Wave of Terror

by Jon Jefferson

  “You followed me? Why?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Are you stalking me? Because I didn’t have sex with you?”

  He smiled slightly. “No, of course not. Not because of that.”

  “Then why? Why on earth would you follow me?”

  “Because I was worried about you.”

  “Worried about me?” O’Malley snorted. “I’m just fine. You don’t need to worry about me.”

  “Yes, I do, Meh-ghan. What you are doing is very worrisome.”

  “What I’m doing?” O’Malley felt her nerve endings go on high alert. For the first time, she sensed that something besides macho swagger lay beneath his concern. “What am I doing, Iñigo?”

  “You are making a lot of noise. You are asking questions and poking around. You are meddling in something that is none of your business.” He reached a hand behind his back, and when it reappeared, it was holding a pistol, and the pistol was pointing at her. The blinding light of a laser pointer—a laser sight—flickered briefly across her face, and then the small circle of light, bright as carmine dye or heart’s blood, settled onto her chest.

  CHAPTER 13

  Frozen in space and time, the seismometer in one hand, the car battery in the other, and the red dot of the laser sight on her chest, O’Malley felt a seismic shift within her mind. A whole series of tumblers clicked into place, and a realization hit her with swift, sickening clarity. Iñigo’s lack of concern about the malfunctioning telescope and his teasing deflections—even his romantic advances—made sudden, sinister sense. “You’re part of it. My God, Iñigo, you’re part of it.”

  He cocked his head, waiting, not denying.

  “The fault line, the explosions—you’re the one trying to trigger a landslide.”

  “Me personally? No. I am not setting off the explosions. I myself will not cause the landslide. But I am aware of what is happening, and I do have a part to play.”

  “What part is that, Iñigo?”

  “At the moment, unfortunately, my part is to stop you from calling more attention to our project.”

  “Who is ‘we’? Stop me how?” He did not answer.

  Another realization: “My brakes—they didn’t fail. You sabotaged them, or had somebody sabotage them, just now at the observatory. You tried to kill me in a car accident!”

  He shrugged.

  “For God’s sake, why?”

  “As I said, you are causing problems.”

  She shook her head. “Not ‘why are you trying to kill me?’ Why are you doing all this? You and whoever you’re working for? You’re trying to trigger a huge mass disaster—you know that, right?” He didn’t respond, but she saw a glint of confirmation in his eyes. “Are you insane? Or do you have some terrible hatred of Americans?”

  He scratched his cheek with the muzzle of the pistol. “Individually, no. But collectively?” His eyes hardened. “When I was three years old, my father was killed. By your government. My mother lost her mind with grief. I was sent to an orphanage. I swore an oath that when I grew up, I would do everything in my power to avenge my father’s death and my mother’s suffering.”

  “I . . . Iñigo, that’s terrible. But this—trying to kill millions of innocent people?”

  “Innocent people?” His eyes narrowed. “America is the biggest bully on the planet. You’re running low on oil? Just invade a Middle Eastern country. You don’t like a nation’s leader? Just stage a coup.” He made a face of disgust. “Don’t talk to me about innocent people.”

  O’Malley felt her anger rising. “So because your father was killed when you were three, you think it’s okay to kill thousands—many thousands—of American three-year-olds?”

  He waved the gun as if shooing a fly, as if shooing her arguments. “Your disapproval is irrelevant. The world will soon start to run out of food and water. Only the strongest will survive.”

  “Do you want to be remembered as the world’s worst mass murderer?”

  He smiled. “No one will remember me or blame me. The world will remember and blame radical Islam. And radical Islam will feed on that hatred. Grow stronger from it.” He swung the pistol, pointing it toward the edge of the cliff. “Take the seismometer over there.”

  “No.”

  “No? You want me to shoot you?”

  “No, asshole, I don’t want you to shoot me. I want you to put the gun away, get in your car, and get the fuck away from me.”

  He shook his head slowly. “I cannot do that.” He pointed the gun at her again. “Take the seismometer over there.”

  “No.”

  He muttered what she assumed was a curse; then he stepped toward her and grabbed one of her arms and jerked hard. The pull spun her, so that she was facing away from him and toward the edge of the cliff, some fifty yards away. Pressing the pistol against her back, he began pushing her toward the edge.

  Do something, O’Malley, she shrieked at herself, but her mind—so often brimming with ideas and plans and scenarios—had gone as dark as a black hole.

  Three feet from the edge, he halted. “Here,” he said, releasing her arm. “Put it down here.”

  She stared over the edge. Far, far below, breakers smashed and foamed on the rocks. The wind swept up, cold and damp and strong—almost, she suspected, strong enough to catch her in midair and blow her back up. Almost, but not quite. How long, she wondered absurdly, would it take her to fall that far? Too long, she thought. And not nearly long enough. How high had Google Earth told her this cliff was? A thousand feet? No: fourteen hundred. Fourteen hundred friggin’ feet. Feet. The word “feet” gave her the glimmer of an idea. Desperate, maybe even dumb, but an idea.

  Slowly she turned to face him. “Okay,” she said. “I’m putting it down now.” As she said the word “now,” she slammed the car battery and twenty-pound seismometer downward, with all her strength, onto his feet.

  Iñigo howled in pain, then sank to his knees. As he did, the hand with the gun swung toward her. She grabbed it and he bellowed again, the sound more animal than human, as she twisted the gun and his index finger splintered. But her grip on the gun was only partial, and as she tore it from his hand, it slid from her own as well, and went flying, cartwheeling, over the edge and into the void.

  She kicked at him, but he managed to block the kick, and she fell, twisting and scrabbling away even before she hit the ground. She got to her feet, but the fall had sprained her ankle, and as she staggered away, her steps were agonizingly slow—and utterly agonizing.

  She limped along the edge of the cliff, needing to steer a wide berth around him before angling uphill to her car. She glanced back, praying that Iñigo was still crumpled on the ground, but he was on his feet, and despite whatever damage she’d done—surely some of the bones in his feet were broken?—he was chasing her. And he was gaining on her.

  “No!” she yelled. The wind tore the word away and—as if somehow fed by it—grew louder. Louder and more powerful, with a pulsing force she could feel throughout her body. The pulsing intensified, and suddenly O’Malley jerked to a stop as a spinning rotor, and then a gleaming helicopter, ascended from below the rim of the cliff. The helicopter wheeled, turning directly toward her. She whirled, gasping as pain shot through her ankle, and staggered up the slope. There was no point in trying to get away, she realized: the only question was whether it would be Iñigo or the helicopter that reached her first. But damned if she’d give up without a fight.

  She looked back just in time to see the helicopter wheel again—this time toward Iñigo—and tilt forward, the leading edge of the rotor angling downward, only a few feet off the ground. Iñigo froze, raised his arms to cover his face, and reflexively dodged. The aircraft moved toward him, and he scurried away. Suddenly he stumbled, arms flailing, and seemed to hang suspended for an instant. Then he toppled backward and disappeared over the edge. The helicopter hung motionless, as if the aircraft itself were surprised by this sudden turn of events.

  O’Malley gaspe
d in surprise and horror. She felt on the verge of vomiting once more, but she forced back the nausea and began staggering toward her car again, her breath ragged and heaving.

  The thrum of the blades increased, the rotor wash buffeting her as the helicopter skimmed overhead, spun to face her, and landed directly between her and the car. O’Malley stumbled; she fell to her knees, breaking her fall with her hands, and found herself unable to rise.

  The helicopter’s engine spooled down and the blades slowed. The cockpit door opened and the pilot emerged, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses. O’Malley remained on all fours, shaking her head slowly, her pain and fear and fury overtaking her in ragged rasps as the man approached. He stopped a few feet away, and suddenly, as if she had entered the eye of a hurricane, she felt a strange stillness, along with a pang of sorrow. Let it be quick, she prayed, bowing her head. Please let it be quick.

  “Dr. O’Malley? Megan? Are you hurt?”

  Her head jerked up. The voice: it sounded American, and it sounded kind.

  “I’m Special Agent Dawtry,” the man went on. “FBI.” He knelt in front of her, his brow furrowed with concern. “Are you hurt?”

  O’Malley tried to speak but couldn’t. She managed to shake her head before breaking into deep, racking sobs. “It’s okay,” she heard him say, and she felt his arms encircle her. “It’s okay,” he repeated. “You’re safe.” She sagged against him, her breath still coming in ragged gasps. “Take your time,” he said. She nodded. She drew a deep, shuddering breath and held it, then blew it out slowly between pursed lips. She repeated the procedure, and then—after a third cycle, steady this time—she pulled away and stared at him.

  “Where the hell did you come from?” Before he could answer, she added, “And what the hell took you so long?”

  A peal of laughter burst from him, and O’Malley laughed, too, then found herself crying again. “Goddammit,” she said. “I hate to cry.” She wiped her face with her sleeve, blowing her nose messily in the crook of her elbow. “Yuck.”

  “Can you stand up?” She nodded, and he got to his feet, offering her a hand to haul her up—he was strong, this G-man. But when she put weight on her right foot, she gasped. “What’s wrong?”

  “I sprained my ankle. Nothing to worry about.” She tried a step, and pain knifed through her. “Oww.”

  “Here, lean on me. Let’s get you to the car.” He put one arm behind her back and held her waist, taking hold of her upper arm with his free hand. She reached up and held his shoulder, and they hobbled up the hillside in a clumsy parody of a three-legged race. “We should probably wrap that and put an ice pack on it.”

  “How?”

  “There’s probably a first-aid kit in the helicopter.” He gave a small laugh. “As if a first-aid kit would do anything if you crashed.”

  “Agent Dawtry—”

  “Chip, by the way.”

  Under the circumstances, she couldn’t quite make the shift to a first name. It wasn’t even an actual name; it was a nickname, a kid’s name. “I appreciate your concern. I especially appreciate the rescue. But . . . don’t you need to see about . . . him?” She nodded toward the edge of the cliff.

  He gave a slight grimace. “Nothing to see—not from up here—except maybe a smear on the rocks.”

  “Jesus. Poor Iñigo. I mean, he was trying to kill me, but still—”

  “Wait.” He stopped, squeezing her arm.

  “Oww.”

  “You knew that guy?”

  “Yeah. He was a colleague.”

  “A colleague? I do not think that word means what you think it means.” O’Malley blinked. Was this FBI agent actually quoting dialogue from The Princess Bride, or was the choice of words pure coincidence? He shook his head. “Murder isn’t an act of collegiality.”

  “We worked together,” she said. “Only briefly. He’s a telescope operator—a staff astronomer, basically—at the observatory.”

  O’Malley could see him processing this, his eyes flitting back and forth, his brows knitted. “I don’t get it. Why would another astronomer try to kill you? Did you steal his discovery or something?”

  “Agent Dawtry—”

  “Chip.”

  “He’s part of it, Chip. They’re trying to set off a giant landslide. You probably think I’m crazy, but—”

  He shook his head slightly. She thought she saw a smile in his eyes and the corners of his mouth. “Dr. O’Malley, would I be here if I thought you were crazy?”

  Now it was her turn to smile, for a nanosecond or so. “Good point,” she conceded. “Okay, Chip, if you don’t think I’m nuts, quit calling me Dr. O’Malley.”

  “Deal, Megan. But I still don’t get it. You said ‘they.’ You said, ‘They’re trying to set off a landslide.’ Who are ‘they’—the observatory? A bunch of sociopathic astronomers?”

  She couldn’t help laughing at the absurdity of the idea. “No, not the observatory. I don’t know who. I just know that Iñigo’s involved because he hates America. Hated America. He blamed the US government for his father’s death.”

  Dawtry drew back slightly and looked at her, his gaze intensifying. “His father was killed in a war? Where? When?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t say. All he told me was that the US killed his father, his mother went crazy from grief, and he—Iñigo—grew up in an orphanage. He’s spent his whole life seeking vengeance.”

  “Wow,” he said. “Weird. Just like Iñigo Montoya in The Princess Bride.”

  She raised her eyebrows—he was a fan—and then nodded. “I hadn’t thought of that. Coincidence? The name, I mean? Two vengeful Spaniards named Iñigo?”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” he said. “And maybe Iñigo’s not his real name.”

  “Why would he use a fake name?”

  “Gee, I dunno,” he said. “Maybe to conceal his true identity while he slaughters millions of innocent people? Do you think he was telling the truth about why he was doing it?”

  “It sounded true,” she said. “He was about to kill me, so why bother lying? I got the feeling he thought I deserved to know why I was about to die. That, or he wanted to brag. Or maybe twist the knife a little.”

  “Or maybe D, all of the above. You think you can walk?”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  He released her arm, but when he did, her right leg buckled, so he caught her and resumed serving as her crutch. “What else did he tell you?”

  She tried to replay their last conversation—his last confession, as it turned out—but she had trouble retrieving the transcript. “He said that the world would condemn radical Islam. And that the condemnation would help radical Islam grow stronger.” She frowned. “But I didn’t get the feeling that he’s actually a jihadist himself. More like he was helping them because of his grudge. But I have no idea how he connected with them.”

  He scowled. “Easy to do, these days. ISIS and al-Qaeda have gotten very savvy at finding and recruiting people with chips on their shoulders.” Either the wind was picking up or O’Malley was bordering on shock; she was now shivering. “You’re cold?”

  She nodded, her teeth beginning to chatter.

  “Okay, let’s get you to the car and turn on the heat, and then we’ll take care of that ankle.” They continued their three-legged hobble.

  She stopped abruptly. “Don’t we need to call 9-1-1—or whatever the Spanish version is—before we do anything else?” He didn’t answer, and she thought perhaps he hadn’t heard her. “Chip?” His name still felt strange and oddly, embarrassingly intimate.

  “Let me think about that,” he said. After detouring around the helicopter, they reached her SUV. The rear hatch was still open, and he helped her turn and ease down onto the shelf of the cargo space. Dawtry turned away, staring for a while into the distance—at the vast ocean, or at the edge of the cliff, or at something visible only in his mind’s eye—and then shook his head and turned back to her. “I don’t think we can call the police.”

  �
�What? A man is dead.” The way she said it, it sounded less like a fact than an accusation.

  “I know he’s dead. You think I’ll forget the look on his face when he started to fall?”

  She saw real pain in his eyes, and she wished she could take back her words, or at least change their tone. “I’m sorry. I’m not criticizing, just . . . I think we have to call the police.”

  He frowned. “Normally, I’d be the last person on earth to say this, but I think it’s better to leave the police out of it. For one thing, I disobeyed an order to come here and find you, and it’d put the Bureau, not to mention me, in a bad spot to file a report. For another, if we get tangled in red tape, we lose our chance to find the bad guys and stop them.”

  She looked away and chewed her lip, thinking, then turned back to him. “So if we don’t call the police, what do we do?”

  He locked eyes with her. “Nothing. We get the hell out of Dodge. We pretend we weren’t here.”

  She gaped, dumbfounded.

  “Megan, this guy wasn’t some loco nutcase, some lone wolf. He’s part of something big, right? There are more people involved—maybe lots more—and we don’t know who they are or where they are.” He turned and scanned the rutted, serpentine road, as if a convoy of killers might be careering toward them even as he spoke. “We can’t trust anybody here. Including the police.”

  His paranoia, if that’s what it was, was contagious. Her eyes searched his face. “You never answered my question,” she said, feeling a surge of dread.

  “Huh?” He looked puzzled, or possibly concerned about her clarity of mind. “Yeah, I did. I said that what we do is get out of here and keep our mouths shut.”

  “Not that question,” she said. Without moving her body, O’Malley slid her right hand in a small arc, feeling for something. Her fingers found what they were seeking: the tire iron that had been clattering constantly during her drive. Her fingers curled around the cold steel shaft, and her grip steadily tightened. “My first question.”

  “What first question? What are you talking about?”

  “I asked how you found me.”