against the back of Forbush’s head for emphasis.
Like the killer who had tracked Angie to New York, this was a professional. Griff knew with certainty that there was no way either he or Melvin was going to leave this place alive.
Griff’s vision had adjusted to the gloom, and he could see a portion of the bison herd itself, huddled together against the cold. His best chance, likely his only chance, was to find a moment’s break and to run weaving in that direction.
“Are you Genesis?” he asked.
“Tie him the fuck up!”
“I won’t do it.”
Griff’s shivering was becoming more intense. He had to do something while he was still able.
But before he could make any move, the huge man charged at him, lowering his shoulder and driving it hard into Griff’s sternum. Griff heard the popping of his ribs separating from cartilage or breaking. The pain was explosive. The fury of the surprise attack lifted him off of his feet and sent him flying backward onto the rock-hard ground. He landed heavily, gasping, his lungs unable to take in air. Through dizzying pain, he rolled onto his stomach, and forced himself onto his knees. Then he glared up at the figure towering above him. Death for Melvin and for him was getting closer. The man’s temper and intense anger were the only weapons they had left.
“I’ve had it with you, sport,” he said. “You can just stand there until you freeze solid. I’ll enjoy watching.”
Teeth clenched, Griff maneuvered one leg underneath him, and was working painfully on the other when he saw movement from behind the man.
Melvin!
The gangly virologist was a specter, blood smeared across his face, rising up behind their assailant like Phoenix from the ashes. The wildness in his eyes shone through the mounting darkness like lasers.
“Okay, I’ll do it,” Griff cried out, grunting around the words, but still heightening the distraction. “I’ll tie him up!… I’ll tie him up!”
At that instant, with the shriek of a banshee, Forbush leapt onto the man’s back, his hands clawing frantically at his face, his fingernails digging into his cheeks. The giant swung his body around, but Forbush held his grip like a rodeo cowboy on a bull. The submachine gun fell. Griff dragged himself toward the weapon, but the man kicked it out of reach. Then, in a blaze of motion, he pulled an enormous hunting knife from his boot.
“Nooo!” Griff screamed.
In a single, practiced move, the killer drove the blade up and back into the taller man’s shoulder.
Still, Forbush held on, yelling for Griff to run.
Then, bellowing and stumbling awkwardly, the man whirled and buried the knife almost to the hilt at the base of Forbush’s neck. Blood spewed from the wound. Forbush screamed, released his grip, and fell limply.
Griff was on his feet now, staring in disbelief at the scene. Melvin lay motionless, blood pulsing from his neck and pooling beneath him. Griff’s eyes clouded over. He felt weak and disoriented, immobile and unwilling to believe his friend’s wound was mortal.
Get the gun!
Griff heard the words in his mind as if Melvin had hollered them.
The gun!
Two agonizing strides and Griff had the submachine gun in his hands. He whirled and aimed at the center of the man’s chest. His index finger pulled the trigger, and the assailant, who was clumsily trying to stand, dove to his right in evasion.
The gun did not erupt.
Griff aimed at the man’s back and pulled the trigger once again.
Nothing.
Griff’s experience with guns was a single, unpleasant session many years before at a firing range with a friend and his target pistols. Now, he panicked.
Had the gun jammed?… Was there a safety he needed to release?
Either way, Griff knew his ignorance was about to be lethal. The man was back on his feet, no more than ten feet away, clutching the heavy knife. Griff glanced down at Melvin, who was unmoving and silent, his eyes wide open and staring unblinking at the blackness. Dark blood was pooled on the frozen ground beneath his head.
For a moment, Griff stopped caring. He wanted desperately to charge the beast, who had perhaps killed the most harmless, gentle man he had ever known. He wanted the whole thing just to be over.
Finally, with the man moving unsteadily toward him, Griff took a single step backward and looked to the south. The plains there were divided by stretches of wood-post fencing that extended in every direction. The distant farmhouse seemed unlit—five hundred yards away, he estimated. Maybe farther.
His chest was throbbing mercilessly, but he could no longer feel the painful cold in his feet. Still, clutching the useless weapon, he shambled awkwardly across the field. The solid, frost-coated ground was pocked with divots that made every step a danger. The surgical booties made traction even worse. Now, from behind him, Griff heard footsteps crunching on the frozen ground. The footfalls were steady but uneven, suggesting the assassin might be limping.
But they were also getting closer.
“You’re a dead man, Rhodes!” the killer bellowed from behind him. “This knife is going to love finding a resting place in your heart!”
CHAPTER 53
DAY 6
4:30 P.M. (CST)
The running had brought an electric pain back to Griff’s feet. Still, he drove ahead. His booties had torn away, but traction in his bare feet was no better. Every step was treacherous. His injured ribs made each breath agony, and now, it seemed, he was unable to draw in enough air. A strong gust of wind caused him to stumble, and twice he nearly fell. The uneven ground was as great an enemy as his pursuer. He could afford one fall, perhaps. Two, he knew, would cost him his life.
He was closing in on another fence—three rough-hewn rails, sixty inches or so high, with posts spaced every twenty feet. Beyond the fence was a tightly packed herd of bison, and some distance beyond them, his only hope, the barn.
Suddenly he was lurching and stumbling downhill. The land had dipped into a shallow, frozen swale that he had not seen. There was no way his aching legs could keep up with the decline, and he fell, tumbling over and over to the bottom. Skin vanished from his exposed elbows and knees. His final graceless landing drove his damaged ribs together with the force of a thunderclap. Ignoring the intense pain as best he could, he staggered up the other side of the slope.
At the top, he risked a glance backward. To his astonishment, he had kept his injured pursuer somewhat at bay, and had what he estimated to be a forty-yard lead. The barn, though still some distance away, seemed possible.
Jets of frozen breath from his mouth and nostrils filled the air in front of him. His lungs burnt mercilessly. Thirty feet to the fence … now twenty. Griff looked behind again. Trouble! Somehow, in the brief span since he had last checked, the man had cut his advantage in half, and was hobbling much less now. Unlike Griff, his breathing did not seem labored.
The fence came up suddenly.
Griff slowed but could not keep himself from skidding awkwardly into the sturdy rails. He cried out as his torn ribs raked across one another. His hands reflexively grasped the top railing, sending the submachine gun spiraling away. There was little consideration of trying to retrieve the useless weapon. Scaling the fence with two free hands was going to be hard enough. Griff stepped on the lowest rail and thought for a moment that his frozen foot was going to snap in half. Then, he folded himself across the topmost rail and flopped over, landing on one b
adly scraped knee.
The gap between him and the man who was going to kill him had narrowed even more. It wasn’t going to be long. Directly ahead of him now was the herd—several dozen bison, statuelike except for the bursts of frozen vapor from their nostrils.
Unpredictable … More deadly than a grizzly … Hooves … horns … head.
The wrangler’s warning resonated in his thoughts as he neared the closest of the majestic beasts. There was a slight stirring among them, but no other movement. Their heavy breathing seemed to mirror his own.
Griff moved stealthily past a huge bull, keeping his hands tightly against his sides. Risking another glance backward, he saw the silhouette of the man, bending over the spot where the submachine gun had landed. Moments later, the weapon was in his hand and he was carefully climbing over the fence. For a short time the night was eerily silent save for the snorting of the bison, the steady swoosh of the wind, and the blood from Griff’s own heart pounding through his ears.
The restlessness of the herd seemed to be intensifying as he made his way among them. Their grunts grew louder as if they had begun communicating with one another. A few had dropped their enormous heads to graze at what pockets of straw remained scattered about, or perhaps as some sort of signal to the others. Always, though, it seemed as if their eyes were upon him.
Easy, guys … easy.
A number of the larger animals swung their heads up as Griff passed. Dagger-sharp horns turned in his direction. Dark faces, concealed by dense curls of shaggy hair, followed his movement among them.
Easy …
The bison’s hooves began shuffling beneath their short, powerful legs. Several of them started to shift from side to side. The grunting seemed louder, the plumes of vapor more intense.
Then gunfire erupted.
Griff’s antagonist was on one knee, just past the shallow swale. At first, it seemed to Griff as if the bison weren’t going to react. He was a few feet into the herd. Ahead of him and to his left, still some distance away, he could see the barn.
There was another volley from the submachine gun, then another.
Griff swore out loud. Clearly he had overlooked the safety when he had control of the weapon.
At that moment, one of the larger bulls toppled over. A second snorted loudly. Several more animals shifted away from the fallen beast. All of them seemed to be milling and bellowing at once. Then the herd began to charge directly toward Griff.
Bullets continued crackling through the frigid air. Another bison keeled over. The hoofbeats of the herd became deafening. Vapor spewed out from flared nostrils like steam from fast-running trains. Griff was knocked to his left by the flank of a passing cow, and then slammed to the ground by another. He scrambled between hooves, expecting any moment to have a one-ton animal crush his skull or finish the damage in his chest.
Time slowed to a stop as the bison thundered past, legs and hooves brushing against Griff, but none of them connecting directly. Dust beaten upward from the wintry ground filled his nose and throat, choking him. The hoofbeats resonated through his chest like cannon fire. He imagined the huge killer laughing as he released the safety on his gun and laughing even harder when he decided to use it to start a stampede.
From not far away, there was another burst of gunfire. A huge animal dropped dead in front of Griff and rolled over, ending motionless with the top of its enormous, shaggy head resting against Griff’s chest. Instantly, the speeding bison parted like the Red Sea to avoid the dead bull. Griff pulled his knees up. Cringing in a fetal position, he burrowed into his savior as tightly as he could manage.
Then, through the corner of his eye, he saw the stampede suddenly shift direction. The herd was pounding away from the spot where he and the dead bull lay, and racing toward the fence. They were also, he suddenly realized, headed in the direction of the man who had been firing at them.
Over the exploding hooves he heard the chatter of submachine gun fire resume. Then, as the last of the animals sped past him, he thought he heard the man scream.
With difficulty, he rose and lurched toward the barn. His feet and the muscles in his legs were on fire. Fatigued, breathless, and freezing, he had no chance to recover when he slipped on a patch of ice. He slid facefirst across the frozen ground, gashing his face and sending blood cascading down his cheek. Cursing, he managed to regain his footing, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to do so.
The scene before him was grim.
Ten bison lay dead or dying on the frozen ground. The remaining animals had stopped running and formed something of a wall between him and his pursuer. Griff peered into the darkness, but could not locate the man. Then, through an opening in the herd, he spotted him, lying facedown. The gloom made it difficult to sort out whether he was dead or alive, or whether he still had his weapon, but in seconds, both questions were answered.
In ponderous, agonizing slow motion, the assassin worked his way to his feet. Even through the distance and the darkness he looked battered and broken. His left arm dangled uselessly at his side. When he took a step toward the barn, he was dragging his right leg. Still he remained upright, stumbling forward a step at a time. Griff could almost see the determination on his face. He could also see the powerful submachine gun dangling from his right hand.
The angle down to the darkened farmhouse was cut off. The barn, built on a broad, flat table of land, was Griff’s only chance. The structure was quite large and seemed to be well maintained. On either side, like the towers of a medieval castle, stood steel grain silos, each at least three stories high.
Gasping, Griff made his way toward the two large front doors. If they were locked or chained, he was dead.
From behind him came the chatter of gunfire. Several bullets snapped into the barn. He was ten feet from the double doors when his heart sank. There was a heavy chain across them, in addition to a plank of wood.
Death was closing in.
Griff hunched down as best he could and zigzagged toward the corner of the barn. Blood was flowing from his cheek as he ducked around the corner. There was a door. The smooth knob, some sort of bone or plastic, was unyielding. Any moment now it would be over.
With a burst of adrenaline that took him completely by surprise, Griff rammed his shoulder against the weathered wood. The door burst open. He cried out as pain exploded from his mid-chest and his momentum carried him stumbling into the interior of the barn. Dim light through a long row of windows was the only illumination. Surrounding him were stacks of hay bales extending to the back wall, and forming, in places, natural staircases ten to twenty-five feet high. He could hide behind the bales or …
Griff’s pursuer tripped against the doorjamb, giving him a few precious seconds of warning. His respirations filled the barn. Reacting more than reasoning, Griff carefully made his way up one of the tallest of the hay staircases. Halfway to the top his fortune took a turn.
A long-handled, four-pronged pitchfork was wedged in one of the bales.
Griff slid the tool out and used it as support to ascend to the top. The giant’s labored breathing seemed to obscure the sound of his movement.
“You stupid fool,” the man shouted into the darkness. “You think you can stop me?” He sent a short hail of bullets into the roof. “Nothing can stop me! I saw some blood by the door. You hurt bad? If you’re not, you will be. I’m going to shoot to maim you, not to kill you. Then I’m going to use the knife I used on your friend to gut you bit by bit until you tell me what I want to know, or until you die. It really doesn’t matter.”
From his hiding place, Griff listened to the man’s footsteps as they scraped unevenly across the barn’s wooden floor, drawing closer. He forced his breathing to slow as he visualized his adversary’s position.
It was time.
Griff peered over the edge as the giant cautiously approached. He could see now what devastating damage the stampeding bison had done to him. His parka was nearly torn off, exposing a fractured forearm, where ja
gged white bone jutted through his skin. It seemed quite possible that his leg was broken as well. The dramatic wounds would make him slow to react—or at least slower.
Griff gripped the pitchfork and shifted his weight, preparing to climb over the top of the hay bales and slide down the other side.
Ready … and … now!
He pushed off the highest bale, screaming as loudly as he could.
The man whirled and raised the submachine gun, ripping off a wild burst that totally missed the dark shadow flying down at him.
The pitchfork, with all Griff’s weight behind it, struck home across the center of the man’s chest, its lethal tines penetrating through skin, muscle, heart, and bone, before exiting through the back. The force drove him backward onto the straw-covered floor and pinned him there. Blood erupted from his mouth. He tried to say something, but succeeded only in spewing up more blood.
Seconds later, he was dead, the long handle of the pitchfork still pointing at the ceiling, quivering.
Griff took the knife and the submachine gun, which he fired successfully into a hay bale just to prove to himself that he could. Then he checked the professional killer for the ID he knew would not be there, and spent a few moments gazing down at his lifeless, battered and broken corpse.
“I only wish it had lasted longer,” he said viciously.
CHAPTER 54
DAY 6
6:00 P.M. (EST)
Vice President Henry Tilden shifted from one foot to the other. He was standing in the middle of an orderly food line that snaked along two walls of the House Chamber. Ellis watched the man from halfway across the hall.… Watched and waited.
More people than ever were coughing now, she noted. Some coughed just a little bit, as if they were trying to clear a bothersome tickle from their throats. Others, including the president’s wife and daughter, were suffering from a more persistent, wet hacking.
A Heartbeat Away Page 28
