by A P Bateman
He watched the laptop's display and estimated where the pair would join the deserted highway. He could see how close they were, didn't want to risk them being picked up by some well-meaning trucker hauling logs and accelerated accordingly.
The transponder showed them on the road, their movements still. He looked up and saw them ahead of him, casually waiting at the side of the road. He eased a custom built Colt 1911 model pistol and two spare magazines out of the glove box and placed it on the passenger seat. He had looked forward to using this piece for a while. The .45 bullets were hollow points and the charge was a heavy load. The pistol had its sights removed and a guttersnipe sighting channel had been made by a master gunsmith in Colorado. On the range, at close range it was a point and shoot competition winner.
He started to brake and changed down a gear, biting the rear wheels into the tarmac. They were so close now. He could see their faces clearly and he could see the expression of relief as they watched him drive towards them.
FORTY EIGHT
Rob Stone watched as the big Mercedes slowed down and pulled in towards the side of the road. The sidings were made up of gravel chippings and the large tires crunched loudly as the car pulled off the road and slowed down. He could make out the outline, the silhouette of a man in the driver's seat. The sun visor obscured his face from view, but he could see clearly that the man was wearing a dark business suit. Which, along with the car, was a rarity in these parts. The man picked something off the passenger seat, most probably a cell phone or even something like a soda can in the way of any potential passenger.
He watched the car pull to a halt some twenty yards away. It surprised him that the owner of a car like that would give time to stop and offer a lift. It reminded him of his days as a teenager, hitching lifts into town to see a concert or go on a date with a girl. None of the drivers of luxury vehicles ever stopped. It was always the pickup truck, or the rusted old station wagon crammed with passengers and sticky children who would stop and offer room for just one more.
They walked towards the car and the driver opened his door slowly. Stone could see the man's face now, but something didn't seem right. Something was amiss. He had seen the man somewhere before. He tensed. What were the chances of bumping into someone you'd seen before, all the way out here? Coupled with that - at a time when they needed a lift the most. At a point on a deserted mountain road, picked up by a suited businessman whom he had seen. But he couldn't think where.
The man slid out of the seat and stood up. “You folks look like you could do with a lift ...”
Stone knew the face, knew the voice. But from where? Where had he seen this man, and in what context? So much had happened in the past couple of days, so much. And then he had it. He knew he had seen the man last night. He had helped him into his chalet at the motel on the other side of the dramatic mountain ridge. What were the chances of that?
Isobel bounded forwards, but Stone caught her arm and stopped her. She looked annoyed, and the man visibly tensed.
“We've already met,” Stone said. “Back at the motel, last night.”
The man seemed unsure. He smiled nervously. “Oh yeah, that's right. You helped me with the cheap lock. What are the chances of that?” he smiled. “You look as if you've seen hard times recently. What was it, engine trouble?” He moved out slightly from the open door of the Mercedes. “You can't have been out for a walk, you don't look well enough equipped.”
The pistol was out and aimed at the man's chest. Stone shook his head. '”No, I think I've got all the equipment I need, right here.” He spoke to Isobel, but didn't move his eyes even a fraction. “Get behind me, don't take your eyes off him.”
“I don't understand,” she said. “What's going on?”
“Yeah,” the man added. “What's going on? I just stopped to give you a damned lift!”
“I don't like coincidences,” Stone said coldly. “Put your hands where I can see them.”
The man rested his left hand on the top of the doorframe and look in bewilderment at the pair of them. “Sir, please ... There's no need for the gun, if you want my car, then just take it. Hell, it's insured against carjacking.”
“What's going on?” Isobel asked. She looked desperate, like their only chance of getting out of there and back to civilization was fading rapidly. “I don't understand.”
Stone kept the pistol trained on him, watched the other man's eyes. “This man was at the motel last night. We've been shot at, hunted. And now he turns up and offers a lift just when we need it most? Too big a coincidence for me.”
“But a man shooting at us is out there,” she said, pointing behind them towards the mountainous forest. “This man is here, and he's offering us help!”
“There’s someone shooting at you?” the man exclaimed. He looked around at the tree line across the road. “Don’t waste time then! Get in!”
Stone shook his head. “But what if he never was hunting us? What if he shot at us and thought he'd head us off at this road?” He glanced at her for a second, wanted to believe it was true and that he had merely been paranoid. “We weren't shot at once we made a run for it…” he stopped, caught the movement with the corner of his eye. He looked back, but it was too late.
“You should have trusted your instincts,” the man said. “They're usually right the first time around.” He had the big Colt .45 aimed at them, his hand as steady as a rock. Stone kept his aim, kept his left hand on Isobel's shoulder. “The weapon is aimed at her throat, Agent Stone. One move from you and she gets a bullet. A bit high and she'll share looks with that old tramp out at the lake, a bit low and she'll take it in the chest. They're hollow points with hollow tails, made out of really soft lead. The hollow points are filled with mercury, sealed with wax. I estimate a hole of about three inches in diameter. Smaller than the hole in the coroner, but larger than the one I left in the FBI woman. Either way, the mercury seals the deal. No cure.”
“She was my friend!” Isobel screamed venomously. “You bastard!”
“Most probably. I wouldn't know,” he smiled. “All I know is that my weapon has you marked and the Secret Service man had better be an excellent marksman, because I'm shielded by bullet proof glass and a quarter of an inch of armored plating in the door. I’m rested, he’s tired. I can see his hand shaking from here.”
How? How does he know so much about us? Stone stopped himself from thinking, from going through the motions. He needed his wits about him, needed tobe ready to act immediately. He had his weapon aimed at the man's mouth. Low resistance entry for a bullet, with the spine and brain stem behind. It was a money shot. However, his breathing was ragged after their incursion through the forest and now adrenaline was starting to kick in and surge through his veins. His hand was slightly unsteady, he couldn't swear to an accurate first shot and he knew he could only take one if he used just one hand. The other hand was holding Isobel firm, but she was breathing hard and moving considerably.
“I heard your philosophy in the motel room, enjoyed your insight... personally I think indecision is the mother of all disaster, Agent Stone,” the man smiled. “Not, as you say, assumption.”
“I wouldn't know,” Stone smirked. “It's you who assumes that I'm indecisive ...” He heaved Isobel backwards and at the same time, kicked the back of her knee, dropping her instantly and heavily to the floor. The man's pistol went off twice in quick succession and the world slowed in motion once more.
Stone dropped down onto one knee and saw the man's weapon coming around on him to aim. Stone fired two shots. The first hit the glass plumb center to the man's chest. The glass shattered, but remained in one piece. The second bullet hit higher, catching the doorframe and sparking like a rock upon flint. The man flinched, ducked, fired wildly and the bullets hit the road in front of them. Stone was already dragging Isobel out of the line of fire and firing at the man behind his automotive shield. The bullets impacted against the shattered glass, which now looked like a spider's web, albeit spun by a
spider on LSD. The lines of fracture were haphazard and angled in every direction. Stone had tested this type of Plexiglas before, whilst working as an instructor in the Secret Service and he knew that it could withstand more bullets than he had to offer. The man's head was shielded from view, but he still fired the pistol wildly in their direction. Stone had recognized the pistol was a 1911 model of some make or other, and knew it held seven rounds, eight if it had been chambered and the magazine reloaded. But that put too much pressure on the magazine springs and could cause a stoppage. Fine for the range, not fine for a gunfight. And a true marksman like this man would know that. He heaved Isobel to her feet and pushed her forcefully ahead of him. He directed a short burst of shots - he thought it was three, but the fog of combat was thickening - at a point under the open door. The man howled and sagged to the ground, but continued to fire his weapon at them as they sprinted across the road.
The man had managed a magazine change and was unveiling a lethal hail of fire towards them. The bullets hit the ground, some kicking up clumps of tarmac and others bouncing off and winging off into the fringe of trees ahead of them. Stone fired another two shots, but to his surprise, the weapon's slide kicked back and he knew it was empty. He ejected the magazine as he ran, pushed Isobel once more, and reloaded with the other magazine, but he knew that he only had another four shots at his disposal. He cursed himself at his error as he thought about the carton of .357 sig in the trunk of the Mustang.
Time wound on and started to play at real speed once more. The fog of combat was behind them, and they could not hear any more shots winging into the trees.
“Keep moving!” Stone barked. “Don't lose pace! The forest isn't thick enough yet!”
Isobel didn't reply. He wasn't even sure that she had heard him, but she kept running and that was good enough for him. He risked a glance over his shoulder and could see the fringe of trees at the edge of the road and the occasional slither of tarmac. But thankfully, he did not see the man. He ploughed onwards, kept pushing Isobel forwards and scanning the ground ahead of them for the best options to take. The forest started getting denser and the ground started to incline a little. There was still bush grass underfoot, and he knew that the terrain would soon give way to thick forest and mere dirt and pine needles on the ground. They had to keep going, had to get into the thick sanctuary of the forest.
The man was starting to recover from the shock of being shot. The wound was a graze, and hurt like a painful scald. The blood was thickening, and he knewit would soon clot. The bullet had hit the ground and bounced up catching his leg. The bullet would have been greatly deformed, after initial impact with the tarmac, and what had hit him would have been a twisted mass of copper and lead with razor sharp edges and enough heat to burn his skin. The gash was about four inches long and a quarter of an inch wide and almost as deep, and ran the whole width of his calf muscle.
He had hobbled to the rear of the car and opened the trunk. He quickly swallowed a handful of the prescription painkillers he used for his headaches and hurriedly got out of his clothes. He slipped the camouflaged overalls on and hastily fastened a utility waistcoat over the top. He pulled out a Glock 9mm pistol and slipped it into a holster built into the utility waistcoat. Then he took out the custom-made M4 assault rifle out of its rack. He filled the pouches of the waistcoat with four loaded thirty round magazines for the rifle and checked that they did not rattle. Next he took the Remington pump-action shotgun out and jacked the action. Click-click. He slung it over his shoulder and held the M4 loosely over his arm and slammed the trunk shut.
He checked his watch and looked up at the sun, and then out towards the forest in the direction his quarry had run. He cupped his hands to his mouth and started to shout, to resonate, echoing off into the forest and mountains beyond. “LISTEN UP AGENT STONE! I'M COMING FOR YOU! I'M GOING TO HUNT YOU DOWN! AND I WILL KILL YOU! DO YOU HEAR ME? I'M COMING FOR YOU!”
He rested the M 4 assault rifle on the ground, and shouldered the pump action shotgun. He fired out into the woods in the direction they had fled, at a forty five degree angle, racking the slide and firing again until all five empty shell casings had spilt out onto the road. He could hear the BB shot falling into the trees. Each shot had echoed around the valley and off the two mountain ridges either side of him. They were like cannon fire and after he finished, the silence was eerie and total. “DO YOU HEAR? I'M COMING FOR YOU!” He picked up the assault rifle and walked purposefully into the thick fringe of trees... And the beginning of the hunt.
FORTY NINE
The airline was not showing any movies on the flight as there was little enough time between JFK and Dulles. By the time the seatbelt sign had been switched off and the drinks cart had completed its journey down the aisles, followed by the snack trolley and hot face towels, there was only enough time to surf the six channels on offer. He caught a program about rednecks bidding for storage units and some guys running a pawn shop in Las Vegas. A little of a documentary about penguins in the Antarctic and some CNN headlines. He was bored of it all and took off the set of headphones and had another scotch and soda by way of compensation.
He decided to close his eyes and wait for the landing. He disliked flying at the best of times, but somehow today was worse. Behind him, in New York, lay a web of lies and deceit that would end his career and make him a wanted man. He didn't know how much time he had, before the rumblings became public, but he knew that time was short and he would have to move fast. He had the missing half of both ARES and APHRODITE in his hands and he would assume control of the operation and get it moving once more. McCray needed a little more motivation, needed to be put into the picture once and for all, and made to realize just how far they had come. They had moved outside the parameters of safety and security. There was no going back. They had what they needed and they needed to move with it.It wouldbe out in the open soon, and if they didn't strike now then it may be too late. Another forty-eight hours and Tom Hardy knew that he would be a wanted man. And the CIA tends never to give up, nor lower the levels of resources or manpower when hunting one of their own. He needed the plan with ARES to come off, to reach fruition, to be a success. Needed his contact at Morgan-Klein to get APHRODITE manufactured and in enough quantities to stop ARES in its tracks.
As a CIA renegade, Tom Hardy knew that he would have few places left in the world in which to hide. And those places would cost a fortune, could bleed most wealthy criminals dry. But he was different, he could offer information and favors and contacts and money. He could buy his little slice of peace and quiet and sanctuary, and he could become a man of great worth to the right people. And besides, he enjoyed smoking enjoyed Cuban cigars and drinking mojitos and watching young women dance the Samba.
FIFTY
The incline was more severe now and as they ran they could place their hands in front of them to gain better purchase on the sheer slope. Higher above them, the forest seemed to disappear from view and the sight as they looked up led to a feeling of confusion and uncertainty.
“I think there’s some kind of plateau,” Isobel panted breathily. “I think when we reach the top it will level out.”
Stone nodded silently, not wanting to waste his energy in reply. It was obvious to him now. The slope was high and precipitous and the trees above were set back from the edge. He pushed on, heaved and stomped and continued to nudge Isobel in front, drive her onwards and keep her motivated.
The tufts of golden bush grass had long since given way to earth and pine needles and mulch as the forest had intensified in its density, but the slope they were now confronting was made up purely of loose gravel and shale. With each step they were faced with the infuriating prospect of sliding backwards half a pace or so and their calf muscles burned as if they had been set alight.
Isobel hesitated in front and came to a sudden rest. She fell forwards onto her outstretched arms, her hands sinking into the shale. She heaved for breath, unable to take in sufficient quantities of air, her
shoulders rising and sinking with every breath. She felt light-headed, faint.
Stone pushed her forwards, but she collapsed onto her stomach. “Come on! Keep moving!” he shouted. “Isobel, we're sitting ducks on this slope! We have to reach the top!” Stone knew if they could gain the high ground advantage over the pursuing gunman, then even with just four bullets they may still have a chance.
There was a heavy thud approximately three feet or so to their right and a clump of thick sodden earthy clod flew up into the air and scattered loose debris on to their backs. A full second or more later there was a loud crack, which thudded and echoed all around them like distant thunder. Stone knew the man must have removed the weapon’s suppressor, wanted them to hear the gunshots. Wanted them scared.
“He's on us! Isobel, move your fucking ass!” Stone heaved her, barged her buttocks with his shoulder and physically slid her a few feet further up the slope. She powered her legs in the thick shale and surged forward with new and revived vigor and determination. Stone clawed and scrabbled his way higher, and found time to barge her once more. They were now within sixty feet of the brow of the slope. “That's it, keep going, we're almost there now ...”
***
He was breathing hard. They had three or four minutes on him, but with the density of the forest and the continuous gradient, that merely equated to three or four hundred meters. He had found them through his sniper scope, had seen them climbing the steep gradient where the trees thinned out. Actually, it was closer to five hundred and with the steep gradient taken into account, at approximately one foot of elevation for every ten foot travelled, that equated to a shot with the physical constraints and complexity of a seven hundred and fifty yard range. That was far too hopeful for the .223 cartridge and with the subsonic load accounted for it was virtually an impossible shot on the luxury setting of a level, wind-free range fired from a prone position, let alone standing with a tree trunk acting as a rest and the severe elevation needed to hit near the top of the slope. However, the first shot had neared them, and with a few minor adjustments, he may just get the bullet on target this time if he fired in groups and adjusted aim every three or four shots. He only had to hit them, not score range bulls eyes.
