Ground Truth

by Rob Sangster

  “That’s the answer.” He felt a flicker of hope. “The address of the sender of the e-mail to Gorton was cloaked, meaning it couldn’t be traced. That would be hard to arrange on a cell phone or BlackBerry, but easy on a regular computer. So he’s hiding in a place with a computer. But where?”

  “I know where—and it’s not with a girlfriend!” Her excitement burst through the receiver. “Remember a week ago when I went dancing with him in Mexico City, the night you got so bent out of shape? He invited me to see his etchings as soon as I got to the Palmer plant to do that contract work.”

  “Come on. He didn’t really say ‘etchings.’”

  She chuckled. “Figure of speech. He was boasting about rare Aztec antiquities he’d bought on the black market. He’s obsessed with them. He said he keeps them at a lodge he owns on the mesa north of El Paso.”

  “I’ve seen that mesa. There are dozens of homes up there.”

  “He talked about a spectacular view of city lights at night and said he can see the ridge on Palmer plant grounds in Juarez.”

  “Anything else, like a putting green, barn, pool—”

  “Not a pool. He called his lodge ‘El Castillo’ because a dry moat runs around it.”

  “That puts the lodge in a certain sector of the mesa, and the moat will be a giveaway from the air. I’ll call Gano and have him get airborne.”

  He clicked off and entered Gano’s number.

  “Anything on Montana?” Jack asked.

  “Zilch. I called the plant, posing as a client. Montana was a no-show all day. I even took a run by his golf course and through the clubhouse at Sunland racetrack. Nada. I don’t know where else to look. He’s slithered out of sight.”

  “Get airborne as fast as you can. Here’s what you’re looking for.” He relayed Debra’s information. “If you spot it, get out of there fast. Don’t spook him. And let me know.”

  “Roger Wilco. I’m ten minutes from the airport now. Over and out.”

  He called Debra back. “Gano’s on his way. If he finds the lodge, it’s our only shot before time runs out.” He thought about the black trucks, visualizing explosions ripping the containers apart and spraying radioactivity into the sky.

  “What about calling the El Paso cops?”

  “Even if they believed me, they’d barge in, and he’d detonate everything. But I’ll do this. If we don’t find the lodge and Montana, I’ll try to convince the cops to search for the black trucks. They’ll have to use unmarked cars in case Montana is in line-of-sight of a truck. Maybe I can get Gorton to send in some Special Ops people to help search. But that doesn’t help with trucks in other cities.”

  “Suppose he is at El Castillo. Then what?”

  “We have to take him by surprise. I have a plan, but it will put you at risk. I wouldn’t consider it if the stakes weren’t so high.”

  “Think back to Casa Lupo. I’m a warrior.” Her voice was strong, every bit a warrior.

  “I remember. Rent an SUV at the El Paso airport and have it waiting.”

  “Will do. But what if Montana has his thugs with him when we find him?”

  “He won’t. He doesn’t want witnesses. See you at the airport, Delta terminal.”

  He closed his eyes, letting the vibrations of the plane wash over him. Even if they cornered Montana in his castle, he would be deadly. Jack knew his plan was much more likely to fail than succeed, and it could cost the lives of two people very important to him.

  Chapter 51

  July 12

  6:40 p.m.

  DEBRA BRAKED hard to a stop at an unmarked asphalt drive that curved sharply uphill from Rim Road, the two-lane state highway she had followed north from El Paso. Squatting next to Jack in the cargo space of the gray Ford Explorer, Gano spoke loudly enough for Debra to hear.

  “If this ain’t the place, I’m turnin’ in my GPS. Like I told you, the lodge is in a grove of scrub pines about fifty yards from the edge of the mesa. The moat is dry but it’s obvious from the air. There’s a black Hummer in the driveway. No other vehicles.” He lowered his voice and put his hand on Jack’s shoulder. “We’re playing for keeps, Mr. Pinkerton Man, so don’t give me any nonviolence crap. It takes whatever it takes.” Gano patted the gun inside his jacket and rested his hand on the Mossberg 935 loaded with 12 gauge magnum shells next to him. “Let’s get that sum-bitch.”

  Debra turned into the driveway and sped uphill. Before they’d gone a quarter of a mile, they emerged from the trees into a clearing. A white adobe brick gatehouse loomed ahead. She hit the brakes, but it was too late. A motion sensor activated two wide beams of light that flooded the Explorer’s hood, likely setting off an alarm at the lodge. The gate was a high grill of heavy gauge steel bars with no lock to be jimmied or cut.

  “Damn,” Jack said. “That gate must be controlled from the lodge. So much for catching Montana by surprise.”

  “Standard hard-wired security system,” Gano said, “which means there’s a speaker and a video camera. I’ll bet my left boot he already sees the vehicle.”

  Jack had planned for Debra to stop out of sight of the lodge so he and Gano could get out and sneak up on it from the rear. Now that Montana could see the Explorer, Plan A was toast. He had a Plan B, but hadn’t wanted to use it because it would be much more dangerous for Debra. Now he didn’t have a choice.

  “We have to make that camera work for us,” he said. “Debra, drive up to the gate and smile at the camera. Tell Montana you’ve just flown in from San Francisco to see his etchings.”

  “He won’t bite,” she said. “He’s focused on hitting a $100 million jackpot. And remember, last week he tried to have me killed. I think that means his hots for me have cooled a bit.”

  “You said he never gets turned down by women, but you shut him down cold. Now here you are at his door. He’ll grab the chance to improve his batting average.”

  “Hold on,” Gano said, “he’ll ask how she knew where the lodge was.”

  “I can handle that,” Debra said.

  If she couldn’t, Montana would suspect a rat. God knows what he’d do then. But Debra’s confident. That’s good enough.

  “Listen,” Jack said, “if he lets you through the gate, keep going until we’re near the lodge but still out of sight. Then pop the rear hatch and slow down. We’ll roll out and into the brush. Drive in front of the lodge and honk. Don’t get out. Get him to come out of the house and toward the car. Hold his attention for a few seconds, and we’ll take him down. If anything goes wrong, floor it and get out. We’ll get off the mesa overland and meet you on Rim Road.”

  “Don’t keep me waiting, boys. He won’t be in the mood for small talk.” She gave him a smile that seemed a little forced.

  She drove slowly into the full glare of the lights and stopped next to the gatehouse. No communication from the lodge. She edged the Explorer forward until the heavy bumper was tight against the bars of the gate, as if she intended to ram her way in. She honked over and over.

  “Stop that.” Montana’s angry voice came from a speaker high in the adobe wall. “Get out of here.”

  “It’s Debra Vanderberg, your salsa partner.”

  After several seconds, “Get out of the car so I can see you.”

  She did, flashing her legs. “Look, I flew down here because it seemed like a great idea, but maybe not.” There was no response. “I called your plant. They told me you hadn’t been in all day. No answer at your home either, so I figured I’d try up here.”

  “How did you know about this place?” His voice radiated suspicion.

  “You told me about it and about your Aztec stuff between dances.” She ran her fingers through her hair. “Is it coming back or were you too drunk to remember?” she asked in a mocking tone.

  “I remember,” he said, sounding
more surly than suspicious. “What do you want?”

  “I owe you for running out on you in Mexico City. I’m here to pay up. If you can’t handle it, I’ll catch the last flight out tonight. No harm, no foul. Either let me hear some enthusiasm, or I’m out of here.” She got back into the Ford.

  “Come up. Park next to my Hummer.” The bars on the gate slid silently away.

  As soon as they reached the mesa’s flat top, the lodge’s lights showed through the trees. “Ground Zero in sight,” Debra said and slowed by letting the Explorer roll so there’d be no brake light. She punched the door release for the cargo space. Jack and Gano tumbled onto the driveway. As soon as the Explorer was a few car lengths away, they started circling to approach the lodge from the back.

  Jack’s chest was tight. She’ll be alone with Montana. They had to surprise him and take him down before he could hurt her.

  They moved swiftly from tree to tree in the dim light until they reached the clearing around El Castillo. A dozen strides ahead of them was the dry moat; beyond it, the back wall of the half-timber lodge. They paused to size up the situation. Gano reached into his jacket and pulled out a black revolver. He held it out to Jack.

  “This is my favorite .38 Special. Don’t lose it.”

  There was no time to debate. Jack tucked it inside his belt behind his back. “The main entrance must be around the corner to the left.”

  He dashed down the sloping side of the moat and up the other side to the back wall of the lodge, Gano following. He edged forward to peer into the parking area just as the Explorer pulled in, passed the Hummer and stopped.

  Expecting Montana to be waiting inside the house, he watched in horror as Montana jumped up from behind the Hummer, ran to the rear of the Explorer, and fired four booming shots downward through the rear windshield. He hadn’t been fooled by Debra’s story and had intended to kill Jack Strider, whom he obviously thought would be hiding in the cargo space.

  Debra was screaming when Montana jerked open her door. Shouting curses, he punched her hard on the side of her head, dragged her out of the Explorer, and hauled her across a bridge over the moat toward the front door. She was stunned, off balance, helpless.

  Adrenaline blew Jack’s plans apart. A split second before he could launch himself after Montana, Gano clamped a hand across his mouth and yanked him backward.

  “You’re too late to stop him,” Gano whispered fiercely, “and I don’t have a clear shot. If he finds out we’re here, she’s dead. Got that? We’ll case the place and break in.”

  “No good. He’ll hear us and kill Debra.” His mind raced through bad alternatives. “You find a way in the back. I’m going in the front.”

  “Get real. He’ll slaughter you.”

  “I’ll buy time and distract him while you get inside.”

  The front door closed behind Montana. Jack took a deep breath, ran across the gravel and ducked behind the Explorer.

  He yelled, “Montana, it’s Jack Strider. We need to talk.” No response. Seconds passed. “Montana, don’t be a coward. Come out here.”

  The door opened slowly. “I’m not coming out. You’re coming in. Otherwise I’ll kill this puta. Hands up. Get moving.”

  She’s in there because I asked her to take the risk. Jack knew that following Montana’s orders was foolish, but he had to go after her.

  A second after he stepped through the door, Montana slipped behind him and snarled, “Straight ahead, into the living room.” Jack started forward. “Hold on,” Montana said, “you wouldn’t be stupid enough to have a weapon, would you?” He reached around in front of Jack and patted his chest and under his arms. Then he patted down his back. “I’ll be damned. You are that stupid.”

  Montana yanked the .38 out of Jack’s belt and slammed its butt into the back of Jack’s head, knocking him to his knees. Sparks flashed in front of his eyes. His skull felt cracked open. He touched the wound, and his fingers came away wet. If he passed out, Montana would kill him, then Debra. Her moan from the next room gave him the strength to pull himself together.

  “Get up.” Montana prodded him with a boot. “I don’t have time to screw with you.”

  When he struggled to his feet, Montana shoved him into a pine-paneled room with a vaulted ceiling. The light was low, windows covered with drawn drapes. Several wooden crates stood directly ahead of him, one overflowing with what must be Montana’s prized Aztec artifacts.

  Debra’s back was against the side of an open staircase, arms stretched over her head and tied to the iron railing at her wrists. Her ankles were roughly bound together with packing tape, toes barely touching the floor.

  “Stand in front of my desk and don’t move.” Montana waved Jack across the room to within a few feet of where he’d tied Debra.

  Montana sat at his desk behind a laptop computer, black eyes riveted on Jack. He was breathing through his mouth, quick and shallow, almost panting, pumped up. His trigger finger might squeeze at any second.

  Jack had to say something to get Montana to calm down. “Look, you haven’t dumped the tanks so there’s no harm. You can unwind all this and walk away.”

  “I’m way past walking away, and we both know it. You made a big mistake coming here, gringo. Were you going to kill me?”

  “No, turn you over to the El Paso cops for planning to poison the aquifer.” The revolver in Montana’s left hand was trained steadily on his chest.

  “You thought you could take me? On my own turf? You’re as nuts as Arthur Palmer.” Montana showed a hyena-like grin. “He tried to con me by promising a huge bonus if I met profit goals he thought were impossible. He doesn’t know it, but I’ve had him by the balls ever since I talked him into moving the plant to Mexico.”

  “You were going to use the wells to jack up the profits.”

  “Of course. Then you screwed it up and cost me two million bucks.”

  “You’d destroy two cities to get a damned bonus?”

  “Don’t look down your nose at me, you rich shit!” Montana shouted. “I grew up in the mud in Cuba. That bonus was my ticket out of the gringo world.”

  “That’s why you hired those thugs to kill us outside Casa Lupo.”

  “And they fucked up. If I’d been there, you wouldn’t have lived to set fire to my plant. Now I’ll finish their job. You forced me to change my plans, so you’re responsible for everything that’s going to happen tonight.” Montana checked his wristwatch. “I have to do some business on the computer. I’ll let you hang around for the good news, then we’ll wrap this up.”

  Jack edged closer to the desk.

  “Back off!” Montana ordered.

  Montana’s right hand rested on the desk, bandaged like a pro boxer’s because of the bullet Jack had put through it three days ago. Typing with one finger of his left hand, he laboriously entered something lengthy. The gun rested next to the computer. When the connection was made, Montana consulted a yellow pad next to him and made more entries. Seconds passed while he studied the screen in silence.

  The Swiss bank, Jack thought. He’s put in his password and account numbers to see whether he’s been paid off.

  “Damn him!” Montana took several deep breaths before turning back to the keyboard. This time he double-checked every keystroke against the yellow pad before punching “Enter.”

  “Goddamn him,” he said again, almost inaudibly. “He’s going to wish he’d done what I told him.” He looked up at Jack, eyes blazing, then back at the keyboard. He repeated his attempts, face growing harder after each try. His eyes flicked up every couple of seconds to make sure Jack had not moved.

  Jack glanced over at Debra. Her tense face showed the pain of agonizing minutes hanging by her wrists, supported on her tiptoes. The packing tape must be like a tourniquet cutting off circulation to her hands. She struggled to breat
he and looked ready to pass out. He knew that if he moved to help her, Montana would kill them both.

  Where was Gano? The lodge’s defenses must have defeated him. It was up to Jack to do something, but a frontal attack on Montana would be suicide. So what the hell was he going to do?

  Montana checked the Swiss bank account again. His angry expression showed that no money had been deposited. He grabbed the phone, entered a number, and launched into a conversation in Spanish, far too rapid for Jack to follow—but he heard Montana say “Strider” twice. Montana hung up and dialed again. He listened for about ten seconds and hung up. Then he turned back to his keyboard, poked one key with his index finger, and looked at Jack with a manic, horrible grin.

  Jack glanced at his watch. Only 6:15. Why was Montana losing it? His deadline was still 45 minutes away. As far as Montana knew, $100 million could show up in his account anytime. Then Jack saw a small digital clock on the wall to Montana’s left. It read 7:15. Oh, shit. He understood what had happened.

  “Montana. Listen to me. The deadline is—”

  “You listen,” Montana interrupted in a guttural snarl. “A doc sewed The Ape’s guts back together in the hospital. He’s infected, septic, but he’ll live long enough to open the valves and dump that shit down the wells I patched up. I told him that was the way to get revenge on you and your buddy with the screwdriver. He’ll be at the plant in a few minutes.” His smirk was foul.

  “Call him back. There’s a screwup. Your deadline is based on Mountain Time, the time on that clock on the wall. Gorton is at Travis Air Force Base. He thought you meant Pacific Time, and that’s an hour earlier. He thinks he still has 45 minutes left.”

  He was trying to keep Montana from setting off dirty bombs for at least another forty-five minutes, but he knew the words tied a noose around his own neck.

  “That’s bull shit,” Montana said. “Gorton is in Denver to give a speech at a regional EPA meeting. I saw it on the news. That’s Mountain Time, same as here. I’m not stupid.”