Crooked River

45

What’s going on?” Gladstone demanded as Pendergast ushered them out of the lab and into the parking lot. She noticed his piercing eyes casting about. “Are we in some sort of danger?”

Without answering, he unlocked his car: a new Range Rover, both sturdy and sleek. “Get in. Both of you.”

She slid into the passenger seat while Lam got in the back. Pendergast started the engine and headed out of the lot, driving slowly.

“We’re dealing,” he said, “with a powerful organization. Through hacking your system, they now know that we know their location — somewhere up Crooked River. I have no doubt they’re reacting to that information as we speak, which puts all of us in immediate danger. Both of you must go to ground.”

“Why don’t you call the FBI or the task force, get a team or something to protect us?”

“Because the investigation has been thoroughly penetrated. There’s nobody we can trust. And there’s also a time factor.” Pendergast swiveled toward her. “I’m bringing you both to a bungalow in Corkscrew Swamp, south of here, where you’ll be safe until further notice.”

“What the hell?” Lam asked. “We’re going in there?”

“Yes. For some time now, I’ve suspected we might be dealing with an adversary more formidable than anticipated. As time went on, I became increasingly convinced, just as I also grew more certain that our task force was leaking information — accidentally or otherwise. It was then I established a safe house in case things went awry; after all, you two are civilians, working at my request, and should not be exposed to danger. But it’s now clear that you are. I realized neither how quickly the threat was accelerating... nor how breathtaking its scope had become. I can blame only myself for not treating it with greater seriousness — when it was still containable.”

“Safe house? Containable? The hell with this.” And Lam reached for the door handle. But just as he did, Pendergast gunned the supercharged engine, pressing his passengers back against the leather seats with the acceleration, running a red light as he headed south from Fort Myers on Route 41.

They blasted down 41 at speeds exceeding a hundred miles an hour as the sun sank toward the horizon in a blaze of orange and red thunderheads. It was one of those spectacular sunsets that looked like the end of the world. Gladstone had been frightened by Pendergast’s pronouncements, but as they rocketed down the highway she wondered if it wasn’t just an overreaction. He didn’t seem like a dramatic sort of personality, but then again, she didn’t really know him.

Before reaching Bonita Springs, Pendergast turned off the highway, and they proceeded east on an unmarked tar road that quickly left the developed areas behind, stretching like an arrow through yellow pine plantations, swamp, and cypress groves. Soon, in an orgy of blood-red clouds, the sun set and a purple twilight rose.

She noticed Pendergast accelerating still further and, glancing behind, saw a distant pair of headlights. Despite their speed, the lights appeared to be pacing them.

“You know there’s a car following us,” Lam said in undisguised alarm.

“Yes,” Pendergast replied.

She felt a wave of panic. Christ, they were out in the middle of nowhere. Worse, she saw Pendergast remove a massive gun from his suit and lay it on the seat next to him.

“Holy shit!” said Lam. “You really planning to use that?”

Pendergast said nothing.

How the hell had they been followed? How did anyone know where they were going? But then she heard a faint throb from above — and, a moment later, saw lights ahead. They looked stationary, blocking the road.

Even as she took notice of this, Pendergast was slowing down. Now he turned off his lights, and a moment later swung the Rover from the tar road onto a dirt lane that led away at a right angle. There was just enough twilight left in the air to see — barely — but once they were in the trees it was dark. The vehicle slammed through potholes, leaping and bucking. Gladstone had no idea how Pendergast could see where the hell he was going. The sound of throbbing rotors above increased, and through the treetops a chopper came into view, banking to the right and accelerating toward them.

“Undo your seat belts,” Pendergast said.

She fumbled with the clasp, her heart pounding. In the backseat, she could hear Lam breathing loudly, hyperventilating.

“Get ready to exit. If we’re still at speed, make sure to open your door completely, then jump away at an angle, tuck, and roll.”

Pendergast veered off the lane onto what was little more than a track through a denser, tree-covered area. He gunned the big engine, and the Rover slewed through marshy bottoms and mud holes, once again in almost complete darkness. Now the chopper was almost on top of them, keeping pace. A brilliant beam of light stabbed through the tree cover, illuminating the area around with crazy, moving shadows.

A harsh electronic voice came from above. “Stop your vehicle.”

Pendergast, if anything, accelerated, plunging into a low, swampy stretch, mud splattering against the windows.

“Stop or we’ll fire.”

Gladstone, terrified, crouched down, hands over her head.

The heavy vehicle abruptly swerved at the same time that a burst of gunfire sounded from above: a rapid pop-pop-pop. Gladstone screamed as the Rover sideswiped a tree. Another burst of gunfire, this time with a loud hammering sound in the rear of the vehicle, glass flying everywhere, leaves and branches shredding around them in the glaring light. In the backseat, Lam emitted a gargling scream.

Pendergast jammed on the brakes and the SUV slewed sideways to a stop. Gladstone turned back only to see Lam torn apart by gunfire, a sight so horrific that she froze. Pendergast seized her, throwing open the door and hauling her out. He turned and leaned back in, pausing briefly over Lam’s mutilated body before grabbing her again and pulling her away from the scene. As he towed her into the brush, a muffled thump sounded behind as the Rover caught fire, flames leaping up even as the car settled, sizzling, into the muck. The forest lit up a lurid yellow.

Holding her hand, Pendergast pushed forward into a dense tangle of cypress trees. The chopper seemed to have lost them; its spotlight beam was swinging through the trees in a searching pattern.

Pendergast slowed, moving deliberately, still holding her hand as a warm rain began to fall: light at first, then getting heavier. The helicopter’s spotlight was moving around in a more distant location and she had the sudden hope they had lost their pursuers completely. He led them into denser vegetation, the cypress trees giving way to a mangrove swamp cut by narrow, winding channels of water a foot deep. They continued as quietly as they could, wading through the watery maze. Gladstone forced away the image of Lam’s body, making an intense effort to control her panic and focus on moving as quietly as possible.

At a cul-de-sac, Pendergast halted. He reached into the water and pulled up handfuls of mud with which he began coating himself, gesturing for her to do the same, in particular her blond hair. The muck smelled foul, fishy and rotten, but she complied, covering herself as thickly as she could manage. Then they turned and continued moving. But now, the thudding of the rotors was returning, the chopper widening its search pattern. No: it was hovering. Pendergast paused and they peered through the foliage. Men were roping down from the stationary chopper. In the downpour, they looked like aliens, with gray-green helmets sporting multiple stalklike goggles, and bulky body armor bristling with weapons.

Pendergast, gesturing for absolute quiet, turned and they headed away into deeper water, crouching low and pushing into the narrowest lanes among the mangroves, scrambling at last under a bundle of roots and wriggling themselves into a small pool within the densest vegetation. Pendergast leaned toward her and whispered, “Immerse yourself, just your head above water. Apply more mud.”

She did as ordered, sinking into the warm water and smearing more foul mud over her head, even though the rain seemed to wash it off almost as quickly as she applied it.

Just as Gladstone began to think they might have evaded their pursuers, she saw flashlight beams cutting through the mangrove trunks. And then the lights vanished. She strained, trying to hear. Flickers of red, like fireflies, darted through the trees, and she heard a splashing sound of approaching men. She felt Pendergast’s hand stiffen. He leaned to her, mouth at her ear. “Laser sights. Hold your breath. Under the water.”

She took a deep breath and submerged herself in the dark, murky water. She held her breath until she could hold it no more, then tried to angle her face to expose as little as possible above the surface while she gulped in air. As she came up, brilliance flooded her eyes.

“Don’t move!” cried a voice. “Raise your hands!”

She slowly rose and, a few moments later, Pendergast did likewise. Her eyes were dazzled by the sudden glare of spotlights, but could make out, backlit, half a dozen figures carrying heavy weapons.

“Come out!”

They worked their way out of the stand of mangroves. The men surrounded them. One searched Pendergast, taking his gun, a knife, other things from his person.

“Hands on head. Move.” The soldiers pushed them from behind and they proceeded out into the deluge. Ahead, in an island of sawgrass, the helicopter had eased down, whipping the grass into a frenzy.

“To the chopper.”

With their hands on their heads, they waded out of the channel and toward the helicopter. As they approached, the cargo door opened and a woman appeared. She gazed at them for a moment, then said: “Mr. Pendergast. How unlovely to see you again.”