The Warrior (21 page)

Without giving himself time to think, he got down on his knees and shoved his wrist back and forth across that point with every ounce of strength he had. The pain was
staggering, but he bore it with stoic silence, determined to be the master of his fate.

As expected, the metal ripped through flesh and veins in short order. Blood gushed, then, with every beat of his heart, began to pulse from the wound. He shifted position and did the same thing with his other wrist, but by then an odd sense of euphoria had kicked in. He watched the blood flowing as freely from that wrist as it was from the other. All of a sudden, it dawned on him that if the blood ran out from beneath the bars, it would give away what he'd done. After all this, he didn't want to be saved.

He pulled himself up and crawled onto the bunk. He blocked out the pain as he rolled over on his belly, pinning his arms beneath himself and using the cot as a sponge to absorb the blood. Within a couple of minutes, he began to feel faint. Instead of fighting it, he just closed his eyes.

“God forgive me,” he whispered.

The last thing he heard was an inmate cursing.

 

Corbin Woodliff was at the newspaper pounding out a follow-up piece on Ponte when his phone rang. He finished his sentence, then grabbed the phone and held it against his ear with his shoulder as he continued to type.

“Woodliff.”

“Carruthers is dead.”

Corbin dropped the phone as his fingers stumbled on the keys, leaving him with a whole line of typos. He grabbed the phone and repositioned it against his ear.

“Joshua?”

Special Agent Joshua affirmed Corbin's question. “Yes, it's me.”

“What the hell happened?” Corbin asked, as he shuffled beneath the files stacked on his desk, searching for a pen and paper to take notes.

“Suicide in the county jail before he could be transported.”

“Why wasn't he on suicide watch?” Corbin asked.

“I don't know that he wasn't,” Joshua said. “Bottom line is, he ripped his wrists open on a corner of his cot and bled out. They found him about an hour ago.”

“Will his testimony hold?”

“Oh yeah, although it might not be necessary. Without going into details, the files we've confiscated reveal way more than anything we've been told so far.”

“You mean Ponte was stupid enough to keep records?”

“I know it's strange, but we often find that's the case. I think powerful men often believe they can't be brought down.”

“This keeps getting weirder and weirder,” Corbin said, then added, “Is any of this off the record?”

“If it was, I wouldn't have made the call.”

“Anything else you can tell me?”

“No.”

“Then I thank you,” Corbin said, and hung up the phone before heading for his editor's office. He knocked, then entered. In two long strides, he was at his boss's desk.

“Boss…I've always wanted to say this.”

Sam Frost looked up. “Say what?”

“Stop the presses.”

Frost frowned. “They aren't running. Besides, I think you've said that before.”

“Damn,” Corbin said, then rubbed his hands together. “Are you ready for this?”

Frost's frown quickly switched to an expression of interest. “Talk to me.”

“Jacob Carruthers committed suicide in his jail cell.”

“Are you serious?”

Corbin nodded.

Frost picked up the phone and called down to printing. “We're running a new headline. You'll have the piece in…” He looked at Corbin, waiting for him to jump in with a timeline.

“An hour,” Corbin said, thinking of all the research he was going to have to do to fill out the piece announcing the incongruous end of a powerful man's life.

“Forty-five minutes,” Frost countered.

Corbin rolled his eyes, then headed back to his desk. He saved the story he'd been writing to be run another day, then picked up the phone and dialed the paper's morgue. Maggie Summers, the woman who was in charge of it, had been there almost longer than Corbin had been alive. She didn't cave in to threats or begging, but there was a crack in her armor. Maggie had a thing for chocolate. He knew this was going to cost him a big box of Godiva, but it would be worth it.

“Maggie…it's Corbin. I need everything you have on Jacob Carruthers…family, education, hometown, etcetera. You know the drill.”

“When do you need it?” she asked.

“Now.”

She laughed.

“I'm serious,” he said.

“So am I,” she fired back.

“Two pounds' worth,” he offered, and felt like a bidder at an auction.

“Five, and make sure it's—”

“I know, I know. Godiva.”

“Yessss,” Maggie said, drawing out the word until it sounded like a hiss.

“You do know you're a chocolate whore.”

Maggie snorted. “And you, at the moment, are my pimp. Now shut up and leave me alone. I'll have your info in fifteen minutes.”

“Ten,” Corbin bartered.

“Nuts only, no nougat centers. I don't like nougat,” she countered.

He cursed.

She disconnected.

The deal was done.

 

John was in the kitchen making himself an omelet. He had the television turned on for background noise as he mixed, chopped and sautéed. He wasn't paying it much attention until he heard the announcement that a news bulletin was about to be broadcast.

He took the skillet off the burner and turned to face the screen as the news anchor came on.

“This just in…Jacob Carruthers, one of the men recently charged with treason, has been found dead in his jail cell. Early reports state he managed to cut his wrists on a jagged piece of metal and bled out before he was found. At this point, we have no new news on his partner and accomplice, Richard Ponte, who escaped the FBI's dragnet. In an ironic twist of fate, both men have managed to escape the justice system of the United States.”

John turned off the burner and reached for the phone. He'd been planning to call Woodliff all evening, and now he had to. The phone rang four times before it was answered and when John heard Corbin's voice, he could tell the man was distracted.

“Corbin…it's John. What's going on?”

Corbin sighed. “Just what you would imagine.”

“This is getting crazy. Ponte skipped, and now Carruthers is out of the picture, too. Please tell me the Feds didn't need Carruthers to confirm the charges against Ponte.”

“No. They've got everything they need except the man himself. On another note…where are you? How is Miss Ponte holding up?”

“I heard the news earlier…that Paolo Gianni was conned and that's how Ponte got out of the country,” John said.

Corbin sighed. Nightwalker wasn't going to answer his question. Under the circumstances, he could understand why.

“Yeah, well, Ponte must've conned someone else, too, because the last I heard, Dieter Bahn is out of jail.”

John froze. “What? Why? Since when do they dismiss attempted murder charges so quickly and without a trial?”

“As I understand it, the case was made to the judge that Bahn was acting under the impression that his boss's daughter had been kidnapped, so when he found her, he believed you were the kidnapper and acted accordingly.”

“That's bullshit! He knew Alicia was running, and he knew why.”

“Yeah, well, some high-powered lawyer from Miami tap-danced around the story, and the judge bought it.”

John had been worried before. This upped the ante. Ponte was out of the country, but his right-hand man was free.

“I don't suppose you're going to tell me what's going on at your end?” Corbin asked.

“I don't suppose,” John said.

“Come on. You at least owe me the end of the story,” Corbin finally said.

“There is no end of the story yet…may never be an end that she can live with.”

“Is she okay?”

John hesitated, then thought about how far away from okay Alicia was.

“Without going into details, I would ask you to remember her when you pray.”

Corbin's pulse jumped. “What's wrong?”

“About as much as could be wrong without buying her a burial plot.”

“Christ Almighty, John. What happened?”

“According to the old man who treated her…she hasn't yet decided if she wants to live.”

Now Corbin was sorry he'd been flippant. “My God. I'm sorry. Is there anything I can do from my end?”

“Just push them to find Richard Ponte. If he isn't brought into custody, even if she manages to survive, her life won't be worth living.”

 

Twenty-four hours and several countries later, Richard Ponte had reached his final destination: a three-story chalet that looked like an oversize version of a
Black Forest cuckoo clock. It was in a part of East Germany that would once have been out of bounds for anyone who wasn't a citizen. But much had changed since the Berlin Wall had come down. Richard Ponte's contacts were on the western side of the border, but his alter ego, Anton Schloss, had owned this chalet for just over five years, even though he'd only been here twice. The man and woman who lived on the premises now had never met him in person, so when he arrived, they were excited to show off all they'd accomplished.

“Herr Schloss…welcome,” Helga said as she opened the door to Richard's knock.

The fact that his head was shorn and he was growing a beard meant nothing to her. For all she knew, he'd always looked this way.

Richard nodded. “It is good to be here.”

“I hope you will be staying for a while,” she said.

“Indefinitely,” Richard responded.

Helga beamed as her husband came hurrying into the hall. “Gustav, carry Herr Schloss's bag to his room.”

“No…there are some papers I want to put in the safe first,” Richard said. “But I
am
hungry.”

Helga's smile widened. “But of course,” she said. “I made apple kuchen and bratwurst when you called to say you were coming. You let me know when you are ready to dine.”

“A change of clothes and a wash, and I'll be down,” Richard said.

Helga shooed her husband away and hurried to the kitchen.

Richard didn't breathe easy until he'd unlocked the wall safe, making sure the other set of identification
papers was still inside. And they
were
—just as he'd left them, with a single piece of white thread from the inside of the coat he'd been wearing lying on top of the stack, proof that no one had been in the safe since his last visit. He put his money and papers inside and locked them down, then turned to survey the room.

The place was pretty much as he remembered, with the repairs he'd requested well in place. The elaborate carvings in the ceiling were no longer covered in dust and spiderwebs, and although it wasn't the season for it, logs had been laid in the massive rock fireplace, ready to be lit at the master's whim. He inhaled slowly, smelling beeswax and lemon polish, and caught himself listening for the sound of his daughter's footsteps. Then he remembered and looked away. Richard Ponte's life was over because of his daughter. Anton Schloss had no children, and it was better that way.

Within the hour, he was in the dining room, supping on his favorite German beer, fresh rye bread, hot bratwurst and slices of white cheese dappled with caraway seeds. He ate with relish, while making sure he saved room for the apple kuchen Helga had left on the sideboard.

A short while later, he'd retired for the evening and was in his room readying for bed when his cell phone began to ring. His pulse leaped. The only person who could be calling would be either Paul Borden, telling him he'd failed, or Dieter Bahn, telling him he was out.

As he answered, it dawned on him that he was actually nervous as to who was on the other end of the line.

“Hello?”

“Boss, it's me.”

A big smile began to spread across Richard's face. “Dieter. I knew you wouldn't let me down.”

“No, sir.”

“Where are you calling from?”

“A pay phone at a bus stop.”

“Do you have any idea where Alicia is?” Richard asked.

“No, sir. But I do have some news.”

“What?” Richard asked.

“Jacob Carruthers is dead.”

Shock spread slowly, numbing Richard's tongue and thoughts to the point that he couldn't find the words to ask how. Luckily, Dieter was forthcoming on his own. “He committed suicide in his jail cell. But not before he made a statement. I heard on the news that he'd traded you for life in prison. Only that doesn't make sense, boss. Why would he make that deal and then kill himself?”