by Dave Edlund
He considered her words, knowing she was right. “Should be back to Bend by early afternoon, maybe sooner. I’ll call you to arrange a meeting location.” Peter paused for a moment. “If I don’t, contact Detective Ruth Colson at the Bend Police Department. She can be trusted, and she’ll do the right thing.”
“I thought we had an understanding. I’ve made it a priority to avoid the authorities. It’s one reason I’m not locked up somewhere far away.”
Peter shrugged. “You’ll figure it out.” Then he twisted his mouth in a lopsided grin. “You know, for a professional assassin, you turned out alright.”
s
After parting ways with Danya and Darnell, Peter drove fast to close the distance with the car he was tracking. Sunrise wouldn’t be for another couple of hours, and it would be a mistake to lose Corbett because he turned off the highway and Peter was too far back to identify the exit.
Contrary to the overcast sky in Eugene, on this side of the Cascade Mountains the night sky was clear, offering spectacular views once he left the city lights behind. Before long, the Rolls Royce closed the distance and then paced Corbett’s car, staying a few miles behind so Corbett wouldn’t notice the trailing headlight.
Although Peter had no idea where they were going, he did know that along this stretch of road the cities, and fuel stops, were few and far between. About thirty-five miles outside of Bend, he slowed. The red dot he was following on the phone had turned off the highway. Peter enlarged the map and spotted the secondary road Corbett had taken.
The pavement quickly gave way to packed gravel, and Peter further reduced his speed and turned off the headlights, carefully navigating by the dim light of a crescent moon.
Against the starlit sky, Peter saw a ridgeline ahead, climbing to a butte off to the right. Unless the gravel road turned, it would climb the ridge. Corbett’s car was nowhere in sight.
Peter kept a steady pace as he gained elevation. He stopped at the crest next to a gate and turned off the dome light before exiting the car. The barbed-wire fencing was well maintained and stretched as far as he could see. From his vantage point, looking south, he could see into and across a wide valley. A spot of white and red light was bouncing and weaving across an unseen trail.
Unlike western Oregon, the land on the east side of the Cascade Mountains was semi-arid, and the range of natural vegetation was limited and sparse. Bunch grass and a few varieties of scraggly bushes dotted the sandy soil. In the dim illumination of moonlight, the scattered juniper trees looked like black blobs dabbed on a light landscape. The terrain was marked by low hills—many ancient cinder cones—and dry washes that temporarily filled with water following infrequent downpours. With vast open range land and only a scattering of towns all the way to the California border, there was no shortage of good locations to hide an illegal drug lab—or a biofactory manufacturing contagious virus.
Peter silenced his phone and tucked it securely in the front of his jeans, then reached behind the seat, retrieving a pair of binoculars. He focused on the moving car. It was the white sedan he’d seen leaving the Cascade Aqua plant in Eugene.
As he watched, Corbett’s car came to a stop in the distance beneath an overhead lamp at the top of a tall post. Two pickup trucks and an SUV were parked nearby. A figure met him as he stepped out of his vehicle, escorting him to the door. After a brief discussion, Corbett entered the trailer leaving the guard outside.
To the side and only a few dozen yards away was a second building, but no light emerged from windows or doorways. Peter figured the lab would be located in that building.
The eastern horizon was turning from black to a shade of violet, and he knew the sun would rise soon. For now, at least, the odds were still in his favor.
He continued to glass the buildings, spotting another roving guard. That made two. It looked like they had long guns slung over their shoulders, and both were milling about casually, occasionally stopping to chat or maybe smoke a cigarette—Peter couldn’t be certain from the distance even with magnification.
He estimated that inside the trailer there might be as many as four or five additional guards—probably asleep. But why did Corbett drive out here at this early hour?
As Peter watched intently, his question was answered. Corbett and another man left the trailer—what he considered to be the living quarters—for the adjacent building, leaving the two roving guards on post outside.
Peter realized he needed to move fast. If Corbett concluded his business and left via a different road in one of the parked trucks—a very likely outcome in order to avoid being trapped if law enforcement should come in from the same direction Peter had taken—he could lose him for good. There was no way the Rolls Royce would be able to traverse rough terrain like a four-wheel drive pickup. But if he was going to survive the inevitable hail of bullets as he approached the buildings, he’d first have to complete certain preparations.
Chapter 33
East of Bend, Oregon
March 29
Peter replaced the binoculars behind the seat and quickly got to work up-armoring his two-door sedan. He considered the vulnerabilities of the luxury vehicle. The large V12 engine in the front would serve as a good bullet shield, and he figured he could cover several hundred yards, maybe more, even with the radiator shot through. It was the sides and back of the vehicle that were susceptible to gunfire and needed protection.
Peter had taken stock of his immediate surroundings after glassing Corbett’s car across the valley. Range fencing in this part central Oregon was often barbed wire stapled to wood posts fashioned from small trees or split rails. However, because the ground was very rocky, the posts were frequently fixed in place using piles of stone, an abundant and free building material. It was common for gate posts to be reinforced with a large pile of stone held in place with hog wire, or with stacked sandbags.
Perhaps because of the nature of the business being conducted on this parcel of rangeland, the fence near the road was in very good condition, and this supply of materials had given Peter an outlandish idea, but one that just might work.
“It better work,” Peter mumbled, “or this fight will be over as fast as it starts.”
With the passenger door open, Peter pressed a lever which allowed him to push the seatback forward and gain access to the rear bench seat. Next, he selected the flattest rocks that were used to brace the fence posts. Most of the dense, igneous stones weighed in excess of fifteen pounds, and it took some effort to lean in the open door and heave them onto the leather seats. The top-quality, dyed bull hide didn’t stand a chance against the rough rocks, and the upholstery was scuffed and scratched in short order. Still, Peter continued to pile in the stones. They stacked well, and eventually the entire rear seat was filled from side to side and to the top of the seat back.
Feeling confident that he was protected from bullets penetrating through the rear of the car, Peter turned his attention to the front passenger seat. This was more challenging, as he didn’t want to risk having a stack of stones become unstable and fall on his lap as the car jostled over the rutted and bumpy road.
He decided the solution was the sandbags used to anchor both gate posts. Starting at the wheel well, Peter stacked in sandbags, one after another, building up layer upon layer, two sandbags deep, that expanded to cover the passenger seat halfway up the side window. He even stuffed the last of the sand bags onto the dash, leaving a small gap in front of the steering wheel for forward visibility.
Closing the door, Peter took stock of his handiwork. “When this is over, I’m gonna need another car. Assuming I survive.” He wiped his dusty hands on his pant legs. “Of course, if the Rolls Royce sales staff ever hears about this sacrilege, they’ll probably never let me set foot again in the factory in Goodwood.”
He ducked his head and sat in the driver’s seat, placing the SIG Sauer pistol on his lap. He looked to the eastern sky. It was turning from violet to ever-lighter shades of gray. It was time to go. He sta
rted the engine, the motor rumbling to life with a confident, throaty purr.
He nudged the Wraith off the ridge and down into the valley below. Leaving the head lamps off and navigating by the dim glow of the eastern horizon, Peter kept steady pressure on the throttle, guiding his improvised armored vehicle forward, likely to its doom.
The suspension absorbed nearly all the bumps and ruts, only the most serve causing a soft chatter of the stacked stones. Fortunately, the sandbags and rocks remained in place. As Peter crossed the shallow draw, he rolled down the windows. The depression was deeper than it had appeared from atop the ridge, and it completely swallowed the car.
As he emerged from the gully, the two buildings were ahead in the distance. The approach was straight and level. Expecting to receive gunfire at any moment, he depressed the gas pedal and added speed. With a throaty growl, the twelve-cylinder engine did not disappoint.
Although it was still a half hour to sunrise, the horizon had lightened considerably, and it was not difficult at all to follow the gravel road. He slunk down in the seat to an uncomfortable position with his legs bunched up under the dash and steering wheel, and his eyes just barely able to see above the row of sand bags and out the windshield.
About three hundred yards out, the gunfire started. Peter shifted his eyes to locate the guards. Shadows, one on each side of the road. They were wasting ammunition shooting their submachine guns in full auto. Thankfully, most of the rounds failed to hit the car, but he knew that would change as he quickly closed the distance.
He kept his foot on the gas pedal, and the car roared forward.
The guards reloaded and resumed firing, sending a volley of bullets into the grill and radiator. Steam swept back over the windshield. Peter held his course. With one hand firmly gripped on the steering wheel, he flicked off the safety on his pistol.
Corbett and another man exited the second building. Both raised handguns and added their fire to that of the two guards. Rounds were penetrating the bodywork with regularity now, beginning to drain sand from the bags piled on the passenger seat. The windshield was pock-marked with a couple dozen bullet holes, making it difficult for Peter to see where he was going.
Another fusillade of lead struck the front of the car, impacting the engine. The ominous sound of metal-on-metal grinding filled the cabin. It was soon followed by a tug on the steering wheel as first one tire, and then the other, was shot out. He moved the shift lever to neutral, allowing the full benefit of momentum to keep the once-beautiful automobile rolling forward. Every yard he advanced got him that much closer, all from within the relative safety of his crudely armored vehicle. On foot, he didn’t stand a chance.
He swung his door open—a suicide door that was hinged at the rear rather than the leading edge as is the case with most automobiles. This styling quirk offered an advantage that, in all probability, had never been considered by the designers.
Still rolling forward, the open door scooped air inside the passenger compartment, swirling dust and sand like a mini vortex. Keeping a firm hand on the wheel, he leaned to the side and extended the SIG Sauer pistol into the opening. With an unobstructed view forward along the front quarter panel, he brought the sights to bear on the nearest gunman and opened fire. Two shots were sufficient to drop the surprised guard. He shifted his weapon and fired on a second guard just emerging from the house, sending him sprawling face-first into the dirt.
Bullets continued to rip into the right side of the car as it coasted toward the living quarters. Two more guards stumbled out the door, their attention immediately drawn to the shot-up car barreling toward them.
Peter had his sights on them and fired several times, mortally wounding both gunmen. A jarring impact and the sound of crunching metal overwhelmed his senses, causing him to momentarily forget about the gunfight. His brain soon processed the information, and Peter peeked over the dashboard. He’d rammed into the side of Corbett’s sedan. The impact was the death blow to the once magnificent V12 engine, and it ground to a halt.
At a dead stop, Peter rolled out the open driver’s-side door. There were still armed men on the opposite side of the car trying their best to kill him.
Using the shot-up body of the Rolls Royce has cover, Peter stole a glance and counted four shooters, including Corbett. They were moving apart, working their way around the car. Soon, they would flank him, and that would be game over.
Peter popped up and fired twice through the open passenger window. Shots were returned. Most were absorbed by the sandbags occupying the passenger side of the car—several sent chips flying from the stacked stones on the rear seat. Peter fired again and clipped one of the men in the shoulder.
Another volley of fire from submachine guns forced Peter down again. He figured that if he fired a third time from the same location, they’d nail him. He edged his way to the rear of the car. Peeking around the tail, he got a good alignment on the wounded guard and fired, striking him squarely in the chest. The man collapsed and lay motionless.
The boom of a shotgun drew Peter’s attention to a gunman firing from the corner of the house. He looked young, probably just a teenager. The scattergun roared again, sending a load of buckshot high into the windshield. The recoil sent the kid stumbling backwards.
A barrage of submachine gun bullets ripped into the side of the Rolls Royce. Peter leaned forward and snapped two shots at the kid, enough to send him running behind the house.
He hazarded another glance, pistol ready. But there was only one shooter—Corbett was not there.
A wave of dread washed over Peter, but he couldn’t dwell on where Corbett might be, not yet. He leveled the SIG Sauer and squeezed the trigger.
The shot missed!
He fired again and this time the bullet slammed into the guard’s thigh. He collapsed to the side as if he’d been hit with a baseball bat.
“Enough! Drop it!”
The words came from Peter’s left. He recognized the voice and knew who had given the order.
He hesitated.
“I said drop it! Hands up.”
Peter tossed the gun a few feet to the side. He placed his hands on his head and rose to his feet, turning to face Corbett.
Chapter 34
East of Bend, Oregon
March 29
With his back to the light pole and his hands cuffed around the pole, there was little Peter could do. The young gunman with the shotgun was guarding Peter while Corbett and one other guard were loading sealed plastic bags containing a brownish powder into the back of the SUV, a large Suburban. The bags were uniform in shape and about the size of a small briefcase. The two men went back and forth between the lab trailer and the SUV until there was no more product to move. As Peter watched them work, he noticed for the first time that the windows were blacked out using aluminum foil taped in place from the inside.
“That’s all of it, Mr. Corbett,” the guard said. The back of the Suburban was packed full, the bags piling half way up the windows.
“Good. Take the license plates off my car and clean out the glove box. Wipe it down for fingerprints, too. When you’re done, follow the gravel road south until you get to the pit. Turn the engine off and push the car into the hole. Got it?”
“Yes sir. But what about Louie?” he said, indicating the guard Peter had shot in the thigh. He was leaning against the SUV, his hand pressed against the bullet wound. Blood was seeping out, soaking into the sandy dirt. No one had bothered to place even a rudimentary bandage around the wound. He appeared to be on the verge of consciousness, no doubt shock setting in.
“Don’t worry about him. Just do your job.” The guard took the keys from Corbett and set to work while his boss disappeared inside the lab trailer. The sound of breaking glass soon followed as the windows were systematically shattered, leaving gaping holes in the walls. Peter heard the sloshing of liquid being spilled on the floor and soon after, a flicker of light appeared through the open window frames that quickly grew into a raging conf
lagration.
Corbett jumped through the doorway just ahead of the flames which shot out the opening and danced wildly above the roof of the trailer. The heat was intense, and even from a distance Peter had to avert his gaze.
The guard tossed the license plates and a few pieces of paper from the glove box into the SUV, then drove off in the white sedan. There would be no evidence to recover from the lab; the fire would consume everything. That left the dead bodies, as well as Peter and the wounded guard named Louie.
The kid addressed Corbett without relaxing his attention on his prisoner, the shotgun aimed in Peter’s direction. “You’ll help my uncle, right Mr. Corbett?”
“Just do your job kid.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Corbett. This guy isn’t going anywhere. I’ve got my eye on him, and if he tries to escape, I’ll blow him away.”
“Just relax, kid. I don’t want you to accidentally shoot our guest. You with me?”
The kid nodded but kept the barrel of his weapon pointed menacingly toward Peter.
Corbett walked up to the Suburban and extended his hand down to the guard. “Come on Louie. We have to get you into the truck,” he said as he helped the man to his feet. With a groan, he hobbled a step, still leaning over to put pressure on the bleeding wound.
Louie winced and said, “How about if my nephew gets the medical kit in the trailer?”
“The kid?” Corbett replied. “He’s got a job to do keeping an eye on our prisoner.”
“I need a bandage for this,” Louie said through gritted teeth.
“Nah, not really.” Corbett placed his pistol to Louie’s head and pulled the trigger. The lifeless body fell into a crumpled heap, the face no longer recognizable.
The kid jumped at the gunshot, his eyes wide in disbelief and fear. “Mr. Corbett? What happened?”
The kid was facing Corbett’s back, so he hadn’t seen the murderous deed. Corbett straightened and spun, extending his arm with fluid grace. He pulled the trigger once, twice. Two bullets tore through the kid’s chest, ravaging his lungs, heart, and aorta. Blood and gore spouted out the exit holes in his back. His limp body folded forward at the waist before falling to the side.
