by Jude Hardin
“Are you out of your mind?”
“Plenty of places to hide in this building. I’ll pick your guys off one at a time until there’s nobody left. Then I’ll come after you.”
Silence for about ten seconds.
“I’m going to call Mr. Drake and ask him how he wants to proceed,” Nefangar said. “I’ll call you back.”
“Try to make it quick,” Wahlman said. “I’m starting to get impatient.”
Nefangar disconnected.
There were two stainless steel tanks at one end of the room, massive cylindrical things about twenty feet tall and as big around as bedrooms. Above the tanks, and leading down into them, were a pair of motorized mixing blades, huge steel shafts mounted on tresses that had been bolted to the ceiling. There was a stretch of scaffolding along the rear edge of the tanks, with a portable set of stairs pushed up against each side. Above the scaffolding Wahlman could see electrical conduit and copper plumbing, everything caked with grime and exposed in a tangle, like some kind of filthy industrial spaghetti, as if the infrastructural components of the operation had been installed as an afterthought, as if the pipes and valves and wires and junctions had been utilized for a short period of time and then abandoned and left to decay.
Wahlman started walking toward the tanks. He figured if you got both of those things humming real good you could crank out about a hundred and sixty thousand margaritas in no time. Assuming the tanks were five thousand gallons each, and assuming you used eight ounce glasses for the drinks.
Wahlman was good at calculating things like that in his head. In school he’d sometimes been suspected of cheating on math tests, because he always finished quickly and rarely needed to work anything out on paper. He would look at the problems and write down the answers, and then he would spend the rest of the period doodling or daydreaming. It drove his teachers crazy.
He stayed close to the wall as he approached the tanks, trying to keep a low profile in case any more guys in gray coveralls were lurking about. He made it to the mobile steel staircase on the right, tested his weight on the first couple of risers and then climbed up to the catwalk and peered down into one of the tanks through an access hatch. The shiny steel floor was dry, but the air smelled faintly of vinegar. Maybe this had been a salad dressing factory, he thought. He envisioned automatic chutes and conveyor belts and plastic bottles and hoses and nozzles and cardboard boxes stacked on wooden pallets.
And then he wondered why the factory wasn’t here anymore. People still ate plenty of salad dressing, so it had to be coming from somewhere. But then maybe something else had been produced here, something that had become obsolete. He was staring down into the tank and thinking about that when the phone trilled again.
“What did he say?” Wahlman asked, assuming it was Nefangar.
“By he, I suppose you mean me,” an unexpected male voice said.
It was Drake.
“I suppose I did,” Wahlman said. “I’ll tell you the same thing I told Nefangar. I’m not turning myself over until I’m a hundred percent certain that Mike Chilton has been set free.”
“I’m on a jet to Florida right now,” Drake said. “My clients have insisted that I tend to this matter myself.”
“Who are your clients?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Try me.”
“Let’s just say they’re quite perturbed that this situation wasn’t taken care of Sunday at the sandwich shop. But it’s going to be taken care of today. Definitely.”
“Who are your clients?” Wahlman asked again. “I think I have a right to know who’s trying to kill me.”
“We’ll discuss that when I get there. Then again, maybe not. Seems kind of pointless, if you want to know the truth.”
Wahlman did want to know the truth, but it seemed increasingly unlikely that Clifford Terrence Drake Junior would ever deliver it in any sort of meaningful way.
“Where’s Mike?” Wahlman asked. “I want to see him. Or at least talk to him.”
“Your friend is being driven to a different location as we speak. He was Special Forces in the navy, right?”
“Yes. He was a SEAL.”
“Then he shouldn’t have any problem finding his way out of the Okefenokee Swamp. It might take him a day or two, but he will survive.”
“That’s your idea of setting him free?”
“I’m afraid that’s the best I can do. I can’t just take him back to his house, now can I? He might come back to the factory and attempt some kind of daring rescue.”
Drake seemed to be enjoying himself. He was having a little fun at Wahlman’s expense. His vocal inflection on daring rescue made it sound like a melodramatic and silly thing to try.
“How will I know that you really let him go?” Wahlman asked, keeping his own tone serious, refusing to take the bait.
“We’ll transmit satellite images to your phone. You’ll be able to see the beads of sweat on your friend’s face as he tries to make his way out of the swamp.”
Live images from cameras in outer space. Close-ups. High-resolution. Ordinary citizens didn’t have access to that kind of technology. Which told Wahlman that Drake’s clients were not ordinary citizens.
“You’re not a lawyer,” Wahlman said. “You’re some kind of mercenary.”
“Who says I can’t be both? Now listen very carefully. I’m going to give you some information you’ll need to gain access to the satellite feed.”
Drake spelled out a user name and a password.
“Who hired you?” Wahlman asked again.
“This thing is bigger than you, or me, or Darrell Renfro, or Allison Bentley. This thing is bigger than big. You need to wrap your head around that, Mr. Wahlman. And you need to wrap your head around the fact that you’re going to die today.”
Wahlman wanted to wrap Drake’s head around something. Maybe one of the steel mixing blades he was staring down at.
“When will I be able to see the pictures of Mike out in the Okefenokee?” he asked.
“Check your phone in about an hour.”
“Then what?”
“Then I’ll call you and instruct you on exactly what to do next. In the meantime, you should stay where you are, there on the catwalk behind the mixing tanks.”
“How did you know—”
“See you soon,” Drake said, and disconnected.
20
Drake hadn’t given Wahlman much information, but he’d given him some. And along with the other things Wahlman had learned over the past two and a half days, it was enough to piece some things together and formulate a loose hypothesis.
A United States government agency, or a branch of the military, or a foreign government agency or military, had hired a team of mercenaries to kill Renfro and Wahlman, who somehow shared similar fingerprints and the exact same DNA as a former army officer named Jack Reacher. That was it in a nutshell. Which meant that the United States government, or a branch of the military, or a foreign government or military, had something to hide regarding Reacher and Renfro and Wahlman, something that possibly involved some sort of genetic research.
Because according to the results, you and Darrell Renfro and Jack Reacher are all the same person.
Human cloning.
As insane as it sounded, Wahlman couldn’t think of anything else it could be.
Detective Collins had said that the lab results were an obvious mistake, but Wahlman didn’t think so.
The technology had been around for a long time, and it had been illegal for a long time. Most mainstream scientists considered it unethical, for a variety of reasons. But the fact that it was illegal and unethical didn’t mean that it wasn’t happening, and it didn’t mean that it hadn’t been happening back around the time Wahlman was born. There were conspiracy theories to such effect. The tabloids were full of them. Wahlman had never put much stock in those kinds of things, but he supposed it was within the realm of possibility that some of the theories were tr
ue.
Clifford Terrence Drake Junior—maybe his real name, maybe not—was the leader of the team of mercenaries. The team had been hired to kill Wahlman and Renfro, and maybe dozens of other clones. Hundreds? Thousands? It sounded improbable and outrageous, but then this whole thing sounded improbable and outrageous. Human duplicates? Why would a government have done such a thing? And why would they have chosen this Jack Reacher fellow as a donor? Was it a random choice, or was there some sort of reasoning behind it?
Those were some of the questions rattling around in Wahlman’s brain, although he was doubtful that he would live long enough to find the answers.
But maybe he would. The team of mercenaries had probably only originally consisted of five guys: Drake and Nefangar, the first and second in command; the guy behind Allison’s drapes and McNeal, the first and second to die; and one other guy, who was currently transporting Mike Chilton to the Okefenokee Swamp.
Five to start with.
Three remaining.
That was Wahlman’s guess, based on his experience with similar groups on similar missions. If you were putting a crew like that together, you didn’t want too many people on the payroll, and you didn’t want too many people who could testify against you if things went bad. The fewer the better. Drake and Nefangar probably could have handled the job themselves, but they’d chosen to hire the other guys, for whatever reasons.
Five to start with.
Three remaining.
Wahlman’s estimate was also based on the fact that nobody else had come after him yet. If there had been more hired guns hanging out somewhere in the factory, they would have come and tried to kill him by now. Two, three, a dozen, it didn’t matter. If they had been here, they would have come.
Which meant that Nefangar was probably alone right now.
Wahlman thought about going after him, decided not to. Mostly out of concern for Mike. Also, it was indeed a big building, and there were indeed plenty of places to hide. And Nefangar was probably monitoring Wahlman’s movements. Wahlman hadn’t been able to spot any security cameras yet, but he knew they were there. It was the only way Drake could have known that he was on the catwalk behind the tanks.
Which was the safest place for him to be right now.
Wahlman hadn’t climbed up there out of curiosity. He’d chosen the position as a tactical defense strategy. If his estimate regarding the number of mercenaries was wrong, or if Drake and Nefangar somehow managed to call in some reinforcements, at least he would have a fighting chance from the elevated position. Maybe more than a fighting chance, considering the assortment of weapons he’d accumulated over the past twenty-four hours. The .38 and the 9mm and the shotgun. He wasn’t equipped to fend off an army, but he wasn’t exactly helpless either.
The phone made a little tinkling sound that Wahlman hadn’t heard before. He looked at the display and saw that Drake had sent him a text message. No correspondence, just a link to a website. When Wahlman tapped on the link, a login window popped up. He entered the user name and password Drake had given him earlier, and the next thing he saw was a wide grassy area flanked on each side by small ponds and massive oak trees. He zoomed in. A little black dot appeared to be moving slowly across the grassy area. He zoomed in some more, closer and closer, zeroing in on the little black dot, which turned out to be a man, but not the man Wahlman had been expecting to see. Not Mike Chilton, his best friend in the world, but someone else, someone he’d never seen before. The man was running, sweating, grunting, seemingly on the verge of collapse, pushing himself forward as if someone was chasing him, someone who meant to do him great harm. Then, suddenly, something swooped in behind him, a flying object, a helicopter, a very small one, the rotors churning in an arc no bigger than a pizza pan. The man started zigzagging toward the tree line in one last frantic effort to survive, but it was no use. The copter dove down a little closer to the ground and leveled out directly behind the man and there was a short burst of gunfire and that was it.
The display went dark for a few seconds, and then another scene appeared. Another man running, sweating, grunting. This time it was Mike Chilton. Wahlman recognized him, even though his head had been shaved completely bald. Mike was wearing the shirt Wahlman had given him for his birthday a couple of years ago. It was torn and dirty and soaked with sweat. The miniature helicopter was no longer visible, but Wahlman could hear the motor whirring somewhere in the distance, perhaps just out of camera range.
The phone made the little tinkling sound again.
It was another text message from Drake:
Just wanted to show off our handy-dandy little drone. Just so there’s no misunderstanding, just in case you were thinking you might be able to escape now that Mike Chilton has been set free. From this point forward, if you do anything other than what we tell you to do—and I mean exactly what we tell you to do—your friend will die.
The phone trilled. It was Nefangar.
“Did you get the message from Mr. Drake?” he asked.
“I got it,” Wahlman said.
“Good. I want you to climb down the set of stairs to your right. You’ll see a door that says AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. Open the door and walk all the way to the end of the hallway and take a left.”
“Then what?”
“Don’t worry about then what. Just do as you’re told. And leave your weapons there on the catwalk. The twelve-gauge and both of the handguns. Any sort of failure to cooperate will result in the immediate execution of your friend.”
“We’re kind of back to square one, aren’t we?” Wahlman said. “Even if I do cooperate, how do I know you’re not going to—”
Nefangar hung up.
Wahlman thought about staying on the catwalk and trying to fight it out. But if he did, Mike would die for sure. Going along with Drake and Nefangar wouldn’t guarantee a better outcome, but it would give Mike some time to think. He was a SEAL. He was an expert at surviving, even when the odds seemed insurmountable. And maybe Drake and Nefangar would keep their word and let him live. Or at least not gun him down with the drone. At least give him a chance to navigate his way out of the swamp.
With that in mind, Wahlman set all three of his guns down on the steel platform and headed toward the stairs.
21
When Wahlman got to the end of the hallway and took a left, a man was standing there waiting for him.
A small man with a large gun.
A .44 magnum.
Nickel plated with black grips. Barrel as fat as a soup can.
“Nefangar?” Wahlman said.
“Don’t talk. Drop the phone. I want you face down on the floor with your hands laced behind your head. Do it. Now.”
“You sounded bigger when I talked to you earlier. Is Drake a pipsqueak too?”
Nefangar reached into his pocket and pulled out a cell phone.
“I have a text ready to be sent out,” he said. “All I have to do is tap the SEND button, and your friend is dead.”
Wahlman weighed his options. He could go for the gun and hope Nefangar didn’t have the presence of mind to send the text, or he could go for the phone and hope Nefangar didn’t have the presence of mind to blow his brains out. Then he remembered something Mike Chilton had told him one time: when an opponent has the upper hand, sometimes you just have to play it cool for a while. Sometimes you just have to wait for the right opportunity to present itself. As long as you’re still breathing, there’s a chance the tables will turn. When they do, don’t hesitate. Strike fast. Strike hard. Get out.
It wasn’t anything you were going to find in any sort of field manual. It was something Mike had learned from experience. From being in situations that seemed hopeless.
In his formal training, Wahlman had been taught to avoid capture at all costs.
But this time the cost was just too high.
Wahlman dropped Allison’s cell phone, heard the display window crack when the device hit the concrete. He got down on the floor and laced his hands be
hind his head, immediately felt Nefangar’s knee come down hard on the lower part of his back. Nefangar dug his bony little thumbs into some pressure points on Wahlman’s hands and forced them down to the center of his ribcage and secured them at the wrists with nylon zip ties.
“Seems like you might have done this kind of thing before,” Wahlman said.
“Get up.”
Wahlman rolled over and rose to a standing position, again noticing what a small man Nefangar was. Five-five, maybe five-six. Skinny and pale. He wore an outfit identical to McNeal’s. Gray coveralls and a black hat.
“You look like you could use some vitamins,” Wahlman said. “Or a blood transfusion or something.”
Nefangar pointed the .44 at Wahlman’s chest. “Turn around and start walking,” he said. “Slowly. All the way to the door at the end of the hallway.”
“You’re pretty tough with a gun in your hand. Put it down and see if I don’t kick your ass all the way to the door at the end of the hallway.”
“Move!”
Wahlman turned around and started walking. When he got to the end of the hallway, Nefangar instructed him to step to the right and place the toes of his boots against the baseboard and his forehead against the wall.
“So you can shoot me in the back of the head?” Wahlman asked. “So you don’t have to look into my eyes when you do it?”
“You’re starting to get on my nerves.”
“That’s okay. You’re starting to get on mine too.”
“Mr. Drake will be here shortly. Then you will die. Slowly and painfully, if I have anything to say about it. In the meantime, I need you stand against the wall while I open this door. Then I’m going to follow you into the room on the other side of it. That’s one way we can do it. The other way is for me to shatter the bones in your feet with a couple of .44 slugs and drag you into the room.”
“I guess I’ll go for Option One,” Wahlman said.
“Good choice.”
Wahlman turned and edged his toes up against the baseboard, and then he leaned in and pressed his forehead against the painted sheetrock. Nefangar’s keys jingled as he pulled them out of his pocket, and they jingled some more as he turned them over in his hand and searched for the one that would open the door.
