The Hunted

75

Harper Payne fell out of the SUV’s front seat amidst the deployed airbag, and landed against Waller, who was knocked backward to the ground. Waller gulped a mouthful of air, filling his lungs with smoke. He rolled to his side, attempting to move out from beneath the weight of Payne’s body, knowing that Scarponi could emerge from the interior at any second, firing at will. But his lungs exploded in a fit of violent hacking, and he was unable to move.

Just then, DeSantos appeared through the thick black fog and grasped Payne’s body by the armpits. Freed of the weight on his chest, Waller was able to get to his feet and help pull Payne twenty yards from the wreck, where the density of the smoke was thinner. The cleaner air helped, as Waller’s coughing subsided enough that he was able to catch his breath.

DeSantos groped for his comrade’s wrist to check for a pulse. Satisfied that Payne was still alive, he nodded at Waller and they shifted position, each grabbing one of Payne’s arms and slinging it over their shoulders. They carried him between them another ten yards, toward the helicopter.

“Medevac is on the way. ETA two minutes,” Knox shouted above the noise of the rotors. “He okay?”

“He’s unconscious,” Waller said. “But he’s got a pulse.” They set Payne’s body on the ground, face up.

“I’m going back in,” DeSantos said, disappearing into the black fog in search of Scarponi.

“I hope he knows what he’s doing,” Waller said to Knox, the thump-thump-thump of the chopper’s blades nearly drowning out his words.

“I owe Hector the opportunity to prove that he does.”

Waller drew his Glock and kept his back to the Black Hawk, guarding Knox and Payne. Scarponi was still unaccounted for, and although it was unlikely he was in any condition to attack, Waller was not taking any chances.

With a handkerchief acting as a crude — and only minimally effective — filter for his nose and mouth, DeSantos fought through the smoke, groping his way around the interior of the Navigator. His Beretta was in his right hand, ready to fire. He attempted to slow his respirations to maximize the amount of time he could remain in the toxic environment. If all went as he hoped, he would find Scarponi’s dead body, then retreat to safety.

But his desires faded quickly as he found the interior of the SUV to be vacant, aside from a couple of corpses in the backseat that did not fit Scarponi’s description. DeSantos began coughing, his makeshift filter no longer effective. He turned and began running, but tripped on a thick object — a fallen branch? Apiece from the wreckage? A leg?

Waller was crouched next to Payne’s body, again checking his pulse. While standing guard, he performed a cursory exam — from what he could recall of his first aid training — and found a potential fracture of Payne’s left forearm along with fresh abrasions and bruising about his face. His pulse was weak and his skin clammy.

Waller resumed his watch, then felt the rumble of another helicopter. He looked skyward and saw the spotlight of a medevac chopper emerge from behind the canopy of the trees. As the emergency vehicle began to descend, someone came running toward them from inside the swirling plume of darkness.

Waller aimed his weapon — but in that instant a deafeningly loud explosion of heat and light burst from the smoking wreck. Metal pieces blew upward and outward, fiery pieces of the SUV’s interior blasting in all directions as two smaller explosions ripped through the wooded area.

The approaching helicopter retreated, quickly gaining altitude. Waller was using his body to cover Payne while Knox was somewhere to his right, hugging the ground. As the metal and rubber fragments landed, small fires began burning in a scattered pattern throughout the field. A few smoldering pieces struck the idling Black Hawk before impotently falling to the ground.

DeSantos emerged from the periphery of the explosions, his clothes torn and his face covered in black soot. He stumbled toward the Black Hawk as the medevac attempted to land forty yards to the east.

Knox got to his feet, met DeSantos at the cockpit door, and yelled, “Scarponi?”

“Not there. Two other bodies, best I could see.” DeSantos climbed into the helicopter and began throwing switches. The rotors began accelerating to full speed. Out of the corner of his eye, Knox saw the medevac personnel approaching on the run from their own helicopter, a stretcher spread between them. To their left was another figure, breaking off from the paramedics and heading toward the Black Hawk.

“Where are you going?” Knox shouted to DeSantos.

“To pay off a debt.”

“Hector—”

“I’m going to find the son of a bitch.”

Just then, the approaching man came up alongside Knox. Knox grabbed his arm and pulled him close so he could be heard over the spinning rotor blades. “Rodman, go with Hector. I want Scarponi alive.”

Troy Rodman nodded, then ran to the other side of the cockpit and climbed into the front passenger seat. He lifted a pair of infrared goggles off a knob on the control panel and fastened the visor to his head.

Knox banged on the window beside DeSantos’s face. “Alive, Hector, I want him alive!”

Knox backed away and the bird lifted off. He ran toward Payne and Waller, where the paramedics had assessed Payne, started an IV line, and hooked him up to oxygen.

“I’m going with Payne in the medevac,” Knox said to Waller. “You stay here. Backup should be here any minute. Fill them in on what happened.” Knox trotted off toward the other helicopter, following the medics as they loaded the stretcher into the chopper. He had known when he signed on as FBI director there would be a certain amount of risk. But he had always thought the risk would be more from a stress-induced heart attack than from racing above the Virginia countryside in a helicopter chasing an escaped felon. That just wasn’t part of the job description.

As the bird lifted off, he was still feeling the pump of adrenaline. What other FBI director would get himself into a situation like this?

The lift from the blades brought the sensation of weightlessness, of being outside his body… kind of the way he felt when taking his morning runs. In response to his own question, he shook his head. The answer was obvious: no other director would do such a thing. But then again, no other FBI director had been army Special Forces in Vietnam.

No other director was Douglas Knox.