Enigma

by Catherine Coulter

  She saw the fear in his eyes and said quickly, “Nothing much, don’t worry. Duke fixed me up.”

  Duke said, “A rock shard speared her. I pulled it out. Now we need what’s left in the first-aid kit. Any alcohol?”

  “No,” Jack said, “but we’ve got some more alcohol gauze pads. Hold still.” He cleaned the wound with a sterile gauze and water from his canteen. He heard her hiss, but she said nothing, made no other sound, only watched the bloody water run down onto the rocky ground. “Now, some antibiotic ointment and I’ll get you bandaged.”

  When he was done, he studied her face a moment, then looked to Chief. “You guys need to stay here, hidden. Duke and I will track them.”

  Wrong thing to say. “What? You want me to smack you in the head? Forget it, Jack. Chief is badly wounded, I’m not. I want to get these bastards as much as you do.”

  Jack looked at Chief, who sighed. “Yeah, you’re probably right. I can move, but I’d slow you down. I’ll be fine by myself. Know what I think? These people aren’t stupid. I don’t think they expected to kill all of us. They wanted to bring one of us down with a serious wound, force all of us to stop. So you guys have to move out now.”

  Jack nodded. “And they targeted you. Like I said, if you hadn’t leaned down the instant they fired, you would have been gut-shot and that would have stopped us in our tracks.”

  Duke said, “I still think they’re headed to Clover Bottom Creek Road, about two miles from here. There’s a private airstrip about five miles to the east of there. Now that they know we’re behind them, they’ll get someone here fast to pick them up and drive them to the airstrip. They could be in Virginia in under an hour.”

  Jack said, “Then we don’t need to track them, we want to get to that road the fastest way you know.” Jack saw Chief was holding his side, breathing light, shallow breaths, in obvious pain. “Chief, we’ll be back as soon as we can.”

  Chief didn’t like it, but his side hurt like a bitch and he knew he couldn’t keep up. “Duke, you need to make some calls on the run, get men to barricade Clover Bottom Creek Road. Go, guys; get those bastards for me.”

  They left their backpacks with Chief, no more need for them now, and they would move much faster through the shrubs and the twisting terrain without the weight. The pain in Cam’s arm eased to a dull throb, one of the benefits of her adrenaline rush, as they hiked as quickly as they could through the rocky terrain.

  Twenty minutes later, Jack stopped, raised his fist. They gathered around him to look through the trees down at Clover Bottom Creek Road.

  27

  They heard a car horn blast three times, then a moment later heard it screech to a halt. Jack yelled, “It’s their pickup! Let’s move!”

  As they burst onto Clover Bottom Creek Road, they saw an old black Chevy Tahoe accelerating fast away from them. Jack ran to the middle of the road, Cam beside him, and fired at the back tires. A rear tire exploded, and the Tahoe jerked hard left, but the driver managed to straighten it out, now riding on a rim, the metal grating and sparking off the rocky dirt road.

  They ran after it, still shooting, Jack shoving in another magazine until the Tahoe, lurching madly, pulled around a corner and disappeared from sight.

  They ran around the bend to see the Tahoe stopped, facing two sheriffs’ Crown Vics blocking the road, four officers standing behind open doors for protection, guns in their hands.

  Cam punched Jack in the arm, winced, gave him a big smile. “We’ve got them!”

  They were nearly to the Tahoe when they heard a helicopter.

  More police? No, Duke hadn’t called for air support. He heard one of the barricade cops shout, “The SUV is empty! Only the driver!”

  They heard the helicopter setting down somewhere behind them. Jack shouted, “The truck’s a decoy!” and took off running back down the road, Cam and Duke behind him.

  Jack rounded the curve, Cam on his heels as Manta Ray and his two keepers climbed into a helicopter that had landed in the middle of the road. The helicopter lifted off as the big man climbed in last, still standing on the skids.

  The helicopter hovered, trying to remain steady enough for the big man to climb in, but he saw them, grabbed the doorframe, and fired. Bullets kicked up dirt inches from Jack’s feet. He yelled at Cam to take cover, took aim, and fired several rounds. Red bloomed on the big man’s shirt and the gun went flying, thudding onto the dirt road.

  They watched him try to pull himself in with one arm through the helicopter doorway, saw the outline of someone trying to help him, but his hand was slippery with blood and he lost his hold. He tried to gain purchase on the helicopter skids, but again slipped off. In that instant, he looked down, arms flailing, and met Jack’s eyes. He fell, twisting and turning and screaming, forty feet to the dirt road. He landed hard and didn’t move. Cam’s stomach turned. She wouldn’t soon forget that sound. She looked up to see a woman leaning out of the helicopter staring down at them. Or at her dead partner, Cam didn’t know which.

  Cam would swear she gave them a little wave as the helicopter flew away.

  “She thinks she’s won,” Cam said, and kicked a rock with her boot. It sent a shaft of pain through her arm. She cupped her elbow, her Glock dangling from her fingers. Duke came running up. “The Tahoe driver waited until he spotted us, then he went into his act to get us out of the way.” He stopped dead in his tracks, stood perfectly still, staring at the dead man in the middle of the road. “That’s—bad.”

  Jack’s hard voice brought him back. “Duke, what’s going on back there?”

  Duke looked away from the body. “One of the sheriff’s deputies knows the guy in the Tahoe. His name is Clyde Chivers, a local. Said he was driving to McKee, that’s a very small town down the road, when three people came running out of the trees, stepped out onto the road, and started firing after him. They got one of his back tires, nearly totaled his Tahoe, and he could have been killed. He wants to sue you guys.”

  Cam said, “Chivers was a tool. I’ll give my lucky Susan B. Anthony if they told him much, but still, he’s worth talking to. Let’s threaten to throw him in an FBI dungeon for fifty years.”

  Jack nodded toward the dead keeper. “Let me see if he’s got any ID on him. Duke, is this the same sheriff we notified about the murdered hiker?”

  “Yep. Sheriff Bender in Magee, Jackson County Sheriff’s Department.” He looked over again at the dead man sprawled in the middle of the dirt road. “This is more trouble than Bud’s seen in a year. He’ll arrange for the doctor they use as a coroner to come out and deal with him.”

  The big man had landed facedown, arms flung out to his side, his right arm no longer dripping blood from Jack’s bullet in his shoulder. Jack wasn’t about to turn him over. He knelt down and checked his pockets while Cam picked up his Beretta. “Nice weapon. It’s older, well used and kept in fine shape. A professional’s weapon.”

  She shoved her hair out of her face, forgetting it was her wounded arm, and winced. “All of it was professional, even the fricking decoy.”

  Jack sighed, asked Duke for the sat phone. “I can’t put it off. Confession time.” He turned away to make a call. He spoke, listened, finally punched off the sat. “I told Savich what happened. Maybe we’ll be tossed in the FBI dungeon with Clyde Chivers. Let’s get Chief to the hospital and you, Cam, you’ll have your arm checked.”

  Cam said, “Duke, if you would see to Chief, I’ve got to call Ollie to see if he can find out who that helicopter belongs to. I could only make out the first of the tail numbers before it shifted—N382. There will probably be two more numbers and a final letter.”

  “Good eyes, Cam,” Jack said, “but I’ll bet those tail numbers are fake, but maybe not all of them. Tell Ollie it’s a Robinson R66, white, thin blue stripe. Maybe that’ll help.” Jack shrugged, cursed under his breath, and kicked another rock off the dirt road.

  28

  HOOVER BUILDING

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  TU
ESDAY AFTERNOON

  Savich was surprised to be called to his boss’s office in the middle of the day. Mr. Maitland’s wasn’t the largest office in the Hoover Building, nor was it filled with standard-issue desks and chairs. It showcased excellent American antiques Mrs. Maitland had selected. A large glass cabinet stood against a wall, filled with mementos of benchmarks in Maitland’s career, framed photos with the great and famous and of his family—Savich’s favorite was the one taken last year with Maitland’s four sons, all big, strong bruisers, surrounding their mother, who was small and blond but unquestionably the leader of the Maitland pack.

  Maitland had asked Savich to have a seat when his longtime secretary, Mrs. Gold, showed Captain Juan Ramirez and Detective Aldo Mayer in. Savich saw it, the look of intimidation on Mayer’s face at being called to the emperor’s turf.

  Maitland shook Captain Ramirez’s hand, nodded to Mayer. “Thank you for coming. You know Special Agent Savich?”

  “A pleasure, Agent Savich,” Ramirez said, and shook his hand.

  Maitland did not ask them to sit, nor did he offer coffee. He said, “I asked you to come over this morning, Juan, because your detective here has pulled a stunt that rivals any stupidity I’ve seen in my long career.”

  Mayer took a step forward, his face flushed angry red. “Listen here, I pulled off a Metro guard who, I might add, I never approved in the first place.” He jerked his head toward Savich. “He did an end-run around me, went to his good buddy Ben Raven, got a police guard assigned to a guy in a fricking coma. A coma? Like we don’t even know who he is, much less if he could be in danger.”

  Savich said quietly, “He would have been murdered last night if Kara Moody hadn’t been there to protect him.”

  Mayer knew this, of course, but it only gave him pause. He plowed forward. “Look, I did everything right, everything according to the book. I notified your secretary that since you claimed the case for the FBI, you could provide your own guards.”

  His words hung in the tension-filled room. Maitland’s voice remained calm as he asked him, “What time did you notify Ms. Needleham?”

  “I don’t remember, could be it was late, but I’d forgotten about our poor officer, still on duty at the hospital. I only wanted to get him home; he didn’t belong there. He never did.”

  “What time did you call her, Detective Mayer?” Maitland asked again, still calm but there was a touch of the spurs in his tone. “Well?” Maitland stood tall behind his huge mahogany desk, his arms crossed, looking at Mayer like he wanted to throw him out the window.

  Mayer looked down at his feet, then at his captain. “I don’t remember.”

  Savich said easily, “Ms. Needleham, Shirley, emailed me at precisely eleven thirty-three last night. I hadn’t checked my email, wouldn’t have until this morning, if I hadn’t gotten a call that an attempt had been made on John Doe’s life.”

  The only sound was Mayer’s hard breathing. Captain Ramirez remained silent, looking straight ahead, not at his detective. Savich continued, his voice as calm as night. “I know you were interested in John Doe, wondered who he was, really, and what had happened to him, just as I was. But because of your dislike for me, Detective Mayer, you put him at dire risk. Are you really trying to justify that?”

  Mayer couldn’t help himself, it came spewing out. “You proved on Sunday that you’re a publicity-seeking glory hound. So you took down a young guy who’s certifiably crazy. Big deal. I would have brought him in if you hadn’t interfered, if you hadn’t wanted the spotlight, the media attention!”

  Captain Ramirez took a step forward in front of Mayer. He said formally, “I wish to apologize for my detective’s negligence that could have cost a man his life. Agent Savich, what would you like me to do?”

  I’d like to break a rib or two myself, or better yet, give him to Sherlock. He said, “Detective Mayer, let me ask you a question. Would you have felt responsible if John Doe had been murdered last night?”

  Mayer looked like he’d been shot. “I never thought there was any danger to him! I thought you were just—”

  “Just what, Detective?” Maitland asked.

  “I thought Savich was throwing his weight around, rubbing my nose in how he could talk Detective Raven into anything. He did the same thing on Sunday! It pissed me off—”

  Maitland interrupted him, “Answer his question, Detective Mayer.”

  Mayer’s face was so red Savich was afraid he’d stroke out. No one said a word. Finally, he whispered, “Yes. Yes, I would have felt responsible.”

  Captain Ramirez said matter-of-factly, “Do you now admit Agent Savich was justified in requesting a police guard?”

  Stone silence. Captain Ramirez merely looked at him, waited.

  Mayer said finally, “So he turned out to be right, in this case.”

  Maitland said, “And if Agent Savich hadn’t taken a personal interest in this young man, do you think John Doe would still be alive?”

  Mayer turned on Savich, but there was nothing more he could say.

  Time to end it. Mayer was heaving with anger, with guilt, with humiliation. He was a man with a long career—a good cop, no, an excellent cop—and he’d finally admitted his mistake.

  Mr. Maitland said, “Detective Mayer, you should know Savich didn’t call for this meeting, I did. I wanted to hear your apology myself. You have an excellent and fair captain, and he will decide whether to take any disciplinary action.” Maitland leaned forward, his big hands splayed on his desktop. “If I were Agent Savich, I doubt I would have behaved as well. I strongly suggest you get over yourself and stop the self-justification because there isn’t any.” He paused, nodded. “Captain Ramirez, thank you for coming.”

  When the door closed behind the two men, Maitland said, “I’m thinking maybe Detective Mayer cares more about John Doe than he hates you.”

  Savich said, “Maybe you’re right. But I do know that his hatred of me is hardwired. We’ll see what he does now. Thank you for dealing with this, sir.”

  Maitland came around his desk, sent his fist into Savich’s arm. It hurt, but Savich smiled. “I know, boyo, that you would have let it go, but I couldn’t. Mayer had to be called out, he had to be brought to book. If there’s a next time, I can guarantee he won’t be so lucky.”

  29

  IN THE HELICOPTER OVER VIRGINIA

  Elena kept her Walther pressed against Liam’s side. She was quiet, her mouth seamed, and Liam thought she was probably thinking about Jacobson’s perfect-ten swan dive to the road at the feet of those two FBI agents. All in all, in his opinion, it was a satisfying ending for the bully.

  Liam turned to her, gave her a white-toothed smile. “Our little vacation in the forest didn’t turn out the way you planned, but hey, it had its moments. We’re finally going to see the big boss?”

  “Shut up.” She pressed the gun harder against his side.

  He continued to smile. No way would she shoot him, she’d already made that clear. And that made her vulnerable. Quick as a snake, he twisted the gun barrel away from him, grabbed the back of her head with one hand, and pressed the thumb and forefingers of his other hand under both sides of her chin, squeezing fast and hard upward to pinch off her carotid arteries until she sagged against him, unconscious. “Like squeezing a garden hose,” he whispered against her temple. “I’m glad you knew enough not to pull the trigger.” He kissed her temple. “You owe me, sweetheart. If I’d held you longer, you’d be dead, but I don’t want you dead.”

  The pilot twisted in his seat, yelled, “Hey! What’s going on back there? What did you do to Elena?” The helicopter banked, then righted again.

  Liam saw him fumbling with a box on the seat next to him. He turned his headset microphone on so the pilot could hear him. “No, mate, don’t go for a gun. There’s nothing to worry about. She’s not dead, only taking a little nap. I didn’t want any more trouble from her, and you know women—” He laughed, picked up the Walther from the floor, checked the magazine
was full. Excellent. He said, “I’ve got the gun, but you have no worries as long as you keep flying us where we’re supposed to go.”

  “But why’d you do that, Manta Ray? You didn’t have to; she wasn’t going to hurt you.”

  He wasn’t Manta Ray now. No, he was Liam, Liam Hennessey. He smiled widely, showing a gold back tooth. For the first time since he was shot, he was in control again. He was flush with pleasure. If he played his cards right, he’d soon be richer than his poor dead partner, Cass, God rest his soul.

  Showtime.

  He eyed the back of the pilot’s head, brought his Irish to full power, falling into the cadence. “Well, laddie, first thing for you to remember is my name is Liam Hennessey. You can call me Liam. I’ll admit it: Elena’s good, but I’m better. And to be honest, I knew she couldn’t shoot me. If I die, her boss’s grand schemes go to the grave with me.” He lifted the Walther so the pilot could see it.

  “Look, mate, I know the lay of the land, probably better than you do. Let’s have ourselves a fine chat.”

  “All they told me is your name’s Manta Ray, but who are you?”

  I’m your worst nightmare. Liam smiled, gently pressed the Walther to the back of the pilot’s neck. He froze. Liam rubbed the muzzle back and forth across his neck. “Don’t make me remind you again, mate. I’m not Manta Ray, I’m Liam. And I am the most important man in the world to the boss.” He lowered the Walther. “What’s your name?”

  “Ralph, Ralph Henley. I didn’t know you were a mick. Listen, don’t kill Elena, the boss would go nuts, shoot all of us. They’re lovers, for years now, common knowledge.”

  “Yeah, I know all about her,” Liam said without hesitation. “She’s his enforcer and bodyguard and his bedmate.”

  Henley eyed him, still afraid and uncertain, but at least the crazy bastard wasn’t still rubbing the gun against his neck. He had to know if Ralph crashed, he’d die, too. He met Liam’s eyes, slowly nodded.