Resistant

by Michael Palmer

“Yeah, understood.”

  Lou looked above him for guidance, but it was nearly impossible to see the agent’s face through the thick haze. Then it registered that Vaill was motioning for him to go around him and continue the climb. At first, Lou hesitated, but his arms were killing him and he needed to move, so he elected to trust his partner and work his way to the right so he could pass. He was within a foot of the top when the barrel of a gun materialized, pointed at the center of his forehead.

  What in the hell was going on? Vaill had to have forgotten the man was up there.

  “Come up nice and slow,” Collins ordered.

  Lou hauled himself over the top of the cliff, grunting with every movement. Once on the edge, he stole a glance behind him. He could see for just a short ways. Beyond that was only white. No sign of Vaill.

  “I … I’m hurt,” Lou pleaded, improvising.

  “Get up. Who the fuck are you? What are you doing here?”

  With painful slowness, Lou rose from his crouch. The killer, a hard-looking, acne-scarred man with the long, blond hair of a Greek god, and a build to match, continued holding his gun at Lou. Searching as inconspicuously as he could for any sign of Vaill, Lou stumbled, at the same time inching back toward the edge of the precipice.

  “I asked what you are doing here,” Collins demanded. “Are you here with anybody?”

  Lou laid his performance on thicker, his voice quavering.

  “I’m here alone. I’m just a hiker. Please put that gun away. Don’t hurt me.”

  Collins cocked a half smile.

  “I’m not going to hurt you, buddy, but I am going to kill you unless I get some answers. One last time: Who are you and what the fuck are you doing here?”

  Collins raised his gun, but before he could pull the trigger, a hand shot up through the fog and caught him hard behind the knee. A powerful yank and the knee buckled, sending the man down. In almost the same movement, the hand grabbed his jacket, and pulled him over the edge. Two seconds—that’s all it took. Maybe less. His arms and legs slicing through the mist, the killer bellowed as he fell. The screams ceased abruptly with the sound of shattering bones. Lou had no trouble picturing the man exploding on the rocks below—blood and brain splashed everywhere. It was then he heard Vaill cry out.

  “Lou, help, I’m losing my grip!”

  Panicked, Lou scrambled forward, leaning as far over the cliff’s edge as he dared. His arm became an oar, sent out searching for a drowning man.

  “Lou, Jesus, I’m falling!”

  “Vaill, grab my hand, dammit! Grab my hand.”

  Lou could see enough now through the fog to know that he was inches short of Vaill’s outstretched hand.

  “Lou!”

  Lou pushed himself ahead another half foot, no longer aware if he was at or over his balancing point. It didn’t matter. At what seemed the last possible moment before they both followed Collins down, Vaill grabbed hold of Lou’s right wrist. Clawing into the damp, stony earth with the fingers of his left hand, Lou twisted his right arm around until he was able to grab hold of Vaill’s wrist.

  “Hang on, brother!” he shouted, certain that any moment, he was going over.

  Don’t let go … for God’s sake, just don’t let him fall.…

  Not this one, he vowed. Not this one.

  With all his strength, forcing his stiff, chilled fingers even deeper into the pebbles and dirt, Lou pulled, driving his knees into the muddy earth, searching for leverage. Through the mist, Vaill’s eyes were Cap’s, pleading with him for strength.

  Driven by that image, Lou clenched his jaws and drove back even harder, the muscles in his back and arm burning.

  One inch … another …

  Not this time … Lou pulled to the rhythm of his words. Not … this … time.

  Below him, Vaill’s grip remained fast, but Lou’s own was weakening.

  Not this time …

  Then, with a ferocious, warrior’s cry, Lou gave one last yank as he rolled backward. Vaill came shooting up out of the fog like a missile and landed in a heap beside him, both men gasping for air. Vaill regained his breath first.

  “Come on, you lightweight,” he said, rolling to his knees. “Someone’s sure to be calling splatterboy back and wondering why he doesn’t answer.”

  He was upright by the time Lou could even turn over.

  “Lightweight, huh,” he said. “Well, take it from me, no one could ever accuse you of being that.”

  He made it to his feet. The two of them exchanged fist bumps.

  “I owe you big-time for that one,” Vaill said. “Thanks, my friend.”

  “Nonsense. I just felt we had fed the seagulls enough for one day.”

  CHAPTER 50

  It is illogical to believe that bloated spending on parasitic entitlement programs exists within a vacuum, for these will put a drain on other worthy causes, such as our defense force, which our Constitution obligates us to maintain.

  —LANCASTER R. HILL, 100 Neighbors, SAWYER RIVER BOOKS, 1939, P. 88

  Lou led the charge through the fog-shrouded woods toward the south side of the castle. Cliff-climbing might have been Vaill’s forte, but trail running was squarely in his domain. He was in his element, moving by instinct and feel. The mist made it difficult to anticipate problems, but Lou could still spot precarious roots and rocks faster than most. Vaill ran just far enough behind him to make adjustments. Here, the forest floor was uneven, but the trees were dense, and were clearly helping to conceal their approach.

  There was no debating whether to walk or run. Lost time could be the difference between Humphrey living and Cap losing his leg or quite possibly his life. The mist transformed the woods into the setting for a fairy tale. Knowing what awaited them beyond the forest’s edge made the scene even eerier. Lou’s eyes darted from his feet to what little he could see ahead and Vaill labored some, but still had little trouble keeping pace.

  Soon, Lou saw diffused light in the distance. The trees began to thin. Slowing to a trot, he hid behind a tall pine. Vaill came up alongside him. He was breathing heavily and rubbing at the rainbow scar.

  “Does running hurt that?” Lou whispered.

  “Nothing I can’t handle.”

  End of discussion.

  Continuing to move from tree to tree, Lou led the way toward the light. To his right, he could hear the pounding of surf mixed with the cries of seagulls. He imagined the birds swooping through the fog, perhaps diving for morsels of the man who had just tried to kill him. The guard’s disappearance had to have been alerted inside the castle, and whatever men were still about, possibly Burke included, would come looking for him. Jogging now, Lou continued to use the trees for concealment. His exhaustion was gone. From behind, he could hear Vaill breathing heavily, but keeping up.

  Tough guy.

  Another few minutes, and the woods gave way to closely trimmed spring grass. Thirty yards or so ahead of them, looming up as though being borne by the mist, was the brooding, imposing south façade of Red Cliff. Having studied the castle’s layout, Lou knew it was surrounded on three sides—south, west, and north—by a moat that featured two drawbridges, and on the east by the ocean. But no map could do the imposing structure justice. Set behind a stone outer wall were tall turrets with crenelated roofs. It wasn’t hard to imagine defenders of the huge keep pouring boiling oil down on the heads of an attacking army.

  Well, he warned silently, better get ready. Here comes a marauding hoard of two.

  “Jesus,” Vaill whispered, “will you look at that place? Wonder what their real estate taxes are.”

  The drawbridge on this side was up, and the moat—twelve or so feet across—shone like black opal. Beyond the drawbridge, an imposing portcullis made of heavy timber and iron fortified the southern entrance. Glimmering in the stone somberness of the place were dozens of tall windows, every one of which seemed to be lit.

  According to the plans they had reviewed, there were far more windows on the south side than on the n
orth. Lou could actually see movement inside the first-floor room closest to where they were standing. The space, a study or library, was at the base of a mammoth turret, and was semicircular, with a row of elongated, mullioned windows curving around it like sentinels. Spectacular.

  Keeping low, Lou pointed to the room, and then to his eyes. Vaill nodded. Counting down from three on his fingers, Lou broke from the trees and raced toward the castle with his partner right behind. When they reached the moat’s edge, they dropped to their knees. There was absolutely no cover, only carefully manicured lawn. But from what they could see, the area was deserted.

  They peered into the elegant room, albeit at an upward angle. What they observed ran quite contrary to the ancient stone construction. Just to the right of the entrance a highly sophisticated videoconference was set up. The huge screen was divided into multiple sections—at least seven of them, several of which appeared to have active images. A man was walking toward them, but judging by his portly build, it wasn’t Burke. In addition, he looked to be walking with a limp, and probably was using a cane.

  Lou was engrossed in searching for a means to cross the moat, and was considering ways they might get in through one of the many windows, when Vaill nudged him and pointed to their left. A figure had appeared on the lawn, no more than fifty or seventy-five feet away—a dark silhouette, at least as large as Collins. Even through the heavy air they could hear the man’s radio crackle to life, followed by the sound of his voice.

  “Yeah, Drake here. I’m not seeing any sign of trouble. Still no word from Collins?… Let me finish checking this side, then I’ll go take a look for him.… Yeah, I know it’s getting dark. I’m not a fucking ninny, Ronnie. I can see. I got a flashlight right here.”

  Out in the open, with no place to run to or to hide, Lou and Vaill were just seconds away from being discovered. They remained flattened on the damp grass, asking questions of each other with their eyes. To Lou, their only option, a poor one, was somehow to disappear over the bank and slide down into the moat. But even if they tried, it was doubtful they could complete the maneuver without being detected.

  After pausing to use his radio, the huge guard was on the move again. And as if locked onto their position, he was lumbering directly toward them. The behemoth was perhaps twenty feet away when his gaze hit on what must have looked like a boulder.

  The seconds it took him to work out what the odd shape was proved lethal.

  Vaill sprung to his knees and fired a single shot that seemed muffled by the heavy air. The bullet struck Drake square in the throat, and the big man instantly crumpled to the ground, spewing crimson from the hole in his neck and from his mouth. Inside the study, Lou saw stirring. The portly man approached a window and peered out. Drake lay on his back in dense shadow, sputtering as he drowned in his own blood.

  With the odor of gunpowder wafting around them, Lou and Vaill remained motionless, staring across the moat at the majestic windows. Fifteen seconds … twenty. They could see the portly man searching from side to side. Finally he turned and headed back to wherever he had been sitting. The dreadful gurgling from Drake was dying away. A few spasms of his arms and legs, and he went still.

  Lou stared spellbound at the corpse. Vaill had been right. It was just point and shoot. Just like a camera. He was wondering if he would ever have the cool to do the same if he had to, when he became aware of Vaill tugging at his Windbreaker sleeve.

  “There can’t be too many of these monsters about, or one of them would be here by now,” he said. “But just the same, I think we should get around to the north side.”

  At that moment, following a burst of static, the dead man’s radio went on again.

  “Drake, you big baboon, where in the hell are you? Drake, it’s Ronnie. Did you find Collins?”

  “As a matter of fact,” Vaill said as he and Lou raced across the expansive lawn, giving the melancholy castle a wide berth, “he did.”

  The west side of Red Cliff was also the main entrance. There was a circular gravel driveway abutting islands of lawn adorned with stone fountains, concrete planters shaped like Grecian urns, flower gardens, and even a topiary. Several high-end luxury cars were parked along the drive. Wealth was clearly consistent with the Society of One Hundred Neighbors’ philosophy. Graduated income taxes, on the other hand, almost certainly were not.

  Linking the driveway to the castle was another raised drawbridge, with a narrow footbridge crossing the moat next to where the main bridge would lie. The oversized rusting portcullis looked capable of withstanding the sort of battering ram featured in Hollywood films. Vaill examined the massive door with a small pair of field glasses and verbally confirmed that impression.

  “We’re too exposed out here to cross the footbridge and set up a detonation,” he said. “Even if we manage to blow that monster without killing ourselves, we might as well announce our arrival with a bullhorn. I say we move north.”

  The moat essentially turned Red Cliff into an island, with the east face resting atop the imposing cliff for which the place was probably named. Though he took pride in his ability to solve complex problems, Lou was as yet unable to connect with an idea for getting the two of them inside. Meanwhile, the darkening evening sky was becoming their ally.

  At the edge of the north woods, their luck continued. Lou discovered a small building with a single window on the west side nestled ten feet or so inside the tree line.

  “A guardhouse,” he said, leading Vaill around the fieldstone structure. “The matted brush and these broken branches suggest it gets used. No idea what for. And look, right here, headed back toward the castle, tire tracks.”

  He shined a flashlight through the window and Vaill came over to look with him. The place was dusty and a little cobwebby, but there were sconces on the wall, a coffeemaker and cups on a low shelf, a small wooden table with two chairs, some cookie tins, a hot plate, and a boom box.

  “What in the hell do you think this place is for?” Vaill asked.

  “It doesn’t really make sense just standing here like this, disconnected from the castle.”

  “Maybe it was there in the sixteenth century or whenever it was built, and the inventor just brought it over.”

  “Maybe,” Lou said, “but that explanation sounds a little thin and … Bingo! Tim, look there in the floor behind that chair.”

  Vaill took the flash and trained it on the outline of a two-by-two square cut into the wood of the floor. There were two hinges on one side and a rusting metal ring in the center of the other.

  “Bingo is right, brother,” he said. “Any doubt as to where that trapdoor leads?”

  Lou pumped his fist.

  “None,” he said. “Absolutely none. All we got to do now is get in there.”

  The unadorned door to the stone house, probably steel, was facing south. Without being told, Lou unholstered his Glock, stepped back two paces, and discharged three well-aimed rounds into the keyhole, each sending out a small burst of sparks. The rippling echo of gunfire rolled away like a cresting wave. Vaill inspected the keyhole, tested the thick metal handle, and shook his head. Then he removed his backpack and opened it up.

  “Time to sic the Doberman on it,” he said. “His Christian name is C-4, but he’ll answer to almost anything. Stand by, my friend.”

  Lou knew very little about plastic explosives. Obviously, it was a moldable material, but he had little knowledge of the chemistry that made it work. Vaill took a wedge of the whitish putty from a tinfoil wrapper, and shaped it in and around the keyhole and along the hinges.

  “As with most decent explosives,” Vaill said, “serious energy is needed to initiate the chemical reaction. That’s what these blasting caps are all about.” He inserted one into each lump of putty, and rolled out enough detonator wire for them to get a safe distance away. “You can shoot bullets into C-4 all day and it won’t go off,” he went on. “Put a match to it and it’ll just burn slowly. What we need is a smaller explosion to trigger a bi
gger one.”

  Vaill held up a black metal box about the size of a deck of cards—the detonator. He flicked a switch and a green light came on. Then he attached the three wires to a spool. His thumb hovered over the red button on top of the box.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  “Are we far enough away?”

  “We’re about to find out. Move behind that tree and hold your ears, pal.”

  Lou shrugged and did as asked, and his partner depressed the button. The three simultaneous blasts were more intense than Lou would have ever anticipated given the size of the explosives. Even behind the tree, the shock drove him back a foot and seemed as if it momentarily stopped his heart. Debris shot out in all directions. Lou peered out as the wall of smoke quickly dissipated. Astonishingly, the door was still standing.

  “What happened?” Lou asked, stunned.

  Vaill looked nonplussed as well. Then he strode to the door, inspected it for a moment, grabbed the handle with just two fingers and tugged lightly. The steel rectangle fell toward him as if it had fainted, landing with a muted thud facedown on the forest floor.

  Vaill turned to Lou, his expression a mix of pride and absolute amazement.

  “To Red Cliff,” he said.

  “You don’t have to ask twice,” Lou replied.

  CHAPTER 51

  If financial solvency is of concern to any of us, then Mr. Roosevelt’s entitlement programs should be of grave concern.

  —LANCASTER R. HILL, LECTURE TO THE COLLEGE OF WILLIAM AND MARY, VIRGINIA, FEBRUARY 22, 1937

  Lou was standing on a rough-hewn, centuries-old plank floor, staring down through a trapdoor that might have been the gate to hell. And in that instant, in what seemed like a heartbeat, realization caught up with him.

  Their presence had to be known.

  The element of surprise was gone.

  Soon, he was likely going to die—painfully and violently.

  Maybe it was the horrible deaths of the two guards. Maybe it was the realization of how much was at stake—how many lives. Maybe it was the notion of never seeing Emily again … or Cap …