Runaway Heart

TWENTY-THREE

Jack slid back into his Fairlane, then used Susan's phone to call Herman inside the house. "Okay, I'm set. He's still parked out here. Get in the Mercedes and head up to Malibu Canyon Road."

"Okay," Herman replied. "But Susan just decided she wants to go."

"You tell Susan if I see her in that car I'm turning around and going home."

He heard a muffled conversation as Herman and Susan argued about it, then Susan was in his ear, buzzing like an angry hornet: "I'm not going to be left behind like somebody's little sister."

"I know you have an extensive background in law enforcement, Ms. Strockmire, but let me stress this, and I'll say it slowly, so even you can understand…"

Why was he being such an asshole? Was it because he couldn't control her? Was this why he had had such a string of uninspiring relationships?

"Ms. Strockmire," he continued with exaggerated politeness. "It is always a bad idea to have all your assets stacked up in one place. You're rear guard-a position usually assigned to the most dangerous motherfucker in the outfit, which, without a doubt, is you."

"Now you're really going over the top."

"Do I have your word on this? Otherwise, I'm going home."

"Dad's coming out," she hissed. "But Wirta… if anything happens to him, I'm coming after you."

"Your challenge. So, I get to pick time and choice of weapons. How 'bout midnight, with thongs and nipple clips."

"What an asshole!" she said, but he heard her laugh as she hung up.

Ten minutes later Herman lumbered out, climbed into the silver Mercedes, and backed out of the driveway. Jack watched in amazement as Paul Nichols actually turned on his headlights, hung a U-turn and followed.

Jack dialed Herman's cell phone. When he picked up: "Herm, he's behind you."

"How could I miss him?" Herman wheezed sarcastically. "He's got his high beams on."

"Okay, listen: Take Malibu Canyon Road up about two miles. Just before the tunnel there's a dirt road on the left with a wooden gate. It's always unlocked. You don't have to get out, you can butt it with your bumper and it'll swing open. Drive up the road and take the first fork. You getting this?"

"Yeah, take the first fork. Then what?"

"Keep going until you get to a meadow. It's up on top of the hill. There's a sports field up there. A little baseball diamond, a track, some volleyball nets. Pull across and park by the dugout, then wait."

"Okay."

Jack hung up and dialed Shane Scully, his ex-partner.

"Hello," the dark-haired cop answered.

"Shane, it's me."

"Me? Would that be L.A. 's newest gumshoe? How's the office? You set up yet?"

"We've already had our first robbery, our first client, and I'm on our first stakeout… just like Magnum, only without the Ferrari."

"Whatta you need?" Shane asked.

"Can you find out who owns the residence at 2352 North Canon Drive in Beverly Hills? A guy named Paul Nichols lives there, but I want to know if he owns the place, is a guest, or what?"

"Any reason to think he doesn't own it?"

"It's big, maybe worth four or five mil, but Paul drives a cheesebox with wheels so I have my doubts. Run the address through county records for me. There's a cold beer in it for you."

"Done."

Herman turned left off Malibu Canyon Road and followed a small dirt drive to the wood fence. He nudged the gate open with his bumper as Jack had instructed. It swung wide. He saw the blue Chevelle pulling in behind him.

Herman was feeling very alive. His heart rate was steady, and when he checked his pulse it was up around 92-not arrhythmia-excitement. It made him feel more energized than he had in weeks. But he was glad he had Jack Wirta back there for protection.

The baseball diamond came up on the right. He pulled across the outfield, then parked near the batting cage and turned off the headlights. In his rearview mirror he watched the blue Chevelle pull up onto the field and stop thirty or forty yards behind him with the headlights off. His cell phone rang again and he picked it up. "Yeah?"

"He up there?" Wirta asked.

"Yep. Parked in the outfield."

"Okay. Get out and walk slowly toward him."

"Do what?"

"Don't worry, I just need you for a diversion. I'm twenty yards down the road. I'm gonna move in on foot. I'll take him before you get to him."

"Okay."

Herman hoped his heart didn't spin out on him. He took his pulse again: 98-still in the high-normal range. He got out of the car and began to walk slowly toward the blue Chevelle. It was strange how exhilarated he felt. He was actually enjoying this.

When he was about fifty feet from the car, he heard somebody yell: "Hey! Hey, whatta you doing? Stop it!" And he knew Jack had made his move.

Herman lumbered up as fast as he could without running, and when he arrived at the Chevelle he found that Jack Wirta had Professor Nichols face down on the ground, handcuffing him.

"You'd better unhook these if you know what's good for you," Nichols demanded.

"If I knew what was good for me I wouldn't be driving a Fairlane and working these hours. Why don't you tell me why you're following Herman Strockmire?" Jack pulled him into a sitting position.

"None of your fucking business!" Nichols's forehead was wet and he had a little damp grass stuck to his bullshit Vandyke.

Then all hell broke loose.

It started with a whispering sound that brought a wind with it, bending the long grass around the baseball diamond. Herman looked up and saw a huge helicopter, unlike anything he'd ever seen before. It had a sort of stealth configuration and was extremely quiet as it hovered over them. He glimpsed the underbelly and part of the nose for only a second before a huge xenon light snapped on, blinding him.

"Stand where you are! Put your hands in the air!" a bullhorn blared down at them.

In that split second before the light went on, Herman saw what he thought were noise-cloaking panels on the belly. These "whisper panels" had been described to him when he'd filed a class action against the government on behalf of Tom Lawson and Gil Grant, two Marines who had gotten horribly sick from something they'd contracted at Area 51, the supersecret government airbase at Groom Lake, Nevada. It was Tom and Gil who had originally gotten him interested in Area 51. He had hoped his lawsuit would force the government to reveal what testing was really going on out there.

The helicopter hovered, blowing sand and dirt as it whispered silently above the field. Suddenly, men appeared on the ground all around them. They had either jumped from the low hovering helicopter or had been up here already waiting. They converged from all sides. Herman felt hands grabbing him as ten or twelve soldiers swarmed them. They were all dressed in camouflage jumpsuits with a strange, red Delta insignia sewn over the uniform's left breast pocket.

I was right! Herman thought, recognizing the Dulce Base insignia that had been drawn for him once by Tom Lawson.

Herman and Jack were quickly frisked. Jack's AMT Hardballer was yanked out of his holster. They were both cuffed while Paul Nichols was uncuffed, then they were hustled to a spot at the side of the field as the strangely-shaped black helicopter landed, throwing dirt and stones everywhere, stinging their skin and eyes.

Ten commandos dragged Herman and Jack toward the helicopter, but Paul Nichols yelled something at the soldiers who had a hold of Jack.

"Huh?" one of the commandos yelled back, over the windstorm coming from the idling futuristic chopper.

"Turn him around," Nichols demanded, pointing at Jack. They did as he instructed, then Paul stepped up and fired a right cross.

Jack's lip split and blood flowed. "That all you got?" Jack yelled at Nichols.

The commandos yanked Jack around, then continued pushing Herman and Jack toward the helicopter.

Canvas hoods were snapped over their heads as they were forced into the chopper. The roar inside was much louder than on the outside. Herman and Jack felt the helicopter shudder and rise. As they took off they were both pretty sure they would never be heard from again.