The Hades Factor c-1

by Robert Ludlum

  Ahead, the road forked. Peter swerved the RV right. He was racing the bouncing, swaying pickup through the darkness. Abruptly the road curved back toward the lighted picnic area.

  “Bloody damn!” he swore. “Road's a loop.” The high headlights were behind them, and the gray pickup was driving toward them from ahead. “Trapped again!” He reached behind his seat and pulled out his Enfield bullpup. “Get to the back door and use this!”

  “Me?” But Marty caught the assault rifle as Peter tossed it to him.

  “When I say, just point and pull the trigger, my boy. Imagine it's a joystick.”

  The creases on Peter's leathery face were deep canyons of worry, but his eyes were glowing. He hit the brake again, yanked the wheel, and ran the RV off the road into a grove of trees that extended thick into the darkness. As soon as he skidded the big vehicle to a stop, he jumped from the seat, pulled out his H&K submachine gun, grabbed two cases of clips, handed the SA80 rounds to Marty, and hurried with his own clips and submachine gun to a side window.

  The RV's nose was deep in the trees, and the side door also faced the woods. This meant the vehicle presented a solid side to the attackers while Peter and Marty could still fire from both the rear door and the small side windows.

  Marty was examining his weapon, prodding it as he muttered to himself.

  Peter asked, “Got it figured out?” The one good thing about the annoying fellow was he had turned out to be as smart as Jonathan Smith had claimed.

  “There are some things I never wanted to learn.” Marty looked up and sighed. “Of course, I understand this primitive machine. Child's play.”

  The car behind the headlights was a large black SUV. It had stopped on the road. The gray pickup was driving slowly across the grass toward the RV.

  Peter shot out the front tires of the pickup.

  The pickup sagged to a stop. For a time nothing moved.

  Then two men pitched out like rag dolls from the pickup and dove under it. At the same time, automatic fire blasted from the SUV and slammed into the RV's side with loud screeches of tearing metal.

  “Down!” Peter shouted as the RV rocked from the gunfire's impact.

  Marty dove head first, and Peter crouched against the side wall.

  When there was a pause, Marty looked around. “Where are the bullet holes? We should look like a sieve.”

  Peter grinned. “Had some serious plate put on this buggy. Thought you knew that from the ruckus in the Sierras. Good thing, right?”

  A new fusillade hammered against the armored steel sides. But this time, it smashed windows and tore curtains, too. Glass shards sliced through the air and embedded themselves into appliances. Bits of cloth floated down like snow.

  Marty had wrapped his arms over his head. “Obviously you should have considered putting plate on the windows.”

  “Steady,” Peter said quietly. “They'll become weary after a bit and stop to see if we're still alive. Then we'll just spoil their little party, eh?”

  Marty sighed and tried to calm the terror in his veins.

  After another minute of the violent barrage, the firing died away. The cessation of sound seemed to create a vacuum in the lighted park. The birds were silent. No small animals scurried through the underbrush. Marty's face was white with fear.

  “Right,” Peter said cheerfully. “Let's have a look-see.”

  He raised up to peer out a corner of the shattered window above him. The two men from the gray truck were standing in the shelter of their vehicle holding what looked like Ingram M11 submachine guns. They stared across the swath of lighted grass to the RV. As Peter watched, a short, heavy man in a cheap gray suit, his face glistening with sweat, stepped out of the big SUV. His weapon was a Glock pistol. He motioned with his arm, and two more well-armed men climbed from the SUV. With another motion he ordered the group to spread out and close in on the RV.

  “Right,” Peter said again, softly this time. “Marty, take the two on the right. I'll take the left. I doubt any of them will charge into fire, so don't worry about your aim. Just point in their direction, squeeze the trigger, and let it rip. Ready?”

  “My degradation increases.”

  “Good man. Here we go.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

  Inside the heavily equipped RV, the tension was electric. Still some twenty yards away, the five armed men and the short, square leader were rapidly closing in on Peter and Marty. The attackers progressed carefully, their gazes constantly roaming. They carried their weapons with the sureness of experience. Even in the distance, menace radiated from their walks.

  “Now!” Peter fired a careful burst at the leader, while Marty let loose with everything.

  As Marty's barrage shredded leaves and pine needles, ripped bark, and sawed through small branches, Peter's target grunted, clutched his right arm, and fell to his knees. Marty continued to spray bullets. The noise was deafening.

  “Hold it, Marty! That's enough.”

  The echoes of the furious volleying reverberated through the park. The four men and their wounded leader crawled wildly for the shelter of firepits, benches, brush, and trees. Once under cover, they opened fire again at the RV. Bullets whined through the open window above Peter's head and thudded into the opposite wall. Selective this time, they were looking for targets.

  Peter crouched low. “They won't hit us dead on again because of our firepower, but at the same time they won't go away. They've probably left a driver in the SUV. It's only a matter of time before one of us is hit, we run out of ammo and they get us, or the police come and arrest us all.”

  Marty shivered. “Too bad the police are out of the question. Many aspects of the idea are appealing.”

  Peter nodded and grimaced. “They'd want to know what we were doing with highly illegal weapons and a command post in the RV. If we tell them about Jon, they'll check, find he's wanted, and toss us into the slammer to wait for the army and FBI. If we don't tell them, we'll have no explanation, and they'll lock us up with our villainous friends out there.”

  “Logical. You have a solution?”

  “We must split up.”

  Marty said firmly, “I will not be abandoned to those cutthroats and murderers.”

  Peter's eyes glinted out from the shadows. In his black commando clothes, he was difficult to see. “I know you don't think I'm too swift, my boy, but do remember this is how I've made my living since before you were an irritating twinkle in your father's eye. Here's the plan: I shall slip out the front door where they won't see me. You will then blast away to cover me. Once clear, I will circle to the left and make so much noise they'll believe a brigade is escaping. When they're convinced we've both quit the RV, they'll pursue me with their entire force. At that point, you'll be able to safely crank up this packhorse and do a fast bunk. Clear?”

  Marty pursed his lips. His round cheeks expanded in thought. “If I stay with the RV, then I can keep checking for contact from Jon while I pursue Sophia's phone calls and look for Bill Griffin. Obviously, I'll have to find someplace to hide the RV. When I do, I'll post my location at the Asperger's syndrome Web site, just as we discussed.”

  “You're quick, my boy. There are certain aspects to dealing with a genius I like. Give me a minute to get into position, then fire away until your magazine's empty. Remember, a full minute.”

  Marty studied the weather-worn face with the craggy features. He had grown accustomed to seeing it. Today was Wednesday, and they had been together constantly since Saturday. During the past five days, he had been hurled into more terrifying and hair-raising experiences than in his entire life, and with far more at stake. He supposed it was natural he had grown accustomed to having Peter around. For an instant he had a strange emotion: Regret. Despite all the Englishman's annoyances, Marty would miss him. He wanted to tell him to be careful.

  But all he could manage was, “It's been strange, Peter. Thanks.”

  Their gazes connected. Quickly both turned away.

&nb
sp; “I know, my boy. Me, too.” With a wink, Peter crab-walked to the front of the RV and fastened on his equipment belt.

  Marty gave a brief smile and took position again at the rear door. Nervously he waited while giving himself a stern lecture that he could indeed pull this off.

  The incoming fire had all but ceased, probably while the attackers figured out a new plan. As soon as Peter slipped out of the RV and melted into the deep shadows of the moonlit woods, Marty counted out a minute in his head. He made himself breathe slowly and evenly. When the minute was up, he gritted his teeth, leaned out, and opened fire with the bullpup. The gun reverberated in his hands and shook his entire body. Frightened but determined, he kept up a steady stream of fire across the night and into the dark trees. Peter was depending on him.

  From their cover, the attackers returned a fusillade. The RV rocked from the hail of bullets.

  Sweat popped out on Marty's face. He kept squeezing the trigger as he fought back fear. When the magazine was empty, he hugged the gun to his chest and carefully peered around the corner of the doorway. He saw no movement anywhere. He wiped his palm across his forehead, getting rid of a layer of sweat, and let out a long stream of relieved air.

  As another minute passed, he clumsily changed magazines. He sat back. Two minutes passed. His skin began to crawl with tension.

  Then he heard what sounded like somebody trying to be quiet among the trees far off to his left. Peter! He cocked his head, listening.

  A warning voice from one of the attackers carried across the picnic grounds: “They're escaping!”

  Almost at once, heavy fire from what seemed like two or three rifles raked out of the forest on the left, the direction in which Peter had said he would go.

  On the picnic grounds, the men from the pickup and SUV frantically found new hiding spots as gunfire continued from this new direction.

  Then the firing ceased. It sounded as if several people were running away to the left through the forest.

  “After them!” a different voice shouted from the picnic area.

  Energy jolted Marty. That was what he had been waiting for. He watched as men from the truck ran off to the left. At the same time, someone turned on the SUV's engine, drove it in a wide U-turn, and headed off to the left also. Everyone was chasing Peter, just as he had predicted.

  Guiltily, Marty rolled and bumped his way into the RV cab. He was safe while Peter was out there, a hare to their hounds. Still, he knew Peter was right ― this was the rational way to handle this grave situation.

  The keys were in the ignition. He took a long breath to calm his resisting nerves and started the engine. He was worried not only about whether he would ever be able to uncover the vital information Jon needed; more to the point was whether he could drive Peter's RV safely away from the park. But when the oversize motor's power surged up through his hands and into his body, he had an idea: He closed his eyes and put reality on hold. Suddenly he was inside a Galaxy-rated starship, piloting it singlehandedly into the dangerous Fourth Quadrant. It was a forced trip, because he was still under the influence of his Mideral. Still, stars, planets, and asteroids flashed past the starship's bulkhead windows in rainbows of light. He was gloriously in control, and the unknown beckoned.

  His eyes snapped open. Don't be silly, he told himself with disgust, of course you can drive this gravity-bound RV. It's virtually an anachronism!

  With a surge of confidence, he threw the RV into reverse, hit the accelerator, sped backwards, and scraped a tree. Undeterred, he looked over both shoulders, checked the rearview and side-view mirrors, and saw nobody. He yanked the steering wheel, turned the RV around, and blasted it out of the forest like toothpaste from a tube. At the same time, he watched for trouble, just as Peter had taught him. His glittering green gaze examined shadows and obstacles, checking everywhere that could be cover for their attackers.

  But this part of the park was quiet. Heaving a sigh of relief, he rocketed the RV past the picnic grounds and onto the highway heading north to Syracuse.

  * * *

  Crouched in a concrete drainage ditch at the edge of the park, his submachine gun ready to fire, Peter Howell saw his RV rushing north on the highway. He grinned with admiration. That exasperating little bastard Marty had risen to the occasion yet again.

  He rubbed a hand over his grizzled chin and refocused his attention. He breathed deeply, inhaling the earthy scents of the damp ditch but also the fragrant trees on the higher ground and the myriad creatures that inhabited it. At the same time he listened and scrutinized with every fiber of his body. His senses were alert, on fire. He could hear and sense the attackers moving toward him on foot and in the SUV on the road that crossed the drainage ditch. It was time to get himself away.

  He unhooked two cylindrical black canisters from his belt, laid them side by side on the parapet of the bridge, and drew his 14-round Browning Hi-Power 9mm pistol from his open combat holster. The pistol in his right hand and the H&K MP5 in his left, he raised his eyes to look down the road.

  They were advancing in a wide line. The SUV was behind, its headlights outlining the bloody fools. He needed them closer together. So when they were still some fifteen yards away, he opened fire with both guns, moving quickly from side to side to simulate shooting by more than one person.

  They zeroed in on him and returned fire. He fell back, as if retreating. Encouraged, they ran toward him in a tighter semicircle, while he grabbed the canisters and shimmied toward them on his belly. As soon as they were just thirty feet away, he lifted his shoulder and hurled the first canister. The magnesium-based stun grenade exploded with a great flash and bang directly in the center of their semicircle, only a foot or two from most of them.

  All went down. Some screamed and clutched their heads. Others were simply stunned and momentarily out of action. Which was all Peter needed.

  He was up instantly, speeding around their left flank. The thousands of rounds fired in the SAS Close Quarters Battle House, perfecting the skill to rapidly score head hits while running at full speed, never left you. He squeezed off two fast shots, easily destroying the SUV's headlights, and then he threw the second stun grenade. It landed in their midst. Since they still had not recovered from the first, it was not only physically but psychologically devastating. Within minutes, as they still tried to gather their wits, Peter was a hundred yards off in the distance, trotting softly but swiftly away toward the highway and Syracuse.

  * * *

  As he closed in on the city, Marty slowed the RV, looking for somewhere to hide it and himself. He was beginning to think this time he had outsmarted himself. Where could you hide something as big and obvious as a recreational vehicle, especially one in which many of the windows had been destroyed and bullet holes had battered the sides? Behind him on the state highway a line of cars was piling up. Horns honked, making him nervous as he anxiously scanned all around for safety.

  Finally, he pulled onto the shoulder so the backed-up cars and trucks could rush past in an angry roar. Worried, he drove back onto the highway and resumed his search. Then he saw an intriguing sight: On either side of the highway were car dealerships with brightly lighted showrooms and lots full of vehicles. There was everything from inexpensive compacts to luxury sedans and sports cars. Miles of them. It was giving him an idea. He craned to look ahead. Would he find ―?

  Yes! Like a miracle, a vast, lighted open area stretched off to the right. It was a new and used recreational vehicle sales lot and repair facility.

  He thought of the old children's riddle: Where do you hide an elephant?

  The answer, of course, was in a herd of elephants.

  Chortling with glee, Marty turned into the main gate and drove to the back until he found an empty space. He pulled in and turned off his motor. It was late, so the dealer would have to close soon. With luck, no one would find him here at night.

  10:27 P.M.

  Syracuse, New York

  Professor Emeritus Richard Johns lived
in a restored old Victorian on South Crouse Avenue below the university's hill. In his living room, lovingly furnished by his wife with antiques of the same period as the house, he studied the man who had knocked on his door so late and wanted to know about Sophia Russell. There was something about the stranger that frightened Johns. An intensity. A suppressed violence. He wished he had never allowed him inside.

  “I'm not sure what more I can tell you, Mr. ―?”

  “Louden. Gregory Louden.” Peter Howell offered a smile as he reminded the professor of the false name he had given on the doorstep. Then: “Dr. Russell thought highly of you.” He was dressed in coveralls and a trench coat he had bought from a curious trucker who had given him a ride into Syracuse. From there, he had caught a taxi to the professor's house near the university, which had so far turned out to be a waste of time. The man was nervous and had been able to remember only that Sophia had been an excellent student and had a few close friends, but he could name none.

  Johns reiterated, “I was simply chair of her major department and had her in a few classes. That's all. I heard she switched her field of study in grad school.”

  “She was studying anthropology with you, wasn't she?”

  "Yes. An enthusiastic student. We were surprised that she left the major.

  “Why did she?”

  “I have no idea.” Johns knitted his brows. “Although I do recall that in her senior year she took the absolute minimum requirements for anthro. She studied a lot of biology instead. Too late to declare a different major by then, of course, unless she planned to stay on another year or two.”

  Peter stopped pacing. “What happened in her junior year to interest her in biology?”

  “I have no idea about that either.”

  He remembered the Prince Leopold report had mentioned Bolivia and Peru. “What about field trips?”

  The professor frowned. “A field trip?” His gaze focused on Peter as if he had suddenly remembered something. "Of course. We have a summer departmental trip for majors between their junior and senior years.