The Heaven Trilogy (145 page)

He heard his voice from a distance, as if he were floating over his own body, and it sounded strange. Like the words of some dark priest summoning a body for sacrifice.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked softly.

“To help you understand,” he said.

“Understand what? That you're a tortured soul?”

Shannon forced a grin. The fog swam in his mind.

“You see? Even now you insist on berating me,” he said. “Don't you want to understand how your beloved Shannon turned out to be so wicked? I'm going to show you how.”

“Shannon . . .” She stopped.

She called you Shannon
.

“You're showing me only one thing,” she continued. “You're showing me that you need help. I'll admit that I may have overreacted back there, but you've gone over the edge. You need help.”

“Maybe it's you who need help. Have you considered that possibility? Or is your mind too full of nightmares to consider that?”

He saw her swallow. “Be careful what you say. My name's Sherry. Or Tanya. You remember that name, don't you?”

“And my name is what?”

“Shannon,” she said softly. “We've both had a difficult time with things. I'll give you that. I've spent eight years reliving the nightmare of those three days, trapped in the box. But now there's only one right way. You think our meeting out here in the jungle is purely chance? You think my dreams are stupid?” She paused. “I suppose you do. But that doesn't change what we should do.”

“And what should we do?”

“I don't know. But not this.”

“
This?
You don't even know what
this
is,” he said. “This,
Tanya
, is the shedding of blood. This,
Tanya
, is the bull and I hold the sword. Without the shedding of blood there can be no forgiveness of sin. Isn't that in your Bible? Half the world sits on padded pews singing pretty songs about the blood of Christ. Well, now you will see what it means to shed blood in the real world.”

As he spoke, threads of confusion wrestled in his mind. He should not talk to her like this. She was extending a hand of peace. Maybe more. And what was he offering her? Only anger. Hatred.

“You've given yourself to Satan, Shannon. Can't you see that?” Her voice sounded deeply saddened. “I was wrong to be angry with you. Forgive me. I pity you.”

Pity? Any illusion he harbored about her offering him peace shattered with her words. Revulsion swept through his gut like a wave crashing to shore.

He knew he couldn't allow her the satisfaction of seeing the impact of her words, but his hands were shaking already. Surely she could see that. The knife was at his waist—he could flip it out to her in the space of a single breath— pin her to the tree behind.

He blinked. What was he thinking? It was
Tanya
there!

Shannon lifted a trembling finger. “We'll see who should pity whom. I don't have time for this. Stay here by the river. I'll be back tonight.”

He spun away and broke into a jog, knowing he should tell her how to avoid the crocodiles, but too furious to bring himself to it. She would have to depend on her God.

THOUGHTS CRASHED through Shannon's mind as he ran under the trees, confused and furious. Slowly the images of the woman were replaced by images of Abdullah. Slowly the lust for his blood crept through his mind, like an antiseptic numbing this other pain. Slowly Shannon climbed back into his old skin and prepared himself for the end of this long journey.

The first indication that he wasn't alone on the mountain came at the base of the black cliffs. A flock of parrots took to the air down valley, squawking loudly. He immediately pulled up and changed direction.

Shannon eased his way through the bush to the right of the disturbance. He moved from tree to tree, carefully measuring the jungle before him. The wind shifted and a light breeze brushed his face. He dropped to the ground as the strong smell of fish—tuna fish—filled his nostrils.

Humans. Whites.

Then he saw the soldier. Through the brush, still about fifty yards off, to his left, a single man dressed in the stripped-down military garb typical of the Special Forces. Close-cropped hair topped the man's camouflage-painted head. An automatic rifle crossed at his waist.

Shannon stared through the foliage at the hidden warrior and quickly considered his options. This was probably the perimeter guard of a post farther ahead. The cliff likely.

He studied the man carefully for a full five minutes before moving forward. He slowly edged his way closer to the shifting guard. For Shannon, armed with only a knife, stalking a trained killer armed with an automatic weapon, stealth would be the difference between life and death.

He stopped, crouched low behind the foliage, and studied the husky man. Regardless of their confidence, most of these white boys didn't belong in the jungle—at least not
this
jungle.

Shannon drew back his knife, held it for a second, and then hurled it at the man's exposed head. The startled soldier had barely started his turn when the butt of the knife smashed into his temple and dropped him. Shannon waited for a few moments, allowing the adrenaline in his veins to ease. Confident that no alarm had been raised, he slid next to the unconscious Ranger, retrieved his knife, and quickly removed a nine-millimeter revolver from the man's waist. He left the man on his back and slipped through the trees toward the cliff pass.

Laying the Ranger out hadn't been necessary, of course. He could've just as easily made his way past the team unnoticed. But since the CIA had gone as far as inserting Ranger forces to stop him, the least he could do was let them know he appreciated the gesture.

He thought of the woman briefly, like a distant memory now.
No, you can't
change what I am, Tanya. And I am a killer. It's what I do. I kill. I do not die.
There has been enough dying. Dying is for fools.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

LUMBER LOADING dock D on the southern tip of Miami Harbor received the order to close six hours after the director drafted the recommendation. Three of those hours had been spent chasing down the proper naval authorities, who were evidently indisposed at a convention in Las Vegas. It had taken the port authorities another two hours to implement the orders. In sum total, the ports along the southern tip of Miami closed their doors to business eight hours after the decision had been made to do so.

Not bad for a monolithic bureaucracy. Too slow, considering the stated operational goals of Homeland Security.

During the last two hours of operation at loading dock D, a large converted fishing vessel bearing the name
Marlin Watch
unloaded the last of her cargo and pulled back out to sea for its return voyage to Panama. No one paid much attention to the unmilled Yevaro log set among the others. It was, after all, just a log.

Thirty minutes after it had been unloaded from the ship, the mid-size log was put aboard an eighteen-wheeled lumber rig with six other imports and transported to the Hayward Lumberyard on the outskirts of Miami proper.

Six hours later, an eighteen-wheel International rumbled into the yard, loaded the log, and left without filing any paperwork.

Farther north a clipper named
Angel of the Sea
moved steadily up the northeastern coastline of the United States.

Farther south, just entering U.S. waters, another ship, a larger one called the
Lumber Lord,
steamed up Florida's eastern coastline.

“HOW MANY?” Abdullah demanded, dropping his empty glass on the desk.

“Eighteen
.
The men passed the perimeter security line at the base of the cliffs three minutes ago, three groups in single file.”

Abdullah whirled around and slammed his fist onto the desk. “They don't believe me? They're attacking?” He glared at the wall map. “Eighteen men, single file—they are professional soldiers. How long until they reach us?”

“An hour, if they move quickly. An hour and a half if they are careful,” Ramón responded.

So then, they were coming for him. Eight years of waiting and now it was happening. The Americans weren't taking him seriously.

He shuddered, as if a nerve had been touched in his back. But then a nerve had been touched by the heat that rose through his spine. Maybe it was better this way. They would have their guard down and the blasts would rock their smug little world. Even if they did bring him down in the process, they would still feel a little heat.

He turned to Ramón, who stood waiting anxiously. “Tell Manuel to take his six best men and position them for surveillance near the northern edge of the compound. They are not to engage the soldiers unless they reach us.” He twisted his head and looked at the map that outlined the perimeter's defense system. The old Claymore mines were buried just beneath the surface of the jungle floor in a three-meter band that circled the entire complex. It had taken them over two months to lay the three thousand mines, and for three years now, they had remained undisturbed.

“Activate the compound mines and inform the men to stay clear.” He swung to Ramón. “Do it!”

Ramón left quickly.

Abdullah rounded his desk and sat carefully. The room was silent except for a slight scraping sound that came from the bugs in each corner. They were hard-shelled species that clung to each other's backs with long bipeds.

It was time to send another message. The Americans had never felt terror, not really. Not lately. They had never had their limbs severed or their wives raped or their children killed. So now he would change that.

Where was Jamal?

What if Yuri's bomb did not detonate? Abdullah shuddered and closed his eyes. Sweat soaked his collar, and he ran a hand across his neck.

Someone walked into his office and Abdullah opened his eyes. The room seemed to shift off center before him. Everything doubled—two doors, two Ramóns. He twisted his head and blinked. Now there was one. He lifted wet palms to the desk and set them before him. A fly settled on his knuckle but he did not bother it.

“Where are the bombs?” he asked.

“The boat with the larger device should be entering Chesapeake Bay now. It will be in place with time to spare.” Ramón's voice quaked—he was afraid, Abdullah thought. Imagine that, afraid.

“The
Lumber Lord
is still off Florida's coast, going north.”

Abdullah nodded. At his right hand the black transmitter sat facing the ceiling.

“Send a message to the Americans,” he said quietly. “Tell them that they have thirty minutes to withdraw their men from the valley.”

He ran a finger over the green knobs. His world had slowed. A drug had entered his body, he thought. But even the thought was slow. As if he had slipped into a higher consciousness. Or possibly a lower consciousness. No, no. It would have to be a higher state of mind, one that approached greatness. Like those boys marching off to their death on the minefields.

“Tell them that if they do not withdraw the soldiers, then we will detonate a small bomb. Don't tell them it will trigger the countdown for the larger one,” he said, and his fingers trembled on the box.

MARK INGERSOL stood with his arms dangling, sweating as though it were a sauna and not a situation room he and Friberg had retreated to.

They had received a third message.

A thousand books lined oak bookcases, wall to wall, surrounding the long conference table. But no amount of book learning would help them now. The crisis had gone critical and Friberg should have gone ballistic. The tall leather chairs around the wood table should be occupied with a dozen high-ranking strategists. Instead, there sat only one man and he slouched, numb, barely able to move.

“Do we tell him or not?” Ingersol asked.

Friberg lifted his eyes, looking more like a puppy than top shop man. “Tell who?”

“The president! You can't just sit on something like this. That madman down there has given us thirty minutes—”

“I know what that madman down there has given us. I'm just not sure I believe it.”

“Believe it? If you don't mind me pointing out the obvious, we're way past believing here. We'll find out soon enough whether or not they have the bomb. In the meantime, we should be briefing the president.”

“I've been in this game long enough to know what is obvious,
Ingersol
. What's obvious here is that you and I are in a hot spot if this idiot has the bomb. You think there's anything anyone can do about this in thirty minutes? How about putting out an all-points bulletin, flood the news channels with the message—‘Get out, 'cause a nuclear bomb is about to explode down the street from you!' We'd lose more to the panic than to the bomb.”

“Either way, the president should know.”

“The president is the
last
person who should know!” Friberg had come back to life. His face twisted in a red snarl. “The less he knows the better. If there is a detonation, we have a problem. Agreed. But we don't need to draw attention to the issue now. There's been a threat and we're handling it—that's all he needs to know. I updated him less than three hours ago. We're proceeding systematically. Just a routine threat, that's all. Get it through your head.”

Ingersol blinked and took a step back. “And how will it look if this thing goes off and it's discovered that you withheld information?”

“We
,
Ingersol.
We
withheld information. And it won't be discovered—that's the whole point. Not if you pull yourself together here.”

A chill descended Ingersol's spine. “We should at least pull the Rangers back. Sending them in now is crazy. Abdullah will detonate!”

The director nodded. “You're right. Pull them back immediately.”

Ingersol lingered a moment, thinking he should say something else. Something that would diffuse this madness, make his heart ease up. But his mind had gone gray.