“But we caught a break. There was a mole in the Bureau years ago who almost got me killed. He was feeding sensitive information about my whereabouts to Scarponi. Since technology is a great deal more advanced than it was even six years ago, the Bureau was able to back trace some internal data paths and identified who the mole was. They pummeled him for information and got his contact information for Scarponi. Then I went to work, posing as the mole. We set Scarponi up by giving him something he couldn’t pass up—the chance to kill Harper Payne.”
“But all loose ends had to be tied up,” Rodman said.
Just then, the ambulance came to a stop. Rodman reached above him and quickly extinguished the interior light. The ambulance’s rear doors opened into the pitch-black of a one-lane country road. From what Lauren could see in the darkness, nothing was around.
A man dressed in black clothing, with black paint on his face, extended a hand toward her. “Come with me, ma’am. Quickly.”
“Who are you? Where’s my husband? I want to see my husband, goddamn it!”
The man in black reached in and grabbed her arm. “Please, we don’t have time. It’s dangerous out here. We’ve got to go now.”
She did not move. “Not until you tell me where my husband is!”
He yanked her from the back of the ambulance and pulled her, with a modicum of effort, out into the darkness.
As she fought him, her eyes caught the stare of Troy Rodman. “Am I just another loose end, you son of a bitch?” She dropped down to her knees, the way a tantruming toddler does when trying to wrest himself free from his parent. “Nick, help me, please!”
The man in black clamped a large, meaty hand across her mouth.
“I’m sorry, Lauren,” Bradley called after her. “I’m sorry about everything!”
80
“Put me down!” Lauren screamed through the man’s hand. She was writhing, swinging her arms wildly. She pulled out of her jacket and nearly broke free, but he grabbed her and flung her over his right shoulder like a sack of potatoes. It was raining again, and she could feel the wet pinpricks of drops pelting her bareback.
The man carried her toward an army transport vehicle parked ten feet ahead of the ambulance. The man reached out and opened the truck’s back door. It was completely black inside, what the night sky would look like without the stars and the moon and the lights from surrounding cities.
Lauren was pushed inside, the door was slammed shut—and locked.
She banged on it with the open palm of her right hand, then cursed under her breath. But she suddenly realized she was not alone. Before she could speak, a bare bulb lit the interior.
Douglas Knox was sitting on a bench, partially blocking her view of the man who was beside him. But it didn’t matter. Lauren knew who it was.
She lunged forward into Michael’s arms and he squeezed her in an embrace she didn’t want him to release.
“Lauren,” he whispered in her ear, “I missed you so much.”
“Michael,” she said, holding him tightly.
“I’m very sorry to have put you through so much grief, Dr. Chambers,” Knox said. “It was necessary, to make it believable.”
“Believable—”
“Michael was injured in that car accident I told you about earlier this evening. He was examined and airlifted by special medevac personnel to the base hospital, where he was treated by a covert trauma team.”
“You’re making it sound worse than it is,” Michael said. “I’m fine, just a little bruised—”
“He’s got a fractured left forearm and, more importantly, a mild concussion,” Knox said. “Which, in his current state, needs to be closely monitored.”
Michael took Lauren’s hand and they sat down together on the wooden bench that ran the length of the covered cargo vehicle. The truck began to move, and they all grabbed for something to hold on to.
She reached over to stroke Michael’s hair and felt the lump on the side of his head, saw the bruises on his neck from Scarponi’s fingers. “They told me you were dead.”
“Again,” Knox said, “please accept my apologies for everything we’ve put you through. If it’s any consolation, I just received word that Anthony Scarponi was fatally wounded in a confrontation with some of my men.”
Lauren closed her eyes and sighed. “Thank God.” She rested her head against Michael’s shoulder and took his hand. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“These bumps and bruises... they’re nothing. The break will heal in a couple of months. And my memory is a whole lot better than it was even a week ago. Every day I remember more. That new knock on the head didn’t screw things up too badly.” He squeezed her hand. “I’m still trying to get over the shock of learning I wasn’t really an FBI agent. Another identity crisis to deal with.”
She smiled. “That much I can help you with.”
“Most important thing is that I have you back. I was told the real Harper Payne took good care of you.”
Lauren lowered her gaze. “I grew very close to him. But it’s all so infuriating. It was all an act, everything he told me was a lie.”
“Agent Payne thinks the world of you,” Knox said. “From what he told me, you turned out to be more than he’d bargained for. He may have filled a void for you, but you filled a void for him as well. When he went into witness protection, he left behind his wife and four-year-old daughter. Leaving them was the hardest thing he’s ever had to do.”
“The child he lost...” she mumbled.
“What?” Michael asked.
Lauren turned to Knox. “We kind of left things in a bad way. I didn’t know... can I see him, talk to him for a moment?”
Knox glanced at Michael. “I’m afraid you’ll never cross paths with Harper Payne again. He’s going back underground. But thanks to you, he’ll be able to see his daughter again, even if it’s only on a very limited basis. His wife’s remarried, but that’s something he’ll have to come to terms with. At least he’ll be able to have contact with the ones he loves.”
Lauren stared off at the dark wall behind Knox.
“You don’t have to worry about him,” Knox said. “As you’ve seen, he’s a survivor. He’ll deal with it.” The director picked up a leather attaché from the floor and popped open the latches. “On a happier note, you and Michael have each other. I’ve arranged for you two to be sequestered together.”
“Sequestered?” Lauren asked.
Knox looked from Michael to Lauren. “Benjamin Fox, meet Amy Fox. The two of you are entering witness protection.”
“But if Scarponi’s men think Harper Payne’s dead, then Nick—I mean Harper—and Michael are safe.”
Michael shook his head. “Scarponi had a very loyal, extensive network. We don’t know what kind of state it’s in, but it looks like he moved quickly to reassemble it. If that’s the case, it’s still very dangerous.”
“And they think you’re Payne,” Lauren said.
Michael nodded. “Exactly.”
“We prefer to be somewhat conservative,” Knox said. “We’re not taking any chances.” He reached into his attaché and removed a couple of large envelopes. “Your new lives are in here. Passports, driver’s licenses, bank accounts, cash, credit cards, birth certificates, the whole nine yards. You’ve got jobs in the town of Bellevue, Washington. Michael will be an agent with the Bureau’s resident agency there. After spending all that effort on his training, we may as well get some return on our investment,” Knox said wryly.
“And you’re a family mediation specialist,” Michael said.
“Well, I wanted a new start in life. Guess we’re both getting one.”
“Ben Fox has that one-syllable ring to it,” Michael said, “don’t you think? Bond. James Bond. Fox. Ben Fox.”
Knox smiled. “I had something else in mind. I thought Fox was a name worthy of both of you.”
They looked at Knox.
“How so?” Lauren asked.
“A fox uses its cunning
and ability to fight off its predators out in the wild. Both of you have those qualities.”
Lauren grinned. “As a family mediation specialist, they’ll come in handy.”
Just then, the truck pulled over to the side of the road and came to an abrupt stop.
“So that’s it?” Lauren asked. “New life, new identities?”
Knox nodded. “That’s the way it’s done. The U.S. marshal’s been doing it for fifty years. They’ve got their shit together. One of our people there arranged all of this for you. I didn’t run it through the usual channels. These identities won’t show up anywhere in the marshal’s database. Hector DeSantos is in charge of your case. You have a problem, speak only to him. He’s one of the best. His info’s in there, along with your personal bios. Read them, memorize them, then burn them.”
“But our house, our belongings,” Lauren said. “My clothes, my car, photos... Tucker—”
“Gone. Friends, family, all gone. You can never have any further contact with anyone or it could severely endanger your lives. No letters, no phone calls. Even e-mails are risky. I’ll find a way of getting your dog to you, but even that’s a risk.”
Lauren shared a brief look of uncertainty with Michael.
The director rose and extended a hand. “Thank you, Agent Fox, for everything.” Knox moved over to Lauren, whose head was bowed, staring off at the ground. “Best of luck to you, Amy. I hope this is the start of good things for both of you.”
With that, Knox turned and left through the door in the rear of the truck. A second later, the army vehicle pulled back onto the road. Ben reached into the manila envelope and pulled out a black wallet. He let it fall open, exposing his FBI credentials.
Amy reached out to him. Instead of taking her hand, he pulled her close. As he held her, feeling her warmth, her strength, he realized that even if he did not remember one more detail or event, it would not matter. He ran his fingers through her tousled hair as the swaying bulb played an odd pattern of dim light and shadow across the interior of the truck.
Lying there in his arms, her body finally began to relax. This is where she wanted to be. She felt safe, strangely complete. The last time she remembered feeling that way was when she’d lain in her daddy’s lap as a young child. She closed her eyes for a moment and was instantly back in time, resting with her father in their hammock, the wind blowing gently through her hair, not a care in the world.
She reached into her blouse and pulled out her chain. The gold key was dangling there, swaying with the hypnotic rocking of the truck.
“I’ve still got the two most important things that matter to me. You, and a keepsake from my father.”
“After all you’ve been through,” Ben said, “your father would’ve been very proud of you.”
“Yes,” she said as she fingered the key, “I bet he would’ve been.”
81
Hector DeSantos waited in the black Volvo cab-over truck, the engine idling and an incessant pounding of flesh on metal banging against his eardrums. He had done his part for God and country... but most of all, for his fallen friend and comrade, Brian Archer. Like a shark, he had tracked down his prey... and if what he thought was going to happen did, in fact, occur, then justice would be served.
A moment later, an army transport vehicle pulled up behind him and flashed its headlights three times: two long and one short. DeSantos placed his infrared goggles on and scanned the countryside in front of him, then tapped his brakes twice to signal all clear.
Douglas Knox climbed into the cab of DeSantos’s truck and slammed the door behind him. “It’s done.”
“Good,” DeSantos said, and hung a U-turn, heading back toward Washington. The banging in the back cargo hold continued. Knox did not comment or ask what it was. It was clear that he did not need to.
“I know about CARD and Memogen,” DeSantos said, using buzzwords he and Archer had captured from the encrypted document. He didn’t know for sure how it all fit together, but like a loose thread on a piece of clothing, he had to either yank on it or leave it alone and ignore it. He couldn’t ignore it.
Knox turned away and looked out the dark side window. “It’s better we don’t talk about it.”
“Better for who? I need to know, I need to close this chapter in Brian’s life.”
“You’d be closing this chapter and opening another. It’s a need-to-know situation.”
DeSantos looked at Knox’s reflection in the black glass. “I need to know, sir.”
“You know how this works, Hector. Once I tell you, you’re committed. In for a penny, in for a million dollars.”
DeSantos was unfazed by this challenge. He knew the score and what it meant. This was something he had to know. “What does CARD stand for?”
Knox sat silent for a moment, then, keeping his eyes on the dark road before him, said, “Covert Arms Research Division. It’s an offshoot of the Boys in the Basement. It’s a joint effort and has roots in the NSA and ISA, but it’s run by the Defense Department. They develop and test, analyze, and gather intelligence on new weapons potential... both in the U.S. and abroad. They were one of the groups monitoring the Soviet Bonfire Project germ-warfare experiments during the late eighties.”
The banging in the back had stopped, easing DeSantos’s already tattered nerves. “How does all this fit together with Scarponi? Is he a former CARD agent?”
“One of CARD’s ongoing research projects involves mind control. There was a very significant study being done at the Mao Institute in China in the eighties and early nineties. After the Ames debacle, Scarponi was one of our operatives who was captured and sent to China. According to the ISA, he was used, basically, as a guinea pig. How extensive it was, we don’t know. CARD felt that the Chinese techniques warranted further study. Scarponi was the key.”
“But you couldn’t study him while he was in prison,” DeSantos said. “You needed him at CARD’s research facility. So you created a bogus ‘new witness’ who could challenge the government’s original evidence against Scarponi.”
“We used someone OPSIG has worked with overseas, someone who could take the stand and convincingly prove Scarponi’s alibi for the Vincent Foster murder.”
“So you released Scarponi with an electronic monitoring device. But everything got all fucked up and he got out of it.”
Knox nodded. “Sounds like you had most of it figured out.”
DeSantos glanced over at the thick metal wall that separated the truck’s cab from its cargo hold. “You know, I wanted Scarponi dead. For Brian.”
“I know you did. But you kept your emotions in check. That’s why I’ve always known I can rely on you, Hector.”
The banging in the rear compartment suddenly resumed, this time accompanied by shouting and primal screams in what sounded like Chinese.
DeSantos thought of everything Knox had just told him and knew he was not being given the whole story. But in the end, it didn’t really matter. He was now involved, and like it or not, he would get all the details in time, when he needed to know them. With covert ops, that was just the way things were done.
He continued staring at the dark road ahead, thickets of brush blowing by in the white beams of his headlights, while the incessant banging of a hand slamming against metal echoed in his mind... and the benign shouts of a crazed man in an iron cage floated away into nothingness.
The hunter had become the hunted.
Author acknowledgements for The Hunted follow this free preview of Alan Jacobson’s national bestseller, The 7th Victim.
Karen Vail is no ordinary FBI agent. She’s a profiler, brought to life by Alan Jacobson’s seven years of unprecedented access to, and research with, the FBI Behavioral Analysis Unit. The 7th Victim has been raved about by reviewers, readers...even one of the founding fathers of the real Behavioral Analysis Unit.
The Library Journal named The 7th Victim one of the Top 5 Best Books of the Year (2008). So step into the world of Karen Vail and discover a character
James Patterson called “as compelling as any created by Patricia Cornwell, or yours truly.”
The 7th Victim. Copyright © 2008 by Alan Jacobson
Published by Vanguard Press
A Member of the Perseus Books Group
All rights reserved.
PROLOGUE
SIX YEARS AGO
Queens, New York
“Dispatch, this is Agent Vail. I’m in position, thirty feet from the bank’s entrance. I’ve got a visual on three well-armed men dressed in black clothing, wearing masks. ETA on backup? I’m solo here. Over.”
“Copy. Stand by.”
Stand by. Easy for you to say. My ass is flapping in the breeze outside a bank with a group of heavily armed mercenaries inside, and you tell me to stand by. Sure, I’ll just sit here and wait.
FBI Special Agent Karen Vail was crouched behind her open car door, her Glock-23 forty-caliber sidearm steadied against the window frame. No match for what looked like MAC-10s the bank robbers were toting, but what can you do? Sometimes you’re just fucked.
Radio crackle. “Agent Vail, are you there? Over.”
No, I left on vacation. Leave a message. “Still here. No movement inside, far as I can tell. View’s partially blocked by a large window sign. Bank’s offering free checking, by the way.”
Vail hadn’t been involved in an armed response since leaving the NYPD five years ago. Back then she welcomed the calls, the adrenaline rush as she raced through the streets of Manhattan to track down the scumbags who were doing their best to add some spice to an otherwise bland shift. But after the birth of her son Jonathan, Vail decided the life of a cop carried too much risk. She eventually made it to the Bureau—a career advancement that had the primary benefit of keeping her keester out of the line of fire.
The Hunted Page 38
