Stephen Frey (29 page)

“I know,” Bo said. He turned to Blackburn. “This is the plan. There's a cave about thirty feet up the side of the hill,” he said, gesturing upward. “It doesn't offer much in the way of creature comforts, but it'll be dry and, most important, safe. You and Meg will stay in it while I go for help.”

Meg too followed Bo's gesture up the steep bluff through the moonlight. She could barely make out what appeared to be a tiny opening in the hillside. “You want us to stay out here in the middle of the woods?” she asked, her voice rising.

“Trust me. You'll be safe in the cave with John. It's much better that I go for help on my own. If they find us out here, we won't be able to evade them if John and I have to carry you.” He nodded toward the moonlit sky. “There's too much light now. They'd track us down easily if they spotted us. And I'll be much faster on my own.”

Bo glanced up at the top of the bluffs. It had turned peaceful now that the storm had moved off. The only remnants of its onslaught were a few lingering rumbles from far away. He took a deep breath. The night air carried the springtime fragrance of blossoms and the pungent odor of cedar and pine.

“What is this all about?” Meg asked, putting her arms around Bo and pressing her face into his wet shirt. “Why are people chasing us?”

“I'm close to finding out, Meg, but I'm not sure yet.”

“Are they after me?” she asked, her voice shaking.

“No,” Bo said firmly. “They're after me.” Suddenly, exhausted from the exertion, she went limp in his arms, and he scooped her up once more.

It took them ten minutes to scale thirty feet to the narrow ledge in front of the cave opening. Bo entered first, forced to crawl through the fifteen-foot tunnel on his belly. When he reached the cave's main chamber, he removed a small flashlight from his pocket and scoured the space. The cave was damp and it smelled heavily of mildew, but it hadn't changed much since the last time he'd been in it so long ago. Satisfied that Meg and Blackburn would be safe here, he crawled back out.

“Take my hand,” he said calmly to Meg, who stood on the sliver of a rock ledge clutching a root, eyes shut tightly, her body pressed to the side of the bluff.

“It's dark in there,” she said, her voice trembling.

“I realize that.”

“Do you have a flashlight?”

“Yes,” he said, pressing the small light into her hand. “Come on.”

She grabbed Bo's arm and allowed him to help her into the opening. “Don't let go of me.”

“I won't,” he assured her. Slowly they worked their way along the short passage to the main chamber. Blackburn followed.

“You keep the rifle,” Bo said to Blackburn. “There are still four shells in it. I checked. Anybody comes in here without calling your name first, don't ask questions, just shoot.”

Blackburn nodded. “Don't worry.”

“Good.” Bo helped Meg sit down against the wall across from the opening. He knelt and brushed her wet, matted hair from her face. “I wouldn't use the flashlight a lot,” he suggested. “I don't know how much juice the batteries have left and I wouldn't take the chance that someone sees light coming from the cave.”

“Okay.” She shuddered at the thought of the men who were looking for them.

“I'm going to go.”

“Okay,” she said again, already missing him.

“You'll be fine,” Bo said, starting to move toward the passage. “John is a good man.”

“I know.” She looked up. “Bo.”

“Yes?”

“Please give me a hug.”

He turned and slipped his arms around her shivering frame. He held her tight. “It will all work out. Soon we'll be back together and safe.”

“Promise me you'll come back.”

“I promise.” He began to pull away, then hesitated. “I love you, Meg.”

She kissed him deeply, then pulled back. “I love you too. You are my life.”

“I'll see you soon.” With that he was gone.

B
ruce Laird fell to the ground, sucking air into his lungs madly. He was in top physical condition for a man in his forties, but he'd just sprinted two miles over difficult terrain and perspiration was pouring from his body. As he lay prone and raised the night-vision glasses to his eyes, he could hear the others crashing through the woods toward him. They hadn't been able to keep pace.

Laird scanned the face of the bluff quickly but saw nothing, just shades of gray and green. Then a slight movement caught his eye. He pulled back to it and focused in quickly. It was a man pulling himself to the top of the bluff. The man struggled to his feet and then limped away into the black forest.

“Dammit!”

“What's wrong?” One of the men had dropped beside Laird, panting from exertion.

“Bo's getting away.” Laird allowed the glasses to fall to the ground, pulled out his cell phone, and handed it to the other man. “Here, call out,” he ordered. “Tell the others he's heading northwest. You need to get people cruising state road number seven.”

The man took the phone. “This may not be secure.”

“Fuck it,” Laird responded. “At this point it doesn't matter.” He gestured back over his shoulder. “I'm going to take the other two men and go after Bo. You find out if he hid his wife in the cave. Do you see the opening?” he asked, pointing across the ravine.

“Yes.”

Bo had told Laird about the cave at a party once after several drinks. Told Laird about discovering it as a child. Laird had found it himself one day during a lonely walk after being berated by Jimmy Lee for a mistake on a document. Now he grabbed the other man's arm as the man began to stand up. “Be careful as you approach that thing. Bo Hancock is a very resourceful man. He may have left you a surprise or two.”

CHAPTER 20

S
cott Trajak was exhausted. He was still fighting the effects of a terrible spring cold and today had turned into an eighteen-hour workday. He'd arrived at the office at six this morning with a raw throat, a one-hundred-one-degree fever, and an upset stomach, and it was almost midnight now. He'd been about to leave for home at seven o'clock when he'd received a call on the secure line in his office from Gerald Wallace demanding another Level Blue investigation. Level Blue meant that Wallace needed all information available on the target immediately. A federal judge in Florida was about to rule that local police hadn't had probable cause when they'd brutally forced their way into a suburban Miami home and stumbled onto a major drug operation—not just a local crack house as they had originally assumed. Wallace and his cronies—whoever those people were, Trajak thought grimly—were afraid that the judge's ruling would inhibit law enforcement's ability to search and seize for years to come. Unscrupulous lawyers would use the precedent-setting case to keep the forces of justice from using surprise as a tactic.

For the last five hours Trajak had workedOnline Associates' computers and all of the immense resources available to him through Global Media, the American Financial Group, and their affiliated networks to uncover something Wallace could use.

Uncover something he had. Multiple cash withdrawals by the Florida judge over the past two months in a section of Miami known to be frequented by prostitutes, as well as a single use of the judge's debit card at a shop called Adult Pleasures. It was the same old story, Trajak thought, as his bodyguard moved into the elevator ahead of him and pressed the button for the lobby. The judge was married, with three children, and was considered a pillar of his community. Wallace's people would approach the judge and present him with the information, probably embellishing it with a story that they had a hooker who was willing to identify him as a John with whom she'd had sexual relations. They'd threaten him with exposure, then give him what Trajak called “the choice.” Toe the line or face the music. So far, everyone had cooperated. Trajak had no doubt that the judge would choose the same course of action, falling in line to rule that police indeed had reasonable cause to attack the house in the quiet neighborhood with a twenty- five-member SWAT team (two innocent children had been killed in the ensuing gun battle), and allowing the trial of the four suspected drug traffickers who had survived the attack to proceed.

The elevator doors opened and Trajak followed his bodyguard through a marble-walled lobby and out into the warm spring night toward a waiting limousine. Online Associates' small offices were on the top floor of the four-story building located directly across Leesburg Pike from the entrance to the Tysons Corner Mall, just outside the Capital Beltway fifteen miles west of the White House.

The bodyguard pointed a remote control device attached to his key ring at the vehicle and pressed a button. Lights flashed and locks popped open. The extensive protective measures were standard operating procedure—per Wallace's strict orders—that Trajak usually saw no need for. But today he knew that someone had breached Warfield's computer and found RANSACK. There had been a warning on his screen this morning indicating the violation, the first ever of its kind. “Thanks,” he muttered, easing onto the backseat while the bodyguard held the door open. Though it seemed unnecessary, he had to admit that it was nice to be driven home after a long day. At least there were some perks to working with these bastards.

Invasion of privacy wasn't ethical, but they had him over a barrel, just like they did all the others. He'd been about to go to prison for ten years on a wire fraud charge when they had made a deal for him, allowing him to go free as long as he was willing to use his considerable computer skills to their benefit. As they had made clear, the deal could be rescinded at any time and he'd end up being some ape's bitch in the big house. Trajak was youthful-looking and frail, and during the negotiations Wallace had described in graphic detail what the young man could expect during his incarceration if he ever did anything to violate the security of Online Associates or RANSACK.

“Thanks, Bud,” Trajak said to the bodyguard. He touched his throat gingerly. It was even sorer now than it had been this morning.

“I'll have you home in a few minutes, Mr. Trajak.”

As the bodyguard closed the limousine door, Bo emerged from behind a column at the building's entrance and raced through the darkness toward the hulking man. At the last moment Bo lowered his shoulder, slamming the bodyguard's legs against the rear of the limousine, sending him sprawling across the trunk. In one deft motion Bo grabbed the man by his hair and thrust his forehead against the vehicle three times in rapid succession. The bodyguard crumpled to the ground beside a back tire, unconscious.

Bo scanned the area quickly for security personnel—the first floor of the office building was home to upscale retailers including Tiffany and Hermés—but he saw no one. He reached quickly inside the bodyguard's coat, pulled a .38 caliber revolver from the man's shoulder holster, and raced to the other side of the car as Trajak thrust the door open.

“Hold it right there, Trajak,” Bo ordered, aiming the gun into the other man's face.

Trajak lifted his hands in the air automatically. “Who are you? How do you know my name?”

“This afternoon I asked your receptionist who ran the show. Answer, Scott Trajak.”

After leaving Meg with Blackburn in the cave, Bo had hiked through the woods to a county road and hitched a ride from a passerby to Greenwich. There he'd rented a car and driven to northern Virginia, arriving early this morning. He had tried Blackburn's cell phone number every half hour of the journey. There had been no response.

“What do you want?” Trajak asked nervously.

“Answers.”

“To what?”

“Online Associates and something called RANSACK.”

Trajak shivered. This was the nightmare scenario. One he had scoffed at each time Wallace had warned him about being careful. “I don't—”

“Don't move,” Bo interrupted, training the revolver on Trajak as he leaned down and searched the young man for a weapon. He found only a cell phone, which he shoved in his pocket. “Help me with this guy.”

Trajak nodded, eyeing the barrel of the revolver. Now he understood why people did exactly as they were told in such a situation.

Bo moved back around the vehicle to where the bodyguard lay. The man was just regaining consciousness. Bo leaned down and slammed his chin with the butt of the revolver, knocking him senseless once more. He rooted through the man's pockets, found the limousine's keys, popped the trunk, and, with Trajak's help, lifted the huge man up and tossed him inside, slamming the trunk closed after him.

“Here,” Bo said, throwing Trajak the keys. “You drive.”

“What?”

“Go on,” Bo directed, gesturing toward the driver's seat. “We aren't going far.” He followed Trajak with the gun until the younger man opened the driver-side door and slipped in behind the steering wheel. Then Bo jumped into the car, keeping the gun trained on Trajak. “Let's go.”

Carefully, Trajak eased the limousine forward and, at Bo's direction, steered it to a parking lot on the far side of the building.

“Give me the keys,” Bo ordered.

Trajak turned off the engine and handed Bo the keys.

“Follow me out,” Bo said, opening his door and stepping onto the asphalt. He was aware that if Trajak was allowed to exit by his door, he might bolt. His prisoner had had time to think about an escape plan now. “Come on,” Bo urged, checking the parking lot for anything suspicious.

Trajak slid across the bench seat and got out beside Bo. He had no intention of putting up any resistance. “Don't hurt me, please.”

“I'm not going to hurt you,” Bo assured him, pointing the nose of the revolver into his face, “as long as you answer all my questions. Now come on.” He grabbed Trajak by the back of the collar and pushed him along roughly, trotting behind him until they reached the car Bo had rented. “You're driving again.” Bo pressed the rental car keys into Trajak's hand. “Hurry.”

Moments later they were headed west on Leesburg Pike away from Washington, pushing farther into northern Virginia. “Just stay on this road until I tell you,” Bo ordered, glancing at the strip malls and car dealers rushing past.

“Okay,” Trajak agreed, his voice shaking.

Several minutes later they crossed the Dulles Toll Road, a wide swath connecting Dulles Airport to the Capital Beltway, and the scenery turned from strip malls to forest. Two miles past the toll road, Bo ordered Trajak to turn right, constantly looking back to see if they were being followed. Tall trees arched over them now and the terrain became hilly as they sped north on the winding road toward the Potomac River. By the time they'd reached Georgetown Pike, roughly paralleling the south side of the Potomac, the forest had become thick.

“Left here,” Bo ordered as Trajak eased to a stop at the intersection. He was scrutinizing a map of the area.

Trajak obeyed.

Bo's eyes searched the darkness ahead of them. “Turn off the road here,” Bo directed as they crossed a bridge spanning something called Difficult Creek.

“Where?” Trajak asked, squinting into the darkness beyond the headlights, trying to see what Bo was pointing at.

“Here!” Bo shouted. He had found the abandoned fire road this afternoon.

Trajak slowed and guided the rental car onto a narrow, rutted path, stopping a hundred yards into the dense forest, where Bo felt they were safe.

“Turn off the engine.”

Again Trajak obeyed.

“It's come-to-Jesus time,” Bo said quietly as the noise of the engine faded.

Trajak gripped the steering wheel with both hands and allowed his chin to fall to his chest. “What does that mean?” he asked, his voice hushed.

“I told you, I'm not going to hurt you as long as you answer my questions,” Bo said.

Trajak nodded, unconvinced.

“Tell me about Online Associates.”

Trajak glanced at the gun. He had been told many times that if he were to compromise the security of the operation, he would experience a punishment far worse than his prison sentence.

“Come on,” Bo urged.

“We're just a small Web consulting company,” Trajak answered. “We offer a complete e-commerce solution for firms that are just beginning to offer products and services on the Internet.”

“Don't give me that crap.”

“There are only fifteen of us,” Trajak whined. “We're barely funded. Christ, I had a helluva time making payroll last month.”

“Then why are you being driven home in a limousine by a guy the size of Texas who was carrying this thing?” Bo demanded, nodding at the gun.

Trajak hesitated.

“I drove by your house in McLean today too,” Bo continued. “Very nice. Hardly the digs of a man who can barely fund his company.”

“How did you find out where I lived?”

“I have a friend who works for an airline. I had him run your name through his company's frequent flyer program. Your address came up right away.” Bo raised one eyebrow. “That and your ticket history. You sure fly to Iowa a lot. What the hell is in Iowa?”

“Nothing,” Trajak said defiantly.

Bo leaned forward on the car seat and pointed the gun menacingly at the young man's chest. “Answer my questions.”

Trajak shook his head. “I can't,” he said quietly. “They'll kill me.”

“Who will?”

“I won't tell you.”

Bo cocked the trigger. “I'm warning you.”

“You can warn me all you want but I won't say anything.”

Bo stared at Trajak for several moments, then shoved open his door with his shoulder. In the dim moonlight, he moved to the trunk of the car and pulled out a length of rope. “Come on!” he shouted, thrusting open the driver-side door and dragging the thin man onto the ground.

“What the hell are you going to do?” Trajak screamed, looking wild-eyed at the rope.

Bo placed the revolver on the car's roof, then dropped to his knees
beside Trajak and rolled the man onto his chest. Trajak struggled but Bo overpowered him easily, yanking his hands behind his back and lashing them together at the wrists before running the rope up Trajak's back and looping it around his neck several times.

“What the hell are you doing to me?”

Bo said nothing as he dragged Trajak to the back of the car and tied the rope to the bumper.

“Oh, God, don't,” Trajak pleaded. “Please!”

Bo returned to the front of the car and started the engine, spewing exhaust into Trajak's face. He could hear Trajak screaming and choking. Then he jumped from the car and raced back to where Trajak lay whimpering. “You ready to talk?” he barked.

“Yes, yes.”

“Then tell me what RANSACK is.”

Still Trajak hesitated.

“Why has Warfield Capital poured almost two billion dollars into what you describe as a little operation that can barely meet payroll?”

Trajak glanced up into Bo's eyes. “Who are you?” he asked, tears spilling down his soft cheeks.

“Bo Hancock. I run Warfield and I want to know what the hell's going on.”

“Please, I can't tell you.”

Bo stood up. “I promise you I'll have no problem getting behind the wheel and dragging you all the way to the Potomac.”

“All right, all right!”

“Talk!”

“It's an intimidation network,” Trajak admitted. “I gather personal information and my superior uses the information to scare his targets into doing things his way.”

“What kind of information?”

“Sexual deviance, drug use, infidelity, tax fraud. You name it, I find it.”