Day of Wrath

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN THE ABYSS

Helen Gray lay flat in the tall grass beneath the spreading branches of a large oak tree. Sam Farrell lay right beside her, studying the main gate of the well-lit Caraco complex through the binoculars they’d appropriated from Mcdowell’s car. They were a few feet back from the verge of the road and roughly fifty yards away from the perimeter fence surrounding the facility.

Peter Thorn was further behind them, deeper in the belt of trees — holding a gun to the still-cowed Mcdowell’s head.

Helen stayed still as a convoy of three vehicles — two four-door sedans and a minivan — swept past them, slowed, and turned into the drive leading to the gate.

“Here we go!” Farrell said. “That’s got to be them.”

Helen nodded. The timing was about right — allowing a certain number of minutes for Wolf to realize they weren’t going to walk blithely into his trap, and more minutes for the Caraco security chief and his men to regroup and drive back here.

One after another, the uniformed guards manning the gate cleared the three vehicles and waved them through. All of them turned left and pulled into a parking lot adjacent to one of the three buildings — the one with a forest of radio and microwave relay antennas on its roof.

“Well, well, well,” Farrell murmured. “There that son of a bitch is — without those fake glasses, too.”

He passed the binoculars to Helen. “Wolf just got out of the first car. Tall. Gray-haired. He’s not carrying anything in his hands.”

She adjusted the focus, zeroing in on the area Farrell had indicated.

The angry-looking face of the man they knew as Heinrich Wolf jumped into view. She gritted her teeth. So this was the bastard who’d arranged the cold-blooded murder of so many people, including that of Alexei Koniev. In that instant, she knew that if she’d been looking through the scope of a highpowered rifle instead of a pair of binoculars, she’d have squeezed the trigger without hesitation.

Satisfied that she would recognize the German when she saw him again, Helen surveyed the others in the group. The rest were dressed in dark-colored clothing and carried black cases — the kind of cases used to carry weapons.

Moving as a group, the Caraco contingent filed into the building and disappeared from view.

Helen lowered the binoculars, tapped Farrell on the shoulder, and then slithered backward until she was out of sight from the road. The general followed her more slowly, making far more noise than she did despite his best efforts. She hid a smile. Sam Farrell was a very good friend and a brilliant strategist, but his tradecraft was a lot rustier than he’d ever admit.

They rejoined Peter near where they’d parked Mcdowell’s Ford.

After filling him in on what they’d seen, Farrell asked the obvious question. “Okay, now that we know for sure Wolf’s one of the bad guys, what’s our next move? We still don’t have enough to go to the FBI or the police.”

“No, we don’t,” Helen reluctantly agreed.

Nothing they’d seen constituted significant evidence, not the kind that would get them safely through the front doors of the Hoover Building, or even come close to winning a judge’s approval for a search warrant against the Caraco facility. That was why she’d argued they should bounce Wolf and his men at the ambush site — a plan both Farrell and Peter had vetoed. Both men pointed out that going up against an unknown number of armed enemies, on ground of their own choosing, and in the dark, could come close to counting as suicide. The clincher was the fact that they couldn’t be absolutely sure the Caraco security chief had told Mcdowell the real location for the ambush. In a treacherous game where double crosses were the basic currency, they couldn’t take anything on face value.

“Fine. We need more hard evidence. Then I suggest we take the steps needed to get it,” Peter said abruptly.

“You have a plan, Pete … or just some noble intentions?” Farrell wondered.

“More a rough outline than a detailed blueprint,” Peter admitted.

He shrugged. “We know there’s one guy who’s got all the answers we need. So I say we wait for Mr. Wolf to leave his lain-and then we arrange a little chat.”

“You proposing a kidnapping?” Farrell asked grimly.

“Call it a citizen’s arrest,” he said, grinning. He nodded toward the assortment of gear they’d found in the Taurus’s trunk and back seat.

“Especially since Mr. Mcdowell here has so thoughtfully provided us with all the essentials.”

Mcdowell opened his mouth to protest, then shut it abruptly when Peter jabbed him lightly with the pistol. He’d been told before to keep his trap shut unless they asked him a direct question.

Helen hated to rain on Peter’s parade, but she had to ask the obvious question. “What makes you think Wolf is going to go anywhere?”

“Educated guesswork,” he said. He ran quickly through his reasoning process. “Look, I don’t think this guy Wolf is the head honcho of this operation. He’s too involved in the detail work.

Somebody else somewhere has to be pulling the strings — looking at the big picture. Now that we’ve slipped the leash, I think Wolf will go running to his master for new instructions. And I don’t think he’ll trust that kind of information to the phone. I think he’ll go in person.”

“To Ibrahim?” Farrell guessed.

“I think so.”

“He’s smart enough. And tough enough,” Farrell said slowly.

“But what I don’t understand is why he’d run a smuggling operation of any kind — let alone one involving a Russian nuke!

Caraco’s a multibillion-dollar corporation, which means Ibrahim personally has to be worth at least a few hundred mil.”

“Maybe the money’s not enough,” Peter said. “Or maybe money was never the real objective — just a means to an end. This end.”

Helen jumped in. “We can leave finding the motive up to the U.S. attorney’s office, Sam.” She frowned. “I think Peter’s right. From what you’ve told us, Caraco is practically Ibrahim’s personal fiefdom. I doubt Wolf could run such a huge show without his knowledge — or consent.”

“Yeah. That makes sense.” Farrell turned back to Peter.

“Which still leaves us with a problem. How do you propose divvying up the assignments for this little shindig you’re planning?”’

“I think that falls out pretty logically,” Helen said, after a rapid glance at Peter. “You’ve got a cell phone, don’t you?”

Farrell nodded. He patted his jacket pocket. “Last year’s Christmas gift from Louisa. I don’t like the damned thing, but she wants to keep tabs on me when I’m out of the house.”

“So that plus Mcdowell’s binoculars makes you the lookout,” Peter said. “Between your Beretta and this” — he hefted the SIG P228 he was still pointing at the white-faced Mcdowell — “Helen and I shouldn’t have much problem persuading Herr Wolf to listen to reason.”

Seeing Farrell starting to look stubborn, Helen laid a hand on his arm.

“Please, Sam. Let Peter and me do this. This was our fight first.”

She left the other reason she wanted to leave the general behind as their watcher carefully unspoken. No matter how Peter tried to dress it up, what he’d proposed was actually a lot closer to kidnapping than to any recognized form of lawful arrest. If things went wrong, she wanted to build as big a firewall between Louisa Farrell’s good-hearted husband and their actions as she possibly could.

Farrell looked down at the ground for several seconds before raising his eyes to meet theirs again. “All right, I’ll stay put and keep watch.” He handed over his pistol and nodded toward Mcdowell.

“What about this little shit? Does he stay with me, or go with you?”

“He comes with us,” Helen heard herself say tightly. She glared at her nemesis. “I want to be right there when Mr. Mcdowell meets his real employer face-to-face for the first time.”

Mcdowell turned even paler.

It was nearly one in the morning. Despite the hour, Reichardt sat rigidly upright in the front passenger seat of his Caraco owned Chrysler Lebaron. He stared out at the blackened landscape blurring past without seeing any of it — not the dark masses of trees stabbing up toward the star-speckled night sky, or the occasional, isolated flicker of light that marked a human habitation.

Ostensibly, Ibrahim had summoned him to Middleburg for a conference to discuss minor revisions to the Operation. In reality, Reichardt knew the Saudi prince wanted to vent his displeasure over his failure to trap and eliminate the four Americans — Thorn, Gray, Farrell, and Mcdowell — as promised.

Mcdowell. The German felt his jaw tighten. The FBI traitor had obviously tipped his hand somehow.

Reichardt grimaced. He’d thought about eliminating Mcdowell earlier but he’d needed the information given him by the American to keep track of Thorn and Gray. And now that had all gone wrong. Perhaps he’d made a mistake in allowing Mcdowell to live this long.

Johann Brandt, his closest aide and bodyguard, spun the wheel, turning onto the narrow, two-lane road that eventually ran past Ibrahim al Saud’s sprawling Virginia estate. The road wound up and down over a chain of gentle, rolling hills and then cut through a dense, dark stretch of forest.

“We’re being followed, sir,” Brandt said suddenly, with a quick glance at the rearview mirror.

Reichardt felt that shiver run down his spine again. Too many of his carefully laid plans had gone astray these past few days. He was beginning to lose faith in his own cunning and powers of calculation.

“Are you sure?” he demanded.

Brandt nodded. “It’s the same car. It turned off the highway after us. And now it’s drawing closer.”

Reichardt had noticed the headlights behind them gleaming in the sideview mirrors from time to time, but he’d discounted them. Many of the high-priced lawyers, lobbyists, and corporate executives who made their homes in this area were famed for working inhumanly late hours.

“How far are we from the estate?” he asked.

“Four or five miles.”

Too far. Reichardt craned his head around, trying to catch a glimpse of the car that was following them. Nothing. Just the glare of the headlights. He narrowed his eyes against the dazzling light.

A new light blinked into existence — this one on top of the car pursuing them. Red and blue flashes strobed against the darkness, flickering against the tangled woods on either side of the road.

“The police?” Reichardt murmured, more to himself than to Brandt.

Why? What had they done wrong?

“Should I evade them?” the other man asked, hunched forward over the steering wheel now.

Reichardt shook his head. They were on an isolated country road — far from the useful camouflage of the noise, chaos, and confusion of city streets. The chances of successfully evading a police pursuit were nil. And Ibrahim would not thank him for drawing so much unwelcome official attention so close to the Arab’s own home.

Perhaps Brandt had been speeding, or had fallen afoul of some minor technicality in the state’s arcane traffic laws. It didn’t really matter. “Pull over, Johann,” he instructed. “We shall play the poor lost German tourists, accept our ticket or warning with good grace, and then proceed.”

Obedient as ever, Brandt braked gently and then brought the Lebaron to a full stop on the narrow shoulder. He tapped the button to roll down the driver’s side window. Driven by a soft, whispering breeze, the cool night air rushed in — carrying with it the scent of pine and damp moss.

The police car pulled in behind them, its single roof-mounted light still flashing.

“Step out of the car! The driver first! And keep your hands where I can see them!” a commanding male voice barked.

Reichardt frowned. This wasn’t the procedure for a routine traffic stop, was it?

He nodded briefly to Brandt, signaling the other man to obey.

Perhaps the Virginia police were more cautious on such roads at night.

Certainly, there wasn’t any point in being spooked into foolish resistance to the authorities — not when Caraco’s lawyers could smooth out any minor misunderstandings.

Brandt popped the door open, put one foot on the ground, and then froze as another voice yelled out, “It’s a trap, Wolf! Run!”

They heard the sound of a muffled blow.

Mcdowell! The scales fell from Reichardt’s eyes in one sickening instant. Thorn and that damned woman were coming for him! He snatched his leather briefcase off the floor and whirled toward Brandt. “Kill them!”

Thorn saw the Lebaron’s driver throw himself headlong through the open door and roll frantically across the road — trying to get out of the light and into cover. Flame stabbed out of the pistol in the other man’s hand as he fired while still rolling.

The Ford’s windshield shattered. Fragments of safety glass cascaded across him.

Damn it. Thorn folded sideways — out of the line of fire. He grabbed for the passenger side door handle.

“Wolf dropped out the other side!” Helen warned him. “He’s in the woods!” She already had the right rear passenger door open and Farrell’s 9mm drawn.

“Got it.” Thorn shoved the door open and rolled out onto the gravel-strewn shoulder — staying prone close to the car. “You take him. I’ll take the driver!”

Another round slammed into the Ford, smashing through one of the side windows and out through the roof in a shower of torn metal and fiberglass. Helen dropped onto the ground right behind him — leaving a moaning Mcdowell slumped over in the back seat.

They had been too confident they had the FBI traitor under control, Thorn realized. Despite the risk involved if they’d been stopped by the police themselves, they ought to have tied Mcdowell up. Well, it’ll serve the little bastard right if a stray bullet hits him, Thorn thought coldly.

With a quick nod, Helen sprinted into the trees — careful to stay low.

Keeping the car between her and the unseen gunman, she angled off in the direction Wolf had taken and disappeared into the darkness and dense undergrowth.

Thorn yanked the SIG P228 out of the shoulder holster he’d appropriated from the FBI agent, spun around, and crawled rapidly toward the back of the Taurus.

A split second before he got there, another round ripped through the right rear tire, sprayed dirt and gravel in all directions as it hit the ground, and then ricocheted away into the forest. Thorn rolled away from the can — into the brush and tall grass bordering the road.

Jesus. If he’d moved a little faster, his head would have been right in the line with that bullet.

Wolf’s driver was good — maybe too good.

Thorn edged even further back and then belly-crawled to his left snaking away from the two parked cars while staying parallel to the road. He stopped beside a small boulder that lay half buried amid the weeds. With his pistol out and braced in both hands, he studied the black, forbidding treeline on the other side-his ears cocked for the slightest sound, the first indication of any movement.

All sounds trailed away. Even Mcdowell’s low, sobbing groans had faded to nothing.

Questions about the man he was facing raced through Thorn’s mind as he lay absolutely still, trying to blend with the boulder and the shadows.

Was Wolf’s driver a former soldier used to fighting in wooded country?

Or was he a former Stasi thug more at ease in an urban setting?

There was only one way to find out, he told himself. He felt through the grass for a good-sized rock, found one, and then lobbed it skyward with one quick overhand grenade toss. The rock sailed high, arcing toward the two lit-up cars. It bounced off the hood of the Ford and rolled off into the brush.

The gunman reacted immediately — firing twice in rapid succession.

Both shots caromed off the car’s engine block.

Strike one, Thorn thought grimly. Without hesitating further, he scrambled to his feet and raced across the road and into the woods beyond. He circled warily through the trees — listening intently and checking every footfall for the branch or twig that might trip him up, or snap and alert the man he was hunting.

Metal clinked on rock close by.

Thorn froze in place. He was nearing the road again — within yards of the spot where he’d seen muzzle flashes stabbing out of the blackness.

Wolf’s driver hadn’t changed position after firing or at least not by much. Strike two.

He could almost sense the gunman’s growing uneasiness now.

Every small sound — every bird flitting from branch to branch, every small animal skittering through the brush, every stray breeze rustling through the leaves — must be gnawing away at the other man’s resolution and confidence.

Moving slowly and with infinite patience, Thorn put his back against the trunk of the closest tree, a stunted scrub pine, and slid around it. His eyes were fully adjusted to the darkness now.

Bingo.

He could just barely make out the man-sized shape crouched behind a moss-covered boulder about five yards away. The gunman had found a good piece of cover against someone firing from the other side of the road. A breeze stirred the trees above them, momentarily parting the leafy canopy that hid the night sky. Starlight gleamed off the barrel of the other man’s pistol.

Thorn considered his options. If this were a combat situation, he could just put a couple of rounds into the gunman’s back, make sure he was down for good, and move on after Wolf himself. But this case was a whole lot murkier. He and Helen were operating well outside the law.

Shooting without warning would probably constitute murder. He shook his head — he couldn’t just dry-gulch the guy, not under these circumstances. Anyway, they needed captives to question — not corpses.

Too bad.

Thorn took a fast, shallow breath, and then let it out. He took one step closer with the pistol braced in a twohanded shooting grip.

Now.

“Drop the gun or you’re dead!” he barked.

For a split second, Thorn thought the other man would obey the order.

He was wrong.

Instead, Wolf’s man spun around, frantically trying to bring his own weapon to bear. Flame blossomed in the darkness. A bullet tore into the tree trunk just above Thorn’s head.

Strike three.

Thorn squeezed the trigger three times — pushing the barrel back on line between each shot. Two rounds hit the gunman squarely in the chest.

The third hit him in the head. The man slumped to the ground with one arm still draped across the boulder.

Half blinded and with his ears still ringing from the closerange gunfire, Thorn moved forward and dropped to one knee beside the man he’d shot. He felt for a pulse. Just a faint, spasmodic flutter... and then nothing.

He grimaced. “Shit!”

Suddenly Thorn felt the air stir as someone charged up behind him.

Christ! He swung around with his right arm raised as a block. Too late.

Something heavy and hard glanced off his arm and smashed into his skull. Pain flared — white-hot and blindingly bright. Thorn slipped down into blackness.

The abrupt flurry of gunshots in the middle distance startled Reichardt. He’d been heading through the forest as fast as he could while trying to move silently. From time to time, he’d stopped — listening desperately for any sounds of pursuit. He’d heard none.

Were both Americans going after Brandt? It seemed almost too much to hope for. Johann Brandt was a man of somewhat limited imagination, but he was utterly loyal and fearless.

He stayed still a moment longer, waiting for more gunfire.

Nothing.

Still panting in short, shallow gasps from his frantic dash out of the car, Reichardt took quick stock of his surroundings. He was deep in the woods — at least a hundred yards from the road.

Briers he’d snagged during his initial, panicked flight had ripped holes in his wool slacks, torn his jacket, and even drawn blood from his hands. But he still had his pistol, his briefcase, and his cell phone.

The phone! He could summon help from Ibrahim’s estate security force or even the local police.

Reichardt fumbled in his pockets. Where was it? He swore softly. The cell phone was gone. It must have fallen out onto the ground during his dash for safety. He tried drying the sweat from his palms on his jacket, knowing he would have to press on. If he could just outdistance his pursuers he could find a house and beg for help or flag down a passing car.

The German started moving again — still angling away from the road. For now he needed the concealment the woods offered more than the speed he could have attained on pavement.

Reichardt stumbled into a low-hanging branch, felt a sharp twig draw more blood from his cheek, and swore again angrily.

This was not right. As a servant of the East German state and then as a freelance terrorist, he had been a master of men’s lives for more than twenty years. He was always the hunter — never the hunted!

He pushed through more brush and then stopped dead in his tracks.

He’d come to a sluggish stream wending its way downhill through the trees. The watercourse wasn’t wide — almost narrow enough to jump, in fact. But the bank sloshed muddy and slippery.

More to the point now, the forest canopy parted above the stream — allowing more light to fall on the weed-choked water.

Frowning, Reichardt turned to peer behind him again. He snarled. It was hopeless. It was as dark as a witch’s heart under those trees. He could see nothing.

He plunged ahead, squelched through the soft ground, and waded into the knee-high water. Ripples spread across the still surface.

“Freeze!” Shocked by the shout from behind him, Reichardt felt sudden terror grip his heart. It was the woman, Gray. He exploded into motion — surging toward the opposite bank.

Blam.

The bullet caught him in the fleshy part of the left thigh and spun him halfway around. My God. He lurched forward. There was no pain. Not yet. That would come later. He gained firmer footing and stumbled forward, panting louder now.

Blam.

A second bullet hit him, this one in the right shoulder. His own pistol went flying off into the mud and tall grass. Reichardt moaned aloud. No!

Clutching his briefcase tightly to his chest, he limped out of the stream and into the sheltering darkness beyond. He’d gone a few yards when his wounded leg abruptly gave out — dumping him flat on his face in the undergrowth.

Reichardt heard someone else crashing through the woods nearby — on this side of the stream. It couldn’t be that bitch who’d shot him. Could it be Brandt? His probing fingers found the torn and bleeding edges of the exit wound in his thigh and recoiled. It had to be Brandt. Please God, let it be Brandt!

Still holding the briefcase, he dragged himself toward the noise, crawling awkwardly on his stomach. “Johann! Johann!” he whispered harshly, hissing now as the first fiery tendrils of pain coursed through him. “Hilf mir! Hilf mir!”

His scrabbling fingers touched a shoe. A man’s shoe. Reichardt looked up, smiling. His smile faded slowly.

Lawrence Mcdowell looked down at him. A puffy bruise covered half the senior FBI agent’s cheek. He held a pistol — a 9mm SIGSAUER.

Reichardt caught the acrid smell of burnt powder on the weapon. It had been fired recently. He grabbed at the cuff of the other man’s pants, pointing back the way he’d come. “The woman Gray is there! You must kill her, PEREGRINE! It is the only way you can be safe!”

Mcdowell smiled nastily. “I will kill her, Herr Wolf. After I finish my business with you.” He raised the pistol. “I’m canceling my debt, you bastard. Permanently.”

Reichardt saw the muzzle center on his forehead. In horror, he saw Mcdowell’s finger tighten on the trigger.

“Noooooo!”

Reichardt stopped screaming when the bullet tore through his brain and sent him straight to hell.

Helen Gray jumped lightly across the stream, skidded on the slippery ground, and quickly recovered her balance. She’d been tracking Wolf cautiously — aware that, like a wounded animal, even an injured man could still be dangerous. Then she’d heard the voices coming from a thicket a few yards away. Had Wolf’s driver evaded Peter and linked up with his employer? Her mind would not accept the other explanation.

Peter was alive. He had to be alive.

The high-pitched, womanish scream and the echoing gunshot took her by surprise.

She lunged forward through the screening brush and froze — staring in shock at Larry Mcdowell, the gun in his hand, and the twisted, mangled corpse at his feet. Her old boss was still grinning nastily at the man he’d just murdered. Heinrich Wolf, their only link to the smuggled shipment from Russia, and their only hope of clearing their names, was dead.

“You shit, Mcdowell,” Helen said softly. She swung her Beretta on line. “Drop the goddamned gun …”

Mcdowell looked up and seemed to see her for the first time.

An odd, almost maniacal glee danced in his eyes. He shook his head.

“What are you going to do, Helen? Kill me? How are you going to explain that?”

“I’m not kidding, Larry,” Helen said tightly. “Drop the gun.

Now!”

Mcdowell laughed harshly. “Screw you, bitch!” He lifted the SIG-Sauer, pointing it toward her.

Blinded by a sudden wave of cold fury, Helen pulled the trigger.

And again. And again. And again.

Slowly, still shaking, she eased up on the trigger, staring over the muzzle at the carnage her bullets had created. Her first shot had caught Mcdowell low — well below the stomach. Each successive 9mm round had climbed higher — ending in one that blew his face apart.

Helen sank to her hands and knees, retching uncontrollably.

She felt icecold now, too cold ever to be warm again.

When she was done, she rose to her feet, still shivering. She slipped the Beretta back in her holster — succeeding on the second try — and fished out the cellular phone they’d taken off Mcdowell back at the bed-and-breakfast. In a daze, she punched in a number she’d memorized and then heard the phone connect.

“Farrell.”

“Sam,” Helen heard herself say weakly. “I need your help, Sam. Things have gone terribly wrong …”