Three Minutes to Midnight (26 page)

CHAPTER 25

M
AHEGAN RODE IN THE BACK OF GRIFFYN'S CAR, CUFFED AND
sore, wondering how the detective had discovered his real name. Griffyn had said he was asking around Fort Bragg, but Mahegan's cover was deep. Savage would never give him up. Mahegan remembered his few scrapes with the authorities in the Outer Banks and decided that the detective had tapped his statewide networks. While it bothered him, it made no real difference, other than that Griffyn knew that Mahegan was not an Army CID agent.

He studied the cruiser. It was the very same style he and Grace had stolen from him the day before. Probably fresh out of the motor pool. This car was clean and litter free. He was sitting in nearly the very same spot where he had hidden and placed a gun to Griffyn's head.

The sun was setting as Griffyn made the necessary calls to keep up his facade of working the Throckmorton case. With Grace missing, he had apparently assigned a new forensic tech to study the evidence, and this tech immediately said that she could not find any of the samples. “Grace must have misplaced them,” Mahegan overheard Griffyn say.

Convenient
, thought Mahegan. No trace of Maeve Cassidy existed. No clues on her whereabouts. He could see the setup coming like a speeding train barreling through town. Grace would be pilloried in the press and within her department. She would be without a job. Who would hire a woman who was careless with the evidence of a case involving a service member just returning from combat? He began to feel the framework of an elaborate plan that went beyond Gunther and Throckmorton.

Through the windshield he could see the taillights of the black pickup truck that carried the sniper. It was either Griffyn's protective escort or Gunther's insurance that Griffyn returned. Focusing on his predicament, Mahegan thought about the beauty of long arms. His wingspan was nearly seven feet if he were to hold both arms parallel to the ground. He tugged his hands beneath his butt, feeling his left shoulder burn as he ripped and shredded more new scar tissue. Once his hands were beneath his buttocks, he slid the chain of the cuffs along the tight cords of his hamstrings.

The car was bouncing up a road he knew. They were headed to the lodge where he had last seen Griffyn, dumped on the gravel like the trash that he was. He felt the left turn and then the right and knew there was a series of potholes coming up that would rattle Griffyn's teeth. He felt the front right tire slam into a sharp-edged hole, heard Griffyn mutter, “Damn,” and acted like he had been knocked over.

On his back in the rear seat, Mahegan brought his knees tight into his chest, like he was doing a cannonball dive, strained with his long arms, and felt the chain snag on the heels of his Doc Marten boots. With effort, he backed off with his hands and tried it again as the car hit the full field of potholes. He grabbed the heels of his boots with his hands, pulled his knees farther into his chest, and rolled his shoulders forward. His hands were now in front of him. Griffyn did not have a protective shield in his car.

“Hey, sit up back there,” Griffyn hollered over his shoulder.

“Roger that,” Mahegan said.

He wrapped his hands around Griffyn's neck and violently crossed his arms, as if he were punching a face in each direction. His right fist shattered the left passenger window, which was good, because it gave Mahegan more leverage to try to snap Griffyn's neck.

The car swerved hard to the right and skidded toward a tree not ten yards off the road. Mahegan braced for impact, and Griffyn struggled with his hands to loosen Mahegan's grip. The car slammed into the hardwood, and the air bags inflated with a loud pop. Mahegan felt the back end go up a bit and then settle. All he could hear was the ticking of the engine and the hiss of fluids leaking and spraying, released from their hoses and housings. He pressed his fingers against Griffyn's neck. The man was still alive. A weak pulse, but still there. Still a threat. Yet Mahegan could spare no time.

Already the sniper truck had stopped. He could see the bright red taillights and braking lights. Then the white lights indicating reverse came on thirty yards away. The truck was quickly backing up. He heard the topper window slap up and saw the sniper sliding into position.

Knowing the back doors of the police car would not open, Mahegan rolled into the front seat and pulled the key from the ignition. The first bullet was close, but the sniper had misgauged because the truck had not stopped moving. He found the handcuff key, undid his manacles, and bolted out the passenger door. Two sniper shots ticked behind his ears as he slid around the back of the car.

Mahegan was quickly in the woods, moving toward the fracking site. The slope of the hill made it challenging for the sniper to get a shot, for the moment. He knew the terrain was difficult as it led west, and he believed he could escape through that land better than through the sparsely populated woods to the east and near New Hill. Plus, he didn't want to have fire aimed at the town, where stray bullets could injure innocent civilians. He crashed through the thick forest, the land sloping downhill toward a creek he remembered from his earlier recon and had studied during the first day's fence work. The creek would be a good place to hide until he could find Grace and the other watchers.

Mahegan had survived combat by thinking multiple moves ahead of his enemies. Already knowing he was going to hide in the creek, he began considering where the watchers might be. He recalled his day along the top of the ridge where he had seen the entire operation and the terrain surrounding the fracking field in all directions. He had done a reverse intelligence analysis, as his intelligence chief, Cixi Suparman, had taught him to do. As he was thrusting the blades of the posthole digger into the ground, he had been scouting the distant ridgelines and high ground, asking himself the question,
Where would I watch from
?

He thought he remembered seeing a large boulder to the west, which could be the same one Grace's watchers were using. He remembered seeing the clearing to the north that was the beginning of the sloping backyard of Throckmorton's lodge. Beneath the lodge he had seen some rock crevices in the low ground toward the east. Were they caves and tunnels? Ted the Shred had mentioned something about the underground. Might that be what he was talking about? Yes. The creek, then the rock, and then the caves. That was his plan.

He heard them behind him, coming hard. At least two, maybe three shots rang out. He could hear the bullets zip past, but they weren't close. It was random fire. He used to hear about the “mad minute” in Vietnam, everyone shooting randomly in the bushes at dawn, just in case the Viet Cong had snuck up on the base camp and were lying in wait.

Even with a bright moon, it was difficult to see. The forest canopy was thick. He felt the ground level out and get soft very quickly. He was in the low ground that was a swamp most of the way to the south. They would expect him to go south or north, downhill and away from the lodge or to the lodge, but not west and into the muck of the swamp.

So he stuck with his plan and went west. Quietly.

He waded into the center of the creek, where the cool water reached his chest. He continued to lower himself in the middle of the creek, until only his nose was above the water. He grabbed some mud from the bottom of his shoe and smeared it on the exposed parts of his face. The water tasted musty, like dirt. Bullfrogs barked a rhythmic night hymn like bass players. The fetid scent of fish-spawning beds filled his nostrils. The water was about the same temperature as the air, about sixty-five degrees, Mahegan determined. He could last for a while before hypothermia set in.

The flashlights crisscrossed the hill he had just descended like prison yard spotlights during a jailbreak. He heard them crashing down to the base of the slope and stopping just thirty yards from where he stood perfectly still in the water. A snake of some variety wove its way atop the water, inches from his face.

He could hear their voices, loud and accented.

“Which way?” a man asked.

“Wait,” Petrov said. After a full minute, Petrov added, “Let's go back to the truck and secure the compound. Things are moving fast. But first, shoot in each direction.”

There was another “mad minute” to the south and the north, during which bullets whistled through the forest, all eventually either hitting a tree or yielding to gravity eight hundred yards later.

They took a few steps, and he saw Petrov turn around and say, “That way, too.”

Both men held their rifles with the buttstocks in the well of their shoulder and fired three-round bursts into the swamp. Some of the rounds plunked into the water close to Mahegan. Luck was on his side, though, and the men turned and scampered up the hill. They were circling the wagons tonight. Things were moving fast.

He waited another ten minutes, until he heard the truck roar up the hill. He listened for Griffyn but didn't hear anything. Perhaps Griffyn had already left the scene when Mahegan was racing down the hill. A common tactic, though, was to feign that you had departed, when actually you had an ambush lying in wait.

So Mahegan waited another ten minutes. He listened to the bullfrogs and the quick scamper of squirrels and rabbits. He knew these sounds and was listening for the anomaly. The man-made sound.

His patience was rewarded.

Petrov and now Griffyn had circled back near the base of the hill. Griffyn was limping and rubbing his head. They were quiet, though. They waited in nearly the same spot that Petrov and his sniper had waited in before, and they looked out from there.

“No sign,” Petrov said.

“He's got to be here,” Griffyn countered. He kept rubbing his forehead.

“We will find him tomorrow. He will come to us, and we will kill him.”

Petrov's thick accent didn't mask the clarity of his words. He was a serious man, and Mahegan had beaten him now three times. Mahegan was good, but that run of luck would never hold. He needed to move soon and keep the pressure on these men, instead of hiding in the creek. He willed them to move, but they stayed.

“Have you been paid?” Griffyn asked Petrov, as if he was killing time.

“Not enough,” Petrov grumbled.

“Me neither. We need to talk to Throck and Gunther.”

“Talk isn't working,” Petrov countered. “One more try, but then action is required. You know them. Have a big conversation with them. Tell them you are risking everything. Your career. Your life. Look at you. This man almost killed you. This was never part of the plan.”

“I damn sure am. That stupid party he had the other night . . . I was lucky enough to be awake when Throck called. If it weren't for me, Dudley or Franks or one of the other dicks would have gotten assigned to this case. They don't care who Throckmorton or Gunther is.”

“You care, yes?” asked Petrov.

“Of course I care. Why?”

“Because you are serious man in serious trouble. You have big Indian chasing you. He will kill you next time, unless you take proper steps. You must do this.”

“What kind of steps?”

“Your family,” Petrov said. “Get them out of town somewhere. Or put them in hotel. I would assign one of my men to you, but we are running low on men, thanks to this guy.”

“That's not a bad idea. I can move my family for a bit.”

“Okay. Let's go. Enough of this crap.”

The two men walked more quietly up the hill, perhaps hoping to surprise him as they did so. Mahegan waited another ten minutes and heard the truck come back to pick them up, do a Y-turn on the narrow road, and rumble up the hill.

Turning west, Mahegan strode slowly through the creek, which eventually led to the swamp, which eventually led to mud and firm terrain. He found the newly finished fence, complete with sensors and cameras. The day laborers had worked fast. He wondered if any more of them had been killed at the end of the workdays.

He turned left, walked along the fence line, crossed the road with the sign that said
JAMES GUNTHER AND SONS CONSTRUCTION, INC
., and then angled to the northwest. He was wet and cold, but his body reheated after he walked two hours up the steep hill. He stopped and looked at the fracking site. There were a few men doing menial labor, but they were focused inward, on their task at hand. Mahegan guessed that the security perimeter would be tightened around the compound that protected the lodge.

He continued walking and found a minor trail, most likely from deer or bears. He saw a large boulder fifty meters up the hill and caught a small glimpse of a human figure hiding behind a tree. He thought it might be one of the watchers, so he approached deliberately under the darkness of the forest.

Then he heard a voice say, “Stop right there.”

It was a woman's voice, firm and assertive.

“Elaine?” Mahegan asked. He spoke in a tight whisper. “It's Hawthorne. I saw you from twenty yards back.”

“No way,” she said, stepping out from behind the tree. She had lowered her voice to match his pitch.

“It's a decent spot, but my angle was good to see your outline.”

Mahegan knelt next to the tree and pointed to the work site. It was about three hundred yards away to the east and downhill. They were on a rock outcropping that was covered with dense maple and birch trees. The ground was hard, dirt mixed with the shell of the rock that lay beneath. Elaine placed her hand on his shoulder as she knelt next to him, then used both hands to look through her night-vision device.

“You've got to be careful about your profile. They can see you, too, if they're looking,” Mahegan told her.

“No one has seen us yet,” Elaine countered. “But thanks.”