The radio clipped to Jess’s lapel crackled, and Paul’s voice said, “You should stop yelling—bad guys’ll hear you.”
Jess pressed the button. “God damn it Paul, you get your ass back here this second! Your dad’s not gonna stand for this bullshit. I made him a promise, you understand? This isn’t just about you.”
“No, it isn’t. Back soon, Jess.”
Jess was about to yell into the walkie-talkie when Núñez put her hands up. “Easy!” she said.
He ran his fingers through his sweaty silver hair, then looked at her with glassy, confounded eyes. She nodded with empathy.
“Let’s go,” he said. “Help me up onto this stick. We need cell signal.”
* * *
Paul jogged at a quick clip, eyes on the tracks of several people—at least four of them, walking east in a single file.
His fiancée, Belinda, would no doubt tell him this was another of those quick decisions that could have benefited from a couple of seconds’ deliberation, to which he would reply, “Like when I proposed to you?” And she would punch him.
This Solorzano guy was a trained killer, and although Paul had been through all the standard Justice Department training, he couldn’t recall any specifics they had taught about one-on-one engagement. Sure, there was hand-to-hand combat, takedowns, combat shooting, and all that, but all the building-entry scenarios and pursuit-and-capture tactics revolved around teams. How, exactly, was he going to surround this guy? They had spent a couple of days on hostage incidents, but that was pretty early on, and because it was unrelated to his job, he had pretty much learned what he needed to know to pass the test, then promptly deleted it from his active memory files. There just weren’t a lot of physical hazards in accounting-fraud cases. The Sarbanes-Oxley Accounting Reform Act, on the other hand, he could recite verbatim, and had done so at more than one party—until being politely asked to shut up.
Fortunately for Paul, the trail he was following was an actual trail, worn into semipermanence by frequent hikers. And while he didn’t catch the subtle clues that distinguished a fresh track from an old one, the prints before him were the same ones that came from the hilltop. One thing he could tell from the distance between steps was that they were walking, not running. So what to do when he caught up to them? And what made him think they would lead him to Roger’s son? Well, it did seem that the Cubans knew something more than his crew. And he had no other leads to follow. And then the tracks abruptly stopped.
Paul overran the endpoint by a few strides before noticing. He stopped and went back to see where they had turned off, but there was no turn, no split in the bushes through which they would have slid. At his feet, four or five sets of footprints came up to an invisible line and just stopped.
He looked up, then immediately felt silly. They hadn’t climbed a tree or been evacuated via helicopter. Crouching down, he noticed that a few of the prints were incomplete—cut off mid foot or showing only a heel. Someone had erased the tracks, walking backward while sweeping a leafy bough side to side. Or maybe they just dragged something behind them. Either way, it was scary. They could be anywhere . . . maybe only a few feet ahead, hiding in the undergrowth. Paul kept his hand on his holstered pistol as he continued—walking now—down the trail.
“Paul, you there?”
He flinched, jumping in a way that would have embarrassed him if anyone had seen. He grabbed the walkie-talkie from his waist.
“Yeah, go ahead,” he replied.
“We got signal over that ridge,” Jess said. “Backup on the way. You need to come back now, you hear? Wait for reinforcements.”
Paul stood and thought for a moment. If an ally’s voice on a radio had made him almost jump out of his skin, how would he react when it actually came time to act against an enemy? He had been essentially useless on the mountain when the shooting started. He was just relieved that neither of his remaining team had called him out on it. “Say, what were you doing when we were getting shot?” would have been a reasonable question. “Duh, well, I guess I was busy being tripped, like a kid on the playground, by the disarmed guy I should have taken down. Oh, yeah, and maybe holding on to the guy’s gun would have been a good idea, too.”
Wait for reinforcements? Was he contemplating this out of cowardice or practicality?
Branches crunched in the woods to his left, maybe thirty yards off. He dropped to his knees and turned the volume on the radio all the way down. The crackling and rustling continued at a quick pace, growing louder. Definitely human steps, walking toward the trail. They would probably pop out about ten yards ahead of Paul.
Gingerly setting the walkie-talkie on the ground, he wiped the stinging sweat out of his eyes with his sleeve and slid the pistol out of its holster. The rustling continued, and a bare foot poked out from behind a palm tree, stepping over some unseen obstacle. A white male, aged 20 to 30, jeans, no shirt, no socks. The man glanced right toward Paul, then left, then inspected the dirt on the trail. His face and chest were flecked with blood, and his arms were a mess, too. He seemed not to have noticed Paul, who was only partially obscured by foliage hanging over the trail.
Paul had seen enough photos to know that this was Matthew Turner standing before him, but for reasons he couldn’t name, Paul remained silent and motionless, pistol still aimed at the subject. Say something . . . say something . . .
“You come here with my dad?” Matthew said without turning toward him.
Paul cleared his throat, quickly lowered the gun, and swallowed. Did he already know Roger was dead? He must—they were all together.
“Yeah . . . I’m, uh, Paul Kleindorf. DOJ.”
Matthew turned his head, his eyes seeming to wander before finding and settling on Paul.
“Kleindorf,” Matthew began. “I feel like I know that name . . .”
Paul rose and brushed himself off, reclipping the walkie-talkie to his waist. “Yeah, my dad and your dad worked together a long time ago, before mine went off to Justice. Don’t know if you ever met him . . . Ben?”
Matthew looked the other way, down the path. He looked as if he were sleepwalking—not fully here.
“My dad’s dead.”
“Yeah, I know. Awful sorry, man.”
Matthew turned back to him, frowning, “Where were you going? Did you see someone on this trail?”
Paul walked toward him. “I came looking for you, but yeah, there’s these Cuban guys that went this way. Shot Jess and this woman we came with. They’re alive but gotta get to a hospital. I’ll radio them that we’re on our way, so they can hold the chopper for us.”
“Jess . . . Uncle J? He’s shot, too?”
“Yeah. Took one in the ankle. Come on, let’s go track him down.” Paul put the radio to his mouth. “Jess, this is Paul; I’ve found Matthew. Bringing him to your position. You’ll have to guide us in after we reach the plateau.”
“I’m not leaving yet,” Matthew said.
Jess’s voice said, “Outstanding, Paul. Is he okay?”
“Uh . . . what do you mean you’re not leaving? We are absolutely leaving.” To the radio, he said, “Um . . . physically, yes. Mentally, not so sure. Hang on.”
Matthew began walking away. “We have one more person coming with us,” he said.
“Who?” Paul called after him.
“Dr. Rheese,” Matthew shouted back.
Paul stood baffled, watched him leave. “Jess, he says he’s going to bring Dr. Rheese, too. He’s walking away from me, heading southeast.”
Jess’s shouting voice crackled over the walkie-talkie. “No, he goddamn sure isn’t! You do what you need to, to turn his ass around—now! Cuff him if you have to!”
“Ten-four.” Shit.
Paul chased after him and quickly caught up. Matthew had an odd walk, hands held slightly out to his sides as if he were balancing or walking in the dark. Each step forward looked somewhat robotic, with a measured pace.
“Hey, buddy,” Paul said with a smile. “I think we�
�re going to have to come back for Mr. Rheese later . . .”
“Doctor.”
“Yeah, okay, sure—Doctor Rheese. Throwing out big respect. Anyway, that psycho killer guy is still out there, and we’ve got this awesome helicopter . . .”
“Rheese is with that ‘psycho killer guy’—pausing, still pausing—that’s why I have to get him. If you want to come with me and help, fine. Otherwise, I’ll be back up to that lot where the van is, in just a bit.”
Pausing? Paul thought. He was just being funny when he questioned Matthew’s mental health earlier, but it looked as though it might actually be an issue. Cuffs it is . . .
Paul kept pace behind him as he unclipped the pouch at the small of his back, pinched the links to keep them quiet, and readied the handcuffs for a quick hookup. He doubled his steps to Matthew’s back, seized an out-held wrist, and pulled it back, slapping a cuff against it. The single strand flipped around and clicked into place, but Matthew suddenly spun around, twisting his wrist out of Paul’s grip, grabbed Paul’s wrist in return, and wrenched it around behind Paul’s back, also capturing his other arm.
“Whoa, whoa, hey!” Paul shouted as Matthew tightened his grip and bent Paul backward into an awkward arch with only one foot on the ground.
“Where’s the key?”
“Look, hey, easy, man! Let me go. I’m just following orders to get you out of here! Let me go, damn it!”
“Key!”
“Shit . . . front right pocket. The little one.”
As Matthew reached around to the pocket Paul felt his knuckles pop and his hand bones squeeze together painfully.
“Easy, man! I told you, I’m here to help you!”
Matthew gave him a sharp knee to the back to push him away as he unlocked the cuff.
“Christ . . . guess your dad taught you some stuff, huh?”
Matthew didn’t answer. He tossed the handcuffs out into the jungle, the key along with them, and continued down the path, mumbling. Paul followed after him, contemplating just how to frame his next message to Jess.
He ultimately chose pleasant exuberance: “Hey, Jess. Paul again. Smidgen of resistance here. Go ahead and take care of yourselves when help arrives. I’ll be up there with our friend in two or three shakes.”
The static-filled, obscenity-laced response faded to a whisper as Paul twisted the volume knob down to 1.
FORTY
Matthew and Paul passed without noticing them. Abel watched the faces of his Cuban aides. They were hunched down in the bushes, confused, sweaty, exhausted. Oliver had been a serious loss. These men were useless, though they had provided him an air of legitimacy when required earlier.
Only twenty feet from where Matthew had emerged from the jungle, Abel had heard the entire exchange between him and the other young man. Fascinating that Matthew was intent on rescuing Dr. Rheese. Abel couldn’t comprehend the reason, but if it led him to his target so that he might finally conclude this miserable trip, then so be it.
He craned his neck up from behind the clump of bushes and, satisfied that they were out of sight, climbed out of hiding.
“¿Cuánto tiempo más?” one of the increasingly reluctant Cubans asked.
Abel glared back with a look that said, “As long as it takes.“
He set them off down the trail at a slow pace. He wasn’t interested in catching up. There was still a murderer on the loose, after all.
* * *
Two helicopters approached the deforested ridgeline where Jess sat. Núñez had been unconscious for a little over ten minutes but still had a pulse. He stroked her clammy forehead in his lap, his other hand shielding her face from the flying debris churned up by the rotor. The choppers landed, and out of one climbed two men in jumpsuits with a stretcher.
The medics tried to ask Jess questions as they moved Núñez, but he could pick up only every tenth word, and they didn’t speak a lick of English. After strapping her in, they carried her back to the helicopter. One climbed in after her while the other returned to Jess and helped him to the chopper.
Inside, the medic was putting an IV into Núñez’s arm. The other one felt around her neck, found a chain, and pulled her dog tags out from under her shirt. The chopper began to rise and pitched right, sending Jess sliding. He grabbed the hanging straps and belted himself in. Below, he could see a swarm of men in green uniforms streaming out of the large second chopper. Someone in charge was shouting commands. He prayed that someone was competent, that someone cared about their duty.
Jess turned back to the two working on Núñez and saw a packet of blood marked “O+” joining the clear packet on the IV hook. The medics spoke back and forth in rapid fire, one getting the blood flowing into her, the other cleaning away the mushed flesh from her hand. It all felt a bit like being in a dream. He wasn’t the boss anymore; he was a casualty awaiting triage. His bleeding had stopped, of that much he was certain, but every time he shifted his leg, he felt as if someone were stabbing his ankle with an ice pick.
One of the medics cheered and high-fived his partner. Good news, apparently. Jess leaned forward and spotted two surgical clamps sticking up out of Núñez’s hand. He guessed they had stopped the bleeding. The cheering one shouted to Jess and gave him a thumbs-up and a smile. Jess returned the gesture and slumped back into his seat, peering out the window at the rolling hills in the distance. Streaming by beneath them were busy roads and apartment buildings, gas station signs and a baseball field, a small airport, a highway, a flock of birds. A different world.
His cell phone vibrated repeatedly in his pocket, and he pulled it out. It had full signal now and was receiving data. The vibrations continued as he unlocked it and scrolled through the list of text messages: two from Ben, four from his wife, thirteen from Beth Turner. He stuffed it back in his pocket and let his head loll back against the cushion. What to do?
The medics were dabbing Núñez’s forehead with a wet cloth and lightly smacking her cheek. Her closed eyes began fluttering as the helicopter descended to an unseen landing spot.
When they touched down, medical personnel were waiting on the ground outside a large single-storied glass building. They rushed Núñez onto a rolling stretcher and eased Jess into a wheelchair. The medics walked with them, rattling off information.
Inside the building, Jess’s ankle was washed and examined, and an English-speaker informed him he would be going into surgery within the hour. He asked for some privacy and pulled out his cell phone. It was time.
“Jess?” Beth answered.
“Hey, Beth . . .”
“Oh, God, oh, dear God . . .” The phone fell away from her face for a moment, then returned. “Dear God, Jess, tell me. Just say it, just tell me.”
“Beth, ah—”
She shouted, “Which one? Dear God, not both! Don’t you dare say—”
“No, no . . . I, uh, listen, Beth—”
She screamed, “WHICH ONE!”
He could speak only in a whisper. “Roger. He’s, uh . . . he’s gone.”
The phone on the other end dropped onto something soft—the couch, he supposed. For a few moments, there was no noise, until it clicked and sound returned very close to the receiver, so that her quiet sniff seemed to happen inside his ear. She spoke softly, but the sound was loud, close. He could hear her shallow breath, even the noises of her tongue and lips moving.
“Jess, tell me about Matty now.”
“He’s okay.” As far as Jess knew, Matt was fine. It wasn’t really a lie . . . “He’s not with me right now, but he’s with one of my guys and he’s fine.”
He heard her sigh and sniff away from the phone again. When she came back again she said, “Bring them both home to me, okay? Will you do that? Jess?”
“Yeah, I’ll bring ’em. I’m so sorry, Beth. This is all . . .” But she had hung up. He consoled himself with the belief that she wouldn’t do anything crazy as long as she thought Matty was coming home. If that changed, he wouldn’t tell her over the phone. He�
�d need to be there—and with Iris and Beth’s sister. He flushed the idea from his mind. Paul was with Matty. Paul was smart. They’d get out.
FORTY-ONE
Down a thin trail, the prints of Fando’s boots and Rheese’s bare feet continued. The small valley was shaped like a boat: narrow at the top and wide at the far end. Matt and Paul crouched in the bow, peering down at a single house nestled in the woods.
“So sketchy,” Paul said. “We should go back.”
But Matt stood up and resumed downhill, so Paul drew his pistol, checked the magazine and chamber, and kept the weapon at the ready. Matt slowed down as they approached an unkempt yard. A dangling branch hung in the way of a small side trail that angled off left of the house. That side of the yard was shaded, while the opposite side sat in full sunlight. Matt ducked under the low-hanging branch, and Paul followed him onto the smaller trail while scoping out the yard. The back windows of the house were obscured by black shades, or maybe the panes had been painted black on the inside.
More trees and shrubs blocked the view of the house as the trail continued around the perimeter. Matt halted and put a hand up. They stood and listened: only the drone of cicadas. A large airplane was passing in the distance.
Matt looked down and spotted a narrow space beneath the bushes, leading into the side yard. He got on his belly and had started to crawl forward, when Paul tapped him on the back. Matt looked back to Paul’s shaking head.
Paul mouthed, “You’re staying here. I’ll check it out.“
Matt nodded and crawled out of the way, and Paul took his place, lying down in the bed of dead leaves, and slithering forward through the gap. On the other side, he could see the three unobscured windows on the dark side of the house. The area was shaded by mature, vibrantly green soursop trees, leaving the grass patchy and much of the ground muddy. Paul pressed his elbows down into the sludge to stand up, got his feet under him, and wiped the mud off on his jeans with his free hand.
He crept to the first window and rose onto his toes to peep in. It was a kitchen. No one was visible through either of the doorways he could see. He went to the next window and peeked in: a bathroom with a pink toilet and one of those cushioned seats that stuck to your butt when you got up.
The Opal (Book 2 of the Matt Turner Series) Page 27
